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    Well Wishes from a Prompt
    Well Wishes from a Prompt
    Well Wishes from a Prompt
    Ebook151 pages1 hour

    Well Wishes from a Prompt

    By Ashleigh Bonner

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    About this ebook

    Are you struggling to capture the attention of your readers? Have you browsed hundreds of books and still are unable to find the balance between showing and telling? If this sounds familiar, Well Wishes from a Prompt is the book you need—in a format you have not encountered. A mixture of education, entertainment, and thought-provoking questions, you will learn to write better while sitting back and enjoying short stories from a variety of genres.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAshleigh Bonner
    Release dateApr 26, 2019
    ISBN9780463472187
    Well Wishes from a Prompt
    Author

    Ashleigh Bonner

    Deon Ashleigh (formerly Ashleigh Bonner) is a professional book editor and writer, avid reader, educational video game developer, and nerd.She loves to write sci-fi and dabbles in romance novels. She's friendly, has a quirky humor, and loves writing prompts.Chat with her on Twitter at twitter.com/editorashbonner.Here are links to leave reviews:GoodreadsWell Wishes from a Prompt: https://tinyurl.com/WellWishesFromAPromptThe Price of a Beating Heart: https://tinyurl.com/PriceOfABeatingHeartAmazonWell Wishes from a Prompt: https://www.amzn.com/B077W2T417The Price of a Beating Heart: https://www.amzn.com/B09L6GJNWDThank you for reading, sharing, and reviewing!

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      Book preview

      Well Wishes from a Prompt - Ashleigh Bonner

      Thank you for choosing this collection of stories created from writing prompts. The genres range from romance to tragedy and are connected through the themes of mortality and the bittersweet journey.

      With writing tips, discussion questions to stimulate thoughtful discourse, and dynamic characters, this book was crafted to give you an edutainment experience that will inspire you to tell your once-in-a-lifetime story.

      If you discover any errors, email me at ashanauthor@gmail.com. I’d love to fix them.

      Finally, please share and leave reviews.

      DEDICATION

      To Mom:

      Your love gave me the words.

      Your sacrifice gave me the courage.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      To My Readers

      Dedication

      1 • Kendra’s Sun

      2 • Forever Never

      3 • From Dead Men

      If you’re thinking about suicide…

      4 • An Unusual Smoke

      5 • Counting Cars

      6 • Death And His Sister

      7 • The Elected

      8 • Gloria After Jack

      9 • And Down Will Come

      Where To Find Writing Prompts

      Acknowledgments

      About The Author

      1 • Kendra’s Sun

      Last night, the Sun didn’t set. It fell.

      I don’t watch the news, so I knew nothing about it until 4:17 a.m. the next morning.

      I would have had a clue at 3:45 because my older sister understands the sun, its predictability and sometimes, its unpredictability, but I told her many years ago to wake me at twilight, not at nautical twilight, and definitely not at astronomical twilight.

      Sister, she says, from Frostburg, Maryland, through the phone lines that strip away our miles.

      Sister, it is June 26, 2015. It is 5:17 a.m. and ten seconds, my time, and 4:17 a.m. and ten seconds, your time. Twilight was set to occur at 5:17 a.m. and zero seconds, my time. I have been watching outside my window, and twilight did not come at 5:17 a.m. and zero seconds. I am waiting. It is late. She sucks in a huge breath, and I laugh.

      She’s been obsessed with the sun since she was young.

      Good morning, Sister. It’s OK, sometimes the sun sleeps in. She insists that we call each other Sister because a name can change, but being related does not change. I agree, but every day her name is harder and harder for me to recall. Even though her attendants repeat it every time I’m on the phone with her, her name fades from my mind almost immediately. I wanted to forget her name when I was young, but now I have no control over its misplacement.

      The forgetting began when I understood that she would be different all of her — and my — life. As a child, I believed that if I misplaced her name I could misplace her. I could lose her, and when I found her she would be the same as me. I would take down everything with her name on it, and scrub my mind of all the letters. But, the letters always came back.

      All six of them.

      She takes another breath, softly, then says:

      Good morning, I do not want the sun to sleep in, it should be awake. I do not think this is a good morning. What time did the sun go to bed in Disney? May I greet you again?

      Yeah, greet me again. I flip the switch on the old lamp next to my bed slowly, so it crackles; she likes the crackling noise. And then open my messy calendar and put the pen behind my ear. I’ve marked tiny numbers in each date charting the rising and falling of the sun.

      Possibly bad morning, Sister, she says, in her monotone voice.

      Possibly bad morning, to you, I answer, squinting at the blurry writing on my notebook. I reach over and put my glasses on. Even though we talk every morning and night I always forget them.

      When we were kids her flat voice used to grate on my nerves because I could never tell if she was happy, sad, or getting angry. But, as the years have gone on, I’ve learned to look at her behavior to understand her emotions.

      At the top of my calendar reads Disney, Oklahoma — Land of no Disneyland.

      The sun went to bed at 8:46 p.m., June 25, 2015, in Disney. Four minutes late, Sister. I say.

      How many seconds?

      I forgot to look. I contemplate making up a number, but she’ll know I’m lying.

      Don’t know. I blow into my hands to warm them, then wipe hard crust from my eye. Why is it so cold in here?

      You should have checked. I will wait two more minutes, she sighs and goes quiet, leaving me feeling a little guilty. Her roommate's snoring, the attendant’s sleep-deprived steps dragging across the hallway, and the guard outside of her door who clicks his pen when he’s bored, and when he isn’t bored, so you never know how he’s feeling, is a constant reminder of our differences.

      My sister's watched, most of the day, but the guard won’t move until she, or her roommate, try to leave the room.

      My bedroom is papered with charts and graphs of the sun’s rising and setting that she handwrote. Some letters are large, some are small, and others are backward, but I laminated all of them because I know she spent hours making them legible.

      I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. It’s too damn early to discuss a sun that set 7 hours and 31 minutes ago, my time, even if I do have a few days off of work. I run to the small kitchen and make a cup of coffee, wisely deciding on instant instead of brewed, as the seconds when she’ll be back tick down faster than I anticipated. Just in time, I make it back to the phone.

      Sister, the sun is still not awake. It will never wake up, she says.

      The coffee is strong and light with tons of cream. I breathe in the liquid energy and feel my lungs perk up.

      It will, don’t worry.

      It will not, it will not. The panic in her voice sounds like she’s stepping on seashells. The plastic of the phone squeaks a little as she grips it tight.

      "It will."

      Look for the moon, Sister.

      I go to my window and glance out. The sky is dark. No moon, no stars, nothing. There should be a little less than half a moon. I know this because the sun powers the moon’s light, and that’s important. Well, at least to my sister. A moment of dread makes me shiver. It is very dark out.

      I shake off the paranoia. Nothing’s wrong. Don’t be… I stop the thought but it slips through anyway. Strange. Don’t be strange.

      My sister is… strange. Her voice screeches from the phone, and echoes in my room, and, a little after that, her roommate jumps up and runs to a corner. This is how things work in my sister’s world.

      Kendra, dear. What’s wrong? Angela, her favorite attendant says.

      I write Kendra on the back of my hand. It sounds right.

      The sun is dead. I want my laces, I want my laces, I need to go, my shoes will not stay with me as they are!

      Remember when you had your laces, you kept tripping on them. That’s why we got the Velcro.

      I go back to the phone, take a large swallow, and feel my taste buds die as the coffee scorches them. Damn it!

      I want my laces, my shoes will not—

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