When I ...
Use today’s creative writing snippets beginning with “When I…” to kickstart your own writing, then leave a comment to share what you come up with. Have fun and enjoy your Saturday!
Going through some old drafts of mine, I saw a few pieces that begin with “When I…” and was surprised by the variety of what I found.
What do you come up with when finishing one of the following:
“When I wrote the letter…”
“When I pull back the curtains…”
“When I drank the witch’s brew…”
“When I heard her say my name…”
“When I opened the wrapping…”
Share what you come up with in a comment to start a dialogue!
When I Wrote the Letter
When I wrote the letter, it wasn’t meant to be sent. Especially not to him. And especially not by me. To him. To read.
No, I’m no coward. I’m not shy. It’s all a case of mistaken identity. You see. Amorphous expectations and lines. Unforeseen. Consequences. That manifested.
When I wrote the letter, I was only experimenting with the consonants on the page and the shape they take. And his name just so happened to rhyme, fitting the meter of the verse.
All of this is a comically mistimed scheme. Or so I thought. But maybe that’s not really the case.
When I wrote the letter, he was still a stranger to me. And still is. Perhaps no longer.
Now he thinks I’m infatuated, elated, deeply in love. Every time I’m in his mere presence. It’s perverse. I know. That he read the letter. Unintended. An innocent bystander of my word experiment.
When I wrote the letter, I thought myself a muse. Not a scribe or a lover. Until now. Because I avoided structure. I was free. To avoid all forms and cadence. But now the stanzas have changed him. Moved me.
And I can’t escape the meaning. That the words in the letter composed. With the structure of letters, no less. As if he and this newly arranged reality were their own corporal destiny.
[What do you end up with when you finish: “When I wrote the letter…”]
The Shock of Bright Lights
When I pull back the curtains, I see emergency vehicles everywhere. At least six of them, if not more. I can’t really tell with all the flashing lights. They are everywhere up and down the block. Neighbors are scattered everywhere too, and standing in our yard.
I had opened the curtains to see what was going on because I saw flashes of emergency lights across my living room wall as I was dozing off watching the newest true crime documentary. But how I hadn’t noticed the bright light coming from the house three doors down that was fully ablaze, I don’t know.
I run to the bedroom where Greg is asleep. He always goes to bed before me. I am the night owl in the house. And when I reach him, he is fully exposed and possibly already in a deep REM cycle. He must have kicked the comforter off his legs during the night again.
I shake his shoulder roughly and try not to shout, but say a little louder than intended, “Honey, the house down the street is on fire!”
Startled, he bolts upright then stumbles to the floor as he tries to stand up. His foot got tangled in the sheets below his ankles as he attempted to scramble out of the bed, making him fall. But being on the floor proves convenient.
Greg rolls over and retrieves the baseball bat he keeps underneath the bed without skipping a beat and stands up, this time fully upright and much sturdier and more alert.
“Let me at ’em!”
“We aren’t being robbed, hun. It’s the house down the street. It’s on fire! Like, the whole thing is up in flames. I think it’s the James’ house. You know, that new family on the block that we met about a month ago?”
“What, really?” he responds. He relaxes his grip on the bat a bit but his eyes are wide open now.
“Yeah, I think so. We should probably leave and head to my mom’s house in case it spreads, but I wanna go see what happened first and see if they’re going to contain it soon. I think I saw Kylie and Jessica standing out there just now with their families. We can ask them if they know anything.”
Greg puts on some pants and a hoodie and we go outside. The fire’s so huge, there’s ash raining from the sky. The smell of life deteriorating is strong. And I can feel the heat.
Jessica is standing on our front lawn and when I ask her what happened, she says the James’ kid, Bobby, probably burned it down.
“That kid is just weird,” she says. “He is always wearing black and never makes eye contact or talks to anyone.“ He gives her the creeps. I kind of feel the same way about him, if I’m being honest, but I don’t say anything.
Kylie says it was probably faulty wiring. “All our houses are so old for newer models,” she says. And the burning house was just updated a few months back before the family moved in, which means it is highly likely that faulty wiring was the culprit.
“Oh… my… god,” I overhear Kerry say in slow motion from a few feet away.
We all follow her gaze and reflexively mimic her shocked expression.
There are four body bags being wheeled toward the coroner’s vehicle. One is much smaller than the other three. And sure, that’s shocking and heart-wrenching but…
What’s more heart-wrenching and shocking is the fact that only three people had lived inside that house before it started burning down.
[What do you end up with when you finish: “When I pull back the curtains…”]
Witch’s Brew
When I drank the witch’s brew, I involuntarily puckered my lips before spitting it out. The brew was both bitter and tart and tasted a bit like apple cider vinegar when it lingered on my tongue.
I handed back the plastic chalice to Fran and shook my head in disgust. She laughed and put the chalice back on the kitchen island.
“Wow, that bad huh?”
I nodded my head in confirmation.
“Well, it did come from a large pot they’re calling a cauldron,” she pointed to a black pot on the stovetop before continuing, “and they’re calling it ‘witch’s brew’ or ‘bitch’s brew.’ You know, something wildly misogynistic and condescending and inappro—”
“Well, tonight I am not a witch or a bitch or whatever if I have to drink that garbage,” I interrupted.
She laughed again, then said, “Well, it is a frat party. I would expect nothing less garbage-like. Why are we here again?”
“We agreed to a list of college-like things we had to do before we graduate next year so we’re sure to get ‘the full college experience’— your words, not mine. And attending a frat party was on the list. Plus, your super hot lab partner invited you.”
“Right… Well, I’d rather study for my next organic chemistry exam all night than drink whatever you just drank. But we should at least dance while we’re here and show off our costumes. Their d.j. is terrible, but oh well, it’s something to do.” She grabbed my hand and led me into the room where the music was the loudest.
As I started to dance in the smoke-filled room, I began to feel lighter.
After a few minutes, I couldn’t feel my feet or arms and everything around me began to move in slow-mo, including Fran and her mouth.
I couldn’t hear what she was trying to tell me, or anything else. Only the pulse of my own heart beating in my ears.
I caught a glimpse of my hazy image in the mirror across the room and saw a huge joker-like grin on my face. Then I saw… a splash of blood…
[What do you end up with when you finish: “When I drank the witch’s brew…”]
When I Heard Her Say…
When I heard her say my name over the line, I couldn’t believe my ears.
I actually moved the phone away from the ear the speaker had been touching and held it out in my hand in front of me like it was some type of extraterrestrial object.
I stared at the screen.
She was calling from an unknown number and for a split second I thought about ending the call to see if she’d call right back, so I’d know for sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
She said my name again, loud enough to snap me out of my trance.
I scrambled to place the phone next to my ear again, almost dropping it on the floor in the process, and finally responded, “Yes. I’m here.”
“Hey, sweetie. It’s mom. I’d love to see you for dinner tonight if that’s okay with you. Does meeting at Mimi’s at seven-thirty work for you?”
I was speechless.
How could she ask such a thing? And in such a singsongy voice, without a care in the world, as if it were the most natural question to be asking me.
I almost hung up on her again while contemplating how disappointing it was that you can’t slam down a smartphone to really hang up on a person like you used to be able to with the receiver of a rotary phone, which was actually the type of phone I was using the last time I spoke to her. But instead, I only said, “Sure.”
“Great,” she said with a smile in her voice before hanging up on me.
I sat down in the uncomfortable plastic chair at my kitchen table with visions of where she had been and what she had been doing all the years since I’d seen her last, and who she’d been doing them with— after she had announced that she had stage three cancer and decided to leave home with no forwarding address.
[What do you end up with when you finish: “When I heard her say my name…”]
When I Opened the Wrapping
When I opened the wrapping, he sucked in his breath.
Underneath the wrapping was a small black velvet box that seemed to weigh more than it should. When I opened the box, there was a sapphire ring inside it that looked like an antique.
“Look underneath the cushion holding the ring,” he directed.
I did.
Underneath the ring were two keys.
“One key goes to the house next door. I still can’t believe it was up for sale around Christmas. What luck!” He clapped his hands in the air, excited. “And the other goes to your new car outside. It’s that new SUV you’ve wanted for a few months now. It’s the one with the voice-activated GPS and infotainment system.”
When I realized I was staring blankly at the items in my lap not conveying much, I looked up and smiled because I somehow knew that was what I was supposed to do.
He remained on the sofa across from where I was sitting, staring at me without a glimmer of affection in his gaze, like I was a puzzle he was piecing together for his own amusement.
Then when I still didn’t say anything, with palpable annoyance he said, “Listen, Amy, I know you don’t remember anything after your fall last week, but you do want this. You’re lucky to be here. And I’m going to take care of you. My family is going to take care of you.” Which sounded more threatening than reassuring, especially the way he said it.
But how would I know? I couldn’t even remember my own name.
[What do you end up with when you finish: “When I opened the wrapping…”]
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© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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