I'm stuck at the light. It's still red. Why isn't it turning green? Why? Oh no. He's coming back.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
It's been kind of a fun exercise and I've written a few things that surprised me. It's usually not edited (much) and not particularly well thought out, but it's getting words down and thinking in a new way. And I love it.
This week's topic is tattoos. Why is it important? What does it mean? The word limit is 300 and this one is 264.
Con crit is always welcome!
Amber walked past the shop three or four times before sucking in a deep breath and the courage to step inside.
A bell jingled on the door overhead and she stood in a tiny waiting room. A fluorescent light flickered, casting an eerie glow on the walls and making her feel dizzy. Or maybe that was nerves.
“Hello?” she called. The only sound was a faint buzzing from down the hall, which stopped at her voice.
A man appeared, younger than she expected, and cleaner. His hair was short and he had recently shaved, and his clothes were neat, almost professional. When he asked, “Can I help you?” there was a lilt to his voice and she thought he was probably a decent tenor.
She breathed easier now and pulled a folded page from her pocket. “I’m here for a tattoo. Can you do this?”
He answered yes and then studied the design. “I’m finishing up with someone now. You wanna come back in about 30 minutes?”
“I’ll wait,” she said and sat on the lone plastic chair beside a table covered in design books.
Amber had never considered herself the type to get a tattoo. Had tried to talk Trista out of both of hers, and the next one she was planning. But Trista was gone now. Lost in a night of stupidity and alcohol. When Amber found the design among some of Trista’s things, a swirly pattern of shapes and letters, she kept it. And now she was here, honoring her best friend in the only way she knew how.
“Ready?” The man reappeared.
Amber nodded. “I am now.”
Friday, October 7, 2011
A walkway led between two old, white buildings into a wide courtyard where a large fountain gurgled and most students passed by without seeing the beautiful sculpted figures at the center. They were unrecognizable to me, but there was something in the way they rounded and glowed in the daylight that spoke peace. I’d bring Twila here later and ask her about them.
There were numbers on the buildings and Hawthorne Hall was off in a secluded corner of the quad, shaded by jacaranda trees that stubbornly clung to the last of their purple flowers. The front door opened automatically as I approached, and the rubber soles of my shoes squealed loudly on the tiled hallway as I looked for the stairs.
The second floor was carpeted, an ugly, stained, gray Berber that was probably next on a long list of renovations and updates. The offices ran along one side of the corridor, doors in need of repainting, windows covered in flyers and announcements and years old tape that had never been scraped off.
There was something in the way years of school history layered upon themselves that made me feel at home.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Here's my attempt. In *approximately* 100 words. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
The tremor was worse. It had given way to shaking. Terrifying, unnatural shaking. At the traffic light, I halted, waiting for the green. The light changed, but I held my breath, not exhaling until I was through the intersection. The car lurched. "Please," I begged. "Just a little more." With another shudder, we crested the hill, rolled into a turn at the next street, and steered into a parking lot. She waited for me. Pale blue and sparkling in the morning light. An hour later, I took her with me. My heart was heavy as I drove away from 100,000 miles of memories. And it was full of anticipation for a new adventure.