Love is a Piano #JustWrite

RebeccaTDickson.com and Laura Howard are pleased to bring you a weekly writing prompt that kicks you in the ass. Your assignment: Let go and have fun, goddammit. No editing. No second thoughts. And absolutely no using the delete key.

We want your guts on the page. Don’t think too hard. Just write.
How it works

1. Read/view the weekly writing prompt. (Sometimes a word or phrase, and sometimes an image.)
2. Write a blog post in response and link back to us.
3. Use Mister Linky (below) to share your new post with all of us.
4. Be sure to tweet your response with the hashtag #JustWrite so we can RT.


“Love is a piano dropped from a fourth story window, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” – Ani DiFranco <–

I push my bangs out of my face and hurry through automatic doors. An elderly woman sits behind the information desk, her flowery perfume drifting into my nose like a warning.

This hospital is the last place I should be. I try to argue with myself that I should turn around and drive home without another thought.

When your mother called to tell me about the accident, it was my gut reaction to want to rush in and save you.

You'd made it clear you didn't want me to save you.

The blast of hot air from the centralized heating system blew my bangs back into my face, and I huffed out a heavy sigh. 

Room 234.

The air is suffocating with the smells of antiseptic and regrets. I stand outside your door, thinking of the last time I spoke with you.

You swore you didn't mean to. It was all a mistake, you were only human.

Well, I was human too. Each night I sat home thinking about the day you'd come back home. Missing you, crying for you.

Two nurses walk by, chattering about their plans for when they get off work. One of them bumps into me, but doesn't bother stopping or apologizing. I know all about being insignificant.

Your door opens and a little dark-haired lady bustles out with her arms full of cleaning supplies. She smiles nervously and mutters something in a language I don't understand.

I can see the foot of your bed now. The gleaming metal of traction steals my breath.

Your mothers words echo "...paralyzed... spinal injury ...  could be permanent".

I count the six steps that bring me to the foot of your bed. I haven't seen you in eight months. The last time I saw your face, you were looking into my eyes. You had tears on your cheeks as you told me we'd be together soon.

I look at your cheeks now, completely slack. My cheeks are the ones with tears now.

 I realize love is cruel and doesn't let us choose. The tight feeling in my chest skates along the barrier between love and hate. I don't get to choose which side I'll fall on.

Just like the day I met you. I looked into your eyes, and like a piano that's had been dropped from a fourth story window, I fell hard and fast .

I didn't mean to love you. I don't mean to love you now. But, I don't get to choose. And, I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time.



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• Responses to current prompts are due by noon each Friday. (This week, the deadline is Dec. 14th.)
• A new prompt goes live every Friday at 5 pm.
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