Whew! The Day 1 prompt was fun. Check out my story, “Ms. Rankin’s Untimely Demise.” I hope you had fun with the first prompt too! Now, let’s keep going …
I like today’s prompt because you are basically going to have a finished story within the first five minutes. Then you can expand it as much as you want. But at least you know where it’s going.
Day 2 Prompt: Use this fill-in-the-blanks style “story formula” to get you going: A [adjective] [noun], who [verb] [subject], then [related verb] [resolution].
This prompt reminded me of a book I bought a while back: The Amazing Story Generator. You can turn the pages to create different story combinations. Here’s the one I randomly selected to use for this story:
So then I think my formula would be filled in as follows: A North Korean scientist, who is suffering a crisis of faith, refuses to leave the bathtub. I’m not sure refusing to leave the bathtub qualifies as a “resolution,” but I’m going with it.
If you’d like to try the story generator too, here are some other combinations that might speak to you. Happy writing!
[UPDATE]
Here’s the story I wrote from this prompt:
Mr. Bubble
From an early age, Sung-soo Yi had an extraordinary sense of smell. At family parties, he entertained his relatives by guessing the names of his aunts’ perfumes from across the room. He could tell the difference between his aunt Eun-mi’s authentic Chanel No. 5—which his uncle purchased in Pyonyang from a cash-only shop full of illicit goods from Singapore—and the cheap knockoff that his aunt Hye-jin wore. Due to some mysterious criss-crossing of his neural pathways, Sung-soo experienced scents not only as olfactory phenomena, but as colors and sounds. He once famously prevented his mother from eating spoiled kimchi—which made the rest of the family violently ill—by convincing her that, to him, the little jar of fermented vegetables smelled “all blue and jangly.”
A young professor from a nearby university proclaimed Sung-soo, at the age of seven, to be a genuine synesthete. He was not speaking in poetic metaphor. To him, the smell of spoiled kimchi was genuinely “blue” and really did emit a cacophonous din. And, although Sung-soo’s parents had prepared him from an early age for the two possible futures that awaited him—joining the military or working in a nearby factory—as luck would have it, the same professor went on to play a key role in the new supreme leader’s interest in scientific advancement. Remembering the little boy with the unusual capabilities, the professor sent a handful of official letters that changed the course of Sung-soo’s life. Sung-soo was placed in a prestigious university and, upon graduation, assigned to work at the government’s sleek new science and technology center.
This was a stroke of incredible good fortune, Sung-soo’s family all agreed. The nation’s few scientists received favorable treatment, including increased rations and government-appointed living accommodations. Sung-soo, now Doctor Yi, rose sharply in the ranks. He had no real competition. He was North Korea’s only aromachologist.
In France, a man with Dr. Yi’s talents might have gone to work in Paris, for an elite perfumier. In America, he surely would have been snatched up by one of the giant packaged food companies. But in his country, there was really only one outlet for Dr. Yi’s talents. He was charged with developing “behavioral fragrances.” Essentially, crowd control through aromatherapy. Dr. Yi was good at his job. He could tell you precisely which scents triggered the release of neurotransmitters inducing docility in the limbic brain. It was Dr. Yi who discovered that pumping factories full of the scent of jasmine increased workers’ problem-solving skills and motivation. Eucalyptus, rubbed under the noses of schoolchildren, increased their performances on standardized tests. Athletes recovered at a much higher rate when exposed to lemon and peppermint (in that order) after bouts of intense activity.
Dr. Yi’s extraordinary nose eventually caught the attention of the supreme leader himself, who saw impressive results from a high-blood-pressure-reducing concoction of Dr. Yi has developed specially for him, from nutmeg and maize extract, several rare oils, and a mysterious ingredient secreted from the larvae of bees.
Dr. Yi proved so beneficial to the preeminence and prosperity of his country that he was granted certain unheard-of privileges. For example, he was allowed to attend—with appropriate government escorts—the International Symposium on Essential Oils. This marked a turning point in Dr. Yi’s career. While his olfactory prowess had certainly been appreciated by his comrades back at home, none of them really understood how he did what he did. To them, he was like a conjurer, whispering spells and stirring potions. But at the annual symposium, Dr. Yi was surrounded by academic and industry heavyweights, renowned scientists on the cutting edge of phytochemical and aromachological advancements. Though chock-full of heady lectures, the symposium also doubled as a sort of Olympics of the nose. Official and unofficial “smell-offs” abounded. And it soon became clear that no one could beat Dr. Yi.
This unexpected chance to upstage the world’s scientific elite was the reason that the supreme leader had allowed Dr. Yi to return to the symposium each year. Someone had slipped Kim Jong Un a copy of an article in the French paper Le Monde extolling the virtues of the mysterious Dr. Yi, who could distinguish between twelve different varieties of wild and domesticated roses, who could identify the terroir of lavender blossoms to within five miles of where they were grown, and who could tell you the very mountain peak from which a pebble of frankincense had been harvested. That article proclaimed Dr. Yi “Le Roi Des Nez,” the King of Noses. Dr. Yi had done his country proud.
As a result of his newfound status, however, certain things became apparent to Dr. Yi, which might not have occurred to him otherwise. The first year, Dr. Yi was just another scientist attending the symposium. He submitted his paper—read and edited in advance by a team of sensors—sat quietly in the back of a crowded auditorium, and found his way, with the help of his two handlers, back to his hotel room each night, where WiFi jammers and Bluetooth blockers were employed to ensure that his rest was not disturbed by the intrusions of the western world.
But by the second year, as Dr. Yi began beating out the aromachologists of the world in challenge after challenge, a buzz arose among the other symposium attendees. Dr. Yi was suddenly offered the best seats, invited to post-lecture cocktail parties and exclusive dinners, even asked to give a little talk at the closing session about the nature of his unique sense of smell. Dr. Yi’s handlers were in a quandary. They dared not hamper the position of prestige that Dr. Yi was claiming for his country. But this made it difficult to properly protect him from corrupting influences.
By the end of his second symposium, a few things were unavoidably clear to Dr. Yi. Scientists in other countries did not travel with handlers, were free to come and go as they pleased, and published their work free from suggestions. They were certainly not urged to inject propaganda into their public statements. Having occupied a relatively privileged position within his country’s scientific elite, Dr. Yi was a bit naïve. He questioned his handlers, at first, but grew tired of their standard reply: “That is a difficult question, comrade.” He grew to accept that the less he spoke to them, the better.
In the final session, Dr. Yi was asked to briefly address the symposium on the subject of his synesthesia. He explained that, when mixing scents, he closed his eyes, experiencing them as a swirl of dancing colors and sounds—from the tinkle of tiny bells to the roar and crackle of a bonfire. For Dr. Yi, creating a new scent was not unlike layering paint on a canvas, or choreographing a symphony. Dr. Yi left the stage to deafening applause.
It was then that he met Allegra Clarkson. Flashy, with a short hemline and tall hair, Ms. Clarkson gave Dr. Yi’s handlers heart palpitations. She insinuated herself between them and him as Dr. Yi walked from the stage, pumping his hand vigorously with her manicured fingers and leaning in close to introduce herself her in a throaty, lipgloss-scented whisper: “I see them too, Dr. Yi. I hear them, just like you.” Their eyes met, as he took in her meaning. “I’m sure we will meet again,” she continued. “You will attend next year, of course?” She did not wait for an answer but disappeared into the crowd of attendees just getting up from their seats. Just as she turned away, however, she added, “In your pocket, Dr. Yi. Try it in a hot bath.”
Dr. Yi knew better than to bring his hands anywhere near his pockets. But that night, in his hotel room, he discovered what she had placed there. A small vial of pink liquid. He shook it, once or twice, and a few bubbles appeared on the surface. Dr. Yi walked to the center of the little bathroom in his hotel suite and unscrewed the top. He waived it gently under his nose. His jaw slackened. His hand shook slightly. Fruit notes, at first: coconut, banana, peach. They danced about him in a chirping explosion of citrusy hues. But then, underneath, he could detect the heavy sweetness of vanilla, earthy tang of balsamic, and, all the way down, a powdery raspberry base. These appeared to him as infinite humming layers, wrapping him in alternating shades of translucent emerald, copper, and a rich, fulvous orange. Like a man in a dream, Dr. Yi turned on the water in the tub and poured the vial in.
Dr. Yi had always enjoyed a good bath. Even as a child, bathing in an old metal bucket his mother filled with soapy water, he would close his eyes and drift off, reluctant to get out even long after the water had cooled. For a true synesthete, a hot, scented bath was the closest to a super-sensorial experience as one could get. And as a man of some privilege in a country of almost none, Dr. Yi had access to black-market luxury products from around the world. He soon learned, however, that he needn’t pony up the cash to acquire such things. They would be provided for him, delivered directly to his laboratory, in fact, if he indicated that they were necessary to his research. In this way, Dr. Yi had filled his small government-issue bathtub with artisanal lathers from Paris, Dead Sea salt concoctions, distillations of ylang-ylang, bergamot, and sage. He had soaked for hours beneath blankets of bubbles courtesy of Penhaligons, Jo Malone, Nivea, and Aqua de Parma.
But this! This was something else entirely. The bubbles were so abundant, soft but not too slippery, the scent was incredibly enhanced by the steam from the water. It was somehow both synthetic and natural at the same time. For Dr. Yi, the next hour was an otherworldly experience.
It was only later, wrapped in towels, as he bent to pull the stopper in the tub, that Dr. Yi observed a tiny roll of paper. The precise circumference of the little glass vial, it must have been rolled tightly inside the stopper. With some hesitation, Dr. Yi unfolded it. “There is more where this came from. I can get you out. -A.C.” Dr. Yi stared at the paper for quite a long time. He cleaned his teeth at the sink, rinsed, and, with a gulp of water, swallowed the message down.
For a full year, the little message remained foremost in Dr. Yi’s mind. For a few terrifying moments it seemed as though he might not receive permission to attend the annual symposium for a third time. But then an official letter arrived. He opened it, trembling, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was going. And Dr. Yi had made up his mind.
* * *
Dr. Yi stepped from the taxi and stared up at the building in front of him, checking the address twice. He paid the driver, fumbling with the unfamiliar bills, and pushed his way through the revolving doors. In the elevator, his ears popped. The gleaming metal doors parted to reveal a carpeted hallway. At the end, a door with his new apartment number: 49C. Dr. Yi pulled a key from his pocket and, not daring to breathe, slid it into the lock. The bolt turned over and the door creaked open. The apartment was larger than he had expected, sparely furnished. The view from the window, out over the park below, was dizzying. Dr. Yi set down his satchel and walked, with some trepidation, to the spacious bathroom.
He slid the pocket door aside to reveal a temple of gleaming white surfaces. In the center, a huge claw-footed bathtub with antique copper fittings. Dr. Yi grasped the handle of the little linen closet beside the mirror. Drawing it back, he was momentarily blinded by a wall of garish pink bottles. On the front of each, the maniacal grinning face of a caricatured bubble, surrounded by stylized blue foam. Dr. Yi’s English was getting better. He read the labels: “Original Bubble. Mr. Bubble. America’s Favorite Bubble Bath. Bubblin’ fun for over 55 years!” Grasping a pink bottle with shaking hands, Dr. Yi twisted off the white cap and, closing his eyes, inhaled.
[Day 2: 2040 words]
