Posts Tagged ‘red writing hood’

What’s in your pantry?

No. Really. What’s in there?

For this week’s prompt, grab something out of your pantry and write a short piece – using all the words in the ingredients. It can be fiction or non-fiction, poetry or prose.

Make sure you join in and link up. It’s fun, I promise!

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Today was challenging.

It was a challenge waking up at 12:30am to my dear sweet husband, after so nicely getting up to put Alex to bed when he woke up crying, informing me the reason Alejandro had been so upset was due to him puking up dinner all over his pajamas and bed.

It was a challenge waking up at 3:30am to my dear sweet youngest daughter waking me up ever so gently and informing me that she had thrown up all over her bed and the carpet.

It was a challenge cleaning up chunks of half digested mandarin orange segments from the sheets after letting them dry overnight, because I was too tired and had no desire to clean it up in the wee hours of the morning.

It was a challenge staying away from the two king-size chocolate confections of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Milky Way sitting in the fruit bowl, when all I wanted was to overdose on sugar.

It was a challenge drinking only water, when all I wanted was to down the ice-cold Vanilla Coke Zero in the fridge.

It was a challenge cleaning and disinfecting everything, when all I wanted to do was take a nap.

Today was challenging.

But.

Tomorrow is a new day.

It’s the first prompt of the year over at The Red Dress Club! I look forward to participating fully this year. It’s a wonderful way to get your creativity going. You should join in the fun and link up!

Your assignment is to write a short piece – fiction, non-fiction, poetry, whatevs – in which each sentence starts with a the next letter of the alphabet. Starting with “A.” So, yes, your finished product will consist of 26 sentences.

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At first it did not look like rain, the sky now churned with violence.

Brilliant light flashed through ugly thick purple clouds as booming thunder shook the house at the seams.

Cautious, I stepped outside the first fat raindrops collided with my upturned face.

Down in torrents the rain lashed my smile wide with glee.

Every inch soaked through I twirled and jumped.

Flip-flops squelched, the water squished between perfect pedicure toes.

Green hues change the scene, the severity of my surroundings escalate.

Hail.

Ice chunks pelt my skin they scatter the ground.

Just run into the house through beautiful French doors.

Kick off shoes and grab the plush sage towel off the barstool.

Leave a trail of water through the house and up the stairs.

Mom and Dad still not home.

Often I am alone, left to fend for myself in the big quiet house.

Peel the wet clothes off my body, warm pajamas out of the dryer.

Quilt made from Nana with love, wrapped around me.

Read a new book, escape to another world as the trees thrash wildly outside.

Siren.

Tornado possible.

Unconcerned I retreat to the basement.

Victory is not mine without power.

Wait it out in flashlight glow surrounded by eerie shadows.

Xander, a frightened ball of fluff, is curled in my lap for protection.

You would think I would be scared too.

Zen, as always the storm has passed.

We’re borrowing this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt from NaNoWriMo Prompts, a blog dedicated solely to National Novel Writing Month.

Here’s your prompt:

“Your protagonist empties the contents of his/her pockets, purse, and/or backpack onto a table. What all was dumped onto the table?”

But, we’re going to ask for more than a list of contents…this is merely a jumping off point.

While not all of you are taking part in NaNoWriMo this time around, this prompt will work beautifully for fiction and non-fiction. Don’t have a character? Empty your own purse and tell us what’s in it and why.

And if you are doing NaNoWriMo, be sure to poke around on the blog if you should get blocked…there’s some great stuff over there.

Fiction or non-fiction…tell us your story.

If you read my previous post here, you know that I was going to participate in NaNoWriMo this year. I decided to use this weeks prompt to further the story I’m working on. It is a very dark time for my character as her world has just been shattered. This is just one step in her ultimate journey of redemption. That being said, this could be a trigger for those suffering in a dark place themselves as it deals with suicide. This isn’t polished and I just wrote it this morning, with a myriad of interruptions from Alex. It’s also the first time I have publicly shared my characters and story.

Okay, disclaimer over.

Mildew. I inhaled the damp mustiness in the shrouded darkness of the corner, my back against the wall, the white eyelet fabric catching slightly on the coarse brown wallpaper. I sat there, legs out in front, limp and smeared with blood, Victoria’s. Her last breath, her vacant eyes.

“You need to get cleaned up.” Ryan said, peering through the thick dusty curtains, allowing a swatch of sunlight too bright to enter. I flinched as if pierced by its sudden brilliance. He let the curtain fall and the darkness enveloped me again, a welcomed hug from a long lost friend. He walked over to me tentatively, gauging my reaction or lack thereof. His hand outstretched, waiting to grasp mine.

“Beth, come on. You’ll feel better.” The deep blue-gray pools that had mesmerized me with their inviting warmth were flat and withdrawn. Or was it just me, my body was here, it was looking at Ryan, it was hearing Ryan, but it felt tingly and disconnected, neither here nor there, wherever there was.

“Hey.” He knelt next to me, and wiped away a tear from my cheek with his thumb. I hadn’t realized I was crying. His eyes were boring into mine trying to locate some spark within me, evidence that I would be all right.

“I’m not ready. You go first.”

Ryan nodded, the feel of his lips against my cheek a lingering whisper as he disappeared behind the bathroom door.

The room was small and dark, barely illuminated by the dingy bedside lamp giving off a wash of dull yellow light. My Gucci hobo bag sat on the table. It had been so important for me to have that dark blue python and leather bag. It practically screamed my name when I saw it and I immediately fell in love. Yes, fallen head over heals for a purse. What a waste. I got up shakily, steadying myself with my hand against the scratchy wall, made my way to the table and dumped out the contents of the designer bag.

The brash clank of the gun hitting the warped wood caught me by surprise. I picked it up, feeling the weight in my hand. The smooth black polymer marred by dried blood now the color of rust. Victoria. I set it down and sifted through the crumpled receipts, movie ticket stubs, wads of silver wrapped used gum, tubes of lip gloss, pack of fresh mint gum, the matching blue python clutch wallet, a bottle of ibuprofen, the keys to the house and car, my cell phone, and a bottle of water.

Nothing I was really looking for. I unzipped the inside pocket of the purse and pulled out the full unmarked prescription bottle. Four at a time chased with water. Empty. The ibuprofen was next. I placed everything back in my bag and sat on the end of the king size bed.

My mirror image staring back at me, bloodied and bruised, vacant and yet still breathing, unlike her.

She was lost.

Now I would be lost too.

This week’s prompt for Red Writing Hood is based on dramatic entrance, courtesy of  Webook.

Write a short story based on this prompt:

An art opening at a lavish downtown gallery. A car crashes through the plate glass window. The driver’s door opens, and an eight-year-old girl steps out.

Here is my attempt.

Abandoned

The luminescent orbs of street lamps, multi-colored flashing storefront signs, throngs of people all flying by at an ungodly pace. Blurred through thick teardrops. Pelting my chest. My lap. My hatred melting my heart, consuming every cell, and there were a lot of cells. Mrs. Oberdick told me so. She was smart. She was nice. She wasn’t my mother. I wished she could be.

My mother always too busy, painting came first.

“You’ll understand one day. When you’re old and all you have to show for yourself is an empty house and no one left to take care of. Feeling lost and not knowing who you are or what you have even become. That won’t happen to me. I need this.  I need to feel alive again. Not chained into a monotonous, thankless job. You will be a mother one day. You will understand.”

I would never be her. I would be a good mom. I would want to be with my kids. I would cherish every second spent with them. I would love them. I would choose them.

There it was, a block away. The fruits of my mother’s labor, brightly lit, displayed for the city to see. The men in their tuxedos and the women in their long formal dresses, eating those little shrimps on toast, sipping from full champagne glasses. Laughter. Mother soaking up all the attention, in love, and not with me.

Hands gripping the steering wheel, my concentration wavering. My chest, it was going to burst, so heavy and tight, just waiting to explode. Foot pushed upon the pedal, faster, harder. Mrs. Oberdick’s smiling face. Her loving grasp and it hurt, the tears cascading, a river running over my cheeks.

Headlights gleaming back at me. Glass imploding. People running. Canvases ripped from invisible wire. Destroyed. The center brick wall crumpling the front end of the onyx Mercedes, snapping my head forward into a cloud of white, then back into the tan leather seat. Hearing nothing, then shouting, her voice the loudest, louder than the ethereal screaming that was coming from my very soul.

“I hate you,” the mantra escaping my bleeding mouth, on endless repeat as I opened the door and climbed out of the wreckage.

“Zoe Grace! What have you done,” my mother’s voice an octave that didn’t exist, not in this world.

“I hate you!” A baby tooth, spit to the floor.

Maybe a gun, pointed at her chest, her anger subsiding to fear as I pulled the trigger.

“Zoe, put that down! What are you doing?” her hands trembling as she reached for me, willing me to come to my senses.

Maybe not…..

I watched as we passed the gallery. There were paintings that hung on invisible wire from the ceiling. The men in their tuxedos and the women in their long formal dresses, eating those little shrimps on toast, sipping from full champagne glasses. I caught a glimpse of my mother, laughter dancing on her lips.

A single tear trickled from my right eye, brushed away quickly, the evidence drying on the back of my hand.

“Mrs. Oberdick, can we get some ice cream tonight?”

“Anything for you Zoe Grace! Perfect attendance and straight A’s for the whole third grade year! That’s something to celebrate!” the warmth of her smile filling me up with love.

She wasn’t my mother.

I wished she could be.