DWP No. 055

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 an omniscient Third Person




















  1. Note to Writers- I somehow missed the directions for day one and did not write my initial story in first person. I wrote it in third person. So that’s why you’re reading this today in first person!


    First Person Perspective- Ugly

    I was born in a suburban village of big box stores and minimarts. My name is Emma. It’s an OK name as far as names are concerned. Fortunately it’s not the kind of name that a teacher is going to make fun of or substitute teachers is going to butcher when they take attendance and call you something stupid like M. A.

    I think I’m pretty cute. I have a dimple on my right cheek and warm brown eyes and brown hair that never does what I wanted to do and a high forehead my grandma always told me that a high for head is a sign of an intelligent person. I hope she’s right.

    I grew up in a ridiculously huge 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 constant smell of dog pee.

    My family consists of me my nut case mother, a sister if you thought she was perfect grandma and pop-up and a kid brother who is constantly in trouble. When they put this new addition on the house I was stuck with the room painted mint green. The only color worse than mint green is vomit green. Super ugly. I hated it but I loved my room.

    My mother, well, you’re welcome to call her that. I pretended to mean it when I called her mom but really I didn’t and maybe you’d be the same way. I just called her The Moody One or the Mean One or both the Moody Mean One.

    For some reason she wasn’t like other mothers. For one thing she called me ugly. “Ugly, you are soo ugly”, her mother would tell her regularly. “You are the ugliest kid I have ever seen. “

    Or, “Hey Ugliness, let’s go have pizza”, trying to entice me with my favorite food. “ How I love you, Ugly,” she said, giving me a wet smooch and a squeeze. My big sister Malta used to love getting on the action as well-“ Ugliness! Ha Ha! You stink! she chortled, and on it went.

    Everyone in this house seemed to hate me for some reason. Was it because my other brother died at birth and they thought I was going to die too because I was born with the cord wrapped around my neck? I’m not sure what cord they were talking about. No one would tell me. Maybe it was a doctor’s cord from one of those things they stick in their ears. At any rate I lived and came out fighting.

    But I was lucky compared to most kids I knew. I had grandma and she was the best. She live next-door to us and attached apartment she and pop-up her husband of a cause zillion years. They loved each other and best of all grandma loved me. How can I tell? She told me I was her favorite. She used to stroke my hair when I was sad. And best of all she called me Emma, never Ugly. Grandma loved to watch mysteries on TV plus Divorce Court, Perry Mason, Emma’s favorite cartoons, and even Flipper. Grandma came from Czechoslovakia and had a really funny accent. She wore this red big plaid scarf over her head whenever she went to bed.

    “ I love you forever and ever,” I told grandma every night before we went to bed, and she would say “ I love you Emma forever and ever, to the moon and back.” I knew she meant it. Then she kissed me on my high forehead and I would go to

    Grandma tried to tell The Moody One not to call me Ugly but she just wouldn’t listen. “You’re going to spoil that ugly child”, she would say to Granma. “You must admit it she is one ugly child. Don’t tell her otherwise.”

    In school it was different. I was different. Super shy and quiet. At home I would run around the neighborhood with my friends and try to do everything my stupid brother did not the stuff my stupid sister did who was too perfect to do anything that wasn’t perfect.

    My teachers all called me by Emma and told me what a great writer I was. When the class put on plays it seemed I always got the leading role.I loved to write at any chance I got. Writing was so much fun. It was only when I brought home A+ papers in writing that my mother would actually call me Emma. The rest of the time it was always always Ugly.

    At the start of fifth grade my class got a really cute new teacher. Mr. Richard Ross. He was brand new to Emerald Waters Elementary School. He was funny and very handsome. Me and my friends would talk about what it would be like to kiss him. He told us all about his wife and little baby boy and how happy they were together. One day I was having a terrible day. My mother had screamed ugly at me the entire morning and in the car going to school because I missed the bus

    I was pretty sad and asked Mr. Ross for a hug but he wouldn’t do it. “I’m not allowed, “ he said sadly. “Besides, high fives are better,” and high-fived me on my perfect paper. mr. Ross wasn’t like my other teachers. Who were always so strict or who tried to be your friend when they shouldn’t be. He was nice but also strict. He had the kids do lots of fun things in the classroom rather than read out of some boring book or do boring workbook exercises again and again.

    But best of all he loved to read whatever I wrote. Even if it was the worst stuff in the world he me how great it was. Well sometimes it was really great but Mr. Ross said everything was great. He was just that kind of person.

    One day he told us kids we were going to put on a play, very special play called The Ugly Duckling. I wanted to die right then and there. I wonder if you could quit school at age 11. I wondered if I could suddenly get sick again and be out of school for the next three months. Maybe having a paper cut would keep you out of school that long.

    No one at school knew about my Ugly name and my crazy mother except my best friend Gayle who was in another class. Gayle was kind of fat and dumpy. She was even getting boobs unlikely rest of us girls and she started wearing bras which look like the worst thing in the world to have to wear.

    Gayle knew about my nutcase family and my nutcase mother and she knew about Ugly that everybody called me. She never called me that. I am sure it wasn’t easy being fat and I never called her fat either.

    Well, The afternoon that Mr. Ross made the announcement he decided the class would have a vote. He 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, and even a pig and a horse. Earlier I asked to go to the nurses office and told Mr. Ross I felt like I was going to have my finger cut off from my new paper cut. I would probably have to miss school for two months or maybe three by the time it healed. Of course it was on the hand that I used for writing. Instead the nurse just washed it off, put a Band-Aid on it, and sent me right back to class

    The lead roles were for the ugly duckling and the prince. I was hoping that the vote wouldn’t count since I was out of the room but instead the kids voted for only other parts and when I came back in they selected the actor for the ugly duckling.

    Mr. Ross took a count as the kids voted then asked for a drum roll. All the kids beat on their desks with their hands.

    “ And the leading role as The Ugly Duckling goes to… Miss Emma Jackson!”

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  2. A shiny, little panel of crimson began to slowly grow on the wooden floor against the side of her white Chuck Taylors, a sleek fungus-like shelf growing out from the trunk of her foot. Glancing up between her sweaty bangs at the conspicuously handsome figure sitting in the large wingback chair across from her in the otherwise empty room, she gritted her teeth and tried to control her breathing. Any reaction to his presence would contribute to the likelihood of a fallout that she wasn’t willing to risk.

    The dashing man with dark eyes (all the while vocalizing the very same words that flowed through his fingers from his pen to the paper in hand) calmly stood and began to stride around the room. As he paced, he relayed a story of followers and observations, causes and effects, interactions and outcomes from a brief occupancy at a local hotel that he recently endured. Large, measured strides emphasized and punctuated the movement of his tale, and not once did he look up from his documentation until he had dated and signed at the terminus of what eventually would come to be a quite infamous letter.

    The woman, a semi-involuntary participant in an unfair game, had recently come across an increasingly emergent series of circumstances while pursuing a lead for a now much-less-compelling journalistic endeavor. And in so stumbling across said emergent evidence, she found herself quickly embroiled in events far outside the realm of her benefit. The root of all this, the man, of course, she found allowing himself through her front door not yet fifteen minutes ago, which subsequently led to the bloody gouging of her own palm by her own fingernails, and the dark, miniature puddle that now decorated the view of her feet.

    Entirely unaffected by the sparse, nearly decrepit trappings of an inattentive journalist’s bachelorette pad, the man had wasted no time in planting himself in her favorite chair, whipping out a notepad, and proceeding to dictate (to her, and to himself) a letter the likes of which he replicated with his own handwriting. Until, just like that, as abruptly as it had all began, he finished with the letter and shoved it in her face, asking quite plainly if it will do the trick.

    That he wanted her advice, she couldn’t fathom why. Perhaps it was all a trick? A cruel joke, maybe. And as she stood there, semi-petrified, semi-enraged, fully immobilized and panickedly shutting down her own senses in self-defense of a force she feared and didn’t understand, she nodded her head to assent that yes, that letter should “do the trick”.

    The man, content with her reply, gave a sickeningly pleased smile and bowed his head ever so slightly in thanks. Then, as he smoothly made his way back to the door from whence he came, he paused at the entryway and reached out his hand to the crooked wall sconce that overlit the wall holding the decaying wooden doorframe. With a flick of his wrist, he straightened the light and brought a serene, balanced sense of visual order to the entryway. Then he opened the door and exited into the nocturnal beast.

    As she stood, frozen in concern and fruitlessly scavenging to make sense of it all, gaping through the still-open doorway as the cool night breeze thrust itself in, the wall sconce ripped itself out of its mooring, tearing down with it a meter-long section of drywall and exposing a single, winding finger of asbestos in the insulation space for a brief moment before the lightbulb collided with the floor beneath, shattering into a thousand pieces and bathing the room in darkness.


  3. “They’ll Dance”
    [an excerpt]

    She had never really thought about it before, except under the specific circumstance of riding in Economy Plus on the night flight from Auckland, Auckland, NZ to Honolulu, Hawaii, USA. For it was on this flight that she watched, for the third or fourth time, Ant-Man and the Wasp. The first time, of course, is the most notable version of this movie-going experience.

    She and her partner had decided that they were going to leave Seoul, South Korea—their current home—the year before, and now, the date of their departure only stood a mere month away. Having been seeped all spring and summer in celebratory senioritis, they were winding down their fundays in order to focus on the final tasks that all had to be accomplished during that final departure month.


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