Prompted Writing · Stories

PersonaBots- Creative Writing Prompt 1

Alright, so today, I’m going to do my first off-the-wall creative writing prompt.  If you’d like to play along, you can either write about the same prompt I find or follow the path and choose your own.

Sidenote- I won’t lie.  I definitely rushed the end because I couldn’t get much time to actually focus.  Apparently, the family cannot survive with my constant vigilance… One day they might… One day…

This week’s creative writing “path” (instructions to get to your prompt) is:

Go to Google.  Type in “Science Fiction Creative Writing Prompts”.  Click the 4th link you see.  Choose an odd-numbered prompt (I chose #11).  Write.

My prompt:

“I have to deactivate you.  I’m sorry.”

“Happy birthday, Myra!” her family exclaimed as she appeared in the kitchen that morning.   “Now, I know you’re probably already SURE you know what you’re getting this year,” her mom began, “but, I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised with your present.  Close your eyes.”  Myra did as she was told, anxiously awaiting someone to grab her shoulders, steer her through the living room and out the front door, and to her brand new set of wheels.  But, before anyone got the chance, “Open them!” her dad yelled.

In front of Myra was a brand-new first generation, chrome-plated PersonaBot.  It really was a beautiful-looking machine, but she didn’t need or ask for one of these.  She never really understood everyone’s fascination with PersonaBots- they are just shiny little machines that do everything for you, or as the ads like to say, “make your life a little easier”.  Years ago, the PersonaBots’ system was something that only existed in movies, and now, movies can’t be made without them- funny how that works.  At first, many people thought it’d be just another passing craze, but people have become incredibly attached, almost dependent, and now, they don’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon as evident by Myra’s brand-new shiny birthday present that she didn’t need or ask for.

Steeling her face into a believable smile Myra looked between her parents and the new PersonaBot. “Thanks……” She may have been able to pretend on her face, but it was impossible to hide the disappointment in her voice, she was just hoping her parents were too preoccupied to notice.

“I know you’re just going to love it, and it’s going to make your life so much easier!” Her mom was far too excited about this metal box that basically made humans lazier than they already were.  “I’m not sure why you never asked for one because they’re so cool! You’ll see!”

And, as if on cue, the PersonaBot stirred to life, obviously recognizing that the surprise was over and it was time to get to work.  “Initiating System Set-up” the cyber voice chimed.  “Please set your personal preferences.”  Myra had none; she didn’t want this thing in the first place, and she certainly didn’t want it knowing her preferences.

“Thanks, Mom.  Thanks, Dad. I’ll just head to my room to program it.”  She turned toward her new unwanted assistant, “Come on”, she ordered, and since it was an obedient little machine, it followed her out of the kitchen and back to her room.

She shut her bedroom door, and turned to write on her computer, but the Bot again chimed in, “Please set your personal preferences”.

Myra didn’t even turn to look at the machine.  “No. You can go to the closet and go to sleep… forever.”

“Please set your personal preferences.”

“Ugh.  My personal preference is for you to go to the closet and go to sleep forever.”

“I do not understand.  Please set your personal preferences.”

“Ugh… I just told…” as Myra turned, she noticed two things- first, the Bot had moved right behind her, and second, there was a little blue light on its chest that was blinking rapidly. She couldn’t help but stare at the machine, even though ‘machine’ might not be a good word for it. If it wasn’t completely covered in chrome plates, it would have looked like any other human being, and some PersonaBots have been around long enough that they have actually adapted to seem more human with their voices and movements; the only noticeable difference was the material on the outside.

A knock on the door tore her from her scrutiny of the Bot.

“Come in” Myra said a little too annoyed.

“How’s it going? Have you set your personal preferences?” Myra’s mom was too into this machine.

“I just got in here and haven’t started…” Myra started, but again, the bot was there to remind her, and her mom, that she was neglecting her present.

“Please set your personal preferences” the bot chimed.

“All you have to do is press the little blue button, and it will take care of everything.  Go ahead, honey.  I know you will just love how much easier this makes life for you.”  It was at that moment that Myra noticed her mom had some of the same movements as the Bot that was so desperately trying to get her to program it. In fact, Myra’s mom seemed a little desperate for her to set her preferences, but it didn’t change how much she wanted nothing to do with it.

“I’ll do it later.  I have homework to finish first.”

“But,” her mom just wouldn’t give up, “if you set it up, it can do your homework for you, and you can have more free time to do what you want to do!”

“Fine!” Myra turned to the Bot to begin ‘setting her personal preferences’ when she caught a glimpse at her mom’s face- anticipation written all over it… a little too much for a birthday present… a little too much for any mom who just gave their kids the key to a lifetime of laziness.  And that’s when it hit her… this wasn’t her mom.  Her mom was normally reserved and quiet- a far cry from this over-enthusiastic woman that stood in front of her.

“Mom.  Thank you.”  Myra got up and crossed the room to embrace her Bot-mother in a hug.

“Of course honey…”

“But,” Myra continued as she wrapped her arms around the Bot that pretended to be her mother, “I’m going to have to deactivate you.  I’m sorry.”

Her mom had no time to react as Myra began feverishly pulling her mother’s hair- the only logical place to conceal wires on the PersonaBot until her Bot mother made a sputtering sound and collapsed on the floor in a heap of flesh-colored metal.

“Congratulations Myra.”  She turned to see her very own PersonaBot seeming much more awake than before with a steady green light where the blinking blue one had been.  “Your the first person since our creation to not succumb to the temptation to have everything done for you.  For this, you will be rewarded.”  The Bot spit out a card.  “Take whatever you need from here, and go to this address.  We have a job for you.”




New Beginnings- First Draft

Chapter 1:


I still can’t believe my mom moved us out here.  I was fine with the problems at my old school because at least it was familiar, and everyone knew, so it wasn’t like I was forced to pretend with them.  But now, at 6 months pregnant, I have to start all over again with a whole bunch of people who don’t know anything about anything. I asked my mom to be rid of this when it first happened, but our religion doesn’t ‘believe in that kind of thing’ even under special circumstances.  So, here I am, stuck trying to fit in in a world where I am an outcast.

I push myself out of the car and head to the counselor’s office to pick up my schedule.  At barely 4 foot 8, my enormous belly takes the lead, and people just naturally move out of my way- almost like they might catch it if I touch them.  Good. Move. I don’t need friends here- I just need to get through these next 4 years and get my diploma.  When I get to the office, I’m not the only one who is in need of a schedule.  As I look around for someone who looks like an adult, the room starts to quiet down, and I start to feel more and more eyes on me.  Then, I begin to hear their thoughts pinging off of me-

How old is she? 


How pregnant is she? 

6 months.

I would never want to be pregnant and a teen. 

Yea. Me neither.

Why would someone want to be pregnant as a teen?

 I don’t know.  Maybe find a teen who wanted to be pregnant and ask them.

Does she know how hard her life is going to be? 

Do they know how hard my life already is?

My parents would kill me if I got pregnant.

If you only knew that…


“How can I help you?”

I snap out of my mind vacation to see an older lady wearing a floral print blouse and gray slacks in front of me.  She smiles gently at me, trying to hide her pity; she knows. Great.

“I’m here to see my counselor for my schedule. I’m new to the school- Arely Amador.”

“Oh yes!” She tries really hard to act surprised like she doesn’t know me, but she knew me the moment I walked into the office.  I saw her pity. I figured either my old school or my mom would have called ahead to let them know what they were getting; no doubt, my counselor will want to talk to me all the time just to ‘see how I’m doing’.

“Well, your appointment is at 8:30, and you’re a little early.  Mrs. Parrish has 2 kids before you, so just have a seat, and she will be with you shortly.”

I nod and take the first open seat I find that’s farthest away from everyone.  Unfortunately, it’s right by the opening to the front office, so everyone who walks through there gets a front-row view of Liberty High School’s newest addition- The Very-Pregnant Freshman!

Over time, you get used to the stares and looks and literally feeling what everyone is thinking about you.  It’s not so much that you get used to it as you just become numb to it all.  Numb to everyone thinking they know everything about every situation- including yours.  There’s no point in getting upset because they’re going to assume whatever they want anyway.

Because when a person notices a pregnant teen, they first feel disappointment- ‘How could she just throw her life away like that?‘ They’ll wonder.  Then, they question the teenager’s parents’ parenting skills- ‘How could they not raise their child better?‘ As if everything is a direct reflection of who raised you.  Finally, they begin to foresee that the child the teenager carries now will make the same mistake as them and the cycle will repeat forever.  I see it on every person who walks in that notices me.  Some are students, and some are teachers.  They aren’t the worst because they usually try to just look away immediately.  The worst are the parents, who can’t hold back their shock that their child has to go to school with such a delinquent.  After about the 5th shocked parent, I put my backpack in my lap trying to cover my belly, and just stare ahead at the poster ahead; although, even that doesn’t help much.

It’s a big yellow poster with kids of all different colors laughing and chatting in a park or somewhere that has trees.  In blue letters, across the top, I see-

“Plan for your future! Juniors and Seniors set up your College Advisory Meeting with your counselor today!”.

Across the bottom, a little red, white, and blue, “Go Patriots” logo with a soldier man with a funny hat stars back at me.

I can’t help but think that I don’t know if I’ll ever make it to that meeting with everything that I will be dealing with, but it’d be nice to think it could be possible, and this cycle won’t repeat.  But, at the moment, it’s also hard to hope for something greater than just small moments of peace to deal with what I’ve been given to deal with.  It’s like my mind never shuts…

“Arely… Arely… Good morning Arely…”

I look up and see two women in front of me.  On my left, there’s a tall blonde woman wearing a knee-length red dress with black pumps with pity written all over her face; it is a beautiful face though.  Her makeup is flawless, and something I wish I could do, but my mom says makeup is “against our religion,” like everything else.  Her blonde hair is pinned up in a half pony with large curls spiraling down.  She does look like very pretty; like she spent most of her morning making sure she looked perfect for school.

On my right, is what can only be described as her complete opposite- this woman is wearing black slacks that are loose fitting, so you can see all the wrinkles, a purple paisley print shirt that is cute, but certainly doesn’t go with the pair of black converse that are on her feet.  Her hair, which I’m pretty sure is also kind of purple, is completely straight and probably wasn’t brushed this morning.  Makeup? None.  You can see every last flaw on her face, but somehow she is still very pretty.  I can’t help but think that if it wasn’t for the sort-of-nice clothes she was wearing, she would look just like a student.  I start to imagine this woman in standard dress code clothes- those ugly khaki pants, wrinkled of course, and a dark purple polo…

“… Arely?  Good morning… Arely?”

I snap out of it again.  “Good Morning.”

“There you are. I am Mrs. Parrish,” Parrish- red dress, “your counselor. And this is Ms. Cook,” Cook- looks like a student, “our English language specialist.” Wait.  Language specialist? “Welcome to Liberty High School. Come join us in my office”

I push myself up from the chair in one quick move, something I’ve mastered this past month, and follow Mrs. Parrish into her office.  Mrs. Cook trails lazily behind, just like a student but with an air of confidence, like she’s done this before. She shuts the door and takes the seat next to me.  Mrs. Parrish sits behind her desk and begins handing me stacks of papers and packets.  She goes through the usual things that I’m sure all kids hear- dress code, computer rules, code of conduct rules, discipline, attendance, yadda yadda yadda.  Sign this; sign that.  Then, she begins crafting my schedule based on what my old school sent, and only now does the odd-looking Ms. Cook say anything.

“Your records show that you are an ESL student- meaning English is your second language. Does this sound correct?”

I nod slowly.

“Well, I am the campus coordinator and teacher of that program here, so it’s nice to meet you Arely.”

I nod again.  Ahhh… I get it.  She’s the lady who is going to stick me on Rosetta Stone for hours on end thinking it’s going to fix the fact that I don’t say much.  The schools think I can’t speak English very well because I don’t speak very much at all especially not these days.  So, I’ve been coasting along in the ESL program all my life not really living up to my full potential because they let me.  I write average papers, read just the right amount to satisfy the teachers, and do just enough to get a B or C, and that is good enough for me… but not good enough to get out of the language learner program.  I really should focus.

“….will be in my language learner level 2 class.  It’s my advanced class which I think is better for you because I think you know more than your scores say about you.”

What does this woman know about me? I just got here. No. Focus.

“We’re also going to put you in my 30-minute homeroom class, so you can have a familiar face. And you will see me or my aide, Mrs. Gonzalez, in your Biology, Algebra, and other English class.”

Other English class? Aide? Mrs. Gonzalez? Focus.

“…classes, so we will be seeing a lot of each other.  And, hopefully, we can get your scores high enough that we can get you out of the language learner program for next school year.” You won’t.  But, her optimism is nice, so I’ll let her think it’s possible.

The noise of the printer brings us back to the other person in the room and stops me from going on another mind vacation.

“Alright,” Mrs. Parrish says as she hands me another paper, “here is your schedule, and Ms. Cook has a senior outside that will show you around the school and get you to your first class.”

She gets up and heads to open the door; I stand up too because I understand our time together is done, but then she stops and turns to me.

“If you need anything,” she says as she squeezes my shoulders, “anything at all, don’t hesitate to come down and talk to me.” She gives me one final squeeze as she turns me out the door, and I could have sworn I felt her let a big sigh of relief when I was finally out her door.  That’s what teachers do.  They tend to say nice hopeful things like this to teens they think are troubled, like me, and it’s normally just to try and make you feel better. You can always tell they’re not really ‘there’ for you and are just trying to be nice.

Ms. Cook follows me out, then says, “Arely, this is Bella.”

I turn to see a girl, a little taller than me with short dark brown hair and glasses wearing the standard dress code clothes- pants that are not jeans, she chose blue today, and a solid color polo shirt, white.  The clothes really take away from her looks, but I’m sure that happens to all the girls and will happen to me eventually.  I, fortunately, get a pass with some of the dress code rules, for now, since I’m very pregnant and all, so I’m wearing my long dark black skirt with a looser-fitting pink V-neck shirt- no polos for me!  I’m certainly not going to like having to dress like this after this baby is out of me.  Focus, Arely, Ms. Cook is still talking…

“… has been here all 4 years and will graduate this spring.  She will be showing you around and can answer any questions you have.”

Bella and I follow Ms. Cook back down the hall to the front office where she turns and hands Bella two yellow passes “For when you’re done showing her around,” and then turns and looks at me, “No matter all the things that happened before, you are here, and this is a new start for you. Don’t worry about anything else except what you want for your future. If you need anything, just ask me.  I’m here to help you. And I’ll see you 3rd period.”

And, with that, Ms. Cook leaves out the door, and usually, I would have believed that her words were just nice things to say, like Mrs. Parrish, but, in that moment as I watched her walk away, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe Ms. Cook was actually trying to be sincere.  Maybe she would be there to help me.  Or maybe I was just being hopeful.  Her words were nice, and maybe she meant it, but I’ve had too many adults in the past pretend to be something to cover up who they really are, so I’m not so sure she is going to be any different.  But, who knows, people surprise you in both good and bad ways.

I’m brought back again by an unfamiliar feeling.  “Hello? ¿Hola? ¿Arely, si? Hello?”  I look down, and Bella is in front of me with a hand on each shoulder trying to get my attention. “¿Estás aquí? You here?”

I tense at finally realizing she is touching me.  “Si… yes…” I nod and take a step back which gets her to drop her hands but doesn’t do anything for my nerves, and she just continues talking anyway.

“Soy Bella.  I’m going to show you around.” She doesn’t notice my tension.  Clearly, she has a job to do, and she will do it.  “And then, I will take you to class. ¿Si quieres en ingles o español?”

“English is fine,” I say as I walk past her towards the exit everyone else seems to be going through.  Maybe with a little distance, I can relax again, but Bella doesn’t hesitate as she follows me out and immediately begins to tell me all about Liberty High School…

Go Patriots…



To be continued…




An Ode to Education

Sung to the tune and inspired by:
“Little Boxes” by Malvina Reynolds

Little children in the schoolyard

Little children made of different things

Little children in the schoolyard

Little children all the same

There’s a white one and a black one

And a brown one and a yellow one

And they’re all made out of different things

But they’re all treated the same


And the teachers in the schoolyard

All came to make a difference BUT

They were all put in boxes

And were all forced to do one thing

And there’s bosses and specialists

And education officials

But they’re all inside the boxes

And they all care about one thing


And they all check the data

And love their state assessments

And they all just see the numbers

And say all the “Buzz words”

But they don’t see all the children

Who are all made out of different things

Cause they were all put into boxes

So they all look just the same


And the children grow up

And begin to take care of things

But they were all made into boxes

So they all do just the same

There’s a white one and a black one

And a brown one and a yellow one

And they’re all made out of different things

And it’ll always be just the same

Home Life

The birth of the “Oopsy Poopsy”

Why not start my first actual ‘free-write’ topic with something that is widely popular in my house- farts and poop.  You’d think I was a “Boymom” with how often these subjects are discussed, but, alas, I am not.  No, it is my 7 year old DAUGHTER who is practically obsessed with farts and poop and how funny they are… Personally, I blame her aunt and uncle, but who knows, my husband and I could be equally to blame… either way… here we go.  (*Sidenote- when she gets older and reads all of my posts, she will probably kill me… stay tuned for approximately 7-10 years to find out!)


Like most families this winter, sickness has ravaged the Cox household- from flu to strep to the stomach bug- all have made their way in and out of the house.  On the most recent bout of stomach illness, young Lydia found herself in a situation most small children with the stomach bug are faced with- that moment when they think it’s just a fart, but, because this is the stomach bug and takes no prisoners, they end up with far more than they bargained for, and, being young, they are not quite prepared for this kind of surprise.  Young Lydia is no different than the millions of other children who have been faced with what is now formerly known as “The Surprise Poopy”.

It was a, seemingly, normal Sunday for the Cox family, but in the midst of watching her dad play video games, it happened, and there was no avoiding it.   She was honestly right to trust that it would just be a fart- she’d passed the point of not keeping food down and was on the road to recovery.  However, fate had other things in store for her and this family.  After the aftermath and subsequent clean-up, Mom went into overdrive, checking her temperature, making sure her stomach was fine because, after all, there was still school tomorrow, and if at all possible, she was going.

Against what many other people would have done, Mom sent her to school and prayed to everything holy that Lydia would make it through the day without incident.  On the way home, Mom was like a police detective- “how was your day? Did you eat lunch? Did you keep it down? How’s your stomach feeling now?”

“Mom, I’m fine,” she said, quite annoyed, “why are you asking all these questions?”

“Well, I was worried all day that your stomach might act funny, and then you would have a surprise poopy, and that wouldn’t have been good to happen at school.”

“My stomach didn’t hurt- it’s fine.  I didn’t have an accident, and I ate my lunch.  But, you really shouldn’t call it a surprise poopy because surprises are good, and this type of poop is not good.  They should really be called ‘oopsy poopsys’ because they are like an ‘oops!’ poop and not a surprise, and it rhymes!”

Laughing uncontrollably, “That is so true!”


And so, on that day, the 5th of February in the year 2018,

the “oopsy poopsy” was born.





The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton



Something about this little default post made me think, ‘well, if that’s not true, then I’m not sure what is’, so I decided to keep it right up there just to remember that this whole thing has started.  Plus, it’s kind of a pretty picture… anyways…

It’s funny how when you FINALLY decide to put yourself out there, it’s after meticulous research and a boat-load of doubt… gahhh the doubt…. and then you don’t even really listen to it in the end.  When I finally, almost, decided to start writing seriously, I read countless posts on ‘where to begin’ and ‘finding your niche’ and none of it seemed to speak to me. So, naturally, I just kept on reading more posts about ‘where to begin’ and ‘finding your niche’, and the only thing that I could really pick out of there was that I just needed to write, and that’s really what this all comes down to- just writing… which happens to be the one thing I didn’t really have the cojones to actually do despite my brain always bursting with things to say.  Because if I’m being honest, and I feel like that is one of my finer qualities, I was just putting off the inevitable as I had been doing for the better part of a decade, and while I had always been willing to accept that, I had also never been willing to do something about it…

until now…

I’ve set out to challenge myself to write and get good at it.  I want to tell stories, and I want to leave that impact on readers like I have found for myself at the end of countless texts.  My goal is to write every day for at least 10 minutes.  That’s it.  Just write for 10 minutes.  It is not my intention to bore you with my day to day activities, but rather share experiences that hopefully you can relate to.  If anything, I have 7 years of teaching and motherhood experience that have given me countless ammo with which to entertain you.

It’s funny how when you stop overthinking things like ‘where do I begin’ and ‘what is my niche’, you figure it all out.

I begin right here, and my niche is to entertain.

Maybe in the future that will shift and change, but for now,

 here it goes.




PS- That was almost 20 minutes.  Good start!