excerpts from class writing prompts by Faith Lustig, 16

excerpts from class prompts Faith Lustig, 16

from the prompt ‘LONELY DESERT’

Sand. Freaking sand . Damnit, she wanted to burn all the sand in the world and never ever see sand again, let alone have it in every crevice of her clothes and body. Sand sucks. Screw sand. She was going on a trip to the polar ice caps if she survived this. Maybe move to Antarctica. Become a penguin. Get eaten by a polar bear. Et cetera.

She stumbled, more sand dumping into her over-filled sneakers. She ’d given up on them a long time ago. She stopped completely, wiping the sweat from her face and giving her bra a tug to release the sand still clinging to her sticky skin from the last accidental tumble down a sand dune.

Staring out into the vastness of the desert she ’d been dropped in only served to make her want to curl up and burrow into the ground like a scorpion, so she had taken to just staring down at the sand instead. Hence why she wanted to never ever see it again, and why she had sand in her bra. Because, unfortunately, in avoiding the soul-annihilating loneliness of seeing the desert stretching on for as far as her tired eyes could see, her balance was not the best. The sand seemed to twirl around her feet, blending together like someone had done an impressionist painting of the glittering sand and then let their five-year-old run his dirty hands in circles through the still-wet paint.

Sycamores

Sycamores, no matter where or when I see them, will always make me think of home. They love water and since I grew up a five-minute drive from the Potomac river and a thirty-second walk from a creek, they were always there, the limbs like pale, twisting bones at the top before winding down to bark speckled like army camouflage. They were always skeletons, even when green and decorated, looming titans that I could stare up at for hours on end. I’ve always liked to think of them as protectors, like leftover witchcraft from women who knew they weren ’t permanent so decided to leave something that was. I could easily believe they were that old. There ’ s some indescribable magic to looking at them, especially on cold fall days when the air feels like stepping on a dry leaf—witching weather. I don ’t live near a creek anymore, but every time I see a sycamore, boney branches stretching toward the sun, pure as cream, that same magic flows in my chest for a moment, and it feels like coming

home.

Flowers

“Pink roses. ”

“Pink?”

“A pink rose means gentle. ”

“Oh. ”

She tucks the flower behind her ear as the wind blows through the garden, rustling her dress and leaving the plants swaying softly as if dancing to a silent waltz.

“And what do these mean?” The daisies shine under her fingers, white petals reflecting the sun.

“Innocence. ”

A breath between them, hands brushing as they pass over the tulips.

“And these?”

Red tulips, “I love you.

inspired by Degas ’ “Dancer” : Back straight, feet together, turned out. Begin. He watches her as she dances, a swirling, twirling silhouette of grace, slender legs and arms gliding through the air. She ’ s enchanting, like watching a bird, and he can ’t move his eyes away. Her smile is so bewitching throughout it all that he ’d swear he saw, from the corner of his vision, the shadow of wings stretch across the stage behind her.

an excerpt from Deadline, a Luciminals short story:

I have a week left and death trots behind me, a shadow in the corners of my vision. It’ s followed me with more persistence as the day has neared, I’ ve watched it lurking in alleyways, slinking through the streets unseen by everyone but me. Lucky me.

I’d considered naming it when it first started haunting me but decided that was a bit disrespectful. Best not to dance too close with death. I’ ve already made an appointment for that later, anyhow.

As my seventh-to-last day comes to a close, I watch it slink back into an alley, red eyes staring unblinking into mine, and I pick up my finds for the day and start my walk home.

Six days left. I could be crying in a corner now, but I’ m not—I never do. I’ ve never been one for the whole “woe is me ” routine. Well, that’ s not completely true. I’ ve been known for a good ol’ mental breakdown every now and again, but living in a world like the one I’ m stuck in tends to do away with lamentation and brooding real quick. Dramatically posing on a rooftop at sundown with a picture of your dead family members and-slash-or a romantic partner is useless when you still have to get off the roof every day and continue living.

Sure, a lot of people I know—knew—have died. It comes with the whole magical apocalypse territory. But, every day, I still get out of the pile of blankets that I’ ve taken to calling my bed, pick up my bag, and get to work.

No time to think about death when you ’re trying to extricate a glowy purple stone from a pile of possibly explodey junk. Just kidding! There's a lot of time. All the time. Death and I are buddies now.