Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Short Fiction and the Joy of Writing

Good morning! Between grants and a family on vacation, rattling around in the house and waiting for me to join them, I continue to have very little time to devote here. I am quite proud to report that over the last week I finished three, yes THREE, CDBG grants, and all well ahead of deadline too. The lack of sleep was totally worth it!

In addition to the lovely discovery of A Small Stone blog this weekend, it led me to Your Messages. This blog gives a prompt, and writers create and post very short, either 30 or 300 word, continuations. Here we have Nanowrimo in November; in Britian, they have Your Messages each day for the month. Not only are they good practice and amusing, but the site will link you into many working writers throughout the UK. Check out Fiona Robyn’s blogs for an excellent example of building a writing platform plus just gorgeous poetic work.

I’ve never given you fiction here, so below you’ll find a piece I wrote in August 2007. It clocks in at exactly 200 words. Looking at it now, I would revise it to include dialogue. See what you think.


The Purple Shade of Loss

Driving westbound on the 10 Freeway, she notices the flowering bushes planted along the sides, and perceives the purple shade of loss. He is gone now, and she feels strangely empty even though it was her choice. The color of the waving blossoms is the same as the bruises which he left around her arms, where he had gripped on to her in desperation and emphasis. First purple, then green, then yellow, they had faded over the week. But the words he had yelled and the angry tone of his voice hadn’t.


Now she was driving, away from him, and towards a new city, and a new life with a reliable friend. The vibrant purple seemed to mock her, stung her eyes with tears. But there was something else as well. The delicate blossoms, their vivacious hue, spoke of beauty, endurance. Hope.

As she made the 10-215 transition, her car lifted high into the sky on the massive overpass. Caught up in the sensation, she felt that she had been lifted up above the world. She felt like her car, and she, could escape gravity, break through the railings, and soar.

She felt like a bird -- hopeful, and free.

1 comment:

Andrew Scott Turner said...

I like your use of contradiction: the purple bruises at first mirror those of the flowering bushes. Then, deftly, you spin it into hope. Nice job