Category Archives: Struggling Writer

Ten

scd3cd841-fb7b-4f8f-a81d-b357f00a9062Daily Prompt

“I’ll be back in ten.” He said twenty minutes ago.

She unfolds herself out of the car, waves and rushes inside for coffee and a favorite, crumb cake.

Now she sits at an umbrella table, the too hot to hold cup cooling surrounded by the  Mountains and hugs her tote. Reminds herself; we are in Albuquerque staying at the Holiday Inn or is it the Comfort?

How long does it take to get gas?

She savors the cinnamon crumbs alternated by sips of dark roasted coffee.

After thirty minutes, she does the math. Thirty minutes ago he said, “I’ll be back in ten.” So forty minutes have passed. I’ll phone, and uses voice command to Call Bob, her husband of forth-six years.

His voice mail automatically goes on and she says, “It’s me, where are you?”

Ten more minutes pass.   

In the distance fire sirens screechy, and she thinks, maybe he had a heart attack and tries to recall the car rental company they used at the airport.

She caresses her cell, debates whether to call 911, and deposits her empty cup in a nearby garbage pail. When a car horn honks and he calls, “You’ll never guess what happened.”

 

. . . . Seriously Just Saying

Irksome People

Daily Prompt

d03e92ab-845b-44ae-8424-6f1d27762efd

 

     Nora sets two hot coffee containers on the reception desk then places her handbag on the swivel chair. She removes her coat walking towards the open closet door, several winter coats hang lazily on hangers inside. She buttons her Mohair wool jacket to a wooden one, to prevent it slipping to the floor, and turns to see Don, wearing a smile, wiggling out of his leather bomber.

     Nora says, “Good Morning, Don, I brought you coffee.”

     “Thanks Nora, a peace offering or you gonna start?” He reaches for a hanger and drapes his jacket on it. The heavy shoulders pull to one side and the end of the hanger pokes the forearm of the garment.

     She answers, “Peace offering, although I find it irksome and would not abuse such a beautiful article of clothing if it were mine, it’s yours and you have every right to hang it anyway you like.”

     Don’s smile broadens, “Irksome as in irk? A little word, short and to the point. Irk, produces a sharp sound with little effort if you pucker you lips together, Nora,” then his smile fads.  

. . . . Seriously Just Saying

Sincere Valediction

pencil_grip3

Daily Prompt

Amanda holds the pen tightly and pauses, she could go vulgar; an f-you or drop dead? That is not her style. Love or hugs, both would be sarcastic. She scans the words, a Dear John letter of sorts, hastily scribbled telling him farewell, adios, and good-bye.

Her cell rings. The screen says it is John, not the real John, her John. Seconds before the call transfers to voice box, she picks up.

His raspy voice says, “Amanda, I’m so sorry, Jimmy got stopped, a DUI, I went to pick him up. He was so messed up I didn’t have a chance to phone, I know I said this wouldn’t happen again, please say you’ll forgive me.”

Amanda takes time to respond thoughtfully, with patience, “John, that’s what you said last time you were a no-show. What happened then? Was that the time your mom fell in the driveway? I have trouble remembering. Perhaps it was the time you drove that woman who was attempting to transport $500 of groceries in a baby stroller, home.”

“Amanda, you know I love you. I’m just no good about calling. I start getting caught up in their problems and the next thing I know I’m in trouble with you. Please you got to understand.” His voice is soft and genuine, sincere.

She clears her throat and states firmly, “John, let’s be candid.”

“Amanda, why are you calling me John? And candid? You don’t love me. Never could accept me for who I am. You want me to be perfect, show up when I say I will, phone when I can’t. I’m a sloppy careless stupid person who loves you. But that isn’t enough! No never enough. Guess what Amanda, we are so done.” John hits the end call button.

Amanda picks up the pen and writes a valediction, Sincere Regrets, before signing her name on the bottom of the letter.

. . . . Seriously Just Saying

My Daring Darling

d03e92ab-845b-44ae-8424-6f1d27762efd

Photo By

Daily Prompt

My Daring Darling

“Let’s do something daring tonight, darling. Something exciting and bold,” said Paige who sat on a stripe settee with her gloves still on. She had returned from a luncheon at the Plaza Hotel. Her white alabaster skin contrasted her ruby red lips and the black Channel suit made her appear young, very young.

“How about we fly to Paris and watch the Eiffel Tower twinkle? Jacqueline phoned and said it has stopped raining, finally.” Paige continued slipping her shoes off. “It will be fun.”

“We could, if that would make you happy. However, flying to Paris is not daring, it’s simply impulsive. Daring requires an element of courage. We don’t need courage to fly to Paris; we simply get on our private plane.” He said approaching her with two glasses of champagne.

“Well darling what would make it daring?”Her eyes flirted in thought.

“I don’t know something bold?” He hinted.

Paige allowed her jacket to fall off her shoulders, stood, took the glass from his hand, and whispered in his ear, “We could jump.”    

. . . . Seriously Just Saying

Yippie Ki Yay Breakthrough

ae174b0e-988a-429e-b642-d461fa4000db

Photo By Nev P

Daily Prompt Breakthrough

 

Yippie Ki Yay!  A breakthrough, I am writing.

What happened? I had writers block, and touted this previously enjoyable pastime, tedious.

Well, Saturday evening between bites of bratwurst and sauerkraut, a friend commented that she missed my blog posts and enjoyed my writing.

Sunday morning I awoke to write something. I am ready to get back on my horse and go for a wild and crazy ride. You know what I am saying. I love to play with words, cut and paste incomplete sentences to make complete sentences and obsess over where to place the comma or maybe it should be a semicolon.  

My breakthrough . . . . listen to what I tell myself about a favorite activity, writing.

There is nothing more enjoyable than fixing a dangling participial.

. . . . Seriously just saying

 

Shiver in Thought

 

quote-some-men-like-a-dull-life-they-like-the-routine-of-eating-breakfast-going-to-work-coming-home-hedy-lamarr-107048

    Daily Prompt

     I shiver to think about it. The way the door slammed behind me with a hollow metal sound and the echo of heels tapping down a distant hall, surrounded by quiet, a deafening quiet.

     I pulled my coat close around me against the unknown cold, and shook, questioning why I agreed to this.  I trembled at the touch of a hand on my shoulder. My knees quivered with palsy wondering how this would end.

     I turned around jittery and he inquired, “What are we having for dinner?”

. . . . seriously just saying

Learning to Write

039fa28c-73cb-315d-bdec-9b8f537ce132

Daily Prompt Learning

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write.

Let them think you were born that way.” 

Ernest Hemingway

I  learned to write secretly. The year was 2009. My husband and I retired to Florida. Characters, words, and sentences began to dance in my head.

One day I sat at my desk, my back to the office door when my husband asked, “What are you doing?”

Sheepishly I replied, “Writing.”

Slowly I gained the confidence to participate in writer’s groups, joined FWA and write my blog, claudiajustsaying, posting regularly, until recently.

I have gotten out of the habit of writing. My mind no longer word streams about ordinary life events. I am pretty much brain-dead. I contribute this to the vertigo or constant dizziness I have experienced for the past year and a half.

This void is an aspect of writing I am learning about.

I miss writing; taxing my mind to find just the right words, agonizing over where to place a comma. Deciding whether to say “place a comma” or “put a comma.

. . . .  Seriously Just saying

The Whistler

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.”

Me A Sandwich

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

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.