Writing Prompt Wednesday: The Elevator

Featuring a surprise guest!

Last week when I introduced Prompt #6 I wrote, “Even when we begin in the same place, the story path we follow is going to be different and uniquely our own.” I thought it would be interesting to test this theory by inviting another writer to respond to the prompt along with me. My friend

Fleur Bradley

(who you might know as the author of the excellent middle-grade mysteries Midnight at the Barclay Hotel and Daybreak on Raven Island) was game to join me, and so this week I’m excited to share her response along with mine!

Before I do, if you haven’t yet written a response to Prompt #6, you might want to do so now before you read on. Then you can come back and compare how similar/different our three approaches are. With my own response, I didn’t want to be influenced by what Fleur wrote and was genuinely curious if we might do something similar, so I replied to my prompt as I normally do—hand wrote in my journal and then typed it up for you here—and didn’t read hers until I was done.

As a refresher, here is Prompt #6:

Here is what I wrote:

#WPW6—first line prompt

The elevator doors opened, and I couldn’t believe what I saw. I expected a hallway or room of some sort—what you might reasonably anticipate if you’re exiting an elevator. But the doors opened onto a vista. I reached my hand forward, tentatively, thinking this must be some kind of uncanny painting. An optical illusion? But it was just . . . air. I stepped out of the elevator onto a hillside.

“How can this be?”

A wave of dizziness came over me, and I gripped the still open doors of the elevator, steadied myself, then patted it wonderingly. Cold, metal doors as solid and real as the dirt beneath me.

Miss Fabrio stepped out of the elevator, her clipboard tucked in one arm and with her free hand she gently patted my shoulder.

“Takes some getting used to for everyone,” she said.

“But where is . . . how are . . .”

We stood among a strand of trees on a hillside looking down on a valley. Golden brown hills tinged green with shrubbery and evergreens stretched for miles and miles. Threaded between the hills was a river, and dozens of tents, or small cabins dotted the embankment on either side. They were so far away, the structures were barely the size of my thumbnail. I could see movement among them. The size of ants, but I knew they were people.

“Where are we?” I asked Miss Fabrio.

She consulted her clipboard and replied, “1849. The Sacramento Valley.”

“18 . . . 49?!”

There was a whirring sound behind me and I spun around as the elevator doors closed. The metal doors disappeared and all that was left was the cluster of trees.

---

That’s the path my imagination went down. Now let’s see where Fleur’s led her:

Everything is Just a Little Fancier When You Say it in French

by Fleur Bradley Visscher

The elevator doors opened, and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

The woman was unusual enough. She was very tall and slender, her light brown skin freckled in a way that made me think she spent a lot of time outside. She wore a pink coat with a white fluffy collar, with cargo pants and brown boots that were caked in mud. Her hair was spirally and bright white with pink ends.

But it wasn’t the woman that made me raise my eyebrows. (I have distinct eyebrows. People often comment that they look like two caterpillars trying to fist-bump across my forehead.) No, it was her company that almost made my jaw drop as I extended my arm to keep the elevator doors from closing.

There were one, two, three—oh, I stopped counting there were so many—flamingos. This woman was guiding a whole flock of flamingos onto the elevator. Like it was just the most normal thing, on this very average Wednesday.

“Eighth floor please,” she said—or chirped was more like it.

I still had my arm across the elevator opening. I was the elevator man after all—or Concierge, as I preferred to be called. Everything is just a little fancier when you say it in French. I moved my arm and pressed the number eight button, once. Some people mistakenly press an elevator button again (and again, and sometimes again) once it is already illuminated. This was why I was there: to make the elevator experience an organized one.

Now, some said having a concierge in the elevator was an extravagance. Every year in the hotel building’s board meetings, my paycheck was scrutinized. Yet, there is something about having a concierge (especially one with formidable eyebrows) push the elevator button for you. It feels fancy.

Like the title, Concierge.

I saw it as my duty that all the guests at our hotel arrive at the correct floor. Imagine if you got off on the wrong level, with your flock of flamingos! They might just fly away… (Can flamingos fly? I wanted to ask my elevator passenger, but she did not seem approachable.)

The flamingos were agitated. One was flapping its wings, and one let out an aggravated caw as the elevator doors slid closed. Their talons scratched the elevator floor.

Yet I did not argue or ask the woman what she was doing with her flock of flamingos on my elevator. She looked too determined, and perhaps, ready to fight me if I told her she couldn’t bring her birds onto the elevator. I am not a fighter, despite what my eyebrows might convey. The flamingos were welcome on my elevator.

Besides, as a concierge, I had seen it all. The floors had been scratched by anything from high heels to stroller wheels, to… Well, flamingo talons.

The woman snapped both her fingers, twice.

The birds settled, clearly following this woman’s lead. She reminded me of one of those teachers who really have their class organized. Maybe she was a flamingo teacher. Or a zookeeper.

The elevator slowly rose. Mine was an old one—antique, one might even say. I took great pride in it. I really hoped none of the flamingo pooped.

I said, by way of a compliment, “Nice flock, Miss.”

She looked at me and gave me a sideways smile. “Why, thank you. I’m taking them to the honeymoon suite, to ride out the upcoming hurricane. It has a jacuzzi tub.”

Of course, for her birds. Those were some lucky flamingos.

The elevator dinged before I could reply. The doors opened. We were on the eighth floor.

I extended my arm to hold the elevator door and watch the woman lead her flamingos off. I was relieved to see that the damage was minimal. A pink feather fluttered onto the floor, like a present.

Before she walked down the hall, the lady turned to me and said, “It’s not a flock, sir. A group of flamingos is called a flamboyance. From the French word flamboyant.” Her annunciation was excellent.

I did not know this fact about the flamingo flamboyance, so I raised my eyebrows. As a concierge, I considered myself a collector of facts and information—a connoisseur, if you will. You learn a lot, greeting people in a hotel elevator all day. “Well, I’ll be.”

She smiled in a conspiratorial way. “Everything is just a little fancier when you say it in French, don’t you agree?”
I did, so I nodded.

She turned and snapped her fingers again, and there was a flutter of pink wings and feathers as the flamboyance disappeared down the hall.

I moved my arm, but before the elevator doors closed, I heard her call over her shoulder, “Those are very formidable eyebrows, Monsieur Concierge.”

---

After prompt thoughts:

Isn’t that comparison interesting? They are quite different! And if you wrote a response, I’m guessing you took it in a third direction. Funnily enough, after I finished mine and before I read what Fleur wrote, I was the teensiest bit nervous we might have written something similar. Because when imagining elevator doors opening to something surprising, everyone is going to think of a time-traveling elevator that takes you to the California Gold Rush, right??? Isn’t it funny the things our mind can tell us? If there’s a takeaway besides having fun with writing that I’m hoping to impart on myself and other writers in doing these creative prompts, it’s that our imaginations and our individual viewpoints and the way of we see and experience the world are unique and worth exploring. A lot of times I think we get in our own way by doubting ourselves. One of the worst things you can do with doubt is believe the story it’s telling you.

I love that Fleur’s main character is an elevator operator—that possibility never even occurred to me when I was thinking about what to write! And what memorable characters she created. When the woman gets her restless flamingos to behave with a snap of the fingers? And how the concierge has an affinity for things that are orderly and/or fancy? I love those details! There are some great lines too. This was one of my favorites: “I am not a fighter, despite what my eyebrows might convey.” Ha! If you’d like to learn more about Fleur and how she approached the prompt, she wrote about it in her most recent Substack.

---

Prompt #7: The Letter

Going forward, I’m going to share my response and the next week’s prompt in the same message. It feels organizationally simpler for me to handle it that way, versus doing two separate posts. I will also be opening the chat to paid subscribers, and that can be the space to share what you wrote in a more private space, if you’d like.

Here is the next prompt:

As a reminder, you can opt out of these Wednesday prompts if you wish—simply click “unsubscribe” at the bottom of this message and you’ll see options for what communication you’d like to receive from me. But I hope you’ll continue to join me here, and please share with anyone else you think might be interested too!