For today’s Fiction Friday post, I selected a writing prompt from the book The 3 A.M. Epiphany by Brian Kiteley. It’s one of my favorite book of prompts, and a great source for any writer to have on their bookshelf. I ended up choosing prompt 99, “Rashomon”:
Write about a group of several people, at least four, who have had some similar experience (for example, five people who’ve been struck by lightning [but not the same lightning bolt] and survived; or six people who witnessed an accident). They don’t know one another. The event may be the only connection between these fine folks. You’ll discover what policemen and insurance investigators routinely find–that not two witnesses to the same event recount the same story of the event, and that reality is flexible, fluid, and subjective. 800 words.
I ended up writing something a little different than I usually do, something with a little more dark humor. Probably inspired by watching too much of The Good Place on NBC. After reading the prompt, I gave myself roughly 5 minutes to plan, then 30 to write. I went a little over time, but here are the results.
“Thank you all for coming today,” Mark said as they slowly made their way from the table of refreshments, overflowing with all of their favorite snacks, towards the circle of cushiony chairs. Mark stayed standing as they each took a seat. “I know it can be hard to talk about, but it’s good to come. That’s why we have this group.”
They all nodded. They had heard this speech from Mark each week for a while, and could probably recite in their sleep.
“We have a newcomer this week,” Mark continued, gesturing to a man sitting to his right. He was young, and fairly attractive—but they all were, now—and he looked intensely uncomfortable. Everyone understood, though. They all remembered their first time coming to the group. It was a lot to take in. Mark turned a little bit to face the man, and smiled encouragingly. “Jackson, do you want to introduce yourself? Stand, stand!”
“Um, sure.” The man cleared his throat as he stood up. “I’m Jackson Wyatt. I live—er, lived—in Missouri. I…was an accountant.” He shrugged, looking at Mark. “Um, what else do you want me to say?”
“Well, we’d love to hear how you died,” Mark said, his face parting into that big, wide smile that he offered to newcomers. Jackson shook his head vehemently. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed.” Mark stood up, and Jackson quickly sat down, as if that would save him from the relentless cheeriness of Mark. “That’s what this group is for. ‘Strange and Unusual Death Circumstances Support Group.’” He tilted his head at Jackson. “The Afterlife is strange enough for people who die in ‘normal’ conditions. For a few of us, however,” here he gestured to the rest of the circle, “Well, it’s a bigger transition.” Mark turned to face the group. “Is anyone willing to share their story? Show Jackson how it works?”
There was a pause. No one liked talking about their death story. Why would you? They all knew other citizens of the Afterlife referred to it as the Embarrassing Death Group. Finally, a woman with dark brown hair pulled into a tight bun raised her hand. No one was surprised. She had been here longer than anyone else could remember.
“Emily! Thank you so much!” Mark clapped wildly for her as she stood up, and the rest of the group gave a half-hearted clap that would have been drowned out by a crowd watching golf.
Emily gave a terse smile, and clasped her hands in front of her, fidgeting with her fingers endlessly as she spoke. “Well, I was born in 1889 in Boston, and in 1919 I was walking back from buying some groceries for dinner that night. It was, oh, a little after noon, and I smelled something sweet, and heard people shouting. I turned around and saw a large wave of a light brown…substance, rushing toward me. Before I could do anything, it had swallowed me up.” She stopped to clear her throat. “I’ve since been told it was molasses from a tank that burst at the Purity Distilling Company not far from where I lived.” Emily glanced down at her feet. “It’s apparently referred to as the Boston Molasses Disaster.” She quickly sat down, still fidgeting.
“And how are you dealing with your fear of syrup, Emily?” Mark asked gently.
She pursed her lips. “It’s better. When they had Pancake Day in the dining hall last week, I even went in and tried a little bit.” She shook her head. “Too sweet for me, though.”
Mark nodded. “That’s okay! You’re improving.” He smiled around at the group.
There was a snort from another man in the room. Mark turned and focused on him. “Arthur? Do you have something to share?”
Arthur stood up, crossing his arms. “I just think that someone who died from drowning in molasses shouldn’t be in the same support group as someone like me.”
Mark rest his chin on his fist. “Would you expand on that?”
“I jumped into a window to prove it was shatterproof, and it didn’t break, but instead it popped out of the frame and I fell to my death!” Arthur said, almost yelling. “How is that anything like her molasses story?”
Mark nodded slowly, as if absorbing Arthur’s emotions. “I understand and I hear you, Arthur. All of us have died in unusual circumstances, and we can all support each other as we adjust to the Afterlife, even if there are differences in how we died.”
Arthur huffed as he plopped back down in his chair, arms still folded. The other members in the group didn’t react to his rant. They looked to Jackson, who seemed taken aback at the outburst, and knew he would adjust. They heard it almost every week, and they supposed it would be that way for all of eternity.
Let me know if you try using this prompt, and how it goes!
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Featured photo by Irina Kostenich