It is always fun to create a prompt and hear the various ways the writers of The Blue Bottles Writing Studio, develop their stories. Sometimes the themes are similar and sometimes vastly different
Here are the stories written by four different authors about the same prompt.
PROMPT: There’s a knock at your door and when you open it you find an old man who hands you a glass jar with clear water in it.
1. A Jar of Water -Debi Hanuscin
Mikey sounds the alarm at the knock, so I very ungracefully open the door just enough to shimmy through and close it behind me so he can’t jump on our recent arrival. It’s an old man, how old I can’t tell- though I’ve never been a good judge of age. He’s wearing an oversized (maybe his size once) denim button down shirt with a pair of khakis– and in his hand is a mason jar with clear liquid in it.
Without thinking, I automatically reach out and take the proffered jar, then stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to say something. He’s clearly not one of my neighbors- at least the ones I know (is he from the rundown house with the rotting picket fence that the census workers were asking me whether anyone lived in?) After a few seconds of awkward silence (save for Mikey’s muted barking), I tilt my head towards him with eyebrows raised in expectation, but he just looks at me blankly. I look into the jar, then back at him. Still no response.
I shift slightly from foot to foot, wondering what I’m supposed to do next. Improvising, I hold the jar out to him and… he takes it, turns slowly, and walks down the porch steps. He pauses to sip from the jar, then shuffles out the gate, which I see now was open. The crash of Mikey’s teeth on the window distracts me for a moment, and I lean over the railing in time to see one corner of the curtains being moved back and forth by his nose as he gets tangled while trying to get a better look. I step back and look towards the sidewalk, but don’t see the man- I walk forward to close the gate, glancing up and down the street, but nothing. Where did he go?
I hurry back inside, and hunt for my phone. After pulling up our doorbell camera, I scroll back to the view of the man and I and the jar of liquid, allowing the recording to play forward. There I am shifting from foot to foot, he takes the jar as I hand it back, and he walks towards the gate. Then it shows the view of my back as I lean over to look at Mikey in the window, which obscures the view of the man. Then, I turn back and the camera should now be showing the man, but he’s not there. Wait, what? I look up as I realize it’s quiet, and notice Mikey is still riveted to the window- but now he’s happily wagging his tail. I call him over, but he ignores me. “Cookie!” I sing, and he plops his front feet down from the windowsill and saunters over to me. I get him the promised treat, then stroke his fur to help quiet my brain, which is struggling to process what just happened. I think I have been working too hard. I leave Mikey and walk over and lock the front door, then sit down on the couch.
I scroll back further on the doorbell cam, trying to find where the man first appeared– but the first sign of anyone is me wiggling into the frame as I try to make it out the doorway without letting Mikey escape.
There’s a knock at the door again- which makes me jump. But- Mikey makes a different sound than before– this time it’s his happy bark, and a whine he makes when he sees one of his “buddies”. I head to the door feeling much less wary, unlock it, and open it — only to see no one is there. I stand there puzzled until Mikey suddenly bursts past me onto the porch. He is sniffing at a mason jar filled with clear liquid. Nope nope nope! I chide- but before I can stop him, Mikey starts lapping it up. And then, I stand there mouth open as I watch Mikey disappear into thin air.
I look back at the jar, which is now only half full…
2. High in the Mountains -Elizabeth Jane Pryce
A persistent quiet knocking on the door woke Ruby, the labradoodle. She uttered a low throaty growl, waking her owner, Tamara, from a deep slumber.
“Ugh, who can that be? It is barely light yet,” Tamara queried, struggling to pull on some clothes and look more alert. Maybe I shouldn’t answer it. “Hush, Ruby, I can’t think. You wait here while I take a look first.”
Tamara half closed the door to the room where she’d been sleeping and hobbled slowly to the beads-covered front entrance. Outside, in the brightening sky, stood an old man. He was wearing a loose robe over a thin body. He was holding up a glass jar of what looked like a clear liquid.
“How can I help you,” Tamara asked, “we don’t know each other, do we?”
The old man sat awkwardly on the bench outside the door with an audible sigh; his legs bowed from the knees under the robe. He looked up at Tamara with rheumy eyes, half closed, and mumbled something.
“I don’t understand.”
The old man pointed to Tamara first, then the glass jar, tipping it towards his lips. She shook her head, “I’m okay, thank you.”
The old man stood up and gestured to Tamara again. He put the jar of water on the bench, took a folded piece of paper from beneath his robe, and handed it to Tamara. She took it and read. The words she can’t understand. But there is a picture of a yellow moon, mountains around a lake, and a glass jar of water outside a tent.
I must be dreaming. What is the meaning of this picture? Tamara thinks. Is it an adventure I am supposed to go on? Maybe this is not real. I must be dreaming. “Thank you,” she says and closes the rustic door, letting the beads fall back into place with a soft musical sound.
Tamara walked to her mat in the room where Ruby was waiting for her. “I need to sleep,” she whispers into the dog’s ear. “Something strange just happened to me. I will have to ask Gerry about it in the morning. Come, Ruby, keep me warm under this blanket for a few more hours.”
A while later, Tamara woke again to knocking, but loud, and she heard Gerry calling her name. “Tamara, wake up. We must get to the village and get food for today’s trip.”
Tamara told Gerry about the early morning encounter with the old man as they slowly jogged down the rough stony trail to the village — two tiny stone buildings selling local food and American pop.
“Everything that happens around here happens for a reason,” Gerry said with a smile. “You’ll see.”
They had fresh milk and mutton wrapped in steaming dough for breakfast before setting out to trek to a spectacular place in the mountains where they were spending the night in tents. Tamara kept a secure hold on Ruby’s mobility support harness to prevent her feet from slipping on the rough trail. Her father’s suggestion that she should bring Ruby on this trip turned out to be perfect. He had suggested this trip to Tamara for her to regain her strength and arranged for Gerry to bring Tamara from the city to the high mountains for the spiritual journey.
Tamara’s body hurt when they reached the submerged forest lake by late afternoon. It was exquisite. The light over the mountains sparkled across the water like large clusters of diamonds. No swimming was allowed because of the fragile ecosystem. Their two guides unpacked a narrow folding table and set food for the group of twelve. An elderly couple and their two teenage girls from Germany, one in a wheelchair, a group of six women from Britain, and Tamara, with Rudy and Gerry. The full moon rose over the lake as they collected their food and sat down on blankets to eat.
“Gerry, Gerry,” Tamara whispered urgently. “It is like the picture the old man gave me. The yellow moon, the mountains around the lake, and the glass jars of water are here too. Look, Gerry, over there by each tent.”
Gerry smiled and hugged Tamara. “It certainly is a magical place. You should do as the old man suggested. You should drink the water before you go to sleep. Magic happens in a place like this.”
3. Even the Sweetest Water – Alison Schroeder
Inspired by this Zen Buddhist Koan: Chiyono’s No Water, No Moon | Treetop Zen Center
A depressed rich man contemplates suicide; he’s got more money than he can ever possibly use, the most modern amenities, toys, house, and all the attention and lovers he could ask for. But he feels empty, directionless and unable to see his life going much further.
Suddenly there is a knock at the door. An old man is there and offers him a glass jar of water. The rich man is confused, he’s never seen this person in his life. But the unexpectedness of this encounter has broken him out of his suicidal stupor. He figures, “what the hell” and tries the water. He’s astounded at the liquid’s crisp freshness! The rich man feels a new vigor about life. THIS is the solution! His new purpose! He’s going to bottle and sell this delicious water.
With a fervor he hasn’t had in years, he grabs as many containers as possible and makes the old man take him to the wellspring. He brings the loot back to his house and stores it in his wine cellar to keep it fresh and cool. He does this multiple times to capture as much as possible, but on his third trip he discovers all the jars from his previous trips had shattered. Exasperated but determined, he thinks he just needs to use something else to hold the water. So, he tries again with ceramic, plastic, metal… But no luck, somehow those failed too. After exhausting himself, and feeling lost and directionless again, he implores the old man for the secret to keeping the water stored. He fears this is his last chance at achieving the life he’s always wanted.
The old man replies saying, “It is impossible. Any container you use whether it be a glass jar, jugs, buckets, or bowls, they will inevitably break. This water was never meant to be contained as even the sweetest water becomes stagnant. And so do we.”
4. The Glass Jar – George Francis Edward
Senile was a seventy-four year old man, with a fluffy white goatee, and ruddy cheeks. Some people thought he looked like this writer. But for some reason, young children were afraid of him.
Anile was a seventy-three year old woman, with crystal blue eyes, and a fair complexion. Some people thought she looked like this writer’s wife. By the way, “Anile” means “resembling a doddering old woman” which is not the case because Anile was quite beautiful and spry for her age.
When the old man knocked at the door, Senile was the first to answer the door and query the old man.
“Are you a Jehovah’s Witness? Probably due to COVID-19, I haven’t seen you in years!” Senile said.
“No, I’m not a Jehovah Witness,” the old man replied.
The old man looked vaguely familiar. He wore light blue, bell bottom pants, a red long-sleeved rugby
shirt, and white, mud-splattered sneakers. To top off his ensemble, he sported a floppy-brimmed, bell-shaped bucket hat — the same kind that Gilligan wore on “Gilligan’s Island.”
“Are you looking for the Skipper? Or Mary Ann?” Senile asked.
“What?” the old man replied.
“Maybe Ginger or the Professor?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the old man exclaimed. “I just stopped by to hand you a glass jar with clear water in it.”
Senile yelled at the top of his lungs. “Hey, Anile, some guy who looks like Gilligan wants to hand us a jar of water!”
“I’ll be right there!” Anile yelled and soon joined her husband at the door.
“Why does he want to give us a jar of water?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He’s lost. Probably looking for Mr. & Mrs. Howell,” said Senile.
“I’M NOT GILLIGAN!” the old man roared. He was getting quite impatient with Senile.
“He says he’s not a Jehovah Witness either. His sneakers are muddy. I never knew a Jehovah Witness who wore muddy sneakers,” Senile observed.
“AND I’M NOT A JEHOVAH WITNESS!” the old man roared again. Now he was growing impatient with Senile. He was thinking of smashing the glass jar over Senile’s fuzzy white head.
“Calm down… easy mister,” said Senile. “I don’t know why you’re getting so upset.”
“All I want to do is to hand you this friggin’ jar of water,” the old man pleaded.
“What’s in it”” Senile asked.
Senile turned to Anile.
“You can’t tell sometimes, but some objects like clear glass marbles are invisible in water.”
“That’s right,” Anile answered. Anile turned to the old man.
“Are you trying to hide a couple of clear marbles in your jar of water?” she asked.
The old man held the jar of water in front of Anile. He shook it several times.
“See? No marbles in there. Just water!” the old man stated.
“So you’ve lost your marbles?” Senile joked.
“I never had any marbles to begin with!” the old man blurted out.
“Exactly!” Senile said. “Just like Gilligan!”
Senile turned to Anile.
“I bet he lost his marbles. Just look at his sneakers. He’s been walking around in mud. A guy who can’t avoid a puddle certainly can’t be trusted with a couple of marbles.”
Anile nodded in agreement.
“Gilligan was always losing things,” she said. “Just remember how many times he got lost on the island or in the lagoon. And it was a tiny island. Not easy to get lost on…”
The old man tried one last time.
“With all due respect,” he began “you two are a couple of nitwits who have obviously watched too many episodes of Gilligan’s Island. So I am going to talk to you really slowly, and I promise not to use big words… or smash this glass jar on top of your heads.” That last phrase he thought but did not speak.
“That sounds reasonable,” Senile said.
The old man continued. “OK, now all I want to do is to hand you this jar of water. That’s it. No strings attached. Once you take this jar of water from me, I will turn around and you’ll never see me again.
Agreed?”
“But I don’t think we can take your jar!” Senile replied.
“Why not?” said the old man.
Senile explained. “Because your jar is not recyclable. It’s too thick and heavy. It appears to have a different melting point and chemical composition than regular bottles and jars.”
Anile joined in.
“Yes, we recycle everything. If we can’t recycle your jar, we’ll have to drive to the dump to get rid of it.
And we don’t want to pay the recycle fee at the dump for just one jar,” Anile calmly explained.
“You’re wrong,” the old man said. “This jar IS recyclable. So you won’t have any problems.”
“Oh yeah?” Senile interjected. “Where on this jar does it verify it’s recyclable? I don’t see a California Redemption Value (CRV) message on it. Your jar doesn’t have anything on it — it’s clear!”
The old man resigned to his defeat.
“You’re right,” he said dejectedly. “There is no recycling message on the jar. It’s just a jar of water.”
“Well, I’m sorry. But we cannot accept it,” Senile replied.
The old man put the jar under his arm and shaking his head slowly walked away. “Just my luck! I ran into a couple of scatterbrained, Gilligan-obsessed assholes,” he muttered and disappeared down the driveway.
“What did he say?” Anile asked Senile.
“He said we’re wonderful!” Senile grinned. “And guess what? Gilligan’s Island is on TV right now!”