2026 Writing Challenge: Write On Prompt 02/04/2026

 

Note: Last night at Write On, the Rock Falls Writing group that I belong to, we had a prompt to write a scene that focuses n an emotion without specifically naming that emotion. Below is the scene that I wrote.

The water dangled from the mouth of the faucet, elongating like a slinky before gravity won and it dropped to the sink below. It smacked against the aluminum echoing louder in Theo’s head than it did in the empty kitchen. The sink leaked for seventeen minutes after each use, just one of the things he had measured over the last three years living in this house where echoes drowned all other signs of life.

“Do you have everything?” Calvin entered from the living room, a tall, improved version of Theo, who was twenty-seven years younger with a full mop of brown hair and one of those silly goatees.

“I don’t know if I have anything,” Theo said. On the table were three paper sacks of books and knick-knacks, next to the table leg a suitcase housing the fading remains of his wardrobe.

“Come on now, Dad,” Calvin put his hand on Theo’s shoulder. Such a bold gesture, Theo thought. Theo would never have touched his own father in such a way. Things like that just weren’t done.

Theo shrugged him off, turning his attention back to the sink where another drop fell and reverberated in his brain. This is why Mary should have outlasted him. She would have aged with grace, with style, with a verve even if it meant living in a place called Golden Acres surrounded by the infirmed and decrepit. That’s not how it went though. Mary followed God up that ladder three years ago, and Theo woke every morning since expecting to see the same ladder greeting him. God must have forgot about Theo.

“You know that Roger Handley is there,” Calvin said. “And Doris Mayberry, and that guy Frank you used to bowl with. It’ll be so much better than sitting around this old house alone all the time.”

“Roger Handley owes me seventeen dollars and fifty-six cents from the time I filled his daughter’s gas tank when she was stalled on the side of highway in 1986,” Theo said. “That’s not adding interest.”

“Dad.”

“If I was the IRS, I could take it straight from his Social Security check.”

“Well, then you can hang out with Doris and Frank.”

“Doris’s mind is gone, and Frank never had one.”

Theo put his thumb under the faucet, temporarily plugging the drip.

“Well, there are other folks you probably know, and others you could get to know.”

“It ain’t kindy-garten, son, and I ain’t looking for a new best friend. My house is empty, I’m just ready to go.”

2026 Writing Challenge Blog: Backtracking to get ahead

 

January 30, 2026

I devoted an hour or so last night to working on this story, but I was still unsure about how to progress. I had an idea for the next scene, but I didn’t have the entry part.

I still didn’t have the flesh of characters developed nor a notion of the upcoming conflict to delve into it.

So, I decided to backtrack into the sections already written and look for places that could be expanded, hoping to find more footholds for my story.

It turned quickly into a productive night where each of my characters started taking more shape.

Here are a couple of the additions:

In the first section, I mention that Peter had a successful first book “Carnival of Screams.” I didn’t have much more detail than that, but I liked that it established that Peter was horror genre writer. Near the end of the section, I have a list of questions bouncing around Peter’s head placed by his agent. One included the latest numbers on his first book. So, I thought I’d shed a bit more light on that.

He barely remembered writing “Carnival of Screams,” the words appeared on his screen like it was a fever dream. As a story, it was a pretty predictable slasher plot, but the character Cleet Tate elevated every word. His stunted vocabulary. His hobbled gait. Those eyes. Green. So green Peter sometimes dreamed about them, just like his readers. He had a stack of letters from fans who had nightmares where a pair of green eyes followed them through a poorly lit carnival midway. The only sound an occasional smack of a hammer banging on the metal of ride frames.

Maybe Peter should fill out some character sheets. Maybe find one that interested him and go from there, worry about story later. He worried though that would just lead to a bastardized version of Cleet Tate. The character that birthed his career and so far, he couldn’t top.

Another part from the section from the point of Peter’s son Cal, I had hinted that Cal’s vocabulary and reading skills were years ahead of his peers. I decide to build on that thought in these couple paragraphs.

“Hypocrites.” He’d learned the word in September, part of Dad’s vocabulary builder lists. Maybe Cal couldn’t do math, but he read at a sophomore level. His spelling and handwriting were impeccable. Impeccable had been a vocab word at least a year ago. Hell, he could rattle off grammatically correct sentences in English in that his peers couldn’t even fathom. Fathom, that was from last week. Yet, his Mom was worried about math and science. What was she, the government?

Well, he liked science, but Mr. Suman hated him. Cal didn’t know why, but Cal could feel it anytime the teacher called his name in class. Elongating the vowel just so, every, single, time. “Caaaal Modjeski.” If Cal answered correctly, Mr. Suman… guffawed (from last March’s vocabulary builder), noticeably. As if a correct answer from Cal was just as likely as hitting the right numbers on the lotto. If Cal’s answer was wrong, Mr. Suman sneered, obviously content all was regular, normal, and as it should be in the world. The sun came up in the east, set in the west, and Caaal Modjeski still didn’t know bupkis about science. There were words that Cal could use to describe Mr. Suman, but they didn’t appear in Dad’s vocabulary builder lists (although some of the words Cal could use did appear in Dad’s book. Cal had read half of “Carnival of Screams” last summer. Halfway was as far as Cal could get through the book, and he didn’t stop because it was overly scary).

Cal was stretched on his bed with the lights out even though he had another hour before his bedtime. His hands were behind his head, the fingers laced together, his eyes focused on the dimpled texture of his ceiling that he could see where the street lights shone through his window.

He often watched his ceiling, imagining it was the dimpled surface of some distant planet. The surface was stark, devoid of things like trees and grass. Rather, it was covered with rocky crags and cracked hardpan soil. A real hellscape, Cal imagined. One where the worst kinds of things could happen, but there was some hope.

2026: Writing Blog Challenge - A blank screen and four characters

 

Last week, I started the story that I mention in the previous post. I was hoping to develop a story based upon some sort of possessed CPAP machine. 

Well, I got about 1,400 words, and I still haven’t introduced the CPAP. LOL. 

When I write, I almost always dig into characters before I worry too much about plot. I always feel like if I find the right characters that conflict and story will follow. Does it always work? No, but that’s the way I do it. 

My first character had to be the CPAP user. My initial thought was to make this a first-person retelling of whatever mischief or mysterious path this CPAP puts him on. Yes, I figured the main character was a male. 

Sadly, the first-person idea left the screen blank for some period. So, lets switch to third-person limited omniscient. 

Thus, was born Peter Modjeski, a published writer who is struggling to write his second novel. Easy enough idea, and almost immediately, I was reminded of “The Shining.” Will this story mimic that, or pay homage? 

I concluded his opening scene – easy enough – here’s a guy in front of a blank screen. I know that feeling. 

Second scene, should I stick with Peter? 

No, who does Peter have around him? 

Well, he mentions a wife named Lana. Let’s go to her. While Peter ponders away in his writing cave, she has two children to wrangle. One’s mad at her for receiving some discipline for school issues, while the younger one screams her head off whenever the conversation of going to bed begins. 

Let’s keep Peter separated. Who else we got? 

Cal, the ten-year-old son, who resents his punishment for bad grades in math and science, is discovering his own place in the world and the powers of his own imagination. 

Finally, I rounded out my opening four parts by briefly getting in the head of four-year old Missy. 

It was her scene that changes the tone, paints it bit darker. That’s the part I will share below: 

Missy

Something lived in the dark. It didn’t like Mommy. It didn’t like Daddy. It didn’t like Cal. It didn’t like her. 

She thought Cal knew about it, or used to know about it, but he couldn’t remember anymore. 

It whispered, and only she could hear it. It stayed in the walls, or something, and it wanted out. 

It just didn’t have a way. Missy was sure of that.

It was trying to find a way. 

Before she fell asleep, she thought she heard it say, “I’ll find a way.” 

2026 Writing Challenge Blog: A New Year, A New Challenge

 Last year, my challenge was to draw inspiration from one song a day and create a blog post. It proved to be a daunting task, but one that forced me to have discipline and focus. I don’t know if I became a better writer because of it, but I did write more.

I didn’t want to continue doing that in 2026. First, while it was interesting to see what I conjured from each song, there were days when inspiration was low or the song choices didn’t strike a nerve. The end results often felt forced. Second, I am not sure any posts spurred me into bigger ideas for longer pieces. Third, I wanted to get back to writing more fiction, so my new challenge needed to either include more fiction writing or editing of existing pieces.

So, after a week away, I’ve decided that I want to write a new piece of fiction, a poem, or an essay each week. Obviously, the lengths will vary, and I don’t doubt that some pieces will start and may never reach a satisfactory end.

My thought is that the blog pieces will either be portions of these creations, or some sort of discussion about the writing process, such as the inspiration, or issues I encounter, or so forth. I hope to post once or twice a week.

What about this week!

Well, I haven’t written anything yet, but I do have a niggling idea. Last week, I started using a CPAP machine, and for the most part, it has been a miserable experience, but it did give me an idea.

What if a character has sleep issues, gets a machine, but the machine is somehow magical or something? What would the magic be? What would the results be?

That’s as far down the rabbit hole that I’ve gone. Most of the time I just need write to get the ideas flowing. Hopefully, I’ll have an update near the end of the week.

My Music Journal 2025: December 31, 2025

 

Wednesday, December 31, 2025

Time: 7:12 AM
Song: Eve of Destruction
Artist: Barry McGuire
Mode of Consumption: Listening to MP3s on shuffle while getting ready for work. 

Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/1Zi2ezNOqt9y9irC11xYpN?si=9ec431c8a78b4cba

“Do you believe we are on the eve of destruction?”

The words of this song make a strong case that it felt like Armageddon was around the corner in 1965. Racism, war, turmoil, space exploration, all of it brought into homes on the evening news.

That was 60 years ago. And you could write the same song in 2025 with similar lyrics, just a few of the references would change with added discussion of AI, social media, and climatology.

So, is the end near?

Individually? Not even the next second is guaranteed. Collectively? Probably not. Things will change. Things will stay the same. But I believe we will endure for quite a while longer.

How about this journal? Yes, it will end with a period at the conclusion of this post. I set out to write a post inspired by a song I heard that day, daily for a year. I’ve accomplished that. Three hundred and sixty-five posts of varying topics, lengths, and writing styles and genres. I am proud that I didn’t punt on this exercise throughout the year, and I am surprised that there were very few days where I struggled to connect with a song and produce interesting content.

I hope to take the lessons into new projects in 2026.

Will there be a post tomorrow?

Probably not. I don’t really know what I am going to do next. I will still post here. Hopefully a few times a week. I just haven’t decided what those posts will include. Perhaps they will still have a music component, but I do want to branch out a bit. I also want to spend my writing time on other projects (short stories, novels, etc.).

So as the year ends, I thank you for reading, and I assure you, I don’t believe we are on the eve of destruction, just on the precipice of something as different as it will be the same.

My Music Journal 2025: December 30, 2025

 

Tuesday, December 30, 2025

 

Time: 5:45 PM

Song: With Or Without You
Artist: U2
Mode of Consumption: Listening to the radio. 

Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/6ADSaE87h8Y3lccZlBJdXH?si=f0faa2a14b4c4a22

 

We have a barn cat named “Murray” who likes to come into the house in the evenings after I return home from work. He shoots in when I open the door, his little paws pattering against the kitchen floor before stopping at the edge of the kitchen tile and the carpeted living room. 

 

Murray has gray fur with a white belly and white race stripes on his legs. His eyes are green. 

 

He circles in that area until either Jodi or I, or preferably both of us, sit on the carpet, so he can crawl between our legs and stretch out. 

 

That’s his spot. The one spot in the world where I truly believe he is happiest. His eyes become dreamy and distant, and his little motor runs loud in satisfaction. 

 

Tonight, the radio is playing and Jodi has turned the lights of the stairway behind her on so that she can read a magazine. The Christmas tree lights are also on, blinking in reds and blues and yellows in a soothing way. 

 

It reminded of how my mother would lay on the couch in the living room during the holiday season with all the lights off other than the tree. She would do this often late in the afternoon, probably about this time of day. 

 

She didn’t usually talk, and often we’d leave her alone. She might stay that way for ten minutes or a half hour with nothing but her thoughts and the Christmas lights. 

 

I hadn’t thought about her doing that in years. I wonder if she still does it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. It seemed to be her form of meditation. 

My Music Journal 2025: December 29, 2025

 

Monday, December 29, 2025

Time: 7:42 AM
Song: California Dreamin’
Artist: The Mamas & Papas
Mode of Consumption: Listening to MP3s on the way to work.

Link to song:  https://open.spotify.com/track/1ZEOIhSn6BKErV59bIgn76?si=3f2720c3fd934e9f

In the field to my left, snow swirled like a dust devil in a pasture. Are they called snow devils?

Overnight about an inch of snow fell, but the wind blew at forty-to-fifty-mile-per-hour gusts. This morning the snow fall was done, but the wind remained. The sky was indeed gray as this song came on.

“A winter’s day in a deep and dark December,” the Mamas & Papas sang, and I thought this is almost too on the nose. I was now in the Cs of my alphabetical journey through my MP3s. I was in store for even more songs about the warm beaches of California.

After “California Dreamin’,” came The Beach Boys’ “California Girls” and Katy Perry’s “California Girls.” Both songs intimate in no uncertain terms that females both in the 1960s and the 2010s are better than females from other places. After that, I heard half of Billy Bragg & Wilco’s “California Stars,” before arriving at work.

California was on my mind for other reasons. One, the Bears lost to the 49ers last night in Santa Clara. It was a high scoring affair where the Bears failed to score on the game’s final play. Still, the Bears are the division champion and will be playing in the playoffs in two weeks.

I also was thinking about San Diego, the only place in California that I’ve ever been. It was the summer of 2015, and I attended an APSE conference hosted at an old hotel in downtown California. Bill Walton presented Bob Ryan with the Red Smith Award during one of the lunches at the conference. The San Diego Chicken also appeared.

Mostly, I remember it being 70 degrees with no humidity. That was a pleasant thought on this “deep and dark December,” day.