Your Monday Prompt: Wherever You May Write

Hey writers,

Hope everyone had an excellent weekend. I ended up stumbling upon (check it out if you have a second—it’s fascinating), a site that documents notable scribes in their natural habitats. Which made me wonder: Where do you all write?

Here’s to hoping all is well in your world (and at your desk),


PROMPT: Wherever You May Write
In 500 words or fewer, funny, sad or stirring:

Write a scene that takes place wherever you write. Take an object [or two] that is always present at your desk, and make it a key element of your scene.

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11 thoughts on “Your Monday Prompt: Wherever You May Write

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  2. jared david

    started as a poem. still is, but now in paragraphs instead of stanzas


    The same voice wakes me up every morning, speaking many things with the same breath. I always have trouble understanding its meaning through the haze of an early wake. I try to focus on a single chord, but they are too busy to slow for me, echoing off other thoughts, and some lost to the uncharted corners of my mind. Finally one emerges, possibly by accident, presenting itself to me, and as I reach for my pen and pad, it happens again—my alarm rings before I have time to write anything down.

    I fumble for my phone, and turning off the alarm, realize I have small pillows on all sides—eight, maybe nine. My bed doesn’t have that many, this is not my bed, but I hardly find myself there lately. Still, I wonder where I am, and pulling my eyes open, familiar things are lit by a sliver of the sun peeking through the curtains. Holiday Inn, but that only tells me I’m working. The nightstand drawer creeks open revealing a dusty Bible, and on the inside cover, a label reads ‘Nowhere, Texas.’ Excellent. The snooze is an angry reminder that I’m lazy but not late, yet. I cannot waste time writing though. The pad, still open to a blank sheet, slides into my bag beneath a change of clothes and a few necessities, and I’m gone before most guests are awake.

    Between breakfast and bad directions, writing rides in the backseat. The drive is boring; I’ve driven it too many times, I drive it every day. The roads to all oilfield locations are nearly the same, only the scenery changes. County roads, no names, just numbers and not always in order, marked with flags or busted signs, if marked at all. Today I’m surrounded by trees, which makes it hard to see any indication of the oilfield. Even cranes are hidden behind two hundred foot pines. But I prefer this to the desert out west, where oilfield locations is all you can see for miles in every direction. They are easier to find, but provide no escape for miles in any directions.

    A small clearing allows just enough space for sixty people to live for a few days, maybe a week. The location is littered with pickups and semi-trucks with trailers, even a few backhoes, tractors and tanks. I park in the spot they left empty knowing I would arrive soon—the benefit of spending enough time with the same men to know the names of their children and what they did last weekend when their wives threw them out. It’s nice to have a place off to the side, in the shade, where I can smell the breeze before it turns to exhaust.

    And when the oilfield surrounds and attacks all my senses, they get distracted, and my mind wanders, not often meeting the thought that woke me up, but finding something new. And not able to make sense of it in my current state, I write it down for later.

  3. S.E.Ingraham

    Rolling with Red Tosh and Alaska

    Every morning, it’s the same thing, click on my laptop, nicknamed “Red Tosh” for the simplistic reason? It’s a red Toshiba…then grab a coffee (lucky me, my soul mate has thoughtfully ground the beans and brewed the java earlier, almost always) – back to the family room and my rolling desk.

    Rolling desk you say? Well, yes. It’s this uniquely configured contraption with one tilted surface just large enough for Red Tosh, a mouse-pad and various plug-ins and wiring; plus a second tilted surface off to my right, approximately six inches above the typing surface, that’s perfect for holding copy, or reading material, or just about anything. Both surfaces are adjustable as to height and tilt, and both also have small edges to keep things from rolling or sliding off.

    The whole shebang sits solidly on a base like a tripod with three castor-type wheels that can be locked once you have the desk in a desired position. It is, by far, the most comfortable arrangement I’ve ever had, especially for spending long periods of time working at my keyboard.

    Another advantage of my rolling desk is the ease of repositioning. Unhappy about the view out the north windows? Unlock the wheels and swing it to look south…Or, fighting fatigue and winter chill, turn it ever-so-slightly and still at work, I can also enjoy a rip-roaring fire in the fireplace.

    What ubiquitous thing on my desk influences my writing? It would have to be my mouse pad.

    A phosphorescent greenish-hued thing that’s starting to look the worse for wear, it shows the Aurora Borealis (my absolute favourite natural phenomena) with a glorious gibbous moon, the colour of churned butter, hanging in one corner, over a landscape of mountains, which may be volcanic as there are what appear to be different sized black rocks raining through the atmosphere all over the pad. The mountains are reflected blackly in what appears to be water and in the corner under the moon, Alaska shows in calligraphic yellowish print.

    The very coolest thing about the pad is that it is a prop from the movie “Mystery, Alaska” – a feature film starring Russell Crowe, Burt Reynolds, and Lolita Davidovitch that was a box office flop but enormous fun to make in the Canadian Rockies, the stand-ins for Alaska. I had the good fortune to be an extra in that movie and still remember how much fun it was watching Crowe try to learn to skate! He was not very gracious back in the day but fortunately seems to have developed a nicer personality along with his acting chops.

    In any case, at least a couple of times per day, as I sit here musing, contemplating the next line or the next great idea, I run my fingers over the Alaskan mouse-pad remembering the six weeks I pretended to be in Alaska making a movie and I believe all things are possible.

  4. Kim Smith


    It’s not even an inch long, unless you count the tail, which makes it about two inches long. It is a white mouse, crafted from a wooden tear-shaped bead, scraps of fabric, and paint. It’s not anything you’d ever want to own but ended up with quite by accident. It happened over ten years ago when you were working part-time a craft store. One night while running the register, a chubby woman dumped bags of mice, ribbon, and greenery onto the checkout counter for her miniature Christmas dollhouse. You remember it because she wouldn’t stop talking about the little mice and their home. One of the bags of mice was ripped and little mice spilled everywhere. You were picking them up and, in the flurry of the moment, one of them ended up in your pocket as you emptied your hand so you could run the register.

    Later that night, you discovered the mouse emptying your pockets. You sat it on your desk by your watch, lose change, and wallet. Over time, it found a place amid pens, post it notes, and mangled receipts. You didn’t think much about it at first; it was there like the Hot Wheels version of your first car. It was so small it never got in the way. It seemed to get caught in the magnetic field of all of the other junk on your desk. You scooted it around when you needed to and you scooped it up and placed in the box labeled “Desk” every time you moved. The mouse even survived moving over one thousand miles away and back. When you bought your Mac mini, it found the perfect home, resting on top of that slick, shiny CPU. It’s been there, everyday, watching you with beady black eyes for more than a decade.

    It’s not the mouse itself that means so much to you. It’s because it reminds you of her. It’s the fact that she noticed it when nobody else did. She touched it and thought it was cute. She picked it up and studied the work that went into making it. She loved how you kept it on your desk with your computer and your other mouse. It’s special because of all the things you own, it made her smile like a little girl. It’s also the only thing in your apartment that remains of your time together. It reminds you that you never know how long you’re going to have someone in your life. It reminds you how the little things matter. It reminds you to believe in fate. It reminds you that you’re alive.

  5. Reesha

    Sitting on her bed, laptop propped up by an inexpensive wire frame to keep it from over heating, she stared fixedly on the screen. To anyone else who might have ventured up the tall flight of stairs, past the laundry and sleeping cat, to peer in on her, it would look as if she was reading her own writing very intently, would be satisfied that she was doing what she said she would do, which was write, and would contentedly weave their way back downstairs. But she was actually playing a computer game.

    A spear whistled near her head on the screen and missed. She fought back with magic, propelling fiery balls at her assailant. He threw another spear at her.
    Suddenly, she heard a thud on the wall behind her. She looked up. A spear was lodged just above her head in the wooden wall. Her eyes grew wide with both suspicion and alertness. Quietly and without moving any other part of her body, she typed ‘control’ and held it down, and then typed ‘q’. The game quit quietly. She shut her laptop and looked around, then rubbed her eyes. She was playing this game too much.

    But as she looked up at the spear, still quivering slightly, she decided she had not played it quite enough. It was too real to be her imagination. Without thought for personal safety and with the pulse of something exciting running through her mind, she opened the laptop and logged back into the game.

    Six months later, she got a phone call.
    "This is an amazing piece of fiction, Lisa. I wanted you to know that we have several publicity events lined up to make sure your book gets noticed." She beamed. It wasn’t fiction to her, of course. But one night of daring danger she was barely able to get out of had been all she needed to finish her book. One thing she knew for sure, though. She would never try to write and play video games at the same time again.
    She hung up the phone, went outside to the garage, and picked up a trowel and some paste. She headed upstairs, past the laundry and the sleeping cat who had noticed nothing and didn’t care to. The spear was propped in a corner directly opposite her bed. As she prepared to patch up the whole in her wall, she thought better of it. It made a nice addition to her writing space. From then on, it was a sentimental reminder to keep writing and believe that an adventure could be just a second away.

    This is my first time visiting this blog. Thanks for the prompt!
    I like yours, Duane.

  6. J. Alvey


    When she came into the room that morning, part of her morning ritual, saying good morning to him even before she took her shower, even before her first cup of coffee, he was slumped over, his forehead nearly touching the keyboard.

    Sleeping, she guessed, an occasional thing that she mildly scolded him for when it happened, knowing that it only meant he was trying so desperately to realize his life-long dream, trying just a bit too hard, in her opinion.

    She glanced about the room, another habit she had developed, to see if there was anything new on the shelfs, on the wall, taped to the desk or inserted in its crannies, to see if he had received any new photos or knick-knacks or souvenirs or postcards or other ‘mental trinkets’ as he called him, from his friends around the world.

    There were, of course, the photos, the paintings, the books, the stuffed animals, the golf balls, the cigar holders, the trophies and the plaques and the patches, mementoes of his life.

    "These, my dear, are the objects of my life; not the people of my life, but the objects of my life. Take away everything else, and this is my museum, the shrine to me."

    This was true. A montage of his life and their life together.

    Taking a closer look at the computer screen before deciding to let him sleep, she noticed that he had been in the middle of writing a new story when he’d wandered off to slumberland.

    She wondered how it would end. It was clear that it had not been completed. He had stopped writing in mid

  7. Danielle Nash

    The End

    Solitary confinement-in my writing room. My deadline looms a mere five agonizing days away. There is a mental APB out…MISSING: Divine Inspiration to finish best-selling novel.

    What to write…what to write…what to write. Sigh!

    Kids are asleep. Husband is deeply engrossed in sports. And I am two Long Island Ice Teas closer to brilliance!

    Tap.Tap.Tap. Random letters. Delete.Delete.Delete.

    Okay-Maybe a change of scenery. Whirling around in my decadent leather computer chair I spy George and Martha. These are aliases, two of many.
    They are decked out in their best patriotic garb. If I must endure them, they must endure my eccentric sense of holiday decorating. (Note to self- change George and Martha. Independence Day has passed.)

    They are peering down at me with high and mighty disdain. I can’t decide if they disapprove of the alcohol or the lack of productivity.

    Humph! I don’t have to take that from a pair of dead forest animals who hang beheaded, or should I say be-bodied, on my wall! I whirl my chair angrily back around for emphasis.

    Hunters are a strange breed. You don’t see cat people or dog lovers stuffing and mounting deceased pets! Strange pasttime, indeed.

    Pasttimes…time is passing…rocketing by. Or maybe the ideas are moving slothlike.

    I’ll just rest my woozy head a minute…right here on my squishy, purple mousepad. Close my eyes…Aaahhh! NOW THINK! Delirium threatens.

    FOCUS! My story…Jake and Roy are fleeing thru the woods. What will happen next? Huh…ummm…sigh.


    Hoof beats thunder from all directions. Any moment gunshot will ring out bringing death. Roy and Jake surrender. Eyes closed, breath held, they wait for the end….

    Nothing happens!? Terrified, they open their eyes. Disbelief is scrawled across thier faces!

    They are surrounded. An angry mob…of deer…decked out in red, white, and blue menaces nearer.

    The lead buck shouts,"Bring ’em down, boys. I can’t take any more of this drivel!"