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Saturday, November 10, 2012

The Cat: What Happens Next






The cat seemed to slink along the sidewalk in front of the Mosque. He watched it for a while, watched it until the cat, white Siamese cat, stood still and stared at him. He went near the cat, as near as he could get to the cat without alarming it. It was dark, well lit near the Mosque. A few cars were parked on the curb; nondescript used cars that he didn't pay attention to.

"Is anyone looking for you?" He reached out and grabbed the cat. "No collar." He walked back across the street and climbed in his used sports car and sped away. He decided to take him to a person who knew who would check out the cat to make sure he was safe to bring around his family.



Thursday, September 13, 2012

How I Like To Write

I'm learning who I am as a writer, which means learning how I like to write stories. I like to simply start writing. Sometimes I need a little bit of the story, but I find it hard to start from a story idea. I feel that first sentences provide their own prompts to keep the writer going. Sometimes you flow through the initial writing of the piece and other times you don't. I think in those other times that I'm too close to the actual memory. So, I need to back away and remember that I'm writing fiction, not non fiction, meaning that I can imagine the story and I should.

The other thing that I need to do is to figure out how to make myself known to readers. I'm here and I'm writing and I'm getting ready to submit my fiction on a continuous basis.


She jumped up and ran down the street.

To me this sentence is brimming with curiosity. Why did she jump and run down the street? Did she see something?

She jumped up and ran down the street. A man, holding a struggling, climbed in a black car and sped off. The engine had to be running since he took off so fast. It wasn't the scene of a child who was being disobedient. This girl looked generally afraid.

It could be something else.

She jumped and ran down the street. A tall man, whose hair was graying, was talking to her teacher. He wore his desert troop uniform. She hugged him from behind.
"Guess my little girl found us." He twisted so he could see her.

With the 11th anniversary of 9/11 behind us, what's your 9/11 short story? This week's prompt is to write your 9/11 story.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Waiting


It was quiet with everyone involved in their activities; reading, computing, or quietly talking. The TV was barely audible or else not noticeable. I looked at my watch. How many more hours did I have at the dealership. Restlessness was not the mood to be waiting for anything, especially something that had to do with vehicles. At least I wasn't at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I read a book by Jodi Picoult. One of the character's job was to wait in line for other people; wait in ticket lines before you used your cell phone to purchase tickets, or wait in the DMV and probably wait for cars to be ready. She said she was a waiter, waiting in lines for people who didn't have the time and could afford not to have to wait in line. Lucky to be rich. When I read that scene, I wondered how much she got paid to be that kind of waiter. It was bad enough waiting for me, but to wait for someone else. 

Someone walked in the waiting room and everyone looked up from our activities.

This is from a writing prompt I came up with and posted on my Life Prompts blog. This is my response.  Happy Writing!

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Some of Marta's Lives



He stood in front of the Marta train doors, leaning forward in a pair of new looking, long jean shorts and a white t-shirt. His black hair was twisted and unruly, like each had a wish it was sending up to the heavens. He mumbled to himself once, adding curse words as if he was mad at the air.

The doors opened at the Civic Station.  A woman with a gold band used to keep her hair off her face, stepped on the train. The man with the twists grumbled and cursed as he walked away from the door, rather than tumble or rush onto the plat form. He remained standing as he mumbled and cursed.

 “Always taking my space,” the man with the twists said.

The woman didn’t notice the man with the twists. She stared at the water on the floor and the small puddle that gathered in a seat next to a gray haired man.

“A leak,” the gray haired man said. He looked up above him. She followed his gaze.

“Shouldn’t be,” the woman said as she looked at the floor again. When the train emerged from underground, the passengers could see that the rain momentarily stopped, though the sky was still gray and the air should still be cool when the passengers stepped outside.