Imagine you’re standing on a rooftop, and there is a crowd below waiting to hear you speak. You only have one sentence, and that will be the last words the world remembers you by. It can’t be a sentence someone else might say. It has to be your own voice. Something uniquely you. What would you say? This is my sentence. #writingexercise
This is an image I had to draw at a recent writers retreat held by Writescape: http://writescape.ca/writescape/
While drawing may not be my strong suit, I did make a lovely little poem to accompany the picture:
Four walls enclose an ideal,
Lost and left behind,
A world of peace and laughter,
Love and joy in kind.
Little faces, innocent smiles,
I hold the image tight,
A time before they grew and left,
Precious moments taken flight.
Life moves on and clouds drift by,
A window frames each day,
Youth remembered, a time since lost,
Once drawn in a kitchen’s play.
In gratitude,
Marissa xo
It could have been the way her voice poured over him like cream, or the way Mr. Bennet lapped it up, all but purring and rubbing against her calves, but Tom froze. Three HB number 2 pencils gripped in his left hand, a package of White 96 Bright, 20-lb. Bond paper in his right. He had stepped into the stationary closet to retrieve them, but when his boss walked in the break room with her, he had been unable to leave.
This is my response to the writing prompt … “An employee overhears a conversation between co-workers and is not happy with what he hears.” I had a lot of fun with this one. 🙂 Please be warned there are a few swear words in the following paragraphs, so if you are sensitive please feel free to enjoy another post.
He peered through the small crack in the door, pushing up his glasses with the back of his left hand. They were sitting at the table now, steaming coffee in front of them, “Bennet and Associates” in white capital letters on the smooth black surfaces of each mug.
“I’ll be making the announcement about the Vice Presidency this week,” Bennet said.
She leaned toward him, her posture, her smile directed only at him. “Perhaps, I can sway the decision?”
Tom watched her red painted toenails leave the confines of her black stiletto and travel up and under Bennet’s pant leg.
“I think we can discuss this in more detail tonight, over dinner,” Bennet said.
She slipped her foot back into the shoe and stood, resting a French manicured hand on Bennet’s shoulder. “I’d like that.” Her fingernails trailed along the back of his neck as she walked away.
Tom pressed his back against the shelves, his breath shallow and fast, his heart clawing at his breast. Her shadow passed. He gripped the pencils tight, the edges pressing into his palm.
He chanced another look. Bennet stood and adjusted his grey woolen trousers, a hungry smile fixed on his foolish face. She was just using him, the slut. Couldn’t Bennet see that?
Tom had been in line for that promotion, working his ass off, and for what? For that upstart little bitch to steal it from him? He had worked here eighteen years. Eighteen goddamn years. And her? One. One fucking year.
He pressed his back against the shelves as Bennet passed, then slipped out of the closet. He walked over to the table and looked down at the coffee mugs. He put the paper down, placing the pencils carefully on top so that they didn’t roll, then ran a finger over the bright red lip stick, a perfect imprint of her filthy mouth.
An image flashed in his mind. Those bright toenails severed, her swollen lips wrapped around the barrel of his gun. He smiled and adjusted his grey woolen trousers. There was so much to do before dinner.
Luggage shuffled along the ground, edges grating on the concrete platform. Couples laughing and talking—a constant hum in the background.
The fog had burned off the land. Only a hazy memory silhouetted the grey shadows of the forest beyond the station.
My palms were moist, and I wiped them again, pretending to smooth down the soft velour of my yellow dress.
I lifted sleepless eyes to the large clock overhead, roman numerals black against a worn circle. The heavy hand moved. A minute closer. I could almost hear the click as it inched nearer to eight.
I gazed down the empty tracks. People clustered near the edge, craning to look. We all waited.
Was that steam ahead? I stood, my heart pounding in my chest, each beat a second of the clock.
Anticipation rose in the air around me.
A distant bell. It’s clang striking my stomach, a deep resonance in my soul.
The bell grew louder. Steam puffed in the air.
He was coming.
This was my response to a writing prompt at a workshop I recently attended … perhaps there’s a story in here somewhere. Who is she? Who is the man she’s waiting for? I may have to finish the tale to find out!
In gratitude,
Marissa xo