"second verse same as the first"
i wrote this in about 10 minutes. it's less fiction and more 'she post'. anyway, what kind of prompt word is "writing"? the first thing that came to mind was the writers workshop i was in a few years back. i don't know why, i haven't thought about it in ages but... well that's what i wrote.
writing
It was the first time she didn't feel like a freak, surrounded by writers who were all younger and just as lazy as she was.
They spent afternoons, after class, watching the massive television in the lounge and soaking up the boiling July sun in the court yard. Mostly she didn't talk, being happy enough to just listened and occasionally answer questions when an impromptu survey was being taken.
Everyone wanted to know everything about everyone around them in as much time as they had, which wasn't much. There was no time to play coy so everyone spilled years worth of secrets, and tears when needed, every night when they held their own poetry readings.
The upstairs lounge was always the setting for this and she wasn't around when the idea had been bantered around but she was more than pleased when she was invited, even knowing that everyone had been invited. She never liked the upstairs lounge as much as she relished the long walk to get to the chapel and the sprawling limbs hanging over pews. It felt simultaneously rebellious and comforting. She passed off the feeling as teenage revolt but five years later and she still felt that way about churches.
She spent time alone, writing what she needed too but walked around with her notebook tucked under her arm anyway. It was a habit she'd picked up before she got there anyway. She started feeling this indescribable safeness she'd never had before. She didn't know how to explain it but tried not to think too hard on it, in fear of dispelling some of the magic of it. She found herself walking in groups of friends and starting conversations with other people in other groups. She found herself seated in small rooms absorbing words that free fell over her. She found herself missing her cat but not really wanting to leave.
And when she was taken away, home, she kept everything against her heart for years.
i keep thinking i should make these longer but i really like the 300+/- word count. i like the way it reads and i like how it looks.
lincoln is an adorable cat.
my mom saved someones life at work today. the woman, her coworker, was choking and mom grabber her, bent her over her arm and thumped her on the back with the heel of her hand. she was choking on a cucumber.
she's okay.
mom laughed afterward and said sorry for having to hit her so hard and the woman laughed and said she was glad she did hit her so hard.
but she never said thank you.
seriously! who doesn't even say thank you when someone saves you life?! oi. people hurt my little head.
[i'm not going to lock this entry because it's been awhile since i've not locked an entry. that is all.]
writing
It was the first time she didn't feel like a freak, surrounded by writers who were all younger and just as lazy as she was.
They spent afternoons, after class, watching the massive television in the lounge and soaking up the boiling July sun in the court yard. Mostly she didn't talk, being happy enough to just listened and occasionally answer questions when an impromptu survey was being taken.
Everyone wanted to know everything about everyone around them in as much time as they had, which wasn't much. There was no time to play coy so everyone spilled years worth of secrets, and tears when needed, every night when they held their own poetry readings.
The upstairs lounge was always the setting for this and she wasn't around when the idea had been bantered around but she was more than pleased when she was invited, even knowing that everyone had been invited. She never liked the upstairs lounge as much as she relished the long walk to get to the chapel and the sprawling limbs hanging over pews. It felt simultaneously rebellious and comforting. She passed off the feeling as teenage revolt but five years later and she still felt that way about churches.
She spent time alone, writing what she needed too but walked around with her notebook tucked under her arm anyway. It was a habit she'd picked up before she got there anyway. She started feeling this indescribable safeness she'd never had before. She didn't know how to explain it but tried not to think too hard on it, in fear of dispelling some of the magic of it. She found herself walking in groups of friends and starting conversations with other people in other groups. She found herself seated in small rooms absorbing words that free fell over her. She found herself missing her cat but not really wanting to leave.
And when she was taken away, home, she kept everything against her heart for years.
i keep thinking i should make these longer but i really like the 300+/- word count. i like the way it reads and i like how it looks.
lincoln is an adorable cat.
my mom saved someones life at work today. the woman, her coworker, was choking and mom grabber her, bent her over her arm and thumped her on the back with the heel of her hand. she was choking on a cucumber.
she's okay.
mom laughed afterward and said sorry for having to hit her so hard and the woman laughed and said she was glad she did hit her so hard.
but she never said thank you.
seriously! who doesn't even say thank you when someone saves you life?! oi. people hurt my little head.
[i'm not going to lock this entry because it's been awhile since i've not locked an entry. that is all.]