Scribbles, Shorts and Stories

Here are my original works.  Some will be short stories, others will be bits and pieces of larger manuscripts, some will just be scribbles.  Feel free to write a review or leave some of your own work in the comment section!  As always, please be respectful when commenting.

I got this prompt from and while I submitted it a few different times, it still isn't appearing on the website.  So I thought I'd post here :)  Feel free to comment or write your own answer to the prompt!

Writing Prompt 3:
 You are at the neighborhood garage sale, looking for nothing in particular. Something inside an old, wooden box catches your eye. The old woman who is running the sale comes over to say something about the object. What is it? What did she say and why?

I slammed the front door behind me. Finally, I worked up the nerve to say the “d” word. It stunned James, but he should have seen it coming. I mean, how many years in an unhappy marriage could I be expected to endure?

Relief set in as I drove away. This was the right decision. I felt it in my gut.

My mother offered to let me stay with her until this blew over so I headed to her place. When I pulled into her neighborhood, I noticed a yard sale. James hates yard sales. Whenever I brought home a treasure from such a sale, he’d always criticize and ask why I’d want someone’s junk. Well, now I could buy all the “junk” I wanted.

I parked the car and savored my new freedom by digging through boxes of clothes. Then I noticed a wooden box on the table. When I opened the lid, I saw a stack of black and white photos, all wedding pictures capturing a beautiful moment between a handsome groom and captivating bride.

They radiated happiness, just as I did on my wedding day.

I frowned. “Take a picture of them in five years, after they’re overwhelmed with debt and each working two jobs. Then we’ll see if they’re still smiling.”

I threw the pictures down.

“Sorry about that,” said a voice. I turned and saw a young woman, about my age, standing with her arms folded. “I didn’t realize my grandmother’s photos were still in the box. Do you mind?” she reached over me, taking the pictures.

She gestured toward the old woman sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. “She’ll want these back.”

“Of course,” I replied. “She was a beautiful bride.”

“Oh yes and they were in love. After my grandfather died, she moved in with us. But now that my husband and I are separating, I’ll be moving into an apartment. She’ll be with me but we need to downsize. Hence the yard sale,” she said with a forced smile.

The woman took the photos to her grandmother who smiled brightly.

I suddenly felt ill. Quickly, I got back into my car. Tears filled my eyes and I began to weep. Just then I heard my phone ringing. I fished in my purse and saw James’ face on my phone’s screen.

He didn’t want the divorce. He had begged me not to leave, saying he loved me and would do anything to make it work. Yes, times were hard, but they had made a promise, didn’t they? For better or worse?

My hands trembled as I answered the call.

“Lily?” James’ voice sounded weak. “Lily? Are you there? Please don’t do this.”

I wiped the tears and took a deep breath. I looked at the old woman on the porch, smiling at a memory.

Then I looked at her granddaughter, making her way around the sale, downsizing.

“James,” I said with a smile. “I’m coming home.”

Writing Prompt 2:
You get back to your studio to develop pictures from the hour you just spent in the park. All of the pictures turn out well, except for a select few. In six photographs, there is a man in the frame. Something seems slightly off, and rather strange about each picture. Who is he and what is weird about the photographs?

The mug of coffee slipped from the woman’s grasp shattering at her feet.  She didn’t flinch. 
“It can’t be him,” she whispered, but as the sun shined through her apartment window, casting a spotlight on the picture, it only further illuminated the man’s features. 
The angle of his jaw, his lips curled in a half smile, the kindness and love in his tired eyes.  He’d aged, but so had she.
She frantically spread out all the photos she had taken earlier that morning, desperately casting aside images of children on swings and an older man feeding the pigeons.  Then she saw his face again, and again, six photos total, all with his image.  Laying them side by side, she noticed the piece of paper in his hands, first flat, then as the pictures progress, he started to fold it into an origami bird, like the ones he used to make for her, back when they talked about spending their lives together.  In the last picture he reached up and placed the delicate paper figure onto the branch of an oak tree.
Without hesitation, she stumbled into her shoes and raced out the door back to the park.  She looked around, ignoring the happy families picnicking and kids tossing Frisbees.  Then she spotted the oak tree.  Tears clouded her vision as she walked toward it, spotting the white bird.  It had been ten years, ten lonely years since he walked out of her life.  A part of her said to walk away, leave the past in the past, but she couldn’t.  She still loved him.
She stood on her tip toes to reach the bird but just as her fingertips brushed the paper, a rough hand grasped her wrist and yanked it behind her.  She let out a whimper as pain shot through her arm.
“We got her,” the man relayed the information to the other agents, anxiously waiting in an unmarked van.
“What?  What’s going on?” she asked as the man pushed her forward, out of the park.  “Who are you?”
“FBI,” he replied in an icy tone.  “We know all about your past and thanks to the corporation of your former partner, we now have all the evidence we need to send you away for good.”
“What? Wait….” She squirmed but the FBI Agent only tightened her grasp.  As they headed toward the van, she desperately tried to process the information.  Her mind raced, and she looked around for a way out, an escape.  Instead, she saw him, standing next to the van, a mix of sadness and victory in his glassy stare. 
“How could you?” she screamed and for a moment, she thought she saw wrinkles of regret crease his forehead, but they faded quickly.  He straightened his back and looked her square in the eye.
“What can I say, Babe?” he smirked.  “It was either you or me.”

Writing Prompt 1:

Prompt: Every day of the week I _________, but Sundays are different.  On Sundays, I _________

Every day of the week I absorb his punches, but Sundays are different.  On Sundays, I plot my escape.  We dress in our best clothes and head to our small town church.  He sits beside me with his arm wrapped around my small frame while the Pastor talks about love and life and forgiveness.  He nods when appropriate, says amen when necessary, all the while squeezing my shoulders as if I could slip away at any moment.

But after church, when the congregation stands and makes their way to the back, a small old woman with a scar under her eye pushes people aside.  Our eyes connect and an unspoken message is sent.

"I have to use the bathroom," I say as we are herded to the narthex.  He doesn't like this but with a grunt and a shove he pushed me towards the ladies room.  Before he lets go of my arm, he gives it a hard squeeze and in a venomous tone tells me to make it fast.

I open the door and wait anxiously by the sinks.  Seconds later the old woman enters.

"We need to be quick," I say with a voice mimicking courage.

She understands and hands me the name and location.  I quickly take it and read it over and over until it's engrained in my memory and then I flush it down the toilet.  There's a knock on the ladies room door that makes both of us jump.  He’s out there, waiting, growing impatient.

"I have to go," I whispered but before I leave the old woman surprises me with a hug.  Her old arms wrap around my thin waist and as she pulls herself away there are tears in her eyes.

"Please promise me you'll be at the location.  Don't let him do to you what my husband did to me."

He knocked again, this time louder and with a greater sense of urgency.

"I promise," I say willing myself not to cry.  Then I take a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom. 
We went home and the week starts all over again, but it’s different.  It’s the last because I know that next Sunday, it will all be over.

No comments:

Post a Comment