I realise this is already not starting out perfectly but I am actually going to start this on a Thursday… We shall prevail!
Surprise! I am a reader who is more and more keen on the idea of wanting to write.
I have been finding writing as a great way to cope. I enjoy it, it’s fun, it makes me feel like I’m fifteen again. There is also this magical feeling of having something where there was nothing. I am guessing the same feeling happens when we paint, or create anything, but for me- I get that from writing.
I love it.
I don’t really know what I’m doing.
BUT! I want to keep doing it and I want to share it. I figure a blog that no one I know in real life (at least to my knowledge) follows is as good a place as any to start. I am not going to be posting my major works, just some fun little writing prompt/flash fictions.
So, please! Read and tell me your thoughts. Tell me you hated it (if so, it would be helpful if you told me why), you loved it, it made you feel weird- a bit of all three of those things.
WRITING PROMPT: Away
It is Friday.
She has rehearsed her order, pouring over the menu and translating the items she wants. She has memorised “take away.” She already knows “thank you.”
She needs this.
She has readied her armour, her puffy jacket, the white face mask and bus card. She begins her journey, repeating the plan in her head.
Catch the 133, get off outside of Daiso, walk around the corner, order the food, retreat home and watch ‘Schitt’s Creek’.
It has started to rain, a rarity in winter in Ulsan, but not unheard of. Her jacket has a hood and so she perseveres, winding around the many people on their way to scavenge for their own meal. She has been here for three weeks now, neither tourist nor local, she is something in between.
She approaches the tteokbokki place she found earlier in the week and a weight lifts from her shoulders. She has made it. The weight immediately returns as she realises the store is closed. She holds her phone up to the Hangul written on A4 piece of paper.
“Closed, reopening Saturday.”
She unclenches her jaw and moves to the shelter of the awning to strategise. Her phone provides her with an alternative. A dumpling place around the corner. She memorises the map so as not to look like she is walking whilst referring to it, and places it back in her pocket.
The dumpling store’s bright lights shine onto the footpath and she sees people inside enjoying their meal. Success.
She has not looked at this menu ahead of time, not had a chance to memorise her translated order, but she goes in anyway.
The owner says hello, she bows her head in return, frantically trying to assess the menu.
She begins the ritual of pointing and butchering every attempt at communication. The owner smiles encouragingly.
She believes she has ordered pork dumplings. She stands awkwardly in the front of the store, awaiting her order, having already pointed to the street and gestured that she would walk out of it with her meal.
She is handed the bag of food and thanks the store owner profusely before commencing her trek to the bus. She walks towards a man, and when neither of them move, his shoulder collides with hers, sending her dumplings to the sidewalk. They remain enclosed in their bag and she picks them up, turning to apologise. He is already turning the next street corner.
The bus ride home is peaceful. She looks out the rain spattered window and imagines she is in a movie, on an adventure.
She returns to her apartment and pulls the food from its packaging. The dumplings have been mutilated by their commute. They tumble into a bowl as she cracks a beer.
They are not pork, they are chicken and she decides next time she will eat in.