I attended an online writing workshop hosted by The Writing Salon for the past 6 weeks. It was a good chance to connect with other writers and exchange feedback with creatives and human beings.
Every Monday, we were assigned daily prompts for the upcoming week. These prompts ranged from things like “pocketknife” and “chain-link fence” to feelings and situations like “after the show.” We were given only 12 minutes to write every day. Then we had the chance to quickly edit our writing before sending it our partner and workshop leader.
Before I began, I would take some time to jot down ideas that arose as I brainstormed the prompt. Then I’d think of a story as quickly as possible and search for the beginning and end. I didn’t always get a chance to finish the write, but I challenged myself by pushing my skills and creative abilities every day. The result is a collection of short writes that span a variety of genres, moods, ideas and moments.
Enjoy! Please let me know if you have any favorites in the comments section.
Half-ruined temple
In Thailand, a temple built by a brilliant Ayutthaya architect lies deep within the jungle, asleep. Sources say it was built in the middle of the 13th century, and that it housed a magnificent inner chamber where a thousand unquenchable flames were lit to honor the late emperor Sureyatha. I have never been to Thailand, but sometimes, deep in my sleep, I can feel a flame burning. When I hold it close to my chest, it stirs within me, reminding me of a fire I once shared with a distant lover. Like a half-ruined temple, it lies dormant, sacred yet sleeping, awaiting its magnificent renewal by an architect who will restore it to its former glory. I pray it will burn once more, the way it was always meant to.
Winter window
At the top of a cathedral in Paris, there is a lonely room. It looks out at the landscape through a stained glass window. On this day, it is icy and cold. Snow is falling. The room is chilled, and a single Bible sits alone on a table.
A man, presumably a monk, is sitting at the table in prayer. His hands are cold, but his heart is warm. He prays: "May your spirit fill this room, Lord."
Blue in the west
"For our final song, we'd like to invite Yuri Tanaka onto the stage with us." A beautiful singer emerged from behind the curtains and graced the crowd with her chic, elegant look. A jazz trio performed a song reminiscent of Haruki Murakami's novel "South of the Border, West of the Sun," and as the lights dimmed to a close, people shuffled out of the concert hall. I ambled down a street in Shinjuku with a beer in hand, where the lights felt good against the evening sun. A warm feeling filled me to the brim.
The necklace
A man came in looking for a necklace for his to-be wife last week. He said he had been affected by his girlfriend's silence recently and wanted to give her a gift so she would feel better. He stopped by the table where I worked and asked to see the collection of necklaces we had on stock that day.
I told him that we don't have many necklaces on stock, but there is a beautiful one carved from jade and diamond if you are interested in viewing it. I found the necklace in the back, took it out, and handed it to him.
He took the necklace in his hands and gazed at it. There was a distance in his eyes, like he was viewing a woman he cared about from afar.
After a period of time, he handed it back. "I want to buy it, but something tells me this isn't the right time."
"It's okay," I told him. "Trust yourself if you feel that way."
He thanked me and walked out the door, closing it silently behind him. A quiet feeling descended upon the room, and rain drops continued to pitter-patter beyond the window.
Far end of the bridge
It was a dark night, a wintry night, and clouds kept the moon from piercing through a dark enshrouded sky. On a bridge at the opposite side of the lake a man stood. He seemed lost in thought, dark in thought. A heavy cloud hung over him like a dark depression I couldn't quite understand. The air was misty and wet, and a mystical feeling surrounded me like the ghosts of futures past.
A lone figure approached the bridge. He wore a hood and held a black lantern in his hand. The light was dim, the energy low.
The alarm went off
"Oh my God, that scared me." The woman laughed nervously, her hand on her chest.
"Sorry about that," the man laughed. "Didn't mean to scare you." He reached over her and tapped the "Stop" button on the iPhone.
"Where were we?" the woman asked.
The room went silent.
"I think we were here,” the man said, leaning in to kiss her on the lips.
We stopped speaking
The last time we met, we had gotten coffee on the second-floor of a small cafe in Hongdae, South Korea. The weather that day had been overcast, the clouds had looked ready to pour at any minute.
Hae-in had worn a tight black coat over a lavender dress, with a black Chanel bag to boot. She worked as an English teacher at a local cram school, while I worked a software engineering job from home.
On our dates, she typically greeted me with a cheerful smile, and we started holding hands after our first kiss.
Two weeks ago, she blocked me on KakaoTalk. I realized this when I tried messaging her to change the time of our weekly date, but I got no response.
I sat there for what seemed like hours replaying our last conversation. "I want to see you again," she had said. She had given me a hug, and sent me a goodnight text that night.
I haven't been able to get in contact with her since.
Chain-link fence
A man with chainsaws for arms approached the chainlink fence and hacked through it like butter. A mean-looking dog barked at the man for a few seconds but quickly bolted upon realizing it would be chopped to pieces if it didn't jet.
The chainsaw man approached the home behind the fence and cackled in some sort of alien language. It then rammed its twin arms into a window, shattering it into dozens of glass fragments.
A glaring light appeared from above, and the whir of helicopter blades could be heard. "Surrender now, or be destroyed." The chainsaw man turned around and saw a mass of police officers behind him, rifles aimed and ready to fire.
Evicted
I don't like being fit in a box. I'm always looking for new possibilities, new opportunities, new ways of going about things that others haven't seen or considered before.
However, this can get me in trouble. Sometimes, I think too out-of-the-box. People don't understand what I'm saying. I lose people in my train of thought, or am unable to form a connection with someone because I think too differently.
There's a price and a consequence to being yourself. You know who you are, but others don't always see you the way you see yourself.
You may think you know who you are, but what if others see something that contradicts how you see yourself? Is everything a lie? Am I really who I think I am?
How many truths are there? Is there one single, objective truth? Or are we always creating the truth through our interactions, perceptions and beliefs about what we experience?
Courtyard with olive trees
A woman sat alone in a courtyard filled with olive trees. It was a hot summer day in Florence, and she had just finished her lunch.
She took a notebook out of her bag and opened it. A line caught her eye. "Past life." She wasn't sure when she had written it, or if she had written it at all. It seemed to call out to her something about a life she had existed in long before, in a time and era she couldn't quite put her finger on.
She closed her eyes and suddenly, memories started to fill her consciousness. She had been living in Japan, and she had been walking by the Nakameguro Cherry Blossom Promenade one day. A sight caught her eyes, and she began to cry. The promenade had a beautiful courtyard where families picnicked together in harmony. No one was upset. No one was angry. Happiness and laughter filled the air.
She remembered that she had come to Japan to let go of a life she had been living before that. She had been in America, and the pandemic had just begun.
Lamplight, low moon
In a letter enclosed to autumn:
Oh Jupiter, a morning call
How you shine like the moon
On a blue night in September
The sepia leaves
Beckon us beneath these
Lovely lights
A shadow hangs beneath a branch
Isn't saying farewell hard work?
Just like when we were young