Month of febuary '26
Work from participant
Work from participant
Week 2: Use the lyrics of your favorite song as the hook to your short story
Two toothbrushes, though I travel alone.
A thermos of coffee, black, no sugar—
the way you used to make it.
Sunglasses for the glare.
A map, though I know the way by heart.
Your hoodie, folded small,
tucked beneath the spare tire
where I won't reach for it.
Snacks I won't eat.
A playlist you'd hate.
One pillow. One blanket. One empty seat.
Directions to nowhere in particular.
Permission to leave.
Courage, if I can find it.
A return date I haven't decided on.
Week 3: Imagine the context of a striking conversation you overheard
I was in line at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up a prescription, when the man in front of me answered his phone. He was in his sixties, maybe older, wearing a faded flannel and work boots caked with dried mud. He didn't say hello. He just listened for a long moment, then spoke.
"You're telling me the well's dry?"
Silence. He nodded slowly, like the person on the other end could see him.
"How long?"
Another pause. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand.
"Three months. Maybe less." He repeated it like he was trying to make it real. "Okay. Okay. I'll figure it out. I always do."
He hung up and stood there, phone in hand, staring at the shelves of vitamins and pain relievers like they might offer an answer. Sorry felt too small. “It's okay” felt like a lie. So I just stood there, silent, watching a stranger's life tilt on its axis.
He eventually stepped forward to collect his bag, confirming his items as he walked out. Through the glass doors, I watched him climb into a rusted pickup truck and sit behind the wheel without starting the engine. He remained in that same position for a long time. Concerned if he was crying. Confused if he was praying. I don't know what a dry well means to a man like that, whether it's his livelihood, his family's business, his entire inheritance. But I do know that some conversations change everything, and you can hear it in the silence that follows.
My work
Work from participant
Week 1: A poem written as a packing list for a road trip.
Week 4: Write a story about something you fear
"I'm not the one who's running, I'm the one who's standing still."
The doctor's office smelled like antiseptic and old magazines. I sat in the hard plastic chair, watching a guppy swim in circles in the corner tank.
"Mr. Wong?" the nurse called.
I hesitated to move. I'd been standing still for years, with the same job, same apartment, same life. While everyone else ran to new promotions, marriages, moves across the country. But I remained fixed. I told myself it was stability. But watching that guppy, I was just too scared to move."
I stood up, following her down the hallway, past the posters and closed doors, to a small room where the doctor would tell me something I already knew.
I sat on the exam table. The paper crinkled beneath me. And for the first time in years, I pulled out my phone and texted my brother. "Hey. Can you call me?"
The phone rang at 6:47 p.m. I know the exact time because I was watching the clock, waiting for dinner to finish, waiting for nothing in particular. It was my mother's number. Nothing unusual. She calls every Sunday.
But it wasn't Sunday.
I stared at the screen for four rings before I answered. "Hello?"
"Hi, sweetheart." Her voice was normal. Calm. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
I felt a cold drop in my stomach, the thing I've been carrying since I was a child. The fear that one day, the phone will ring and it won't be her. The fear that one day, she'll call just to hear my voice because she needs to, because something is wrong, because she's saying goodbye without saying it direclty.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Of course, just miss you."
I wanted to believe her. I told her I missed her too. I told her I'd visit soon. We talked about the new divorce case I was working on, how my sister failed the bar.
After we hung up, I sat in silence, phone still in my hand. The fear didn't go away. It never does. It just waits.