October 28, 2013
Storms don’t stop the Underground Pizza Man from making his deliveries. But tonight’s storm is different. It shouldn’t tear limbs from trees, shouldn’t drench the streets with water, and shouldn’t burn the black sky with blue-white flashes. And yet it is: Inland, a dying cyclone has reopened its eye. The Pizza Man grips the wheel of his truck so the wind doesn’t fling it across the road. He doesn’t ask the wind to to stop because, tonight, the wind isn’t listening.
October 10, 2013
Toying with Tenses
I just wrote a sentence to describe a character’s non-understanding of death and different comprehension of time:
Even if Professor Hadlock had died tomorrow he will not be dead yesterday.
This sentence was fun to write.
June 14, 2013
Val’s half smile becomes a full smile. ‘Ever dine and dash?’
Danny is not appalled. He does not ask her what the hell she’s thinking, or sink into his chair and feel for the phone in his pocket so that he can look at something that isn’t her; he doesn’t laugh and tell her funny, but he’ll pay the bill and they just won’t eat the rest of the way home or something. He pulls a little closer to her, and he decides if he had one wish right now, it would be I wish we still had that hotel room.
June 13, 2013
Things are okay, Danny tells himself, so he will more easily believe it.
May 30, 2013
Well-timed thunder from across the river rolls over low Marigny rooftops into me through open balcony doors.
Renee is laying face down under the covers and does not pick her head up from her pillow, which muffles her reply.
Do what? I ask.
Turning her head sideways she breaths and opens her eyes. She says: Tell me a story.
So you can ridicule me like usual?
I’ll probably ridicule you, Renee says, but that’s not the reason.
It’s one reason.
Not even top ten. Well, maybe top ten. Not top five.
April 30, 2013
I tried a writing prompt and all I got was this one stupid sentence.
The nation is controlled by hamsters who mean business, hamsters who storm across prairies in undulating hordes of millions, moving wavelike over hills that roll gently to the horizon.
March 22, 2013
She said, ‘Thank you,’ and he said, ‘Okay.’ He moved the car because he didn’t want her to think he was just sitting there waiting for her. He moved it to the next parking lot over and sat, waiting.
March 7, 2013
You wonder at the idea that every horrible and wonderful human experience you’ve had has taken place in the woods.
January 31, 2013
I stepped through the rubble of my grandmother’s house. It had stood, mildewing under the seasons, for months, but then something happened and it was demolished, and nobody really knew why. I was twenty and still learning how to care. The air was cold and soupy. It made me shiver and sweat at the same time.
January 17, 2013
There’s something about the way a girl’s face looks when she’s lying in bed, big eyes closed gently and hair drifting over her forehead and a strand of it across her lips, and the sound of her breathing. For this I can lay awake for a long time in the early dawn, just after the sun’s up but before she’s awake. But Renee sleeps on her stomach, so I’ve discovered the beauty of uncovered brown shoulders against white sheets, of the way she sleeps with her hair tied up in a loose bun so that I can see the back of her naked neck.