Category Archives: Writing Exercise

Daily Prompt Hat

lady in hat standing with raised arms among red poppy flowers

Photo by Monica Turlui on Pexels.com

Staying Alive, staying alive

Hat Head

Bed Head

Remember what you said?

You’ll love me even when I’m dead.

Well––––I’m not dead, just crazy in the head

You put a metal hat on my head and I got into bed

Woke up with fried head

That was when you said, you’d love me more if I was dead.

But I’m staying alive, staying alive.

Prompt Hat

. . . Seriously Just Saying

You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me to receive notification of new posts.

Shlub

8f13be2c-436a-4ea8-b0d1-c4968c23e225.jpg

Photographer Tom

schlub [SHləb] NOUN

shlub (noun)

  1. a talentless, unattractive, or boorish person:

K.J. Hanson describes Jeff, a character in his short story Cheapskate, as a shlub. The noun remained in my head until I wrote something.

Shlub

“He’s a shlub,” said the guy at the next table.

Although unfamiliar with the expression, I couldn’t have agreed more. The restaurant was crowded, and the jerk, dressed in a worn t-shirt and a grunge baseball cap to cover a scraggly head of hair, stood out in a crowd of business people. Some chatted effortlessly, others sat people watching, like the guy alongside of me. Whose dress was trending; jeans, white t-shirt and a herringbone blazer. His companion did all the talking while the guy pretended to listen, preoccupied with the ensuing drama.

The server delivered the check to the shlub, who immediately became agitated, flinging his arms up in the air and indicating some problem with the food.

His woman friend turn red in the face as the server removed their lunch plate like it was a hot plate. She was attractive in an intellectual way and rummaged through her handbag.

I imagined they’d met on line or some dating app. You know the type, skilled at embellishment and all about himself. It was probably their first date, but clearly their last as the woman got up to leave visibly shaken.

The guy at the next table stood when she did.

“Let me get that for you,” he said.

As they left the restaurant together, the shlub yelled, “What the fuck! You can’t do that.”

The Scowl

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

The Scowl

He wore a scowl. A permanent look of discontent. He glared at no one particular, and rarely smiled, but if he did, the smile never reached his eyes, like a basset hound whose jowls scrapped the floor, there was no emotion.

We met years ago, although never introduced. In retrospect, the event might have been better labeled a stare down. It was a bitter and windy day. I had ducked inside a city coffee shop to escape the pelting rain and found myself sitting next to him.

“Yikes! It’s wet outside.” I said sitting and shaking my umbrella free of rain.

The stools were the old fashion metal type with no backs that were low to the ground. My wet coat added to the squeaking noises produced by my twirling in place and attempting to prevent more damage. The man looked down, studied the drips puddling on the floor then locked eyes with me.

“Sorry,” I said feeling helpless. I smiled and ordered coffee and a bagel. He said nothing.

“It’s good to get out of the rain.” I mumbled.

His forearms rested on the counter and he stared straight ahead ignoring me, although our faces were visible in the mirror adorning the back wall. After draining his coffee cup, he signaled for a refill and frowned when the hot java tip toed near the top. He was handsome.

“I’d ask you out if you weren’t such a jerk.” I said.

“I dare you.”  He responded scowling.

 

Seriously Just Saying

You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name/ username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously. Please follow me  to receive notification of new posts. Thank you, Claudia

 

Lonely in Volusia

quote-some-men-like-a-dull-life-they-like-the-routine-of-eating-breakfast-going-to-work-coming-home-hedy-lamarr-107048

 

Lonely in Volusia

“Doris,” he said taking off his hat.

“Jim?”

We had arranged to meet at a local restaurant after chatting on a social media site.

He resembled a potato, and an image of an Idaho spud flashed through my mind as he sat. Worn pointed cowboy boots prevented his knees from sliding under the table. He angled the chair sideways. Its wooden legs scraped along the floor as he said, “Nice to meet you.”

(It took me about forty minutes to write, and edit the above paragraph, my attempt to write everyday, and for now is all I’ve got.)

. . . Seriously just saying

You don’t need a WordPress account or be a follower to comment. However, followers receive an email notification of new posts and reflect my popularity.

Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously.

Goodbye

Word prompt ; use the following words in a descriptive paragraph: needles, breath, river, touch, swallows, summer, humble, paper, simple, bend, beams, crowd

Write Every Day

The river bend cascaded into a water fall. The summer air was hot and heavy. Sun beams faded and a crowd of swallows flew in the distant sky. Like the pine needles that poked my bare feet, the simple paper note in my hand pierced my heart. I remembered your breathe, recalled your touch. The thin texture of the envelope reminded me of our humble beginnings. I didn’t have to read it to know you were saying goodbye.

* * * *

I started writing in retirement, about 12 years ago, as a past-time. It has been said that stepping away from writing is normal and part of the writing process. That is what happened to me. I no longer write everyday or in my head, probably because I attempted to write a bigger project other than my blog, got involve in a critique group and lost my creativity. I’m, however, attempting to get back on the horse and have made a commitment to write every day. I’m a member of Florida Writers Association, and recently I read a post about successful writers/authors and this is what I took away:

  1. Write everyday, set a specific schedule and be committed to that routine.
  2. Read
  3. Don’t edit as you go.
  4. Don’t have your work critiqued as you go.
  5. Stop self editing and just write.

* * * just saying * * * wish me luck

You don’t need a WordPress account or be a follower to comment. However, followers receive an email notification of new posts and reflect my popularity.

Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously.

You don’t need a WordPress account or be a follower to comment. However, followers receive an email notification of new posts and reflect my popularity.

Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously.

Flash Fiction

woman standing by the side of a watercraft
Photo by alleksana on Pexels.com

Lynn

    Lynn stood on the sidewalk and could not remember who she used to be.

    It was a horrible feeling.

    She strolled casually to a nearby bench and sat to quiet the feeling.

    The weather was mild. The sun strong.

    It was not the present that disturbed her.

   Having silly thoughts, she hummed an old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”

    She came to buy Christmas gifts, or so she thought.

    Instead, she window shopped and tried on clothes in an upscale woman’s store; attempting to find a new identity.

    Norman Rockwell’s picture of the golden-brown turkey on a large platter surrounded by family flashed  across her mind.

    Her romanticized past was painful to watch.

    She had been the women wearing the plaid apron, trying to fulfill other people’s dreams. Okay, perhaps they’d been her dreams too.

It was hard to remember, things were different.

. . . just saying

You don’t need a WordPress account or be a follower to comment. However, followers receive notification of new posts and reflect popularity.

Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously or with an avatar if you follow me.

.

Flash Fiction

(The word pearl was a prompt given at a writing session. A strong female character came to mind and her story enfolded.)

Pearl

The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.

“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.

She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.

“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”

It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus in the Bronx, each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.

I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”

Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”

If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.

“I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”

“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.

Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.

I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.

John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.

Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.

Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home; stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.

John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.

Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”

“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”

The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”

“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .

“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”

* * * just saying

(Originally posted on November 23, 2014)

You don’t need a WordPress account to comment. Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously.

Juxtaposte

Two spoons balancing on each other. Isolated on white background. High key

Two spoons balancing on each other. Isolated on white background. High key

Daily Prompt

There were two thoughts in his head, set side by side in juxtaposition and he did not enjoy the feeling. They nagged at his sense of well being like two conjoined twins complicating separation. If one was true than certainly the other false unless both where false and consequently why connected. He look in the mirror, his face growing old with deliberation of whether to love or hate her.

 

 

Assumption

Daily Prompt

th

 

Assumption, false or true

You believe says more about me, not you

Tell me the truth

Is that the real you?

Yes, I am pointing a finger

Because the outside suggest a different view

Are you being dishonest hiding the truth

Then with  good excuse, take your hurt feelings and cry boohoo

                                                

                                                                                                     .  .  .  .  Seriously just saying

Compromise

Daily Prompt Compromise th

Just when I think I am not going to compromise, I do.

Lucky are the few who never have to, or should that be too?

Compromise, a tendency so strong I am confused.  

Is it about having my way, winning or being sore?

I prefer not to sit down to dinner at 4:30 or 5PM, but I do,

Because it suits you!

There is so much more to compromise, you haven’t a clue

Do you?