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

The Color Of

It's time for another writing exercise. Have you tried these yet? I find them very relaxing and invigorating at the same time. Again, the limit was 13 minutes.

This prompt was to write a piece that was inspired by a color; but with the twist that you cannot mention the color in your story.

It was dark. Pain was global. I couldn't reach through the fog to find anything else. Just pain. It took a lot of focus just to breathe. I delved a little deeper, set my focus, and reached out. Beyond the pain was a sticky substance on the floor. I reached a little farther. I could feel the edge of metal in the concrete. That must be some sort of frame or support for the room. It was sticky too.

I tried to twist my hand to grab that sliver of metal. I slipped on the sticky substance. It wasn't tacky, but slick now. I raised my fingers to my nose, and sniffed. My hand smelled of iron and protein, like raw hamburger. I really wanted some light, just so I could see. I thought about that for a minute. If I could see, would it paralyze me with fear? Maybe. So maybe, I didn't need to know what color this liquid was. Maybe I needed to put that out of my head completely.

My hand slipped and pain shot through the dark like a knife of white light deep in my skull. I was injured, and I kept forgetting. Probably, that was the result of a brain injury. Still, I could not bring the recent events to my consciousness, and I couldn't figure out just where I was. I lay still, letting go of the thin rail of metal in the concrete.

I focused on my breathing, and pushed the pain as far back as I could. It felt like trying to push the canvas away from a collapsed big-top at the circus. I rested, then pushed again at my mind. My fingers rubbed the liquid, acknowledging the viscosity of the liquid that was both sticky and slick. It was like honey mixed with transmission fluid. Again, I pushed conscious thought down and tried to probe my memory.

Sudden light filled my mind. Hot, explosive light seared away every dimension of what I hoped to see. I paused, breathed, then tried again more slowly. The events came clearer. There was a jeep. We were driving... where? To Inchon. Of course! We were on our way to bring supplies to a forward aide station. The big cross on our hood decried our duty and was our promise of safe passage.

We heard a whistling sound that had a certain keening edge to it. Incoming mortar! Our driver reacted to the sound more than what he thought he saw. He swerved left, meeting no resistance and seeing no actual threat, he jerked back to the right. We met the mortar there, just against the rock cut next to the road. The noise was so loud it extinguished itself. I don't know how long we lay waiting for help. I didn't remember being picked up or transported, but here I was. Alone, so far as I could tell. Wondering what color this liquid was, here in my makeshift prison. I knew what color it would be. I didn't need the light. It was blood red.

Pick a color and see where it leads you. I hope you'll find these little assignments fascinating!

Ta for now,
~ky