I’m not feeling like I’m trying to think through a cotton stuffed fog today. I felt this foglessness yesterday, too. It’s actually kind of great. But, what do I do with this unexpected clearness of mind?
how about a little exercise for my writing muscle?
I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything more than a grocery list. Thanks to my thyroid, I mean that literally. I’m not very confident in my own imagination, so I thought I’d find a writing prompt to start me off. Writer’s Digest seemed a great place to look.
The Lesser of Two Evils
A knock on your door reveals a stranger who hands you their business card claiming they are the Lesser of Two Evils. Write a scene or story that reveals what happens next.
Lesser of Two Evils — Cassandra Lipp [Writer’s Digest]
The card was black as pitch. The words Lesser of Two Evils were etched in gold and perfectly centered. I squinted my eyes, trying to read the fine print just beneath those words. I brought the card closer to my face, but the words became no clearer. I turned my attention to the man whose knock had brought me from the warmth and comfort of my kitchen.
He was an unassuming man; plain in both look and attire. His black suit was buttoned up business style. His white shirt was neatly pressed with just the right amount of starch in the collar which was folded over the charcoal gray tie he bore around his neck. His patent leather shoes had the perfect balance of dull shine.
Pale blue eyes peered out from beneath a black fedora. His peaches and cream skin had the look of soft velvet. He was cleanly shaven. He appeared neither young nor old.
Despite the cold winter’s day, he wore no overcoat. I couldn’t see a car in the driveway, and I wondered at how he’d arrived on my front stoop. I sensed neither malice nor kindness in him.
“Can I help you?” I asked when he said nothing.
He handed me a magnifying glass. I held the card beneath the lens. All will be revealed in time it read.
“Can I help you?” I asked again.
His continued silence was a bit unnerving. He held out his hand palm up. When I failed to comply, he indicated the magnifying glass that hung limply by my side then held out his hand again.
I set it gently on his flattened palm. He closed his fingers around it. The dirt and grime in his nails seemed out of place. I looked at him again. His clothes were dirty, and the fabric had begun to deteriorate in large patches. His shoes were scuffed and cracking.
His skin bore a blueish gray hue and was dry and flaky. His pale blue eyes had grown more pale as he’d stood there. He brought them slowly up to meet mine.
“Thank you,” he whispered softly as he turned and walked off of my porch.
There it is, my first writing since this Hashimoto’s knocked out my thyroid and left me potatoed on the couch.
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