Writing Prompt: Day 129

129.jpgDay 129 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write about someone who is in their own little bubble.

Erin: If I know that I am living in my own bubble, does that count as living in my own bubble? I mean, I am fully aware of reality. I am fully aware of how a normal person should react, but my past experiences don’t allow for that. I can’t just pretend I am okay with this situation. I know I am living in a bubble and looking out on the world. But I have no interest in the life people are living out there.

Shannon: My life can be encapsulated in the space of my self-drawn bubble. What I’m willing to do, who I’m willing to spend my days with, and where I’m willing to go all live in this bubble. I’m safe under the shelter of its dome. Yet, like most bubbles, mine is transparent.

I see what happens on the outside, and it makes me smile. I want to join in the fun, but I’d have to break my bubble to do so. That terrifies me. I’d be venturing out with no shield for protect when things go wrong, and for me they always seem to go wrong.

So do I wait in this bubble until bravery befriends me? Or, do I pierce the barrier now and welcome whatever chaos comes my way?

Limit your character to there own little reality?

One thought on “Writing Prompt: Day 129

  1. The shack was seemed just like any of the other dozens that stretched across the dreary townsite, reminding any intruders who might have shown some small semblance of interest in its complete normality that you can’t judge a book by its cover. As I strolled past the dilapidated building, I considered the man who hid himself away in the safe confines of his personal haven, choosing to ignore the world it its fantastical entirety. Tales around town mentioned something about his long career as a genius toy builder working on spectacularly intricate gifts for the girls and boys of the world; no one knew what happened to force him out of the position, but everyone could see the effect it had on him like a fiery sunrise. He hadn’t stepped foot out his front door since then.
    Three neatly packaged boxes wrapped in boring brown paper and twine sat in a pile in front of the hand-carved door. Under the welcome mat, which practically screamed at anyone who dared wander near it, was a thin outline of a trapdoor which I’d heard was the only way he received any outside support. Even then, it was in the form of heavy dusty books, non-perishable food items like cans of beans, and fine materials for his work.
    When the paisley curtains shifted slightly, as though with a light, sentient breeze, I got shivers across my skin. He was watching me, the world shifting past and around him like a diverted stream, but I couldn’t reach through his little bubble. No matter what forced him to create a hardened shell to protect himself from the world, I itched to know what it was and how it felt but I knew that wouldn’t help my work. Though, as I walked away, I thought about how he might be a bigger part of the cover ups going on around here.

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