To do something at the eleventh hour is to accomplish a task at the last possible moment. The origins of the phrase are unknown, although there is some indication it may come from a Bible parable or simply from the idea of the eleventh hour being close to the twelve o’clock hour at midnight signaling the end of a day. This week write a short story in which your main character manages to pull off a miraculous feat at the eleventh hour. It might be something seemingly mundane—a household chore, a work project, a last-minute gift for a special occasion—that turns out to have wider implications or consequences. Is waiting until it’s almost too late typical of your character or wildly unexpected? What drama is drawn from your character flying by the seat of their pants?

The practice of cutting one’s hair can sometimes be an emotional process—the shedding of one’s layers much like the way a snake sheds its skin. For some, cutting hair might symbolize a spiritual rebirth, embracing new beginnings and letting go of the past. For others, it can be a traumatic experience. Haircuts can be well thought-out decisions, premediated and anticipated, or spur of the moment, an abrupt change to one’s appearance. Write a poem about your last haircut or the experience of observing a haircut. Include details of where you were, who was cutting the hair, the sounds of the clippers or scissors, and the emotions you experienced. Read “Haircut” by Elizabeth Alexander and “Hair” by Orlando Ricardo Menes for further inspiration.

In the 1990 film Arachnophobia directed by Frank Marshall, a family doctor, his wife, and their two young children move from San Francisco to a small town in rural California that is soon overtaken by deadly spiders. Dr. Ross Jennings suffers from arachnophobia, an overwhelmingly intense fear of spiders, stemming from a traumatic childhood incident when he witnessed a spider crawling up his bed and over his body and was too paralyzed with terror to move. Write a personal essay that examines the origins of one of your own fears—either serious, silly, or somewhere in-between. Are there elements of your reaction to this object of fear that seem reasonable or irrational? How have you countered, enabled, or worked to coexist with this fear?

“‘It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,’ Mrs Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.” The final sentence of Shirley Jackson’s classic short story “The Lottery” is included in a short list of “The Best Last Lines in Books” on Penguin Random House UK’s website, along with selections from a range of books by authors such as Ralph Ellison, Zora Neale Hurston, Franz Kafka, Ira Levin, and Virginia Woolf. Many of these lines are powerfully evocative and open-ended, whether darkly humorous, straight-up horrifying, or daringly hopeful. Jot down a list of your favorite last lines and use one of them as a prompt to provide either the first sentence of a new short story or to inspire a plot. How do the emotions, weight, and mood of this final sentence affect the way you use it in your own piece?

In early September, mysterious white blobs began washing ashore on the beaches of Newfoundland in Canada, described as sticky, spongy, and doughy. Beachcombers and scientists alike were confounded—were the blobs of animal or plant origins? Were they toxic or innocuous, or created from industrial waste? As scientists continue to collect samples and run tests on these mysterious blobs, take this period of uncertainty to write a poem about a blob: these beach blobs, a blob inspired by science fiction, an explicitly frightening or comedic blob, or perhaps an experience that simply feels blob-like. How does the slipperiness of this concept lend itself to metaphors in your poem? Consider experimenting with the shape of your text, creating a concrete, yet blobby, poem.

In a 2019 New York Times essay revisiting Alexander Payne’s 1999 film, Election—based on Tom Perrotta’s novel of the same name about a high school student-body election showdown between overachiever Tracy Flick and a social studies teacher—critic A.O. Scott reconsiders his understanding of the movie’s hero and villain twenty years later. “Payne’s film exposes the casual misogyny baked into the structures of civic and scholastic life,” writes Scott. “How despicably does a man have to behave before he forfeits our sympathy? How much does a woman—a teenage girl—have to suffer before she earns it?” Look back on previous presidential election years and reflect on major events that may have occurred in your personal life during those times. Were there heroes and villains who you might cast in a different light now?

In the title story of Saeed Teebi’s 2022 debut collection, Her First Palestinian (House of Anansi Press), a new romance begins with the main character, Abed, acknowledging what is involved in getting to know another person: “Not long after the first joys of finding each other had settled, Nadia asked me if I would teach her about my country. It was inevitable. The walls of my Toronto apartment were conspicuously covered with Palestinian artifacts, and donation brochures featuring Gazan children were often lying around.” With the story’s title and this opening, Teebi invites the reader to consider and reflect on their own expectations of how this relationship will develop. Write a short story that charts the progression of a relationship, from somewhere near the beginning to somewhere near the end. What character details do you explicitly put into place, and what assumptions do you rely on to create a sense of expectation?

In Rae Armantrout’s poem “Unbidden,” which appears in her collection Versed (Wesleyan University Press, 2009), the poet’s use of short lines in conjunction with enjambment contribute to a sense of disjointedness. “The ghosts swarm. / They speak as one / person. Each / loves you. Each / has left something / undone,” writes Armantrout. This week compose a poem that revolves around a feeling of inconclusiveness. For your subject matter, consider a situation or relationship from your past that feels unfinished, one that continues to haunt you with questions. Deploy enjambment strategically—splitting up specific phrases and ending lines with significantly weighted words—to create a sense of discontinuity and unknowability.

From 2006 to 2010, and again from 2020 to 2022, filmmaker David Lynch recorded daily morning weather reports that were broadcast from Los Angeles-based radio stations, his own website, and on YouTube. In some episodes, the weather report included just the date, temperature, and a couple of words describing what Lynch saw out of his window. Other times, reports included short observations or thoughts about his or others’ creative projects, and what he planned on having for lunch later in the day. “It’s a Saturday. Here in L.A., a sunny morning, a pretty strong breeze blowing right now. 52 degrees Fahrenheit, around 11 degrees Celsius,” says Lynch in a 2022 entry. Write a personal essay that begins with a weather report and then launches into what you’ve been thinking about recently, perhaps in conjunction with a book, film, or other piece of art you’ve encountered. How does a weather report set the tone?

“I cannot help but admire Rooney the storyteller, willing to toe that tricky line between the pleasure-read and philosophy, determined to choose cooperation over cynicism,” writes Jessi Jezewska Stevens in her review of Sally Rooney’s latest novel, Intermezzo (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2024), published in 4Columns. In the article, Stevens considers the task of a work of literature that attempts to be both a novel-of-ideas and a realist romance. This week compose a short story that simultaneously explores a philosophical idea close to your heart and chronicles a romantic relationship’s ups and downs. Do your characters discuss large issues with each other in pages of dialogue or through e-mail correspondences, or do they embody the ideas in another way? Are there additional ways you can think of to accomplish portraying both tasks?