It's 70 + 7

We had a writing exercise tonight that scared me. I mean, down in the center of my grammatically correct heart scary. Here it is:

Write two sentences – one must be 70 words long and the other exactly seven words. Oh and they have to comprise a paragraph.

Here's what I came up with:

The color etched its way across the frozen indigo sky like a sinuous snake edging through brush on the trail of the elusive soft kiss of dawn, coming to his mind like the number 3, eroding all memory of the last trace of human warmth; draining his heart of every thing that was his soul, every dear piece of happiness, even the last glowing breath of heat in the earth. It was a good day to die.

I was afraid of the run-on sentence, the ever linked by semi-colon drudgery. I was plagued so much by the concept that it was like learning to fly the way Douglas Adams described it in his treasure of a compendium - you try to fall to the ground and miss. While my grumpy self-editor was distracted with the affront of this challenge, my inner self got busy scratching out a convoluted tale. I kind of liked it. 

Ta!

~ky

The Bouquet

Writing Exercise Write an action scene with a romantic twist. Time limit: 13 minutes.

“Julie, I'm gay! I can't jump for the bride's bouquet. They'd laugh me out of this town!” I felt perspiration streaming down my back, threatening to blossom in an unflattering way. I fanned myself with the limp napkin and tossed back my champagne.

“Come on, Tara. Everyone knows you're a dyke, but you can still play the game.”

“I just don't know anyone here. It's embarrassing!” I lined up with the other girls in their satin gowns, perfectly coiffed hair and dyed-to-match shoes. “Besides, it's not a fair competition – I'm in trousers!” She shoved me forward.
The bride stood looking at us all, jostling each other for the best position. “Y'all ready?” Tiffany turned her back to us, and launched the periwinkle bouquet over her head. There were 30 ladies in the battle, but it looked like more than 100 hands grabbing for the flowers. The bundle was popped and bounced like a beach ball. It began to come apart. Hands were grabbing the trailing ribbons, pulling them in different directions.

I saw it coming my way, and though I didn't really want to catch it, I couldn't resist reaching for it. I grabbed it and a hand that was already there. It was like grabbing raw electricity. I couldn't let go, but I didn't want to stay in touch, either. Time slowed, sound died, and I returned to earth clasping a pale porcelain hand. I brought the bouquet to chest level and stabbed my eyes at the face that belonged to that cool, delicate hand.

She was stunning. I was having trouble breathing. I had never seen anything quite so captivating. I was mesmerized by those China blue eyes with a frame of auburn locks. Suddenly, there was a burning sensation in my shin, and it accompanied an immediate intensification in sound and motion. I looked down at the bouquet I no longer held. Time resumed its normal pace. I looked up into the quirky smirk on her face. I hopped sidelong into a nearby chair. Blood trickled from the gash her stiletto heel left in my shin. I sucked in a sharp breath and looked after her. Her taunt of “Not for you, lesbo,” followed in her wake. She was already gone, but a ribbon from the bouquet lay coiled around my ankle.

“I told you so,” I said to Julie as she bent to blot up the blood. “I told you it was a stupid idea!”
“Yeah, you told me. But we are so gonna laugh about this over drinks tonight!” Her grin was wicked and I couldn't suppress my laughter.

I hope you enjoyed this little story. See you soon with another prompt!

~ky

Wings

Another 13 minute writing exercise. I find it interesting to look back and see two stories in a row with blood in them. Hmmm - I wonder what that says about me. 

Prompt: Wings

Seamus saw blood. It was dark and sticky and it covered the feathers on the back porch. He stooped to pick up a discarded wing, unfolding the feathers and holding them up to the light. It was nice to know they would have meat tonight, but he hoped Shanna didn't make it into stew. She made everything into stew – even the tender brace of bunnies he'd snared two nights before. Stews stretched their meager supplies, though. He couldn't argue with that.

He dropped the wing carelessly, not bothering to watch it flutter to the ground, lifeless. He pushed open the door while shrugging off his canvas bag. It was empty of food, so he carefully placed the 6 shells he had for his shotgun in it before hanging it on the nail on the hall wall. He heard laughter, tinkling and bright. It shot a smile to his lips before he could even acknowledge Tany was here. Tany was hilarious! She was also cute and a great hunter. He walked into the mud room, pulling off his tattered gloves.

He stepped into the living area, feeling the blush of the heat from the fire roaring in the pit. He looked around the room at faces he had come to love in the past 6 weeks. It was amazing how they were sworn enemies back then, but now they had come together as survivors. Petty disagreements and land ownership were things of the past. Nothing mattered but getting through each day alive. There were so many empty chairs already. The thought tightened his smile, and the light went out of his eyes. Sweeping a glance across the group, landing a moment on Tany brought it back.

Their eyes met briefly, and he saw her spirit buoyed as well by that brief contact. He dipped his head and eyes in case she could read his desire. He didn't want to be obvious – there were no guarantees and this wasn't the time or place to be thinking of starting a family. It wasn't just the fire that tinted his cheeks red.

This was fun. There were several different takes on the prompt from our group of writers. I love seeing diversity. Give this prompt a try, and let me know how you do. I'd love to read your work!

~ky