Writing Prompt Wednesday #13

I don't like snow,
but it's a little ridiculous to see green grass this time of year,
AND not have to wear a coat outside. :P

Thankfully,
it's Wednesday,
so I can bury my head in a writing prompt.

The rules:

1) Set the timer for 15 minutes.
2) Write about the picture or the topic (or something that jumps into your head)
3) Do NOT edit. Let the words flow. Your editor can watch whatever's on your PVR.

Here is this weeks topic:

Write about a time you found out about something you weren't supposed to know.

 

 

And...GO!

 

 

I would love to read your Writing Prompt results! Please post your passage in the comment box or leave a link to your blog post. :)



Odds and ends, and good bye to ROW80

There is so much to say in this post...
first off do you like the fall look?
I was finding that my old look was a little too much like the view out of my window...
I needed something a little less dreary. :)

Alas, and alack, this is the very last check in for Round #3 of ROW80,
(the writer's challenge that knows you have a life.).
But before you dissolve into a quivering mass of unfulfilled goals,
take heart, Round #4 starts on October 3rd.
Check out the website here if you are interested.
This round was hard as I started half way through.
I did find a groove by the end of it though,
editing about 2 chapters a week.
I would love to up that. :)
So, yes, I am commiting to the next round,
hopefully I will do better. :)

The other little bit of housekeeping to do is my writing prompt days,
I think that I will be moving them to another day,
(so they don't interfere with my ROW80 posts as much).
I'm leaning towards Monday's (Memorable Monday's),
or Tuesday's (Tasteful Tuesday's).

I would love some insight from my followers. Which day would you choose and also what would you call writing prompt days? Leave a comment and let me know.

Finally, I was looking for a critique partner/beta reader for my Work in progress over at the campaign,
(which is totally awesome and you should check out all the cool winners of the flash fiction pieces here.)
Anyway, I have successfully found one crit partner (yay!)
but I am looking for a few more.
Particularly someone who has some experience in critting,
and writes in a similar genre as me.

If you are interested check out the tab above marked Help Wanted and get in touch with me. :)

ROW80 check in and Writing prompt #11:Write about someone who sinned.

I. am. so. busy.
No, not your average busy,
but a rare out of control busy.

I've started a new school year with my kids.
Started teaching voice lessons again.
Taking a course at university.
My oldest ds needs allergy shots once a week.

The list of appointments/engagements/stress inducers keeps mounting.

Anyway, despite all that I have been working on my novel.
I'm still editing and hope to get two chapters done this week.
Made a pact with myself that I will not go back to the first chapter until I've gotten all the way through the book.
Also want to make a point of visiting some of my ROW80 buddies this week...
I've been very lax.

Anyway,
on to the writing prompt which is "Write about someone who sinned."
The rules are the same:
set the timer for ten minutes,
and write without editing.
GO!

******************

It was such a small thing. Or so Greta had thought. She had not even nodded her hat covered head. It had been a mere shying away from the topic, her eyes glancing towards the ground. Indeed, not an indecent (or untruthful) word had escaped her red lipsticked lips. But her small gesture had grown into something much bigger. It was not long before more eyes were on the "scandulous" Beulah then on the pastor on Sunday morning. Indeed, Greta wondered if anyone had heard the message about a persons words causing a fire.
It truly was not her fault that Susie-Lou had told the whole choir. Or that the minister's wife had been standing close enough to see Greta's reaction to the question. She had merely been enjoying the attention that comes from having something juicy to relay over coffee after the service.
Now the persistent banging at the front door caused her stomach to roll over. She peered from behind her heavy curtains--carefully so that she wasn't seen by the imposing figure that stood on her front step. Beulah.
"You better come on out before I break your door down," Bealah's booming voice seemed to fill the entire house.
There really was no way to avoid this. Greta walked over to the door and gripped the handle tightly. Turning the brass knob slowly she whispered a brief prayer for forgiveness. Even if she had done nothing wrong.

Your Turn: What can you produce in ten minutes with no editing with the word prompt: Write about someone who sinned. I would love to read your work! Either post it in a comment (if it is short) or post the link to your blog. :)

ROW80 check in & Writing prompt #10: Write about the morning after.

 POSTING LATE DUE TO THUNDER STORMS :)
So I am checking in for ROW80,
which is going reasonably well.
I'm moving forward but right now it feels so slow,
like trying to walk through thick mud.
I've also been really tired lately,
went to bed at 9pm the other night.
Here's hoping I can just keep trudging along.

Anyway,
today's writing prompt is "Write about the morning after."
No editing,
just writing.
Let's see if I can get this done before I fall asleep,
or I get cut off by the monster storm in my area.

*************************************************

My eyes flutter open and for a moment I don't know where I am.  The smells so sterile and the sound of a baby crying -- wait, was that my baby?  I look around the room frantically but the bassinet is empty.  From behind the pastel tissue paper curtain I hear another mother crooning to her baby.  I sit up and shake my head trying to focus on what had happened last night. The sudden pain across my abdomen brings me to reality, we were waiting for our baby. 

Every night, Edward would talk and sing songs to my tummy.  Dreaming dreams so big for such a little bump.  But when the time came you were too weak and a c-section was done.  The day that should have been full of joyful phone calls and time just spent staring at all ten fingers and toes was robbed from us.  An emergency and then you were rushed away and I spent the night alone in the hospital.  I look to the bedside table and see the grainy polaroid picture.  You look alien to me--who is this tiny child.  The photo feels light and cold in my hands.  I set my mouth in a thin line, this is not my child.

Then Edward is there holding my hand, fussing over me.  Soon we will meet this child...this Samantha. The wheel me to a room where large machines hunch keeping a watchful eye on their charges in the incubators.  And there you are with a sign over you with your name and pink balloons.  I can barely stand to look at you so foreign behind the plexiglass.  My heart skips a beat...what a horrible mother I am!  Then the nurse, everything about her in constant motion, is taking the bundle out of the incubator and disconnecting the lines from her body. Suddenly you are in my arms. I notice the weight of her first. Samantha. Then I can feel the heat coming from your tiny body.  Your eyelids flutter and a small smile crosses your face.  I count ten fingers.  I see eyes just like Edward's.  A chin just like mine. You stir, nestling deeper into my embrace with a soft sigh. A tear makes a track down my cheek.  This is my baby. Welcome baby Samantha. 

Writing Prompt # 9: Nothing has changed & ROW80 check in

ROW80 check in first this time:
so far the week is going fairly well.
I've done my comma cheat sheet,
and I've read one chapter from the book I wanted to get done.
I've also edited another chapter.

Although the goals are going well,
my WIP is giving me some troubles.
I'm still not happy with the first chapter--
none of the characters will behave.
But still I keep writing...


Anyway, today's writing prompt is "Nothing has changed".
Just writing for ten minutes,
and no editing.
Let's see what I can do.

******************************************

Looking out the picture window I can see so much has changed.
The rush of traffic that goes past our little home.
Children of yesterday who are pushing prams with their own rosy bundles.
Highschoolers shuffling to mp3 players.
Weeds where my prize roses used to be.
A dilapidated doorstep that no longer sees my own children,
dirty from making mud pies,
looking for mid afternoon snack.

 I look down at my hands,
wrinkled and crooked.
Blue veins like a road map run across them.
Hands that changed babies bottoms.
Taught the neighbourhood children 'Ode to Joy' on the piano.
Hands that look so foreign to me.

Everything has changed...
I sigh my body deflating like a balloon.

"What are you thinking my love?"
You sit down next to me, your weight causing me to fall towards you on the couch.
Your broad shoulders are stooped with age
and your hair, so white now.
"Hmmm?" you ask again putting your arm around me.
I look up into your hazel eyes
and remember the rainy pier.
You down on one knee in your only pair of good pants.

I smile and a small giggle escapes my lips.  "Oh, I was just thinking how nothing has changed."
Leaning into you smelling your earthy scent.
I sigh contentedly.
Yes, nothing has changed.

Writing Prompt #8: Write about a bedroom

It's been too long since I've done a writer's prompt.
Too much vacation time in Holland,
(seriously, I will put up some pics as soon as I figure out how to get them off my ipod).

Anyway,
today's prompt is "Write about a bedroom".
Hopefully I won't be too rusty at this.
Same rules apply:
Ten minutes of writing on whatever the topic brings to your mind,
no editing!

**********************

It was like nestling in the hollow of a giant's hand. The comforter weighed down on my back with just the right amount of pressure--I was safe.  A tiny slit let in enough air so that it didn't get stale in my cotton cocoon.  The night was black but that was how I liked it.  The darkness was slick against my skin hiding my flaws from the world.  Here in the night no one would mock me.  No one could see where the darkness ended and I began.  In the darkness all lines were blurred.  This room was where my mind found solace as my peers in the playground mocked my over-sized hand me down clothes.  The dirt colour of my skin.  Here was safety.  Here was peace.  Here was home.  In the distance I heard the lullaby of the night train howling on the wind.  Soon the rumbling of wheels on track were rocking the whole house.  Rocking me deeper into the sweet release of sleep.

Writing prompt #7 : So it has come to this.

I didn't get a chance to post something last week,
but I am here for Writing Prompt Wednesday. :D
A rather provocative phrase:
"So it has come to this."
Intriguing and titillating all at once. ;)
Same rules apply:
ten minutes,
free writing,
and no eidting editing. :)

********************************************

He was a man of honour.
She, a gem.
Often, at these social functions, she would pass by him in the narrow hallways.  Her perfume would intoxicate him.  He would try his hardest not to look at the curve of her neck or the way she balanced the strap of her purse on her tiny wrist.  He wondered what it would feel like to have her eyes on him--wondered if he would melt like Icarus' wings from her gaze.  Yet, it was not meant to be. 
She was above.
He was below.
The men of high society buzzed about her like bees.  This one offering her another drink.  That one laughing too loudly at her joke.  He tried hard not to watch--not to care.  But he did.  He imagined hovering around her eating the tinkling of her laughter as if it was ambrosia.  But his feet wouldn't take him to her.  His thick hands clasped the glass too tightly.  He watched the seconds pass on the grandfather clock.  Soon, it would be time to go home.
But first the dancing.
He held up the wall as he watched her.  Now, her cheeks were flushed pink as she glided across the room.  Her lips parted slightly with excitement.  He wondered what her ebony hair would smell like.  Would she trip over his large feet as they waltzed?
Then it happened.
The dance ended and everyone clapped politely for the small quartet.  The woman stood back from her partner, scanning the room.  He tried not to react when her eyes lighted on him.  Her lavender ball gown swished quietly as she strode over to him--so bold.  She grabbed his hand and he dropped his drink.
On the floor he tried hard to remember the steps.
"So?" Her voice was as smooth as chocolate.
He nearly tripped over his feet. "So..."
"So it has come to this." This she whispered so he had to lean closer.

Her hair smelled like joy...

Writing Prompt #6: Write about high tide

Back for some more.
Believe it or not I actually enjoy doing this,
even if I am writing into the vast darkness. ;)
Today's prompt is "Write about high tide."
No editing.
Just writing. :)
Let's see what I can come up with.

******************************

The world felt darker today.  As if a thousand candles had been snuffed out all at once.  I stood at the window while the wind howled and the sky wept at the loss. 

Glenda was a woman of the world.  A world that had turned its back on her.  Once, she had been surrounded by friends and family.  But now only her collection of old newspapers and pop cans kept her company.  She lived by herself in a cardboard box by my house.  I never saw it--but visitors told me.  The would sit on the one stiff wooden chair in my room trying hard not to look at the tubes that entered and exited my body like some sort of symbiotic lover.  When I asked about the woman who walked along the beach every day at the same time they would begin to fidget and stare intently at the yellowing wallpaper.

"Oh, you don't want to know about her..." they would say and quickly turned the conversation to the church bingo or the latest funeral.

But when I watched her walk along the beach, her dirty rags of vibrant colours blowing in the wind, I could sense her peace--her freedom.  Often she would stop to watch the sun as it hovered like a red cough drop right about the horizon.  She would leave her mark on the wet sand--footprints that looked tiny from my window.

I saw her again last night.  It would be the last time. Edna, who always visits me on Fridays, was the one who told me the news. She clasped my frail blue veined hand in hers like a vice grip.  Glenda had died in the night--most likely the years of living on the streets had done it.

Still it did not stop me from shuffling my ancient body over to the window.  Looking out once again on the vast stretch of sand and sea.  As I watched the tide come in I imagined those tiny footprints, that had left an imprint on my heart, being erased by the dark waters.

Writing Prompt #5: Write about a letter

So here I am.
Ready to start another writing prompt.
Actually,...excited to dig into some writing. :)
Today the prompt is:
Write about a letter.
You get ten minutes,
no takesy backseys,
just writing. :)

*******

It was February.  That dreadful month which seemed to last forever.  Outside the classroom window snow clung to everything in a beautiful tableau.  But I didn't care.  Neither did my students.  I sighed before writing another name on the chalkboard.  The white loops of Andrew's name stood out stark against the green.
"And if I catch another note again," I said looking over my eyeglasses.  "I will not only read it out loud to the entire class but I will hang it on the art wall so that all the visitors can see it."
There was a collective gasp and a few of the more studious children blanched at the thought.  Shy little Suzy tugged on one of her pigtails.
Next it was math and I began explaining (for what seemed like the hundredth time) how to properly show your work when doing long division.  That's when I saw it.  So white it practically glowed as it was passed in the second row of desks to shy little Suzy.  I should have known.  My anger burned in my stomach.  My hand gripped the chalk tightly.  I watched out of the corner of my eye as Suzy, little Miss Attentive, carefully unfolded the piece of paper.  Like a tiger I pounced.
"What do you have there?"  My voice cracked as I walked towards her desk.
Her face was red as she tried to hide the incriminating note between her knees.  I didn't trust my voice, merely held my hand under her nose.  Her eyes were as big as quarters as she handed the note to me.  I almost believed that she was close to tears.  Then I looked down at my plundered treasure complete with a picture: a pig with pigtails.  I gasped as I whispered the words out loud:

"Suzy is a snot nosed pig and I can't wait to see her portrait hanging on the wall."

Writing Prompt #4: This is the voice of my body.

OK,
so today's prompt feels...poetic to me:
This is the voice of my body.
If I was listening to my own body today it would be saying,
"Man, is it ever hot!" LOL.

I may try something different though.
Here goes,
free writing for ten minutes,
absolutely no editing. :)

***************************

Every night as I find my spot and I look out the door to see the moon scraping the sky I feel light like a balloon.  As if my desire to run and explore could lift me in the sky like a kite made of rags.  Then I feel the car move beneath my feet as the engine starts moving forward--this one is going west.  I like west.  Anywhere but right here is good for me.  I pull down the brim of my grimy cap and sit with my legs dangling over the side.  The rails seem to slide beneath my feet and before I know it the railway station is far behind me.  Trees loom around me looking like pale skeletons in the moonlight.  Deep in the pit of my stomach is a memory of being pushed on a swing.  The feeling at the top of my arc like I am weightless.  Flying over the land as the train eats up the distance I feel just like that.  If I close my eyes the thrumming of the engines seems to ooze into my bones--urging me onwards.  Thrum, thrum, thrum, my heart sings as the wind whips past me.  The train seems to sing just for me--it can no more stay in one station then I can stay in one town.  I can no longer sit in the open door as the train is moving fast.  I lift my eyes to the sky one last time, which seems to be the only stationary thing, unwilling tears forming at the corner of my eyes.  What was the song Mama would sing about flying?

Ah yes.
Just a few more weary days and then,
I'll fly away;
To a land where joy shall never end,
I'll fly away
I'll fly away.

I whistle the tune with a smile as I unroll my bedroll and prepare for sleep.  The movement of the train rocks me to sleep.

I'll fly away.

Writing Prompt #3: Write about a silence.

Ummmm...
so yeah,
I'm well aware that it's not Wednesday.
But give a girl a break,
I was so sick yesterday,
that I was sobbing uncontrollably at a Disney (copyright) movie
(although the stallion, Spirit, had a pretty rough life,
and still managed to beat the odds and find his way back home...sniff).

Anyway,
enough of my snivelling,
and on to the writer's prompt. :)
Writing about silence today.
No editing.
Just writing.

********************************

It sat between them like a wall of ice--impenetrable, formidable.  The man rubbed his hands together before placing them on the steering wheel.  The woman stared straight ahead her eyes fixated on a tiny crack in the glass before her.  Despite the heat she was wearing a heavy shawl that made her look far more elderly and frail then she actually was.
"This will be fun," the man said plastering a smile to his face.  The woman didn't even bother to look over as he put the car in drive and pulled away from their house.  She looked out the side window at the tulips and daffodils that were thrusting their colourful crowns at the spring sun.  She wished she could spend the day with them dipping her hands into the rich soil, finding the hidden worms beneath the loam, and feeling the sun warming the back of her legs.  Instead...
"My mother really appreciates us coming to visit her."  The man said, a tapping his fingers on the wheel as they waited at the stop light.  The woman couldn't help but look over at him one eyebrow raised like an exclamation point of anger.  His smile faltered under her glare--he was relieved when the light turned green.  The woman thought about his mother, seemingly so cheerful when her boy, her only son came to visit her in the home.  She chatted so willingly and told him all about the friends she was making.  How he had made her so proud.  But when he left, the mother would fill the room with an awful silence, thick and heavy with hatred.  For that hussy who had stolen her son from her.  No one deserved to be with her boy...even after ten years of marriage, that girl was still not worthy.
"Hey, you should have brought some spring flowers from your garden.  She would have loved that!"  The man made one last desperate attempt.  The woman shook trying to control herself, but it was too late.  She sighed and out came a rant so violent that the man wondered if his ears looked singed.
...perhaps the silence had been better after all.

Writing Prompt #2: You're listening to the radio.

It's Word Prompt Wednesday,
join me in doing some free writing,
(no editing).
Write whatever comes to mind with the prompt given:
"You're listening to the radio."
*************

The milk swirled into the velvet brown coffee.  The aroma rising to my nose--filling the whole kitchen with a sense of peace.  This was the perfect time of day when the kids and my husband were still sleeping, snug in their beds.  The floors had been cold this morning making me hesitate before jumping out of bed.  Now, however, I was happy I had made the decision.
The radio plays the song from my childhood.  Not your typical teenage rant but a classical piece.  Rachmaninoff I think.  One of his concertos.  It takes me back to the trips with choir in our blue and yellow polo shirt and easily stained white pants.  The feeling that I was one when we sang in a choir of over a hundred people.  The late night improptu pizza parties as we planned for musicals.  The sense of home that I would have as I walked into the music room everyday.
Of course then there were the many early morning practices.  Even then it was a sacred hour for me--a new day that seemed like a personal conversation between God and I.  On cold days my breath would hang in the air before me as I followed the railroad tracks to school.  The birds were still silent and the sun was just starting to peek out on the world.  It felt like home.
...all that from a simple song. 

Writing Prompt #1: My best day ever...

I was convinced that everyone could hear them.  You know, the butterflies the size of airplanes that buzzed around in my stomach.  I sat there in my stylish paper gown (I promise you in another life if I was a paper gown designer…) feeling a cool breeze that my husband did not feel in his armour of clothing.  They poked and prodded me checking to make sure that I was indeed human and finally nodded their head in consent—the surgery was to go forward.

                Hard to believe that, not two days ago I was sitting nervously in the surgeon’s office.  This would be the first time meeting my prospective surgeon in the hopes of going to surgery in the next month or so.  When we met her she looked like a cat who had swallowed a canary and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest.  She could remove the cancer in my breast as early as a week from now, but…if I was willing to go with another doctor than I could go for surgery in two days.  My heart leapt, she left my husband and I alone to think it over.

                “I’m not ready,” I said sitting on his lap crying.

                “Will you ever be ready?” he asked kindly.

                I shook my head still sulking a little like a petulant child.

                “God certainly has his hand in all this,” he said with a slight tremor in his voice.

                And so here I was on the cold steel slab.  The lights burned my eyes as I pretended that this was the most normal thing that I had ever done.  I couldn’t help but start sobbing as I sank into a deep sleep.  When I awoke I could barely keep my eyes open but my husband was excited and was repeating the same phrase over and over to me.

                “They believe they got it all, love,” he smiled his crooked smile of his.

                And as I sank back into sleep I felt God’s blessing and comfort like I’d never felt before.   I knew no matter what came in the future I was in His hands.  And that made it the best day ever.

Yay!! It's finally here!!

What you may ask?

Well, I was thinking that it would be nice to have a regular writing segment I did once a week on my blog.
At my last writer's group meeting we talked about writing prompts:
the leader for that meeting than gave us ten minutes to write on a specific topic.
The topic was "My best day ever..."
(I will post this for you to see).

After going home I thought about how much I missed that type of free writing,
so I decided to dedicate Wednesday to the practice...
calling them "Writing Prompt Wednesday's"
(super exciting original catchy name...lol).

I will be using  prompts from a book,
("Prompts & Practices" by Judy Reeves),
but you could always check out sites like this:
http://www.writingforward.com/writing-prompts-3/creative-writing-prompts/25-creative-writing-prompts
or this:
http://www.squidoo.com/writeprompts
You could also use photographs or famous paintings as well.

Once you've chosen a prompt,
start writing for ten minutes.
There are no wrong answers,
just write whatever comes to mind when you look at the prompt.
Straight from your brain to the page,
(no editing!).

The benefits?
This will keep your creative juices flowing when you are working on longer projects (like a novel).
Also, you will be surprised what ideas spring out of your subconscious as you write away,
your next idea is waiting on the side lines!

So if you are interested pop in here on Wednesday's to get a writing prompt from me,
or find another source to do some free writing of your own.
Either way, I would love to hear how you did.
Above all, keep writing. :)