I’ve been thinking a lot about how we’re all working with the same proverbial palette – red, yellow, and
blue. No idea can be truly original, right? And yet in a world crowded with people, we are each so very
individual, original in our own ways.
My green doesn’t exactly mirror your
green. Your purple is perhaps a little more bright.
So this is an exercise in both faith and
diversity. I’d love to see how many people will join in, then see how different
and amazing our stories can be regardless of the fact that we’re working with
the same limited prompts.
Please participate and share with those you think would be interested, then link up in
the comments by next Monday night (February 18) so we can all see your masterpieces. Here are the parameters:
Write a short story no more than 500
words long. It can be any genre, fiction, non-fiction, lyrics, poetry,
whatever. Just be sure to include three of the five words below (or some past,
present, future derivative), as well as one of the pictures.
Optional, use one of the following songs
as soundtrack (they're all instrumental; I would suggest ignoring the images and just listening to the
music) –
When you’ve finished and posted your work, don't forget to link up in the comments. Thanks for playing along . I'm looking forward to reading and sharing pieces of your worlds.
I'm not
usually one to take my shirt off for people, but when the person telling me to
strip has a gun on her hip and a title on her name? I only hesitate a moment.
At least I
can be proud of that moment.
We are both
workers, she and I, born in the same complex. Obviously the authority of my
title holds nothing against hers though. I’ve definitely not been issued a gun.
Her face is
hard, like the grey stone walls around us are hard. Still, I can’t imagine she’s
much older than me. None of us get much older than me without losing something
important. An eye, a hand, a piece of our soul.
I wonder
what she’ll do when she gets off work tonight. Will she lean on her fridge door
while rummaging for something to munch? Maybe she’ll pop a lite beer, put
her feet up, watch a re-run while winding down. Maybe she’ll head straight to bed.
Will someone be waiting for her there?
Her eyes
scan lazy over my pale breasts, her voice monotone. “Height?”
“Five-three.”
“Weight?”
“One-twenty.”
She looks me
up and down, doing her own calculations. I have no idea what she writes on her
form. The questions never end.
Until they
do.
The last one
makes me smile.
“Are you
suicidal?”
I smile
because a truly suicidal person would never say yes. We all know this, right?
“No.”
She
scrutinizes my face, my answer, my crime. She calculates again. But then she
just shrugs, throws me my shirt. She’s got a pale ale at home that’s more
important than I am.
“Put her in the tank with the rest,” she says, and they push me forward.
Or perhaps I’m
moving backwards.
At this
point, I can’t tell.
_______________________________
That's the latest story, morning glory. Let me know what you think about this or anything else you want to rant/share. Have a lovely week, lovelies, and here's a little magic from Cat Power's new album:
*Update: I'm linking with the Dude Write flash-fic competition this week, so check out this and other bloggers' work here.