While I was in Victoria, I spent quite a bit of my downtime at the Chapters on Yates and View. Right near the Starbucks, there was a section on Writing and Publishing. Happy squeeing aside, I went and checked out the section like I always do whenever I’m in a Chapters or Coles. In particular, I found two books that caught my attention. One of which I actually ended picking up.

Naming the World (and other exercises for the creative writer) edited by Bret Anthony Johnston. This book holds all kinds of literary stimuli for the creative writer (of fiction and non-fiction) taken from the great creative writing minds in the States. It’s only $17 too! Not half bad for all of the info that it gives you.

So, anyway, onto the prompt that really got my creative juices going. I ended up picking a prompt out of the book that was about unsolved mysteries. If you’re interested, read more.

Prompt: An unsolved mystery is a thorn in the heart.

I kissed the top of my husband’s forehead and slipped into the cold evening. The moment my feet touched the ground, I began to regret my heart’s lack of timing. A few unconscious murmurs and my escape went unnoticed.

Our home was built on secrets; not the architecture itself, just the abstract concept. But he never knew of my sleepless nights or of the nightly visits I’d been making to the boathouse down the beach. Happy in his ignorance, he slept on. But how could I?

I slipped the worn mocassins on my already frozen feet. Silent in my foot falls, I cracked the front door and stood listening for him to stir. Didn’t he notice that my side of the bed was always cold in the morning? That my breathing wasn’t pressed into the small of his back?

No sounds prevented me from my illicit trek down the beach. Part of me hoped, even prayed, that he would wake me from this dreadful malaise. And so, I continued.

The night was unusually warm for early autumn. I wished I’d brought more than my silk kimono and flighty nightgown. Rocks and gravelly sand chewed at the soles of my already ragged mocassins as I approached the sullen-looking boathouse.

Light flickered occassionally from the side window; the breath of a dying candle. As my hands found the heavy latch across the door, I heard laughing from the inside. I opened it, with added effort, and ducked in. Water danced impatiently in the depth of shadow and flame.

And then I saw them.

Flesh heaving and grinding: a heated dance between people that neither knew me nor I them. There were never words spoken, only hungry lips, arms, and legs.

When the night came to a close, we went our separate ways, back to the listless doldrum that were the lives outside the boathouse.

I didn’t make coffee that morning. Instead, I found myself shivering in a scalding shower, unable to stop the tears.

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