Sunday, April 26, 2009

MySixWriMo Day 26


Can you believe this is our last Sunday of six-or-so’s?

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem (six) involving miscommunication. It can be miscommunication between two people or misinterpretation of some sort. I will leave it up to you guys to deal with it however you want.

And here’s today’s prompt from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer's Digest Books):

I pray every day that it will stop, but it keeps getting worse.

This prompt was originally given as a line of dialogue, but I thought it had possibilities beyond that. You use it however you see fit.

Hope to see you all later in the comments.


Greta said...

This one's for all the mommies out there. You'll know what I mean.

The Urge

I used to wish for it, the sudden stirring as morning unfurled, followed by the telltale urge. That urge would be my sign that everything was normal. Without it, I worried and wondered.

Then it came, landing on me like the vengeance of the Lord. I pray that it will stop, but somehow, it keeps getting worse. I begin each day turning myself inside out, then all day, recoiling at the sight of food. My diaphragm quivers, bruised and beaten, my throat burns, my stomach sinks like molten lead. I worry that he’s starving, that I hurt him with the violence. Mostly, I worry this won’t end until he comes.

Stephen said...

How sad, Greta. That disease is tragic, and I've never thought about a pregnant woman suffering with it. Your piece will be hard to forget.


I pray every day that it will stop but it keeps getting worse.

Last night, it started with an itch in the back of my throat and then cramps that racked my whole body, the pain so severe I curled up on the living room floor and rolled from side to side. I cried out, a long wail that most likely sent the neighbors running for their phones, so sure that a woman was being raped or something; but then, the fever burned so high I lost consciousness.

Later, I awoke and ran outside to grab the paper. I found it on page one, above the fold: Three Dead In Apparent Mauling.

I threw the paper down, kneeled beside the couch, and asked for God’s forgiveness, wishing once again that He would make it stop.

Stephen said...

Looking at your piece again, I realized you probably weren't writing as darkly as I originally thought.

Greta said...

Well, it is always safe to assume I'm being horribly dark, Stephen :)

I'd been thinking of morning (or when I had the kiddo, all dang DAY until 9 pm) sickness. But the story is in the eyes of the reader once I surrender it, so if you want to see something darker, by all means, have at it :)