Welcome to a new installation here on my blog where I share little samples of my writing and resources to help get your own juices flowing. Every Thursday my high school Writing Club meets and we begin with a prompt and free write for twenty minutes. Sometimes the prompts are organic and sometimes they spring from great sites like Figment.com. Today’s prompt was included in their weekly newsletter, which I highly recommend.

“Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture.”

The point of the exercise is to just write the first thing that comes to mind and I couldn’t help but think about Adam Silvera’s More Happy Than Not. Pick it up if the idea of a memory wiping
procedure/drug intrigues you.

The Price of Memory

It smells like fresh pee in the alley, that and rotting food. I can ehar something scratching in the dumpster, but I’m afraid to even turn around and look. The guy snatches the money from my palm and counts it quickly in the dim light. Once he’s done he shoves it in his pocket and I can’t help but be a little pissed off that three months of my hard earned cash is now crumpled at the bottom of this vulture’s pocket.

He slips me a tiny plastic snack bag filled with glowing blue pills.

“Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture,” he says.

“No instructions?” I ask.

He laughs.

“I thought you college types did your research before finding a guy like me.”

I puff up at the compliment. I wish I were already in college. At least then I’d be able to fill my days with interesting people and other things in instead of obsessing over that…

“Humor me!”

“Okay. Okay. Get yourself some hot tea or roll over to that Starbucks you girls love so much and start thinking about whatever you want to forget. Better yet, write a letter to the jerk you wish would die.”

This guy is really making some assumptions here. He’s not wrong, but still.

“Just when you think you might burst into tears or burn his house to the ground, take the pills.”

“All of them?”

“All of them,” he replies. “Just don’t take it with alcohol. That would be…bad.”

“How bad?”

“City morgue bad.”

“Whoa! That’s a bit much,” I protest.

“You want peace of mind or what? Forget that. No refunds! Do what you want.”

He turns and begins walking down the alley and into the street. I open my mouth to stop him and then…I don’t.

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