Saturday, September 5, 2015

Daily Writing Prompt 9/4/15

Write the saddest scene you can think of between a little boy and a little girl. Except it's the first time they've ever met.

The little girl gladly took the ice cream cone from the man behind the counter, admiring the single, hand-scooped cone as she turned away. She barely noticed the little boy who was next in line, although it registered that he ordered the same flavor as she did.

Rocky Road was her favorite, and she took a small lick, and then another. But the next lick dislodged the scoop of chocolatey goodness and there was nothing she could do to stop the ice cream from falling to the floor.

The boy had just paid for his cone, and witnessed the whole scene. Feeling sorry for the pretty girl, he gallantly offered his own cone to her, heroically trying to stop her tears and bring a smile to her captivating eyes.

"Oh,thank you," she replied, "but I just couldn't." But her eyes spoke the lie as she hungrily gazed at his cone.

"But I insist," the boy was raised to be polite and generous, and he smiled in delight when she accepted.

She would have liked to pay him back, or buy him a cone as well, but she had used all her money with her own cone. She took the cone from the boy, thinking him the cutest boy she'd ever seen, and at his prompting she gave the cone a lick.
The boy, happy with himself, but sad that he didn't have any more money himself, watched as she licked the ice cream, once, and then again.

She smiled at him, and took one more lick. But then, again, to her utter dismay and disbelief, she did it again! The sound of the ice cream plopping on the floor was the saddest sound either of them had ever heard.

Horrified, she burst into tears, but this time there was nothing the little boy could do to help, and, feeling rather lousy as this turn of events, he felt his own eyes well up with tears.

Of course, not being able to end a story on such a sad note, I should tell you that the man behind the counter gave the little boy and the little girl each their own Rocky Road ice cream cone, as well as one for himself, and proceeded to give them a lesson on the proper way to lick an ice cream cone.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Daily Writing Prompt 8/26/15

"Whatdy want to do now, Maisy?"
"Let's go down to the crik and git some crawdads?"
"But yer mama don't like us to git wet an' dirty."
"Then we just got to be careful a'n not git wet, Laney."
"But how do you not git wet gitten crawdads?"
"I don' know, but we cin try!"

Friday, July 24, 2015

Daily writing prompt 7/24/15.

Write about a deserted city. Use all five senses to describe the scene

Sunlight reflected off shattered windows, shards of glass crunching under my boots. The road was deserted, as were each and every building I had gone into since entering the city. There was no sign of life anywhere. The only thing moving, other than myself, were these little pieces of paper, swirling, tornado-like in tight little circles among the cars and busses and bicycles left abandoned in the streets. The sound of the wind whistled eerily as it shrieked through the broken windows; eerie because it was the only noise in what should be a bustling city. I snatched one of the papers as it fluttered near; it was thick and stiff, and gritty in my fingers. My curiosity piqued as I read the words written there. I grabbed up several more of the papers, but when I realized they all said the same thing, my curiosity drained away and left only one emotion in its place. Fear.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

By the sea - daily writing prompt 7/14/15

I jog across the empty beach, winded and looking for a place to catch my breath and enjoy a moment of solitude as reward for having just run three miles. Up ahead, I see what looks like an old abandoned dock, or maybe it’s a pier, made of roughhewn planks across railroad ties, and I make that my destination. I sit carefully on a jagged board, mindful not to get splinters on my bare legs, feeling the coolness of the wood and the morning breeze that shivers across my sweaty skin, raising goosebumps on my arms. The action of the waves breaking upon the shore is somewhat hypnotic, and I can tell that the tide is out, because the breakers are far away, and mostly what I hear is the susurration of the water as it creeps upon the wet sand, leaving brackish foam in its wake. The cry of a seagull rings across the sky, and I watch as it soars and circles and gracefully lands in the water, joining more of its kind, lazily floating and bobbing in a shallow outlet.
In the distance, I watch tanker ships making slow progress across the horizon, and I find myself entranced by the whitecaps dancing upon the surface of the sea, whipped in to frothing motion by the ever rising wind, which carries the scent of salt and brine. And then my stomach growls with hunger, reminding me that I have not yet eaten this morning, and I think how lovely a nice hot cup of coffee would be right now; and with thought, I push off and begin my return jog, back the way I had come.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

And I Dance

What am I doing here? I don't even like ballet! Night after night, the same routine, the same costumes, the same stage; the same, the same, the same! And then, here I am. On stage. The familiar racing of my heart as adrenaline surges through my body, and I barely have time to register the hush of the crowd as the lights dim and we take our places. The music and the dancing begins, and I am caught up in the motion and there is no more time to think, only to dance; and I forget, for the moment, that I hate ballet. And I dance...

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Daily Writing prompt 6/2/15

The sun was warm against her skin, the damp sand cool under her bare feet. She walked slowly, contemplating the immensity of the ocean and the timeless repetition of the waves as they crashed upon the beach; like tears of sorrow that faded into memories and turned, in time, to acceptance and finally to joy. She gathered little bits of brightly colored stones and shells as she walked, thinking of the years that had passed, and the miscarriages; the lost children denied to her, though they had lived, briefly, in her dreams. They had grown older and wiser, these unborn children, who surfaced like the tide; ebbing and flowing from her consciousness with the tide of her hormones. One day they might form a vivid and sorrowful memory, like a clock ticking their names in her heart; another day they might be a distant, disconnected image of someone else’s children playing cheerfully in the park. They were like the stones that she gathered, these memories; and she thought perhaps it was time to let them go. One by one, she set them down in the sand; the stones and shells representing lost dreams, lost hopes. She contrasted them as she placed them: bright, dark, colorful, dull, light, bright, dark, colorful, dull, light, bright and so on, deliberately forming the shape in the sand. When the last stone was placed and she stood back to view it, the heart shape stood out in hard contrast to the softness of the sand, a portrayal of her love; a bearing of her soul. When at last she turned away there was peace in her heart and a smile forming on her face, for there was her husband sitting nearby with his grown daughter, and a child, laughing and running straight towards her calling for “Grammy” to come and play!

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Daddy Long Legs

What patience you must have
Sitting above my head
As the steam rises
from my shower
Day after day after day

Do you sleep the long hours away
Dreaming of the meals
That might come your way
as you wait
Perched there on the ceiling

Is it dreams that make your legs twitch
Or some invisible vibration
That blows upon your web
A movement
Barely seen

Do you traverse my house when I'm not there
Hunting and eating and exploring
Returning to your place
In the shower
Above my head?