Friday, April 10, 2009

MySixWriMo Day 10

I feel like I’m losing momentum. But I know enough about writing to know this is the time to keep pushing. Sometimes the pushing through brings the best results.

Now to today’s prompts.

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

In some circles, today is known as Good Friday. In other circles, every Friday is good (mostly because the weekend has begun). For the rest, Fridays aren't anything special.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about Friday. Do you like Fridays? Despise Fridays? Of course, you can also write about something that happened on a Friday--or write an ode to Fridays. Or, as you know, I'm all for seeing you attack this from an angle I haven't thought of yet.

And the prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“The only thing I’ve got left is my pride.”

Let’s see what we can come up with. See you in the comments later.


Greta said...

Here's what I've got. This one's not half bad.


They met on a Friday, when she was checking out her favorite writer’s blog and there he was, Jim B from Albuquerque.

Love your stuff, man, Jim B wrote. The postmodern angst and isolation is totally tangible. And because that resonated, she clicked Jim B’s name.

They’d been emailing a year when Jim suggested they meet on middle ground. Any Friday next month would work, he wrote; she stared at the monitor, at its friendly glowing face, and wrote back that she preferred the postmodern angst of their isolation.

Stephen said...

Actually, Greta, it's pretty good.

Here's mine:

The Only Thing Left

She said, “Where do you think you’re going?” her tone irritated.

He said it didn’t concern her, and she told him fine, just be that way, and then launched into another one of her alcohol induced sermons about his lack of passion and direction, and how after twenty years of working in the factory he had nothing to show for it—no home, no future, not even his pride. Looking at her in a pink terry cloth bathrobe that hung far enough apart to showcase her panties, a paunchy gut, and a sagging pair breasts that only a baby could want, he wondered why he’d stayed so long and how in God’s name he could have forgiven her not once but twice.

Clyde reached for the door, remembering his buddy’s voice from last night: how Ricky had blamed it on one too many beers, saying he was sorry and friends shouldn’t do that to one another, and then how the dumb bastard screamed, his blood oozing between the fingers covering his nose.

“You’re wrong about that,” he said, looking Lola straight in the eyes now. “The only thing I’ve got left is my pride.”

Greta said...

Good one, Stephen. You've got it all--backstory, plus both a plot and a character arc. Nicely done.

Jane Banning said...

I am impressed by both sixes. I'll catch up with you later this weekend.