A writing prompt passage for "How not to end your book", 2.29

[quocanh]

Writing Prompt: Start your book with an ending where everyone dies (and it works).
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Drogi Bolek,

You told me that we'd survive this, you lying bastard. Don't you remember? Mama had stuffed us into that dusty cellar where we choked on paraffin fumes from the flickering lamp. I coughed into your shoulder as Nazi boots pounded the floorboards above our heads. I remember asking you directly—the thin lines of light filtering through the cracks illuminating your wide eyes as you nodded and pulled me close. As you whispered, "We'll make it through."

Now I sit alone, writing to a ghost. I can't help but wonder when else you've lied.

That summer, while helping Papa on the farm, I told you about Ruth, the milkmaid with the homespun wool dress and the wheat-gold hair. I confessed the days I'd spent extra hours helping Pa with cows just to glimpse her, the nights spent in the fields where the rustling rye whispered her name. You placed a hand over my shoulders then.

"She returns your smiles," you insisted, eyes bright with certainty. When my courage failed at the harvest dance, you grabbed my hand and planted me before her like a flagpole. You gave me that reassuring nod when I choked on my words, my heart hammering against my ribs. Later, when she dismissed me with a laugh and twirled away with some dupek, you were there with a flask and understanding.

"A better woman would have seen you for who you are," you told me, pressing the vodka into my trembling hands, even as I doubted I'd ever love anyone as fiercely again.

I believed you.

You were the one that filled us with hope. "We'll be safe in Palestine," you said. We would leave in the Spring, start a new life in a new land away from the hordes of evil men that threatened us. You kept us going with stories of orange groves and warm beaches, of freedom.

After the Germans took you and Papa, Mama and I were suddenly left in a house that felt too big and too quiet. The hours stretched unbearably long in that coffin of memories. For a long time, I did not know how to dry Mama's tears. She would sit by the window, waiting, her hands folded like crumpled paper in her lap. All I could think about was the promise you broke - the one you made between your words, that you'd always be there to protect us.

So I told Mama that we were going to be alright. I told her we'd find a chance to slip into the night, past the guards, beyond the checkpoints. Even if it took us weeks of watching and waiting, we would escape. The words felt hollow in my mouth, but I watched color slowly return to her sunken cheeks. Her eyes, which had been vacant for weeks, held a flicker of something I recognized -- the same spark of belief I felt when you held me in that cellar.

Did you know it was hopeless then, too? Did you lie because you knew we needed it?

Every day, more people are getting on trains and they don't come back. The soldiers watch us constantly now, marking our doors. So I left you this letter, hidden where only you would look, in case we're not here when you return. By the time you find these words, I want you to know that we'll have fled to a safe place. When this is all over, we will reunite. Papa will tell us his old war stories while Mama fusses over dinner, the smell of her pierogi filling the room. We'll drink, laugh, and sing like we did before. I'll sit quietly and smile while you tell us all how you broke out and survived against impossible odds.

I still need to believe you.

Jakub

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Hello everybody!

I'm an aspiring writer and I've been trying to get better. To that end, I've been listening to the podcast (in chronological order so it's an old one!) but I figured that actually answering these prompts would be 10x better than passively absorbing information.

If you have any feedback, please feel free to let me know! I'm still a new writer so I figure there will be rough edges. I'd love your help to help shave 'em off.

For this one, I chose to write a self-contained story with the ending where everybody dies. Working backwards was a fascinating exercise: Knowing the ending meant that instead of leading to an event and coming up with interesting elements, I had to work backwards and focus on elements that would make the ending meaningful. Going through those motions actually made some things click for me, so I found this immensely helpful.

 

Edited April 2, 2025 by quocanh