Trevor (00:02.051)
Hi and welcome to the Write Things podcast. I'm your host, Trevor Martens, founder of I Help You Write Things and the Write Things community. This episode will feature four stories, all inspired by the prompt, an apology. Some are fresh, some are older pieces that fit the bill, but all four are absolutely worth a listen. We will begin with a piece by Dr. Christine Churchill. Enjoy. An apology in action.
One of the best letters I ever received as a middle school principal began with the words, Dear Dr. Churchill, I am very sorry for jumping out the window. The author of this letter was Duncan, a grade eight student at my school in Seattle. The window referenced was located in the middle school drama room. On the morning in question, his teacher had left the classroom for just a few minutes. Upon her return, she called the office, stating that she needed me immediately.
I arrived to find Duncan sitting with his friend Sam in an empty room across the hallway. Sam explained that they needed grass and twigs for a diorama they were making for class and that they had decided to go outside to gather some supplies through the classroom window. Let me get this straight. My voice was controlled but abrupt. You decided to jump out a window that is at least
Ten feet off the ground in order to pick up some twigs? I don't really get what the problem is, Sam observed, clearly frustrated. Fortunately, Duncan intervened. Dude, we could have been seriously hurt. Exactly, I agreed, and my lecture began. As I emphasized that they had not only put themselves in physical danger, but their reputation as responsible students had now been tarnished.
Not to mention the reinforcement of middle school stereotypes with members of the public who caught sight of two boys hanging from window sills as they drove past our school. How was I supposed to convince the head of school that my students were mature enough to travel to Europe or Utah or into the wilderness next month for our year-end trips? And at the very least, how was I supposed to trust the two of them off or on school property ever again?
Trevor (02:26.677)
I paused to catch my breath. Duncan and Sam looked uncertainly at each other and then back at me. Okay, I said, I will calm down now so that I can go call your parents to explain that this evening you will be writing a statement of intent where you will explain your understanding of the issue at hand, but more importantly, your plan of action for the future. I expect to receive these letters tomorrow morning and I will be using them to determine what
consequences are required for your actions. Early the next morning, Duncan's father called to explain that Duncan had arrived home very worried about something that neither his father nor I had considered during our conversation the day before. Later that week, our school's cross-country team was heading to Oregon for the most important regional race of the year, the Catlin-Gable Half Marathon. Even as a 13-year-old, Duncan was the best runner in our K-12 school.
He had come home convinced by my tone and commentary that I would be pulling him off the track team and not allowing him to travel to Portland. His father wanted to give me a heads up that Duncan would be coming to speak with me and had a proposal to make. He emphasized that the proposal was entirely Duncan's idea. Duncan arrived at my office door shortly afterwards, asking to speak to me. That was clearly nervous. He asked me to allow him to participate in the Catlin Gable race.
acknowledging that his behavior in drama class would make it difficult for me to agree. In return, he offered to provide the administrative assistant at the front desk of our school a break during middle school lunch every day for a month by sitting at the main entrance, greeting guests, answering phones, and completing other tasks for her. This proposal caught me completely off guard. Duncan's willingness to help a person who featured
only peripherally in his life, as well as his willingness to give up his lunch break for an extended period of time, both surprised and impressed me immediately. I agreed to speak with Ms. Hurst. At some point during the day, while we awaited her response, Duncan's letter of apology arrived on my desk, carefully typed, edited, signatured, and concluding with the sentence, thank you for the opportunity to decide on a fitting punishment.
Trevor (04:53.931)
and for the gift of still allowing me to attend Catlin Gable, even though I have thrown away your trust. Ms. Hurst not only accepted Duncan's offer, but offered to train and supervise him in his front desk responsibilities, which meant that within days, my attention was refocused on other students' duties and tasks. One day, about two or three weeks later,
I walked into the front office to find Duncan confidently answering the phone and redirecting the call to the necessary extension before providing staff from the finance office with their mail. I wish now that I had stopped to tell Duncan that rather than throwing away my trust, he had increased my confidence in him exponentially and not because he won the race. Many of these stories began as quick rates, short
timed writing prompts that allow writers to discover new stories. If you'd like to read what the writers in the community came up with for an apology, and maybe do some quick writing of your own, check out my November 20th, 2025 newsletter at Ihelpywrittethings.com slash blog.
My name is Marcy Harrison and I'm going to read a reflective piece about self-acceptance inspired by the writing prompt, The Apology. It seems like the first half of my life was nothing but a series of apologies. I'm sorry I'm a girl, dad. I'm sorry I'm not more girly, mom. I'm sorry I can't be happy with the way things are, husband, that I want things to be better. I'm sorry I don't like your rules, world, but I'm too sensitive.
I can't shut my mouth. I'm sorry that I'm too much of this and not enough of that. That's what it really boiled down to, the wrong mix of too much and not enough. I spent the first 59 years of my life trying to fix this imbalance, trying to be not me. To fit the mold. It was exhausting and set me up for 59 years of failure. For even though I pulled off appearing normal in public,
Trevor (07:04.81)
In the privacy of my own mind, I never did succeed at not being me. But there's a certain magic that comes with middle age, a certain clarity. Maybe you just need to reach the halfway point to truly get your bearings, the lay of the land. Whatever the reason, bit by bit, I stopped asking myself, what's wrong with you? Why can't you be normal? And I started questioning everything I knew about life and how it works, everything I knew about me and how I work.
And I listened for answers, really listened. Turns out I'm simply liquid water in a world that values the rigidity of ice. I do best when I have time and space to gently spread beyond the shoreline sometimes, or to powerfully concentrate myself between the banks if I choose, to let myself spill over the edge and free fall into a new place. I'm learning the value of allowing myself to ebb and flow with a pattern of my own inner cycles and seasons.
beyond the confines of the world's clocks and calendars. I'm discovering such peace in self-acceptance, true, unapologetic self-acceptance of who I am. And it feels so good to stop pushing myself uphill in order to prove my value. All this ever really did was dilute it anyway. Water, left to its own devices, never goes uphill.
It finds a way around, under, or through, but never over. Water always takes the easiest path, and ironically, that's its superpower. It doesn't waste energy trying to prove anything to anyone. It creates mighty things. It powers mighty things by simply following the terrain, the flow of currents, the rhythm of cycles. If you ask a water drop that where it wants to be in three months or one year or 20 years,
It wouldn't understand the question. Water lives in the now. Now it's spring run-off surging across the land, carving the landscape for future versions of itself, while traveling routes constructed by the ancient past. These paths were never its goal. They're simply byproducts of water allowing itself to follow the terrain and leave its mark. Now the water laps gently at the shore, releasing grains of sand that came along for the ride.
Trevor (09:27.19)
building beaches. These beaches were not the goal. They're just the result of ebbing and flowing, of water letting itself be carried by the current, releasing what it can no longer hold. Now the water disappears into thin air as the hot summer sun turns it to vapor, bending light and causing mirages to appear out of nowhere. The ability to create something out of nothing was never the objective. It's just what happens
when water follows its natural cycle. In the crisp morning air of autumn, water re-emerges, carpeting the world in a glimmering sea of freestanding droplets of dew. Their individuality was never the goal. It's just a beautiful outcome of water letting itself be water. No apologies. I am water. I am water.
This next piece is written by Catherine Smallwood and it's titled, Fill Her Up. Piece of pie. Abby slaps the menu down. It jars Henry away from the page. Pink pouting lips hover. Huh? Henry, glimpsing pink, buries back into the book. The pie. It's good today. Special. Abby sees a conquest waiting.
Coo's the last word and flicks her blonde hair over one green eye. It's a good book. On hold for months, Henry was 503 on the library wait list, then 202. His phone pinged yesterday. Suddenly he was next. In pick up excitement, he began reading, walking. The wind raged. Blasted, he blew in and ordered coffee. Abby nudges the menu closer. If you don't want pie,
The chicken with mashed potatoes is yummy. Or egg sandwiches with the house slaw. It's got bread and butter pickles in it. What? What? Henry's glazed eyes attempt to focus point. He sees the room as if fog is clearing. Gradually hears the hum of people. Recognizes the cup of coffee is his. Once hot, now cool. He remembers ordering it, but
Trevor (11:49.416)
When had it gotten here? Abby puts her hands on her hips, reaches over with one soft pink-nailed hand. She taps the menu with the tip of a delicate finger. Arrages now, Henry follows the finger up to the hand and up the pale arm all the way up to blue eye and cascading blonde curls. What did you say?
His stumbled, strangled words fall into the air like justy chicks blinking out of a dark cave. Arobic class and soon, Abby checks a pretend diamond-studded watch. Order now before the troops come in. They're all about salt after their sweaty work out. Abby clicks her pink tongue on the roof of her mouth. Henry stares, something stirring in him.
Cook gets overwhelmed. Henry gulps, catches a glimpse of green and blue eye. I don't know. No. Abbey sighs and pretty pink mouth pouts. I'll come back. Drink some of that so I can reheat it. You're hazelnut oat milk, eh? She saunders away, craving his eyes on her retreat.
She's been practicing incessantly ever since her sister started modeling and showed her the walk. okay. Eyes on her backside, Henry secures the page with his elbow, reaches blindly for a napkin, folds it in three while he counts to five. One, Sticks it in the book, turning his attention to the menu. He likes the sound of strawberry spinach salad with feta.
Still distracted by the pink, he suddenly remembers he can't tolerate feta, shouldn't eat spinach, and while savouring his last strawberry, he had come eye to eye with a dying wasp. A pink fission swings through the half doors to the kitchen. Henry quickly takes a huge gulp of cold coffee. The aurora materializes table side. Green eye winks, throaty voice coos.
Trevor (14:13.579)
Henry holds out his mug. His other hand scrambles for the menu. The book scatters to the floor like a skittish chicken. The folded-up napkin goes flying like a kite with no string. Henry and Abby smash heads in a downward menagerie of blonde and brown. Ouch! Ow! Trying to digest what just happened, Henry is stunned. He's never touched a girl.
Abby is gloriously exciting and hurtful all at the same time. Liquid winds toward the book. Henry Lund just, that's a library book. Really? Abby is suddenly frosty. How would I know and why would I care? Her green and blue eye each freeze into his brown ones. Anything else? Feeling terribly judged.
Henry's deep shame swirls up neck and face, red all over. Henry pushes out words while his confidence swirls away like a popped balloon. Yeah, yes, sorry. I hear the Saskatoon pie is to die for.
Plastic Pelvis by Caris Penner My pelvis gets caught on all kinds of things. Zippers on jackets, the strap of my purse, the metal cage of a shopping cart, that one's the worst. It's a plastic pelvis complete with a spine and skull, a toy charm given to me by my chiropractor after an adjustment, which I've attached to the ring of my keys. This ring of keys and skeletal system is then attached to a lanyard around my neck.
so I never have to go looking for them. The only problem is when they're dangling and the flared pelvis gets caught on something, it yanks my neck down until I can unhook the hips, freeing my neck as well. I can't bear to detach my bony hips from the keys though, even though others have noticed my predicament at times. It makes me laugh, or at least smile and I say, my pelvis is caught again.
Trevor (16:32.373)
which hopefully causes them to smile or better yet they ask me about my pelvis. I'm not one for necklaces or fashion statements, but my pelvis has become very important to me. It saves me from searching the house for my keys. It saves me from that feeling of going mad or worse like dementia is setting in. It's one less thing to keep track of. If my pubic bones are not around my neck, they're in my purse.
or in the key bowl by the front door. Only three spots the keys can ever be. I would be immobile without my inominate bones. My whole life hangs on that ring. My car key, house key, work key, my daughter's house key, that little key to my gym locker, post office key, and unidentified keys, which I'm sure will be useful one day.
all swing along with the plastic white bones, fused together like one happy, easy-to-locate family. That is until yesterday at the grocery store. I was chatting with the checkout lady spine around my neck when I reached over to hand her my points card. My pelvis must have been lodged on the side of my shopping cart because when I turned, it tugged on my neck and broke. My spine broke clean off its pelvis.
The keys fell along with the bones, the wire ring stretched open and everything tumbled to the floor. My back, I cried and collapsed to the ground, searching for all the scattered pieces. Other shoppers gathered around me in concern, asking if I was okay. That's when I felt a little pop in my back. Oof, I said, putting a hand on my lumbar for support. I went straight to my chiropractor's office to complain about my back.
I needed a replacement, stat. I held out my hand to show him the separated bones. The pelvis was sheared in opposite directions, and shoe prints went up the spine to the twisted neck. I'm so sorry, he said. Those charms were special ordered for Halloween last year. I don't have any more. The Cairo held up a finger. He had an idea. He went around to his desk to dig in a box.
Trevor (18:53.138)
My friend, Dr. Brian, the neurosurgeon, was giving away brains last week. I still have one. I slumped in his waiting room chair and pouted, that's no good. Brains are useless. It's too small, too smooth. How am I ever going to find my keys with a little brain like that? I turned to go home, a sad, single car key in my hand, and wondered what my gynecologist was up to.
Trevor (19:21.812)
my favourite things about working with so many different writers is the plethora of perspectives they take to their storytelling. If you're an aspiring writer, take note of writing that appeals to you, stories that speak to you. There's a good chance that you would enjoy writing something similar. And if you'd like to make writing part of your life, we open the doors to the Write Things community four times a year. See when the next registration session is at www.ihelpywrittethings.com.
Thank you to all four writers for taking time away from their manuscripts to share these wonderful pieces with the world. And to you, dear listener, for being a witness to them. Until next time, I wish you and your stories all the best. Take care.
