2026 Writing Challenge: A First Line Challenge

 

Note: The Write On Writing group met on Tuesday night, and it was a writing workout session. We were provided three first-line prompts to choose from. I picked the line: "Lawrence was the last to arrive." I didn't complete the story but focused on creating characters and details. It has a bit of a "It" by Stephen King vibe, so if I continue, I might need to bend the tale a bit. 

Lawrence was the last to arrive. No surprise there. If a million dollars had been offered for the first to arrive, Lawrence wouldn’t have changed his walking pace, or the time he set his alarm clock, or the number of times he jiggled the handle of his front door to make sure it was indeed locked to assure himself the fortune for being early.

Erik still pictured Lawrence as that skinny, skittish kid with freckles on his nose and his T-shirt tucked into his khaki pants. Even as a kid, Lawrence needed everything a particular way from the part in his hair (gelled tight to his scalp with only a few bangs dangling on the right side of his forehead) to the precise loops of his black shoestrings in his white tennis shoes. He was an odd duck at fourteen, and Erik suspected still dependently odd at thirty-four.

Lawrence carried a brown satchel over his shoulder, and he had swapped T-shirts for a short-sleeved collared shirt with white buttons down the front and a blue-and-green checkered pattern. He still had the khakis. The shoes were brown, but with black shoestrings. What was the deal with the black shoestrings? Erik couldn’t quite remember. The precision of his hairdo was marred by a receding hairline, which he balanced with a well-manicured goatee. He circled the room without greeting anyone and took his place behind a lectern.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he hadn’t bothered to verify if everyone else had arrived. Of course, they were all here, they wouldn’t have missed this. They congregated at Lincoln’s Library conference room at 7:30 PM on Tuesday, October 10^th, just as directed by the letter they had each received three weeks prior. “We are here because twenty years ago we made a promise, and while we didn’t use blood or anything quite so barbaric, our word was sealed as a bond that we guaranteed and redeemed with our attendance here.”

“Eh, can you say that in English?” Javier Montero said, a nervous laugh followed the statement. Javier was as round (very round) as he was tall (not tall at all) with a scruffy beard, a soiled T-Shirt, and a pair of basketball shorts that drooped too low below his knees and on his backside. It was hard to believe he’d once been Lincoln soccer’s all-time goal scorer. He looked like he might break out in a sweat standing from his chair.

“He’s saying we promised to come back and we did,” Polly Ryman said. Always the conciliator, Polly patted Javier’s hand. She was smartly dressed in a purple pant suit with a lavender top and dark shoes. She had always been an overachiever in their school days, class president, drum major, and so on. Erik wondered where all that had led her. He hadn’t kept up with his peers after graduation, especially the group of eight in the room. After what they had gone through together that fall of their freshman year of high school at Lincoln, he had wanted to forget them all forever.

Even Kate, who he still loved, and watched closely since she had arrived. She hadn’t said a word to him when she had entered minutes earlier, choosing to stay on the opposite side, making small talk with Gwen and Mike, the unbreakable couple.

“Yes, precisely. We promised to come if the problems started again, and I am here to tell you, that they are starting again,” Lawrence said. He clutched the satchel to his side. The weight of it seemed to sag his bony shoulder down. The image brought back a memory, one that Erik couldn’t chase from his mind. The room drifted away, time evaporated, and it was 1995 again. It was midnight, the sky brightened by a fat orange moon. The air was cold; it was October in Illinois after all, but Lawrence was in a T-shirt, which was untucked and soaked in blood. They were standing on the train tracks that ran along Highway 9 east of Lincoln. From here, they could see the river beyond a field and a grove of trees. The river, dark and looming, rolled by without marking time.

“It killed them!” Lawrence cried that night. “It killed them all.”

2026 Writing Challenge: Three Things About Billy

Note: This is part two from last week's Write On "Writing Workout" session. We had to choose from one of the below prompts. I actually had a couple false starts before going with the first entry. 

Fiction/Nonficiton – 30 minutes

Write a flash fiction piece featuring a non-romantic relationship between two characters who love each other.

Write a nonfiction piece about a nonromantic relationship in your life.

Write a book report-style essay about love. 

Three Things about Billy

I met Billy when I was seventeen. He was tall and lean, but never really mean.

 

I worked at the library back then, reading to children on weekend mornings and blind seniors during the late afternoon after school. When Billy found out, he said: “You know, I think I once heard of a book.”

 

I thought he was a blockhead. This lumbering giant of a boy that moved in next door. Not handsome, necessarily, but he had an honest look that was charming. I was bookish, not meant for beauty pageants or the prom queen. He never asked me out, and I never wrote his name in my diary with a heart around it. But until Billy died a few weeks ago at the too young age of thirty-six, I never met anyone that made me happier. 

 

Here are three things about Billy and Me: 

 

1.     Billy chased his dog around the yard like no one else in the world could see him. You know the phrase: “Dance like no one is watching.” Well, that’s how Billy played with his dog from the time I met Billy when he was seventeen, until that cute little spaniel died when Billy was twenty-six. He first noticed me while playing with his dog. I couldn’t help it, it was like trying to catch a glimpse of a car wreck, I couldn’t look away. He waved me over, and that’s how I met Billy and his dog. 

2.     He called me every Sunday night at 8:15 PM sharp for 16 straight years. His first words every time was a lewd question about if I was regular. He stole that from his grandmother, who asked the same question every time she called anyone in the family. Apparently, bowel movements were important to her. We talked for exactly fifteen minutes each call. The first calls were mostly Billy, prattling on about silly things that happened at school or a face his dog made. Later, I told him about books I was reading and how I dreamed of writing the next great novel. And, you know what, he never laughed at that. In fact, he made me tell him about stories I wanted to write. Which made me think about stories I wanted to write. Which led to me writing stories. It’s funny how someone can spur you on by just taking an interest. 

3.     When he became engaged to Laura, he threatened to call the whole thing off when she refused to let me be his best man. I was his best friend, he told me, and if she couldn’t have me be that in the wedding party then how would Laura ever be able to handle me being in his life. They fought about this for weeks, I know, but he never budged. Laura eventually gave in, and I walked down the aisle in a mint green tuxedo that Billy had especially made to fit my female frame. If I had known about the tuxedo ahead of time, I would have rejected the entire notion to begin with. Not really. I never felt more comfortable having every eye in the place on me. Who was this woman in a green tuxedo claiming to be a best man? My first novel borrowed this premise, and it sold three million copies. 

2026 Writing Challenge: Picking a Flower

 

Note: At Write On - our local writing group - we had two writing sessions last night. The first challenge was a to write a poem based of one of three prompts provided. I decided to use the third prompt. I will share the second writing exercise in the coming days.

Here are the prompts: 

• Write a love poem, but not romantic love.
•  Write a poem where the first and last word is a color (doesn’t have to be same color in both places).
  
•  Write a poem featuring a flower in a vase.

Picking a flower

When she was three, she picked a marigold because she was wild and free.
The colors were orange and yellow and sprinkled with glee.
She used an old Coke bottle and filled it with water;
Placed it on the windowsill, so she could remember it later.

When she was thirteen, she picked a violet, the leaves shaped like her fragile heart.
The petals were purple, the middle still yellow, that was her start.
She found an old Mason jar, and filled it with water.
Placed it on her nightstand, hoping the fragrance would find her dreams later. 

When she was thirty-three, she picked a lily, even though doing so kind of felt silly;
Pink was its petals boarded in white, seeing it reminded her of Billy.
She found an old milk jug and filled it with water.
Placed it on her kitchen table, hoping he might stop by later.

 When she was ninety-three, she picked a rose, for the smell tickled her nose.
It was proud and red, with a thorn on the stem, that’s just the way life goes.
She found an old vase, dusty and broken, and filled it with water.
Placed it on a tray they used for her breakfast, never expecting to see it again later. 

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.