Writing Prompt: Day 120

120.pngDay 120 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write about a character who has to say everything on their mind or about a character who loses the ability to speak completely.

Shannon: “Oh, did you run out of ink?” Ben gave me a pity-filled pout. “Looks like you can’t help anymore. Darn,” he snapped his finger sarcastically.

I dug around in my backpack, looking for another marker. I was supposed to restock yesterday, but I forgot. The dried out ones were all already thrown out, and nobody ever wanted to help offer a spare, even though they’d be handing me my voice. I wasn’t deaf, so no one believed I was actually mute. Group work was hell, especially when they’d ignore most of the objects I’d used to share my thoughts. Reading was a hassle, hence I was a hassle as a partner, and nobody wanted to deal with me.

I pulled out a notebook and pencil anyway. I wasn’t giving up that easy. I could help them with the trivia question. We could win the extra credit, if they would trust me.

They were struggling with the logic riddle on the board, but after writing it out I had the answer a few seconds later. I tapped Derek’s shoulder but he swatted his hand like I was fly buzzing around his head.

“Helen stop,” Ben took the notebook and slammed it on the table. “You’re done. If you can’t explain quickly, it’s going to take too long to check your work and then we’ll lose. Just give up,” he held it down on the table.

“The blue team has it! They win this round,” the teacher announced before writing the answer on the board. The same one I had on the page Ben was currently smothering.

“Thanks a lot Helen,” Derek rolled his eyes.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I wanted to argue, but it didn’t have the same effect on paper. Not to mention people typically stop reading when they find out they’re being criticized. Instead I slammed my fist down on Ben’s hand and he retreated. “You freak,” he yelled loud enough for the whole room to hear.

I scowled at him as I took my back my notebook, picked up my backpack, and stormed out of the room.

Erin: “You’re annoying me,” came out of my mouth before I could reign it back in.

“What,” my boyfriend asked.

“I can’t stand how you stand how you sound when you chew,” I elaborated. I don’t know what came over me. There was no point in me telling him that. He chewed just fine. His mouth was closed he had a nice slow pace. A lot of people’s chewing annoyed me, no need to let him know his was one of them.

“Yeah anything else that annoys you about me,” he asked placing his fork back down and cocking his head to the side.

“Well yeah. You worry too much, you freak out when I do the smallest things, and feel like we are constantly on the verge of breaking up,” I smacked my hand to my mouth the second after I said it.

“And you thought it was necessary to aware me of all of this over brunch,” he smacked his hands to the table.

I looked to my plate of eggs in shame when I noticed a mystery purple powder. That’s when I realized there was a reason I was about to only get more honest.

Why is your character struggling with communication?

2 thoughts on “Writing Prompt: Day 120

  1. The sticky, sickly-sweet, ooey-gooey concoction that the machine had, at long last, been able to churn out was more than a minor miracle. As I sat on one of their tiny candy-cane-painted benches and blew bubbles to my heart’s content without the ability to utter a single syllable to save my life. All around me children rushed by with pails and bags stuff to the gills with any manner of candy imaginable, but this ever-lasting gum was all I’d hoped for. It even came in outrageous flavours like bacon-caramel with pops of cotton candy and broccoli-cheese that made my stomache ache with furious hunger.
    But when I glanced around at the elated faces of children being, just that, childlike, I couldn’t help but resent their joy. I resented them because they had the inherent ability to keep their trap shut without requiring special substances. All my life, I had never been able to hold a thought in until today; every single day was a living hell attempting to not form any opinions or create any thoughts that could be misconstrued as the jabbering of a child. Everyone here, at this magical winter wonderland, was overjoyed with games and prizes, yet all I needed was this gummy material.
    Behind me, a few city blocks from the magical machine which crafted a specialty treat for everyone, was the train we’d ridden on to get to this frosty theme park in what could have easily been a simple parking lot. According to several employees who wore elaborate Christmas elf costumes complete with funny hats, we were at the North Pole and would be transported back to our quiet little houses when the sun began to rise. Of course, being one of the older kids within eyeshot, I figured that was a gross fallacy, but that it would be a fun experience while it lasted.

    The next morning I woke up in my snug room, the alarm clock blasting some metal band I didn’t remember programing into it and yawned widely. “And that’s a pretty annoying start to the morning,” I murmured through a sore throat. Coughing, I got up, trying desperately to hold in my opinions on the music, and chattered away for five minutes about how the screaming guitar didn’t do well with the basic tone they were setting with the vocals. When I’d pulled on a clean set of pajamas and made my way down the stairs, the conversation I was having with myself in hushed tones was about the vivid dream I’d had of gum that could stop me from talking and children playing carnival games at the North Pole.
    Sitting on the couch with a paper was my father, who glanced up and smiled warmly. “Merry Christmas, honey,” he boomed, folding the strong-smelling newsprint up and setting it on the side table. My little sister was already halfway through her presents, and I suspected more than one of mine, but she was too busy to notice my entrance.
    “For heaven’s sake, why can’t you just wait for- Sorry, I’m really sorry. Ignore me.” I growled ruefully, more to myself than anyone else, and took my place before the roaring fire. Before me, with a tiny silver bell tied to the top, was a sparkling box with my name scrawled in jagged printing. When I picked it up, felt the hefty weight to it and shook the tiny package a bit, I muttered, “Wonder what this thing could be. I mean, it’s not in any of your writing and no one’s been by for a while. I’ll just open this, shall I?” Really, the question wasn’t meant for anyone else.
    I tore through the paper and found, within it, a plain box with a note sitting on it that I read aloud, not that I wanted to, in a gruff tone, “This should help with the voice. S.C.” Behind me, I could hear my mom gasp quietly and whisper to my father something about not knowing who left it. Of course, I felt annoyingly compelled to respond to the unasked question, “Well, it says Santa left it, but I would have assumed that meant you two. But if you didn’t, and since it claims to be helpful with my not being able to keep a thought in my head, I’d say it’s not you. Not that you haven’t tried to help, but there doesn’t seem anything you can do about it. Actually, I had a really weird dream last night with-” I stopped dead when I opened the box and saw what was inside.
    The same sticky, sickly-sweet, ooey-gooey gum I’d been chewing in the dream was presented in spectacular form before me; bacon-caramel with cotton candy, broccoli-cheese, and six other equally-ridiculous flavours. Best Christmas ever!


  2. Heather turns to her brother, where Hawkeye is trying to help him. But Andrew is resisting. Heather kneels in front of him, “Andy, Andy, look at me.”
    Andrew stops, pleading to his sister.
    “Clint’s trying to help you,” she says calmly, “you’re hurt and he can make you feel better. Trust him.”
    Andrew shakes his head, cringing.
    Heather sighs, “Will you let me help you?”
    Andrew thinks for a moment, before nodding.
    She then turns to Hawkeye, “Tell me what to do.”
    Heather steps out from behind the curtain so Leslie can try to get some sleep. She looks across the room to another bed, with another sibling. Andrew is on pain medication, his wounds rewrapped. Heather goes to stand by the nurse cleaning a different bed.
    “How is he?”
    The nurse stops, looking at the teen in Captain America’s colors. “He’s stable. He’ll pull through.”
    “But…” Heather asks.
    “He hasn’t talked,” the nurse says, “he won’t answer questions. His tongue and vocal systems are fine, but…”
    Heather nods, then walks to her brother’s side. She sits in the chair and watches him.
    “…Andy…” she whispers.


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