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We’re over the hump! Today officially marks the start of the second half of MySixWriMo. How are you doing? Have you found anything fabulous?
Here’s the prompt du jour from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:
For today's prompt, I want you to pick a color, make that the title of your poem (six), and write a poem (six) that is inspired by that color.
And here’s what I hand-selected from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):
A trash collector uncovers something extraordinary in the back of his truck.
Good luck, everyone! Hope those creative fires are burning. See you in the comments.
Change is Good--Right?
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Hello dear readers--are you still out there?
It's been awhile, and I wouldn't blame you for moving on. I felt the need
for change, and have spent some tim...
6 years ago
6 comments:
Don't count sentences, folks. I couldn't bear to jam the last paragraph.
The Prodigal Bear
John tipped the can and the usual mess tumbled into the back of the truck, stinking rotting bags ready to burst open and vomit their rancid contents. But then he saw it, under the top bag, no, it couldn’t be….
He reached out one trembling hand.
That stained and meaty hand looked like it belonged to someone else as it clamped around the bear’s belly, Danny’s bear, he knew the weight and the feel of it, even after all these years. His eyes pricked and he swallowed hard as he heard Danny’s singsong voice: Squishy the Bear with the curly brown hair. Squishy had gone everywhere with Danny, eventually even into the grave.
He pulled the bear to him, no worries it wasn’t clean enough; that bear would be clean enough for him steeped in sewage. He swallowed again and tucked it inside his flannel shirt. That was better. Squishy cuddled next to his heart.
Interesting take on the garbage finding, Greta. There's a lot of good stuff in your characterization. In fact, I doubt you'll leave that one alone for long.
I took the poet's prompt today:
White
Rebecca opened the can and welcomed the sharp, overpowering smell. A year ago, if anyone would have asked, she would have said anything but white—white was dull, weak and… too ordinary—but this morning she dressed up in a pair raggedy sweats, drove down to the hardware store, and asked the young man behind the counter for the purest white he could find. And none of that fancy stuff, like Antique or Eggshell or Milk; for her, it had to be as strong as ivory and as sterile as bleach.
She stirred up the mix, poured it into the tray, and rolled the first layer across the now bare walls. After an hour, she returned with tears in her eyes and gave the room a second coat, guessing she would have to apply a third to finish the job.
Later—a few weeks, or even a month if that’s what it took—she would visit the shed again and figure out what to do with Nathan’s crib and the bags stuffed with his clothes.
Aren't we the gloomy ones, Stephen.
Cool take on white, btw. This one totally works.
Greta,
Sorry to up and disappear; got injured playing b-ball and literally couldn't sit for three days. Then the fam was in town for Easter. Ah, I'm preaching to the choir. We've all had to put the writing on a back burner before. I'll chime in when I can.
--John
Roses are red, violets
are Blue and I barely have
time to make a Haiku.
:-)
Sorry to hear about the injury, John. Hope you're doing better and that things calm down for you.
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