The Things She Writes

An assignment ... Melisande hated that her stepdaughter felt so unhappy.  She tried to talk to the girl when they had first arrived, but Matthew was the only thing his daughter could see.   The language had been a barrier, but she would get better at English and, hopefully, her stepdaughter would pick up enough French that they would be able to get by.   Matthew had assured her that Ella was so smart and loving that it would not take long.   Melisande pulled the brush through Silla’s chestnut hair.  She looked at her small daughters and remembered how Ana and Silla loved playing in the Paris’s lush park.  Her first husband owned the fanciest restaurant.  His sudden death had been devastating to her small family.  Pierre’s family had taken over the restaurant and their home was simply too large for her to maintain, so it had been sold to a man from Calais.  One day, while the girls were playing in the park, Melisande met a handsom...

Have you ever read those post on Facebook and thought it would be interesting from a different point of view?  I did.  I rewrote this little snippet from one of those posts for my writing class: Runners       The sky was a bright blue and the sun was warm on his shoulders.  A light breeze pushed him along from the back. He ran, not quickly, not particularly gracefully, but determined.  He stayed near the middle of the pack, pacing himself against the other runners.  He ignored those who passed him, chuckling.  He ignored the bystanders who lined the roadway, pointing and turning their heads to talk to their friends as the runners went by.        As he ran, he thought about the finish line, first 5 kilometers on and now, less than 2.  He thought about beating his last time.  He was getting better, a little faster with each race.  He thought about Shell waiting at the finish line and her bright eyes dan...

The beginning of a guy... an assignment...  Warning, Martin cusses a bit. He was stuck in the mud.      “Damn it,” he said. Stupid.      He tried to pull his leg from the muck, but could not overcome the suction and felt the mud’s chill reach over his knee. Shit.      “Willem!”      He tried to crane his head to see where his teen was, but the reeds were tall, blocking his view.      Overhead, the sky was deepening to an unholy gray. Thunder rumbled across the horizon.       Shit.      The day had not been a total loss, unlike his boot, but it was quickly turning to crap now.     Willem met him at the gate of the apartment complex, so he had not had to deal with ex-wife Sharon.  Willem was even in a good mood, probably the first time since the boy had turn thirteen.  They had chatted about baseb...

Also an assignment... Aerwyn      The ocean waves beat against the shore, recklessly, restlessly, relentlessly. Their whooshing voices imploring her to come from the beach house. The call grew and faded, pulling her from slumber, beckoning her to the water’s edge. Turning to face him, she pressed her ear to the pillow to block the brash roar, and studied his sleeping face, her love.       He did not realize that he was fighting alongside her that night. He did not hear the siren’s song curling into her being. He did not know that only his still, relaxed body and warm breath held her in this bed. Giving in to their call, she rose from their bed. Crossing the room, she quietly opened the door and stepped onto the deck.      When the wind blew from the sea, she imagined the voices of her seal-kin calling. Her hair shimmered between honey blonde and mink brown in the rising light. The clothes he bought for her clung a little too closely t...

The following is a quick scene I did for an assignment so it is short and really has no sense of an ending. The Bride “ Stand still.” A prick of a pin.       “I’m trying. These heels are ridiculous.” She pulled straighter and tried to hold her breath.       From the small couch at the back of the viewing room, her mother, aunt and cousin, along with Peter’s mom and sister, watched, sipped their champagne and chatted.        She concentrated on standing still, but her hands were trembling, though from anxiety or excitement she could not be sure.         I have my mother’s hands, she thought.        A simple diamond ring graced her left hand, the only piece she wore today.        Peering into the mirror, she examined the woman and the dress she wore. The empire style dress cupped her chest gently and flowed to the floor where the seamstress was busy pi...

I like to write. I write for myself mostly. My coworkers would say that I write to annoy, but usually as I am hounding them, shaking handfuls of written pages and begging for their input. It isn’t that I am afraid of rejection. I most certainly am. But, it is really the thought in my mind that begs the question: do you really have anything to say about anything?  Today, I am giving that up. I am going to post on this blog what I write. You can read it. You can meditate on it. You can comment. Just be constructive in your critique or I will boot your booty. If you like it, if you get where I am going or find it touching in anyway…. Let me know.