Category Archives: Writing

The Whistler

#Daily Prompt/Metaphor, #Learn to Write/Begin to Write, Struggling Writer, Writing June 10, 2015 Comments: 2

th

Recently it has been a real struggle to write so I have returned to a daily writing exercise. I randomly flip through the dictionary and point my finger at a word, then use as many of these words in a story/paragraph.

June 10th Writing Exercise:

Use these ten words to write a story; Transport, discrimination, estimate, collection, chance, whistle, layer, best, provide, and forth.

The Whistler

     Tanya turned around when she heard the whistle. It came from a man sitting on a wooden box turned sideways. His butt overflowed on the top while his feet straddled its sides. It was the kind of box featured in a Norman Rockwell painting. You know the kind, usually had some colorful lettering on it advertising Borden’s Milk or another dairy or produce company. Sometimes the lettering was in bold block letters done in black ink.

     This box was weathered, like the man who sat on it.

     Tanya put her hands on her hips and wiggled back to where he sat. Her high heels scratched the pavement as she walked. She said, “Mister here’s your only chance to apologize, so give it your best shot.

     The man wore a week old beard but smelled of day old cologne, possible Old Spice. He drank coffee from a white Styrofoam cup after blowing a circle of steam aside. Then slurped and said, “Ah . . . .” signifying the caffeine provided some relief. “Now why would I do that? That would be discrimination. I whistle at every pretty girl that goes by, regardless.”

     Tanya’s layered thoughts confused her. She was flattered while offended. She pulled at her too tight too short skirt and turned her chin to say, “Well this pretty girl wants to be the exception . . . discriminate me. I won’t be part of your collection. “

     The man nestled his coffee cup between his knees to free his hands and wrap a coat of sadness around him. “Collection? Never thought I was collecting anything, but now that you put it that way, guess I have a collection of sorts, a collection of memories.”

     Tanya watched the man as he stared into space, got a faraway look in his eye. The sadness he wore fell to the ground. Then a smile appeared on his face and when his eyes met hers said, “Well Miss whatever your name is, I don’t have bad intentions. Just like to whistle no need for you to be part of my memory collection.”

Fang Man

#Daily Prompt/Metaphor, Writing June 9, 2015

Help-me

     Help Me! I am truly struggling with my writing. Ideas used to pop into my head, gnaw at my mind and interrupt my thoughts during the day. I even woke during the night to write in my head. But, and this is a big but, that has stopped. Yes, there are some upsetting things in my life and I am suffering with vertigo; so I have good excuses. Nevertheless I worry the world is passing me by. This morning I decided to nip it in the bud and resume a writing exercise from the past.

     Writing Exercise:

                 Randomly select ten words from the dictionary or any book and use them to make a story. I don’t time myself, although when this is presented to a group there is usually a fifteen minute time frame. I also like to title what I have written. This is what I wrote.

Fang Man

          (Stretcher, Lady, fang, checkpoint, random, lodging, mixture, single-minded, infectious, smoky)

     “I had to force myself,” the lady said as she was carried on a stretcher. The reporter hurried along-side scribbling in a note pad. Her voice contained a single-mindedness that he knew had saved her. But how long would she be alive? Determined to get her story, he jogged with the rescue team as they weaved their way through the mixture of smoky air and chemical scents he noticed at checkpoint.

      “Lady, can you hear me?” He yelled at her listless body after the stretcher had been placed on the ground next to other victims waiting transport. “What’s your name madam? Miss, what’s your name?” He prodded her to answer.

     “My name?” She lifted her head to ask with skepticism followed with an infectious laugh. The reporter lowered himself onto the grass and sat at her side. He felt helpless and wished to be invisible, not there. All he knew was there had been a loud explosion.

     The woman looked into his eyes and said, “I remember his fangs,” and collapsed on the canvas mattress.

. . . . seriously just saying

Me A Sandwich

#humor/laughter, #Learn to Write/Begin to Write, Struggling Writer, Writing May 7, 2015

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “You, the Sandwich.”

If a restaurant were to name something after you, what would it be?


                            th

                                  The Crunch

It would be a sandwich, not a hoggie, hero or sub.
Something simple and delicious, to take on the run
My mouth starts to water and I lick my lips
Thinking of this everyday pantry item, always a hit.
Smooth and creamy it sticks to the roof of your mouth
Not to worry a thick slice of apple is packaged inside
That’s why it’s called  the “Crunch”

Recipe

2 pieces of rye bread, or any soft mushy bread of choice

Lots of creamy peanut butter

Slices of Granny Smith Apple

Cut the apple first than, than spread peanut butter on bread, layer apple inside.

Idyllic Not Heaven

Struggling Writer, Writing May 5, 2015 Comments: 4

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Idyllic.”

reverend-francis-o-morris-carrion-crow

     I wrap my hands around a hot cup of coffee for warmth and wander outdoors. The morning temperature is cool, not more than sixty. I have on socks and a sweatshirt. Our back yard views the golf course. The sounds are peaceful, tranquil or some prefer to say, serene. The trees rarely move. The manicured greens create a sameness that is boring when there is nothing to do. The community not gated nor age restricted, is idyllic.

Then frenzy, a frantic fluttering of leathers and squawking, starts. High above hawks swoop down on a crow’s nest eager for breakfast. Squeals and squalls erupt, like a distress signal, and numerous crows appear as words do in a television screen warning. Alert; heir young will not be eaten.

Over the next hour, crows perched in trees, change watch as the hawks linger eyed for a weakness. The crows have a larger extended family. I wonder if there is a situation room in which their strategy was discussed then conclude it was idyllic and natural instinct.

Mommy’s Jumping Jelly Bean

Struggling Writer, Uncategorized, Writing April 30, 2015

thDaily Prompt; Write about your worst fear

A pounding heart filled this apprehension, trepidation and fear guides my outstretched fingers, almost touching but not reaching my daughter who is ever so near. She has climbed out a window, her chubby legs dangle enjoying the view. Her eyes twinkle and when she sees mommy, claps her hands repeatedly, as a two-year old will often do. I signal quiet with a finger to my lips as panic replaces subdue. Then shake and shiver petrified of any move. The drop is disastrous if not fatal, but not the only view.

Shirley Big Ears

#Daily Prompt/Metaphor, Struggling Writer, Writing January 23, 2015

17254433-portrait-of-wild-doe-in-alert-in-autumnToday’s daily prompt is called Fireside Chat and it asks;

What person whom you don’t know very well in real life — it could be a blogger whose writing you enjoy, a friend you just recently made, etc. — would you like to have over for a long chat in which they tell you their  life story?

Shirley Big Ears. I call her that because she has big ears. It’s not that they’re unattractive, but they are a distraction. It appears she parts her hair around them or perhaps her ears work their way out of any cover up attempts. When she smiles it’s from ear to ear, giving her teeth full exposure. The corners of her mouth draw attention to her ear lobes and it takes effort not to laugh.

Her voice is whiny, with quiet deliberation. When speaking, she pauses between words providing space for their extended meaning, then inserts a girlish giggle, a hint the tragedy was overcome.

I often think her ears are larger because she is a better listener. I would like to hear her life story.


<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/fireside-chat/">Fireside Chat</a>

Writing 101: Day 8 Death to Adverbs

Struggling Writer, Uncategorized, Writing September 24, 2014

Go to a public location and make a detailed report of what you see. The twist of the day? Write the post without adverbs.

th

Early Morning No Pay

A light rain mists the air, and moistens my skin as I step outside. The weatherman predicts heavy rain and flooding in southern parts of Florida. I hustle the block and a half to the beach. The cool air and overcast skies a relief from constant sunny skies. The waves are angry and slap the shore with determination leaving little space to walk.

There are other options, the hotel grounds, and lobby.

The bellman pulls the wood and glass door open and nods his head good morning. Inside the Mediterranean lobby is empty except for housekeeping.

It is early and an upright vacuum fueled by a long yellow cord sucks up the previous day’s activities. The staff member nods and shuts off the sweeper as I pass.

Someone else polishes the large floor to ceiling mirrors and tabletop glass.

The gift shop opens at 8:30 AM but on the coffee table is a generous pile of USA Newspapers for the taking.

My husband will feel lucky he does not have to pay.

 

. . . Seriously just saying

Writing 101: Day 7/Give and Take

Struggling Writer, Writing September 23, 2014 Comments: 6

Sep 23, 2014

Focus today’s post on the contrast between two things. The twist? Write the post in the form of a dialogue

th

Give and Take

Myra pulled the car seat belt across her chest, buckled the metal lock and said,
“Are you taking the Interstate or Old Kings Road?”

Her husband increased the air conditioning than said, “What difference does it make?”

“Well, if you’re going by CVS I’d like to stop and get a few things.”

“Does that mean you want me to drive by CVS?”

“No, it means that if you’re taking Old Kings, please stop at CVS, I’m not telling you which way to go, just that I would like to stop at CVS, if you are going that way.”

“So you are telling me which way to go.”

“Well if I were driving I would take Old Kings Road and stop at CVS.”

“But you are not driving, do you want to drive? Because if you want, you can, or you can tell me which way to go.”

“Forget, it just drive.”

“Forget it just drive, okay it’s forgotten I’ll just drive.”

“Great, which way are you going?”

“Old Kings Road!”

. . . Seriously just saying

Writing 101 Day 6/Don’t Be A Stranger

Struggling Writer, Writing September 22, 2014 1 Comment

Sep 21, 2014

Writing 101: A Character-Building Experience

Today, you’ll write about the most interesting person you’ve met in 2014. In your twist, develop and shape your portrait further in a character study.

Don’t Be A Stranger

Interesting, what makes a person interesting? Hard to say, certainly the owner of Evans & Son Jewelry store, wedged between the movie theater, Cimematique, and the used book store, Abraxas, on South Beach Street, was not, at first interesting.

There was nothing special about him, a man my age, who later mentioned he was sixty-two, slightly younger than I was, he appeared ordinary. Al, he called himself Al, leaving me to wondered if it was Alan, Allen, or Albert.

The family business specialized in appraisals, and they were gemologists. We brought in a one of a kind piece, a gold elephant head studded with gems to be evaluated or decide what to do with an ugly piece of jewelry.

Al said the jade it was mounted on was of little value, it had imperfections. He rolled around on a stool that sat him waist-high behind the counter giving him easy access to an i-pad and cell phone.
Occasionally he would hike the shoulder of the cargo shirt he wore, the way Fred Couples does before a golf swing, but Al was not swinging he was talking, nonstop, incessantly. He was a pilot trained at Embry Riddle and brought the business to Daytona from Baltimore Maryland.
Now he was bald, and referenced selling his personal gold chains for scrap, after they lay idle on display after a life style change.

It may have been that single phrase, “life style change” that led to my speculation he was interesting. I imagined him melting down his youth, keeping only the tiger’s eye ring that today fit his pinky finger. His hands were small and when he stood to introduce himself, a surprise that he was tall, over six feet.

“I’m Al,” he said and shook my husband’s hand than took a small step to his left to position himself directly in front of me to repeat, “Al.” We shook hands.

His behavior was not interesting or unusual, but somehow conveyed he was interested. A story-teller, he lead the conversation carefully, weaving his life experience among our few questions. He spoke of being in Italy and how the Europeans loved Daytona Beach and when Daytona was touted one of the ten best places to retire on an income of thirty thousand dollars, people were thrilled. He was not, and raised a good point; they had no money to spend.

After we made our transaction; he stood again to shake both our hands, and said, “Don’t be strangers now.”

What makes a person interesting, hard to say?


. . . Seriously just saying

Writing 101 Day 5/ Before I Go

Struggling Writer, Uncategorized, Writing September 19, 2014 1 Comment

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.

th

Before I Go

Yesterday, I’m walking my dog, Fife, and Fife is pulling the leash way off the path going in circles, making me crazy, looking for just the right spot to do her you know what, and find an area that might make her happy, then starts scratching and pawing at the leaves only to uncover, an envelope addressed to Charles.

So after poop scooping Fife’s deposit, I examine the item.

The Charles, written in cursive with a black felt tip pen, has a romantic squiggle underneath. The seal is broken and a single page letter unfolds easily in my hands.

The letter reads:

Dear Charles,

        Before I go, I want you to know, and goes on to explain why she’s leaving.

Now I’m in a pickle, Charles would definitely want this letter back and Fife and I have a big decision to make.