Category Archives: writing prompts

The Whiteboard, part eight

Welcome  to all my news fans and followers…if you are just now getting into The Whiteboard, you have a bit to catch up. We are about to start on Part Eight. If you want to read part seven go here

The Whiteboard Part Eight by ©Kim Smith

throat

Anne rose from bed on Friday morning to go to the bathroom, and as she always did, she glanced at the mirror.

Black marker dotted her throat as if someone had drawn the dashes to create a pattern to slice it open.

She screamed in terror.

High on the mirror was the handwritten note of the writer.

“Live or die, the choice is yours.”

She clutched at her throat and tried to wipe off the hateful ink, but to no avail.

Panicked, she grabbed a washcloth and wet it with water. She tried to remove the marks, even to the point of scrubbing her neck until it became red and inflamed. The marks faded only slightly.

It was like she’d been tattooed in her sleep.

Who had done this evil thing? She looked at her reflection in the mirror. No answer there.

What did this even mean?

“You know what it means,” she told her face as she looked at herself. This was terrifyingly real. The writer had somehow broken into her home, accosted her person, and written on the mirror without her even stirring.

“How? How did this even happen?” she questioned aloud.

She strode to the door. Locked from the inside, and just as she’d left it. She strode to the windows. None had been jimmied.

What if this writer had come and done this to her personal space while they had the keys and she’d been too overwrought last night to notice? She’d thrown her clothes on the floor, slipped into a teeshirt, and gone to bed.

“I never even brushed my teeth.”

What if the writer had taken the liberty of making copies of her keys? It would be a small matter to follow her home, and let themself in while she slept. They had done their damage and let themselves out again?

That didn’t seem as plausible as her first thought about coming in while she still worked. She re-entered the bathroom and gazed at the writing.

Who hated her so much?

She turned her head and looked at the marks on her throat again. Whoever this was had started this assault out so innocently, and now had invaded her home.

Anne strode to her bedside table to call the police. Abusing her whiteboard was one thing. This was another.

__________________

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Part six of The Whiteboard

You can find part five of The Whiteboard here http://wp.me/p3VxaG-1QS

part

So, here is the sixth part or installment of our strange tale. The Whiteboard is about a woman whose dry erase board at her job suddenly starts issuing someone’s opinion and becomes the object of their interest with her as the recipient.  Today we find out what happens next.

©The Whiteboard Part Six by Kim Smith

The writer didn’t put out new whiteboard writing at all on Thursday. By the time Anne got ready to leave work, she had convinced herself it was just a silly office game someone was playing with her and best left ignored. She wanted no part in it.

But when she prepared to leave for the day, she couldn’t locate her keys.

She was fastidious to a fault and to misplace anything was not her norm. She checked her sweater hanging on the back of the door, took every item out of her purse. turned it upside down and patted it to make anything inside fall out.

Nothing did.

And she had an immense set of keys. They were impossible to miss when they were lying on the desk or in the bottom of her purse. She checked her desk, every nook and cranny, even looking all around on the floor.

The keys were officially missing.

She gazed up at the whiteboard. Nothing there to give her a hint.

Or was there?

In very tiny writing, using the yellow marker this time, was one single line that she had completely missed.

“I like your car.”

Now, a cold drip of fear sucked through her belly. Did the writer take her keys?

She had to go to her car.

Of course, the writer had taken the keys.  Why else were they missing? The writer was taunting her. Anger made her breath come out in a whoosh as she strode from her office headed straight for the elevator.

If this lunatic had done anything to her car…she’d kill him. Or her. She didn’t care. When she got her hands on them, they’d be a believer.

When she walked outside, she blinked at the brilliance of the sun as it shone on her face. She would love to be able to just sit on the concrete steps and enjoy it. But instead, she thought about how unfair life was. She couldn’t even enjoy the seasonal beauty because someone had gotten focused on her and now had her heart filled with hate.

When she arrived at the car, her keys were lying just underneath the car’s door. Did she accidentally drop them? Had she been all keyed up over the writer’s activities and been at fault all along?

She scooped them up and walked around her car, suspiciously. She had had to have them in her hands to lock the vehicle’s door’s with the clicker. It was obviously locked. Besides, hadn’t the writer said in the latest writing that they liked the car?

Frustrated, she rushed inside the building to go straight to her boss’s office. Enough was enough. When she walked into her supervisor’s office, it was like it wasn’t even her moving her legs. She was a robot performing some weird pre-designed action.

“What’s up?” Mr. Stanton asked.

“I…I have a problem,” she replied, looking at the various items on his desk, formulating her thoughts.

“Like?”

He was being kind.

She was approaching this all wrong. She dove in anyway.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I’ve been having a visitor at night in my office.”

She glanced at him.

He steepled his fingers together and sat back.

“A visitor?”

__________

Well, there you have it, my friends. What do you think will happen next?

 

 

 

Part five of The Whiteboard

Here it is! Part five! Good day friends! I hope this finds you happy and well. Are you enjoying these tidbits of story? I am having fun writing them.

five

If you recall, the last time we met, Anne was frustrated to find the writer had turned her windshield into a new form of whiteboard. This time, she finds that even silence screams loudly when executed aright.

THE WHITEBOARD part five by ©Kim Smith

By the time Anne reached the highway, she’d worked herself into a terrible headache. She’d been having a lot of those lately and wasn’t too happy about it. She’d been a sickly child and headaches seemed to haunt her. Remembering her childhood sicknesses were a quick way to become depressed. They had been the reason her father was never home, she was sure. He couldn’t stand to hear her crying she supposed.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, think about something else,” she chided aloud. So, she turned up the radio and sang off-key as loud as she could.

That would exorcise any demon.

~@~

The next day, Thursday, when she arrived in her office to prepare for her meeting, she was shocked to find that nothing appeared on the whiteboard. Her question seemed stark, bold.

“Who ARE you?”

The writer had obviously taken the high road and given up. She was a little sad that she didn’t get a reply on the person’s identity. She chuckled as she wiped the board clean.

Her meeting came and went, and she gathered her lunchbag and headed to the kitchen. A strange anticipation filled her. Would the writer strike during the day again?

Did she really want this odd messaging to continue? Wasn’t the writing on her car enough? This person was stalking her in a way. They even knew her car.

As she stood in front of the microwave, she decided she might want to follow Beatrice’s advice and go to someone higher. Someone in authority might be able to stop this. But she shied back, fear of judgment from someone over her at work filling her mind. Wouldn’t do to tell anyone now. There was no evidence–only her words saying so. No way she wanted her superiors to think she was encouraging the writer, and they would because she was not trying to stop it.

She was the one leaving the door open. She had encouraged the behavior of the writer, hadn’t she? If she wanted this to stop, she only had to start locking up. Show the writer that she was not playing anymore.

Her reflection glowed in the stainless of the microwave. Was she that lonely? Desperate for a relationship so that she secretly welcomed the writer’s intrusion?

She took her lunch out of the microwave and headed to her table. She couldn’t focus all of her attention on this. Not now, not ever. It would make her even more mousy and timid. She hated feeling like this. Trapped. Like she didn’t have good choices to pick from.

She sighed as she blew on a hot piece of broccoli.  Maybe the car incident would be the last. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe one day the writer would come into her office and ask her how she liked his or her activity.

It was just a big joke, wasn’t it?

_____ ~~@~~_______

Welllll… so…there ya go- part five in the can. Check back in a few days for another installment.

 

 

Welcome to the continuing saga of Anne and her whiteboard. In the first two segments she has been exacting revenge on the writer who has mysteriously begun writing on her board by returning commentary.

You can find part one and part two at these links:

Part one

Part two

The Whiteboard Part Three by Kim Smith ©2017

SAGA

The next day was Wednesday, and Anne always stopped for a cafe coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel. This little mid-week excursion put her in her office later than usual. She hoped her mystery writer had been paying attention and thought they could enter her office later to do the writing, incognito. She had begun to suspect this invisible visitor was a part of the maintenance team, however, and likely did their mischief at night.

The board bandit–whomever it turned out to be–was no dummy. He or she knew how to get in and get out.

Even though it was closer to eight a.m. it was still very early by office standards. To her dismay, the board was wiped clean, It was so clean she ran a finger over it to see if it held any residue. It didn’t.

“What is really going on?” she asked aloud to the empty room. “Guess you didn’t care for my reply, eh?”

It was time to get to work. She’d been lollygagging long enough. She pulled open her spreadsheet and played with the numbers waiting to be inputted. After a successful morning, whereby she solved many problems and felt quite satisfied with herself, she trotted down to the office kitchen to make her lunch.

She never believed that the board writer would strike in the middle of the day. But when she returned, picking broccoli out of her teeth, and contemplating another attack on numbers, the whiteboard’s content was illustrated in tiny black birds flying all over it.

The words, (so familiar to her), were lyrics to the song, Blackbird, performed by the Beatles. They crawled down the board toward the bottom. The writer apparently had too much time on hand, had been given too much opportunity to use Anne’s office to indulge in crafting quite a spectacle.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night…”

This was absurd and had gone on long enough! She wanted to stamp her foot in anger. Instead, she strode angrily to her desk to sit down hard, her chest heaving. She would have to start locking her door each and every time she left the room from this moment on.

She took deep breaths and resisted the urge to wipe the board clean. No need to be hasty. She tried to understand the art, the writing, the song, and find some meaning. Nothing came to mind immediately, so she set to her work, and as she completed a task that afternoon, she stared again at the tiny black vees representing black birds.

“…take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Who is this person, this writer? What did they hope to accomplish by assaulting her board every day? Was this simply a prank? And why these words? What did it all mean?

“…All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise…”

Disgusted, she rose, went to the board and cleaned it off. Then, she stomped down the hall to her nearest neighbor, Beatrice, to see if she had noticed anyone come into her office during lunch. Beatrice was such a kind soul. If she’d seen anything, she’d be sure to let her know.

~@~

Thanks for reading this excerpt this week, everyone. It’s fun, isn’t it? And free! haha. Please join me in a few days when I will post up more of this story, this saga of Anne’s. And if you like a saga, then please be sure to (click here>>> visit my Amazon page and read more of my work. 

 

creativity

Creative words: What they look like

Creative words: What they look like

words

Have you ever noticed how there are specific words that are used when people are exercising their creativity? Well, at least to me, it seems that certain words are the forerunners of a creative exercise.

For example investigate these:

Imagine…

What if…

Let’s try this…

words

See what I mean? It’s almost like creatives start out their creativity stint with specific words. And I do mean ALL creatives, even musicians, even painters. Especially writers.

Writers usually begin with a what if question and go from there.

Exploring our creativity means being observant, asking questions, listening to answers, and sometimes just doing nothing. Yes, that does happen. Sometimes creativity needs to draw from its own experience and we have nothing to do but sit quietly and allow it to happen.

Today, I hope you will allow your creative side to voice itself. I hope you will find time and space to put something down on paper, on canvas, or on whatever medium your talent needs to express itself.

And don’t judge it. Don’t erase it, paint over it, discount it. Allow it to live and breathe and grow. You may surprise yourself!