There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. Also, nothing in the fridge and all my clothes in the hamper. No sheets on the bed, no toothpaste in the tube, no gas in the car, no lube in the drawer. The wine, we’d drunk the last drop. The plant, the last one, well, it died, because no more water. No jokes. No talking. No looks—don’t give me that face. No energy to argue, you win, take your prize and get out of town. No leaves on the tree, no grass on the lawn, no lawn at all. No ideas. Just none at all. Wiped clean. Wipe my butt, wash my face, there’s no soap, no soup, no sustenance. What a day I’m having! Yesterday, on a walk, I found a rock and it looked like Mother Teresa down to that wrinkled face. She said do small things with great love and I said Mother Teresa what the fuck are you talking about. But then I realized she meant, throw the rock. So I threw it through my neighbor’s window, they weren’t home, no animals were harmed. I hate everybody, but could you bring me some soup. Thank you.
There was nowhere to go but to the vanishing point, smoky at day’s end, the cloud-cover running out of fluff and optimism. There’s something about a dotted perspective, as in this drawing of a man who, remembering their anniversary, tells his wife her flowers have been delayed. He watches her face fall. The wife knows when he’s lying, and when he thinks he’s getting away with it. She lets him, but he thinks it’s all his own doing and that she will never see through him. The man lies to her, the wife lies to herself, until the drawing lies crumpled in a pothole. The paper may fade but the truth stains it before it disintegrates, even as the facts of the couple's lives become smudged. The man rushes in with more of what he wants her to believe, a cascade of too many details. It’s the mark of a bad liar, and it takes all night. And then, in the filmy dawn, he pulls her hand over his heart, as if she’s the only one who can keep it going.
There was nowhere to go but to go. The beach burned behind them, obituaries were front page news, and their keys no longer fit the lock in the rental on the hill. Maggie handled the wheel of the Caravan, Eugene stroked Kitty in the passenger seat, and the polyglot cussing parrot Canard, ever the backseat driver, squawked, "La vache."
The oncologist said you couldn't outrun the cancer. Scans and bloodwork said you couldn't fight it. But the road reserved judgement, said nothing, pointed the asphalt way.
"Chingate," squawked Canard as if reading the doom. On that they all agreed.
At a truck stop in Quartzsite a girl scout and her mom sold cookies. Maggie chose thin mints, Eugene picked do-si-dos and left a c-note. The letting go made it better, made one more alive even when dying; cookie snacks didn't hurt as the desert's wabi sabi beauty flew by, middle finger salutes of the stately saguaros keeping it real.
Eugene fed Maggie thin mints as she smiled, her eyes on the road, Kitty purred in his arms.
"Fucking-A" squawked Canard in a language no one knew, but everyone understood. Eugene tossed him a do-si-dos. Nowhere to go but to go. ~
There was nowhere to go but down. After days, months, perhaps years, of upward trekking, I had reached the summit. With nowhere to go but down, my legs do not seem to work in this new direction. Could I not find a plateau? Go onward still but at a level place? Must I go down? Could I simply sit still? I could be trapped in complacency that I have finally reached the apex, of this mountain range, of my talent, of my life.
With nowhere to go but down, I could spin in place until dizzy. I could take up to five steps forward, return, do it again. I could push, press, pull, squat, stretch, lift my arms to the sky, bend my knees to the earth. But there was nowhere to actually go, but down. So I tried to cling to my summit, tried to be satisfied with my achievements, but achievement is built on motion, on striving, of the continued urge to progress. There was no progress there at the summit, the only other place to go is down … Or — if I just waited for the perfect air current, ran those five steps, and leaped — could I have learned to fly?
Oh man. This feels so right. Again, as with Mary's story above, there is a great sense of rhythm. There is hopelessness and hope. A tiny world of truth captured here.
There was nowhere to go but the bar. Or the movie theater. Right next to each other. In front of me. What would be less hard? I read his message one more time. And one more. What would soothe this feeling of a heart being sucked out of a body through a straw? Would it hurt more or less if your liver was eaten daily by an eagle? And no - I didn’t steal the fire. It was mine to begin with. I shared it. Not with all humans. Just one. The One. And now, there is a choice to be made – a bar or a movie?
Such a sad piece! The last line is a gut punch. How it all comes down to this. Love especially "What would soothe this feeling of a heart being sucked out of a body through a straw?"
There was nowhere to go but through, she thought, glancing across the fast-moving stream. She was on a loop trail, having already hiked five tough miles. Turning around was…god no please no. The only way was through that stream to her car two miles away. Boots and socks off and pants rolled up, she hoped her hiking poles would keep her upright despite the slippery rocks underneath.
She took her first step in and the water rushed around her foot, up her ankle, halfway up her calf. Fuck, it was freezing. She took a deep breath and pushed through. “Let’s get this shit over with,” she muttered. By step three, her bones were aching from the cold. She walked as fast as she could without risking a fall, because that? That would be a disaster.
Within seconds–though it felt much longer–she was on the other side. She threw her hands up and cheered, alone, out loud, in the woods. As she caught her breath, a couple walked up the trail toward her. Before they reached her, they veered left, toward the line of stones that park rangers had placed in the stream for the benefit of hikers.
You really brought this to life! We sense the treachery of this moment, that there appears to be no other choice, we feel her exhaustion-- how the tenuous stability of hiking polls over slippery wet rocks will ultimately determine the narrator's safety. We've all been here (in various ways)! I like it that we can't see that safer, easier path, and in the end, it's a complete surprise to the reader. This is life in a nutshell. Really enjoyed!
I loved this prompt. I resisted the urge to think too much, which helped me tap further into past memories. Thanks again Meg! Side note: I love that quote from On The Road, my fave Kerouac book.
Final Skate
There was nowhere to go but up with her, as she pulled me off the hard shiny roller rink floor where I’d taken a spill. She was the only olive complexioned girl in our whole class; our whole town. Her laughter rising thin as smoke, still lingering in my clothes. The gentle rush of her leading me onward, she the head, and I the tail, together as one free animal, gliding over the disco ball’s minnow dotted sea. Our circles became smaller as we spiraled with the other kids like flowers going down a drain. We all wouldn’t hit bottom until much later in life, unable to pinpoint the day we had our final skate. I remember her name was Summer, though it wasn’t until years later someone told me it was “Sumedha”, or something like that, which meant “wise”. Makes sense why she left because anyone who stayed in that barren flatland trying to dig treasures out of its soil of poisoned promises would be a fool. I hope she’s squirreled away this memory too, as it warms me on nights when I wake, chilled from the winter of my mind, shivering in the howling winds of “what if?”
This story is seriously moving. A quiet love story that never completely evolved and remains beautiful, captured in amber. That laughter "rising thin as smoke!" Love: "Our circles became smaller as we spiraled with the other kids like flowers going down a drain." Gah! So many poetic images, nostalgic and painfully beautiful stuff.
Fuck You
There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. Also, nothing in the fridge and all my clothes in the hamper. No sheets on the bed, no toothpaste in the tube, no gas in the car, no lube in the drawer. The wine, we’d drunk the last drop. The plant, the last one, well, it died, because no more water. No jokes. No talking. No looks—don’t give me that face. No energy to argue, you win, take your prize and get out of town. No leaves on the tree, no grass on the lawn, no lawn at all. No ideas. Just none at all. Wiped clean. Wipe my butt, wash my face, there’s no soap, no soup, no sustenance. What a day I’m having! Yesterday, on a walk, I found a rock and it looked like Mother Teresa down to that wrinkled face. She said do small things with great love and I said Mother Teresa what the fuck are you talking about. But then I realized she meant, throw the rock. So I threw it through my neighbor’s window, they weren’t home, no animals were harmed. I hate everybody, but could you bring me some soup. Thank you.
I just spit out my tea. Seriously. The rhythm here is something else.
hahahah! I just let it flow out, per your instructions. What a mood I'm in....
I LOVE this. The rhythm is amazing, like Meg said. And it suits the national horror perfectly.
Thanks so much, Sherri.
Portrait of the Usual Suspects
There was nowhere to go but to the vanishing point, smoky at day’s end, the cloud-cover running out of fluff and optimism. There’s something about a dotted perspective, as in this drawing of a man who, remembering their anniversary, tells his wife her flowers have been delayed. He watches her face fall. The wife knows when he’s lying, and when he thinks he’s getting away with it. She lets him, but he thinks it’s all his own doing and that she will never see through him. The man lies to her, the wife lies to herself, until the drawing lies crumpled in a pothole. The paper may fade but the truth stains it before it disintegrates, even as the facts of the couple's lives become smudged. The man rushes in with more of what he wants her to believe, a cascade of too many details. It’s the mark of a bad liar, and it takes all night. And then, in the filmy dawn, he pulls her hand over his heart, as if she’s the only one who can keep it going.
Thin Mint Do-Si-Dos Highway
There was nowhere to go but to go. The beach burned behind them, obituaries were front page news, and their keys no longer fit the lock in the rental on the hill. Maggie handled the wheel of the Caravan, Eugene stroked Kitty in the passenger seat, and the polyglot cussing parrot Canard, ever the backseat driver, squawked, "La vache."
The oncologist said you couldn't outrun the cancer. Scans and bloodwork said you couldn't fight it. But the road reserved judgement, said nothing, pointed the asphalt way.
"Chingate," squawked Canard as if reading the doom. On that they all agreed.
At a truck stop in Quartzsite a girl scout and her mom sold cookies. Maggie chose thin mints, Eugene picked do-si-dos and left a c-note. The letting go made it better, made one more alive even when dying; cookie snacks didn't hurt as the desert's wabi sabi beauty flew by, middle finger salutes of the stately saguaros keeping it real.
Eugene fed Maggie thin mints as she smiled, her eyes on the road, Kitty purred in his arms.
"Fucking-A" squawked Canard in a language no one knew, but everyone understood. Eugene tossed him a do-si-dos. Nowhere to go but to go. ~
Just beautiful. So much humor and wisdom in this story. The perfect rebellion against finality. Takes my breath away.
You got me at the title. I had to read the piece and I wasn't sorry. I especially loved The road reserved judgment... sentence and the last line.
There was nowhere to go but sky …
There was nowhere to go but down. After days, months, perhaps years, of upward trekking, I had reached the summit. With nowhere to go but down, my legs do not seem to work in this new direction. Could I not find a plateau? Go onward still but at a level place? Must I go down? Could I simply sit still? I could be trapped in complacency that I have finally reached the apex, of this mountain range, of my talent, of my life.
With nowhere to go but down, I could spin in place until dizzy. I could take up to five steps forward, return, do it again. I could push, press, pull, squat, stretch, lift my arms to the sky, bend my knees to the earth. But there was nowhere to actually go, but down. So I tried to cling to my summit, tried to be satisfied with my achievements, but achievement is built on motion, on striving, of the continued urge to progress. There was no progress there at the summit, the only other place to go is down … Or — if I just waited for the perfect air current, ran those five steps, and leaped — could I have learned to fly?
Oh man. This feels so right. Again, as with Mary's story above, there is a great sense of rhythm. There is hopelessness and hope. A tiny world of truth captured here.
Thanks, Meg!
Where do you go with your broken heart in tow?
What do you do with the left over you? © -- Tegan and Sara.
There was nowhere to go but the bar. Or the movie theater. Right next to each other. In front of me. What would be less hard? I read his message one more time. And one more. What would soothe this feeling of a heart being sucked out of a body through a straw? Would it hurt more or less if your liver was eaten daily by an eagle? And no - I didn’t steal the fire. It was mine to begin with. I shared it. Not with all humans. Just one. The One. And now, there is a choice to be made – a bar or a movie?
Such a sad piece! The last line is a gut punch. How it all comes down to this. Love especially "What would soothe this feeling of a heart being sucked out of a body through a straw?"
Thank you, Meg!!!
Was guided by "Don’t plan your story out ahead of time. Enjoy where the narrative takes you" :) Love that prompt!
so glad!
Oh For Fuck's Sake
There was nowhere to go but through, she thought, glancing across the fast-moving stream. She was on a loop trail, having already hiked five tough miles. Turning around was…god no please no. The only way was through that stream to her car two miles away. Boots and socks off and pants rolled up, she hoped her hiking poles would keep her upright despite the slippery rocks underneath.
She took her first step in and the water rushed around her foot, up her ankle, halfway up her calf. Fuck, it was freezing. She took a deep breath and pushed through. “Let’s get this shit over with,” she muttered. By step three, her bones were aching from the cold. She walked as fast as she could without risking a fall, because that? That would be a disaster.
Within seconds–though it felt much longer–she was on the other side. She threw her hands up and cheered, alone, out loud, in the woods. As she caught her breath, a couple walked up the trail toward her. Before they reached her, they veered left, toward the line of stones that park rangers had placed in the stream for the benefit of hikers.
You really brought this to life! We sense the treachery of this moment, that there appears to be no other choice, we feel her exhaustion-- how the tenuous stability of hiking polls over slippery wet rocks will ultimately determine the narrator's safety. We've all been here (in various ways)! I like it that we can't see that safer, easier path, and in the end, it's a complete surprise to the reader. This is life in a nutshell. Really enjoyed!
Thank you so much! I only just joined your Substack and I'm really enjoying your content. This was a fun exercise.
I loved this prompt. I resisted the urge to think too much, which helped me tap further into past memories. Thanks again Meg! Side note: I love that quote from On The Road, my fave Kerouac book.
Final Skate
There was nowhere to go but up with her, as she pulled me off the hard shiny roller rink floor where I’d taken a spill. She was the only olive complexioned girl in our whole class; our whole town. Her laughter rising thin as smoke, still lingering in my clothes. The gentle rush of her leading me onward, she the head, and I the tail, together as one free animal, gliding over the disco ball’s minnow dotted sea. Our circles became smaller as we spiraled with the other kids like flowers going down a drain. We all wouldn’t hit bottom until much later in life, unable to pinpoint the day we had our final skate. I remember her name was Summer, though it wasn’t until years later someone told me it was “Sumedha”, or something like that, which meant “wise”. Makes sense why she left because anyone who stayed in that barren flatland trying to dig treasures out of its soil of poisoned promises would be a fool. I hope she’s squirreled away this memory too, as it warms me on nights when I wake, chilled from the winter of my mind, shivering in the howling winds of “what if?”
This story is seriously moving. A quiet love story that never completely evolved and remains beautiful, captured in amber. That laughter "rising thin as smoke!" Love: "Our circles became smaller as we spiraled with the other kids like flowers going down a drain." Gah! So many poetic images, nostalgic and painfully beautiful stuff.
Thank you so much Meg! I really loved getting an opening line to lead off of, it’s amazing how it can roll us into a piece.