My energy for creative writing is totally depleted after full days as a corporate drone. So, I started playing games of “writing prompt roulette” with ChatGPT to give me an extra *spark*. And it’s worked like a charm! It focuses my creative energy, and lets me explore tons of new and interesting topics. This little vignette came from my first prompt (below). I plan for this to be a recurring exercise.
Prompt:
Two strangers are stuck in a laundromat during a sudden citywide blackout. One of them is far too talkative. The other clearly wants to be left alone — at first.
Write the conversation that unfolds, focusing on how the characters reveal themselves through what they say (and don’t say). Let their dynamic evolve naturally.
Characters:
Maurice Joseph: But you can just call him Mo. Accountant. Worked at Capital Express for the last 25 years; and would you look at that, he just celebrated his work anniversary! Genuine man. Extremely annoying, and not in an endearing way; more of in a “Ha-ha look at that poor sap who got roped into a conversation with Mo” kind of way. People mock him, and it’s sad – but be honest, you would too if you ran into him. Smells vaguely of soup, with no thermos in sight.
Sam: Just Sam. He’ll never tell you that it’s short for Ishmael. Actual son of the Devil but trying to hide it. Blessed with many immortal gifts, but patience for talkative mortals is not one of them. Teenager. Ran away from hell and is just trying to avoid notice so he can stay on the surface for a bit longer. Likes cigarettes and the Used. Weird soft spots for cats.
“And so, they just took the waste baskets away from our desks! Can you believe it? Heck, I understand times are tight and all, but this would never have happened when old Jim ran the company. I tell ya.”
Was this hell? If Sam hadn’t just gotten off the last train from Pandemonium, he would have said it was. If he ever decided to return home, he’d have a word or two with his father about this. There was clearly a circle of hell beyond even Lucifer’s imagination. A tenth circle. And its name was Maurice fucking Joseph.
“And you know the guys, the guys they come up to me and they say, ‘Mo, do you have any idea what this is all about? Mo, do you know?’ I’ve been here twenty-five years, I forget if I told you that, and the new guys look to me for this sort of thing and – Buuurp – whew, excuse me.”
Maurice grabbed his belly sheepishly. He quickly rubbed the back of his sweaty hand over his mouth and shook away some spittle before launching back into his mindless drone.
Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the washing machine. He was getting a bit tired of the view. From his vantage point on the floor, he had to look up at Maurice, who was sitting on a bench in the middle of the laundromat aisle. Maurice was a short, paunchy man with thinning hair and a thick, bushy mustache. His white button-down shirt had come untucked, and a peak of flabby white flesh was spilling over his belt buckle. With his legs spread wide and his face getting red from too many words spoken over too short a time, he looked something like a Walrus who had decided to pursue his lifelong dream of corporate middle management instead of staying home to help around the iceberg.
I need a cigarette, Sam thought. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his foot tapping impatiently in front of him. Did father already find me? Is this his punishment for my disobedience? Unlikely. The old man was all “boiling blood” and “endless gales” these days.
Sam paused. The droning had stopped. He looked ahead, and Maurice was looking at him expectantly.
He waited for a heartbeat. Then two. Sam continued to stare back disinterestedly, until the silence became too much for Maurice to bear.
“Well?” he asked.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Well, here I go rambling on and on about who knows what, and I start thinking, ‘Mo, you dang idiot, you never asked the young man for his name.’”
Silence.
“So, uh what *ahem* uh what is it, if you don’t mind?”
Sam smirked. Where he came from, giving your name to a demon gave them power over you. He wondered what would happen if he gave it to something even more vile.
His gaze slid off Maurice and out the front window of the laundromat. Darkness. Deep, suffocating, darkness. It was almost…supernatural. Maurice called it a citywide blackout, but Sam knew it for what it really was: His father was out there looking for him. And he was pissed. Which meant that for now, Sam was stuck hiding in here with this doughy buffoon.
Tearing his eyes away from the window, he remembered that Maurice’s question still hung unanswered in the air between them. Irritably, he found that the silence was starting to bother him more than the droning. At least when Maurice was talking, he didn’t expect Sam to contribute.
He brushed a lock of straight, black hair away from his eyes and leaned his head back against the washing machine, closing his eyes lazily. Well, guess it’s time to toss the Walrus a fish.
“Sam.”
Maurice perked up in his seat. “Just Sam?”
“Yes. Just Sam.” Well, a small fish.
If Maurice noticed the annoyance in Sam’s voice, it wasn’t enough to deter him. Instead, he leaned forward, buzzing excitedly as he jumped back into his verbal barrage.
“Well Sam, it’s a helluva pleasure to meet you. I thought to myself when you first walked in, I thought, ‘Well gosh, there’s a new face! Haven’t seen him around here before. He must be new around these parts.’ See, ol’ Mo’s been coming here twice a week for, oh, probably nine months now. Ever since the divorce and all.”
Divorce? Someone married this thing? I guess even walruses have mates, Sam thought to himself. To Maurice he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine why she would have left a man of your…magnitude. Her loss, surely.”
“Oh gosh, no, not my divorce. My boss, Bob’s. Man’s been a wreck since Suzy left! Absolutely inconsolable. Helpless. Doesn’t know his detergent from his fabric softener, God bless him. Always bopping from one meeting to the next, when is he supposed to find the time for laundry of all things?” Maurice barked out a laugh and shook his head disbelievingly.
“So, one day he comes up to me, and he says, ‘Mo, let me run something by you. It’s been, what, twenty-five years at the company now, right? That’s remarkable. Truly fantastic. You’re a trustworthy company man, Mo. And heck, you know how hard things have been since Suz left me. Think you can do me a real solid, friend? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. And I certainly wouldn’t ask it to somebody I couldn’t trust…’”
And so, I says, “‘Of course, Bob!’ and, well, here I am! Been separating his whites from his colors ever since.”
Sam blinked, sure he had misheard.
“You…do your boss’s laundry twice a week?” His father really should spend more time on the surface. This was like a free consultation service for cruel and unusual punishment.
“Oh, Bob’s more than just my boss, he-” Maurice cut off, as something flew headfirst into the laundromat window, hitting the glass with a resounding smack.
Sam’s stomach dropped.
Maurice started to twist himself around on the bench to get a look out the window, but Sam quickly snapped at him. “Sit still you bumbling idiot.”
Maurice looked back at him, eyes wide with hurt and surprise. But Sam was far past pretending to care.
For a few moments, everything was quiet. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. Please be nothing.
Then, just as Sam began to believe the danger had passed, a long, black form began to unwind itself from the pavement, thin, tattered wings reaching out to either side of it as it steadied itself on the windowsill.
Damn. Sorry, Maurice. You’ll have to catch me up on your unhealthy relationship with capitalism another time.
His father had found him. And it was time to go.
The Existential Wannabe 