30 Days of Writing: Day 5
When I was in high school, about once a year, they'd would burn down some of the forest in Sumatera to clear land for plantations, and the monsoon winds would bring the resulting smoke across the Straights of Malacca. The Malaysian and Singaporean governments hated this and would kick up a big fuss, and the Indonesian government would basically reply saying "suck it up". As far as I know, that's still going on, I just don't live there anymore.
Anyway, I guess this is only semi-fictional.
using the prompts below, write a drabble (or whatever) a day for the next 30 days. find someone willing to hit you if you miss a day. look back at the end and go ‘oh! i’m a writer!’.
beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.
The haze is so thick you can’t see the end of the street.
Her eyes water and her lungs burn. The face mask makes it difficult to breathe (it’s one of those disposable dust masks, and it doesn’t seem to do anything except make it harder to breathe) but she wears it anyway because it makes Mom feel better. All the other kids are wearing them. Some have drawn stuff on them with whiteboard markers: a smiley face here and there, a few with whiskers, and even one lovingly detailed grinning skull.
She coughs anyway. The air smells like smoke.
Anyway, I guess this is only semi-fictional.
using the prompts below, write a drabble (or whatever) a day for the next 30 days. find someone willing to hit you if you miss a day. look back at the end and go ‘oh! i’m a writer!’.
beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.
The haze is so thick you can’t see the end of the street.
Her eyes water and her lungs burn. The face mask makes it difficult to breathe (it’s one of those disposable dust masks, and it doesn’t seem to do anything except make it harder to breathe) but she wears it anyway because it makes Mom feel better. All the other kids are wearing them. Some have drawn stuff on them with whiteboard markers: a smiley face here and there, a few with whiskers, and even one lovingly detailed grinning skull.
She coughs anyway. The air smells like smoke.