How Will I Be Remembered?

That is a question I’m sure a lot of us have asked ourselves at least once. When you are an artist of any sort your biggest goal is to be remembered for the works you produce, the pieces you have given to the world through the haze of your own blood, sweat and tears. For others it may be a simpler answer. Maybe you want to be remembered for standing up for the rights of someone who couldn’t stand up for themselves, or for building the congregation to the most successful church in the state, or even something as simple as having the best peach cobbler this side of the Mississippi. Whatever your goal, it is yours. It is important to you. And that makes it important. That means you will usually do whatever it takes to make it happen, right? Of course. So my question for all of you is this; what do you want to be remembered for? When someone, be it family and friends or a complete stranger, thinks of you what do you want them to envision? I implore you to seek out that answer, make sure you understand it yourself and decide what the best way to make it happen is and post it below. I’m not asking for a play-by-play of the next twenty years of your life, but a standard goal and a brief method of ensuring you see success in that endeavor, if for no other reason than because writing it down will give it substance. It will make it seem much more real than just letting it float around in your head – and it may even give you motivation to take the first step, which is always the hardest, and make an effort to bring your future into the present. Who knows, you may even meet someone in the comments who can be of great help to you in the process. So sit back and think for a few moments on what you would like to be remembered for, post it in the comments and then, of course, go make it happen!

That being said, personally something I would generally like to be remembered for is my writing. If that is too vague, one thing I specifically would like to be remembered for is my version of the vampire legend. I want people to think of me and put me in the same rank as Bram Stoker and Anne Rice, among others. I want to know that my ideas didn’t fall dead, and that they are actually being embraced by those who read them. I feel like if at least one person can look at my work in this light then I have succeeded. That’s me, guys. Now let’s hear about all of you!

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Interesting Writing Prompt

So I recently followed a blogger who gives Friday writing prompts and this one really tickled my fancy so I thought I would give it a go. I will link the original post either at the bottom of this post or in the comments so you can all check it out if you’re interested.

I held the note in my hand, barely aware that I was squeezing the crumpled paper tightly enough to make my knuckles turn white. My body shook as the meaning of the words I’d just read sank in. White hot tears filled my eyes, burning lines into my pallid flesh as they ran down my cheeks. How could this have happened? I could see the words every time I blinked, the severity of the barely legible scrawl seared onto my eyelids, giving me no hope of escaping them. The note itself was small, barely filling one Post-it, but the words themselves seemed to bear down on me with a weight I wouldn’t have believed.

“There was a shooting, your father didn’t make it.”

Those words, circling in my head on consistent loop, made my stomach clench as I opened the note to make sure I hadn’t misread it. Tears splashed onto the page as I felt my heart pounding in my chest. My father, the greatest police chief the city had seen in decades, had been shot. Killed. I hunched over as the first dry-heave wracked my body. I had begged him to stay away from the gang fights, told him to send in S.W.A.T. teams and let them handle it. I knew he wouldn’t listen. He had always felt that one man standing in strength, speaking in peace could do more than a team of men with guns who were ready to kill. In his defense it had always worked, until now.

There was no doubt in my mind that it was my fault. I had seen it happen before I even spoke to him this morning. The dream had terrified me so much that I called my father at four in the morning to beg him not to go, the vision of his body being torn apart by bullets playing in my head as I heard his voice go from being groggy to stern. I told him I knew something was going to go wrong and that he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone. His response was as I expected.

He was stubborn as ever in his certainty that a single man could save the day, and no stupid dream was going to stop him. The silence of the phone had only reminded me more that I was alone, as I had always been. I was aware that the people around me were trying to speak to me, but I couldn’t respond. My tongue filled my mouth, almost cutting off my air, making it impossible to speak. Reaching my hand up, I felt the stubble of my growing beard graze my hand. I looked down at the barely legible blue ink there, the old shape of a half-assed coffin printed on the flesh between my pointer finger and my thumb.

My father had practically disowned me the first time he saw that mark, knowing that when I told him I’d killed a man the week before I hadn’t been lying. He had kicked me out of his house against my mother’s will, leaving me to fend for myself or go to the gang for help. I chose my own path. The gang had hounded me for months, finally giving up when they remembered I had two younger siblings. I couldn’t convince my father of this no matter how hard I tried. He was certain my younger brothers were stronger than I was, that they would never make the decisions I had.

I struggled to my knees, trying to stand as I heard the doors open, a gasp coming from everyone who could see the new arrival. I had seen this part as well and knew that I must prepare myself for what was coming. Screams broke out as my brothers pushed their way into the room, their large pistols pointed right at my face. I had just enough time to realize every bit of my dream had been true as I saw the bloody shape of blue coffin, freshly tattooed on the flesh on my youngest brother’s hand as he pulled the trigger.

 

I know the prompt says no violence, and I honestly didn’t intend on having any here. This story literally just came through me in a way that I’ve described this week, and I have to say I like it. I know some of you might not like it, just like I know what I tried to do may not have come through, so if you have any questions or issues please feel free to leave a comment! I hope you all enjoyed this and I hope you’ll participate!