Prompt: “Up In My Tree” – 11 min

Up, way up, way, way up is where my brother sits. He bends back branches and leaps from tree to tree at will. He has always been more adventurous than me. Below him are my friends, Raymond and Louis, themselves in different trees but often hanging into mine upon their own sturdy branches. They drop down, into my tree to say “hello.” I always look surprised, and I want to ask what brings them by, but before we can begin to climb together they have leapt back to their trees, often without waving goodbye.

I sit somewhere in the middle of the tree, not too high so as to avoid the better chance of slipping from weaker branches, but not too low that I may never have the chance to change a branch’s direction. Right in the middle I have built my bedroom. I have a bed made of leaves, and a dresser to hold what I wear made from high-up branches. I’ve nailed my life together here. I can’t lie, though, I yearn for the sky about as much as I yearn for the firm foundation of this tree from┬áthe earth. To be somewhere in between feels boring, noncommittal. But it’s also where I choose to be, my hands have never been tied.

Prompt: “In My Pocket” – 7 min

In my pocket there is lint. There is lint because of what I put inside my pockets, and because of how frequently I do so. For example, I put my wallet in my left pocket. It is made of leather, and with time, the articles within my leather wallet stretch, harden and reshape it. During this, no doubt, particles of leather drop as dust into the crevices of my pockets.

In my pocket and also making┬álint are my keys. I use my keys to unlock many things. Front doors, car doors, bike locks, pad locks. My keys take my lint and (no doubt) leave it inside whatever it is I must unlock that day. in exchange, they remove other particles, germs or dust with their rigid angles and find their way back into my pocket. I realize now that my lint is not just mine, but possibly many other people’s as well.