DWP No. 054

Congratulations on completing WEEK THREE of the February 2019 Prompt Pledge! With one week to go, we will embark on a Three-Day Challenge, followed by Make-up Day, and a gentle easing out of the month with a few Free Prompts. Today, however, let’s get started with a cool 500 words.



Use 500 words to write Day One’s story as a Second-Person Narrator narrating your First-Person telling


























  1. Ugly-Second person narrative

    Once upon a time in a suburban village of big box stores and minimarts lived a little girl named Ugly. You might not know this but she was actually a very pretty child with dimples sparkling eyes and lots of energy. You’re probably hearing the rumors in the neighborhood about her mother being slightly wacko and calling her kid ugly but Emma wasn’t ugly at all. You know how parents are- they’re always comparing one kid to another. Emma sister Malta was blonde and green eyed and compliant. Emma was the opposite. You need to trust me on this one. You weren’t there I saw the whole thing.

    She lived in a ridiculously large house that was half finished. It was never the kind of place you could have friends over because everything was half done- messy rooms unfinished floors, and the nasty smell of dog pee. Ugly’s room was painted an ugly mint green even though she begged for

    “Ugly, you are soo ugly”, her mother would tell her regularly. “You are the ugliest kid I have ever seen. But oh how I love you!” and she would give Ugly a smooch and a squeeze. You see, Emma had a sister Malta and Malta was the favorite of the family. She was the oldest, she was blonde and petite,
    but most of all she was perfect. She had the cutest clothes and everybody liked her yet just wanted to puke when you were around her. She was so perfectly perfect

    Emma, Ugly’s real name, even though nobody ever called her that well, almost no one, had an adoring grandma and pop-up who live right next-door to her family in an attached apartment. You would’ve loved these people. They were married forever and were still very much in love. Pop-up was a woodcarver and grandma, well, she just stayed home cooking and making things nice for Pop-up. You could even see them holding hands outside in the yard on the rocker swing.

    You see, grandma believed that being nice to others and practicing the Golden Rule as the Bible says of being kind to each other was the way to live life. In fact, grandma thought it was the only ew way to live life.

    Emma/ Ugly loved Granma soo much. You would Think grandma was actually Emma’s mother. And you know, Emma told me that she wished that she was. Maybe there was a mistake when she was born? But she wasn’t allowed to spend a lot of time at grandma and Pop ups. Plus she had to do all of these really stupid chores like pick up the dog poop and take out the trash and keep telling her mother that she was wonderful. You just knew Emma’s Mother was loony And you could hardly call her a mother, rather that big blob of a person that lived in the house. Emma knew it wasn’t right to lie but what could she do? You and I both know it’s really tough when you’re a kid.

    Grandma tried to tell Ugly’s mother otherwise but she just wouldn’t listen. “You’re going to spoil that ugly child”, she would screech over grandma’s protests. “She’s ugly and she knows it.”

    You see, in school it was different. You might be the same way when you act one way in one place in one way another. That wasn’t Emma but people saw her differently at school. Her teachers her Emma, her real first name, and told her what a great writer she was. When the class put on plays Emma always got the leading role. Her teacher told her how much she wanted to see her write for the newspaper when she got to middle school.

    At the start of fifth grade, Something was a balance. You would’ve thought the kids at school were getting new computers or something. But no, it was better than that. Mr. Ross was Emma’s new teacher. He was brand new to Emerald Waters Elementary School. He was funny and very handsome. Emma hoped she would marry him someday, once he got around to asking her, of course. Mr. Ross wasn’t like the other teachers. You know how teachers can be, one way or the other like super strict and rules rules rules, or super easy. Not Mr. Ross. He was nice but strict, he also loved to write, and best of all he loved reading what Emma would write. Even if it was the worst stuff in the world and Emma knew it was junk, he told her what a great writer she was. Emma smiles. You just knew she was in love with the guy.

    Mr. Ross did all kinds of fun creative things with his class rather than just make them read out of some boring old book or do workbook exercises.

    One day he told the kids they were going to put on a play, very special play called The Ugly Duckling. Everyone shrieked. It’s party time, they yelled. Emma sunk low in her seat and started doodling on her paper. You see, no one at school knew about her Ugly name except her best friend Gail who was in another class.

    Gayle was, I don’t know if you would understand, kind of fat and round and dumpy. She even had breast bumps that the boys would try to grab along with the back of her pants. Gayle wound cry but secretly she liked it. As far as Gayle was concerned, Being called Ugly was a whole lot better than being called Fat.

    Mr. Ross asked for a show of hands for all the different parts of the play- the ugly duckling, the prince, the evil mother, the weirdo aunt, quiet uncle, and even a pig and a horse. The lead roles were for the ugly duckling and the evil mother. Mr. Ross took a count as the kids voted. You can just picture how terrible Emma felt when she was voted to be the ugly duckling. It was unanimous!


  2. And you can’t put your finger on the impulse, but it’s strong. Whenever you see Paul Rudd dance, as you are well aware, you cannot deny how greatly you enjoy the specific quirkiness of his body’s movement to a beat. There he is, entertaining an audience for their pleasure, and immediately, he breaks out into lip-synced song and dance. At first, only allowing for the slightest hint of satisfaction, a tiny smile pulls itself free from your self-consciousness. Never allowing anyone any true insight into your likes and dislikes, you generally shy away from expressing your true opinion. Depending on how a circumstance presents itself, you determine whether or not the truth is necessary. Whenever the truth deems itself unnecessary, then a smidgen of an opinion will arise. This is all due to the fact that you live by your Four C’s.

    And what are your Four C’s. Well, you would probably say something like, “There’s no need for anyone to know anything about any such nonsense, especially with regards to me and my life.” But you also secretly want everyone to know, and so, you really ought to tell them. If you were to tell them, you’d say something like, “My Four C’s, apart from any further definition are as follows: I am not allowed to embody the role of a Curator, Commentator, Critic or Whore.” There you have it, and now you feel better knowing about this smidgen of personal information.

    About Paul Rudd, however, and his dancing. You internalize this idea about the way you feel about him when he dances, and you thusly determine to find out exactly what it is about Rudd’s dancing that just tickles you every time. At first blush, you imagine that everyone enjoys the way Rudd dances, but then you realize that that’s impossible. So, you sit and have a think to dissect Rudd’s movement in order to understand the appeal.

    Immediately you recognize that his butt wags in such a way that makes him look adept at butt wagging, which is driven by the length of his torso and allows for such ease of pelvic/booty wagging. His torso length, you notice, also strikes a nice—for the efforts of comedy—proportional relationship to his overall height, stature and leg-length, not to mention the large size of his dome, when compared to the slight narrowness of his shoulders. Thus, first and foremost, you determine, Rudd’s general physical structure has most likely determined his general physical movement, when asked or prompted to dance.

    The other thing you notice is his free-spirited style of dancing. Perhaps his moves look a bit stiff upon first seeing them, but after you glance at him for a bit, you realize that he actually asserts quite a lot of control over those silly moves. Thus, you can only assume that Rudd must be a good dancer or adept user of his body (which arouses other uncouth assumptions), and that the superficiality of his goofiness is just that, superficial. And so, you enjoy him so much because you enjoy all good dancing.

    For you, the best way to spot a truly good dancer from a fraud or poser (a la Natalie Portman) is to watch the way that the “dancer” in question lifts and then continues to hold up his or her arm either out to the side or above the head. The arms! It is within striking this type of posture, you claim, that a person’s grace and/or lack thereof are most easily seen. If this seems unbelievable to you, check it out for yourself. Take a moment and watch someone like, say, Zoe Saldana, and then watch someone like, say, Jennifer Lawrence. You will probably be largely unable to see the difference since they do not dance in film very often (or ever), but just watch the way that they move and hold their bodies. The elegance seen in the former is, unfortunately, greatly lacking in the latter.

    In the end, you realize that all of this nonsense is still nonsense despite how much time you spend writing about it. But apparently, you’ve decided for yourself that no matter how unimportant the theme of a writing may be, sitting down and pounding out a few words, in order to exercise different parts of your brain, is never a waste of time. So, as long as time has not been wasted—and even if it is—you remind yourself that none of this matters at all anyway.


  3. You are talking right now, but you’re not making any sound. The things you’re talking about, the likes of which you’ve made very clear, and continue to elucidate with the general animation of your demeanor, were sharply obvious as soon as you walked in the room – something about the way you closed the door behind you…

    You can’t hide behind that face, you know. Your reputation precedes you. Strangely, your path has crossed with mine here, now, and brought with it a vacuous particle of immense gravity, that quite intensely attaches itself to any and all optimism and hope that may lay in its path, and crushes it into frivolity under the weight of its immensity. You’ve thrust this sensation inside of me, and I can feel it, now, sapping the will from my limbs, first from the tips of my fingers and toes, leaving them cold and bent, then emptying out from my arms and legs and evaporating into the black abyss that swirls slow and hungry within me.

    Have you done this on purpose?! Did you know? Did you know all along? How could you not?! Did you select me on purpose? Or am I just another nameless victim? I heard about the others. Everyone has! If it is really you, then Fuck You! You can go fuck off and never come back. Your mouth keeps moving but even if those invisible, silent verbal traps could make themselves heard, you’d be dead before finding yourself entertaining a listener in me.

    So take your smug, perfect, poisonous fucking face and get the hell out of my life.


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