Writers Round-Up- Dust off Your Writing Skillz

WRITER'S ROUND-UP

JOIN US! 

What is Writer's Round-up?

It's a WRITING GROUP!

Why a writing group?

 A writing group is a terrific way to offer  thoughtful support, sincere encouragement  and  honest critique to members looking to further their writing abilities.   If you enjoy writing fictitious pieces then this is the place for you.     Join us and write till your brain hurts!  Then stop and share it with us!

Lasso me this.

I want a short piece of fiction from you!

piece = short story, a page in a novel,  a dialogue, a play, a song-  whatever you want.  Just something. 

Pick one of the prompts:

There are no rules. Take  one of the prompts and make it your fictitious own. Remember it's a prompt:  just a springboard!

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1. Write the autobiography or memoirs of an imaginary friend

2.  Create a story around the worst superhero power you can think of

3.  A new mom in the future finds her great grandmother's or grandmother's blog

4. Start your piece with the opening line "Everyone has an inside joke. She was mine."

 Feel free LASSO UP SOME OTHER WRITER FOLK!

 Grab the Button...Post it on your blog.

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Also:  don't forget to check out NaNoWriMo  ( thanks mommyisinthebathroom)
National Novel Writing Month Challenge!

Ok.  Here's mine.  I chose the sentence starter one.  Inside joke.

It's of course not finished.. cuz when do I ever finish something.  I think I'm afraid of committment.  THat's what Doctor Phil says at least.

xoxo

supah

Everyone has an inside joke.  She was mine.  We grew up next door to each other on a busy city street where the

A-frame houses were so close together that leaping from porch to porch was a skill perfected early on.  If you hesitated to jump, teetered on the edge for a second, calculating the timing …you’d end up in the ditch between the two. To hesitate meant that you were over thinking it. And resulted in a pretty rough case of crash and burn depending on the contents of the ditch.  Maureen’s father had planted burning bushes the year that they moved in.  Through the years the branches gnarled together and created a virtual mouth of thorns waiting to taste your flesh.  Waiting for the moment that you hesitated. We referred to the ditch as the dragon’s teeth and we giggled and laughed about it as kids.  Keeping to ourselves. The joke that brought us together and watched as we were torn apart.

We leapt from porch to porch with boundless courage knowing that we were waiting for each other on the other side despite the dragon’s teeth. There was no hesitating with us. Ever.    It was not until thirty some odd years later that I am able to see what a startling life lesson that really was.  To come to understand why it was… that we didn’t hesitate.

The township we lived in was blue collar.  Grease monkeys, steel mill workers, mailmen…cashiers.  All just doing an honest days work for pay that would keep their family afloat for the next few weeks.  Rows upon rows of houses muddled the hilly landscape of a city steeped in tradition, hard work and sacrifice.    Each house was unique in its own way yet eerily similar in build leaning closer and closer to each other with passing years.   I always imagined that they whispered to each other… secrets of years gone by.   I never thought that my own house would harbor it’s own secret.   Safely tuck it away in the recesses of the years that would pass. 

The houses throughout the city bore the marks of those who came before.  Their peeling facades, their warped and bowed wooden porches.  Lovingly tended to by their owners.   Our houses were no different.  Our parents were young and fresh when the neighborhood became ours.  I remember the day that she moved in.  The for sale sign still flapped in the wind as the growling of an unfamiliar vehicle broke the silence of our street.

 I watched as her fathers’ red banged up Ford F150 hobbled up onto the curb. Lurching as it came to a halt. Tilted at an angle that propped her up further in the passenger side window.   I saw her through the gilded grey of my weathered screen door.  She turned her head to view her new house and I saw the tawny ness of her hair.  . She was the most lovely thing I had ever laid eyes on.

It was 1976 and we were both approaching 9 years old.   Our families became fast friends finding much in common with each passing weekend, with each neighborly invite, with each get together.  Our mothers passed the time trading recipes and woes. Our fathers played cards and slapped each other on the back after a beer or 6.  Quickly becoming comfortable enough to yell words we weren’t supposed to hear.  I loved those nights.    The cigar smoke would permeate the room and Maureen’s hair would soak it up.  We would giggle and smell her hair over and over.  Maureen and I would watch TV while our parents piled up the cans.  Benji would keep our attention until a nudge from her would indicate it was time to go.  We would crawl under the noses of our ever talking mothers to the   kitchen and sneak orange crushes and then hide under the table as our mother’s turned on the record players and forever tried to coerce our fathers to join them as they wobbled and laughed and wiggled and hugged.  I felt my face scorch but I wasn’t ever sure why.  When our parents were lit we would push open the creaky screen door, letting the fresh bitter air whoosh in… her tawny hair would lift and float in my face as we headed outside.  The loud bang of the screen door did nothing to alarm our all to comfortable parents dancing to Cat Stevens and the likes. .  Our fathers finally giving in and obliging the wives that might reward them later. 

Maureen and I would try to see stars … our city was smoggy to say the least and when we would tire of that process we would begin a leaping contest from porch to porch.  Perfecting our skills.   This continued for years.  Our parents became the best of friends and so did we.  As with all good things… it ended too soon. 

 In the late 80’s my father lost his job at the mill and life became rougher for all of us.  He drank a lot and he and my mother, despite her best efforts not to engage… would yell and scream most of the days.  My mother went to work for the local supermarket, working double shifts so to maintain our livelihood… while my father complained about the lack of “good jobs.’ Out there.  I was old enough to know that he was full of shit and usually deep into a case of beer by noon each day.   I jumped the porch to Maureen’s a lot opting to spend my time hearing about Maureen’s’ day and playing Atari with her. She and I were equally skilled at Pitfall and Pac man, our only goal. To beat each other.  Maureen’s mother stayed home and often placated us with fresh cookies and milk that I thought was too warm.  She had blond hair lighter than Maureen’s and a nervous flitty personality.  She was always hovering about cleaning this, redding up that.   Her father worked at a car dealership as head mechanic allowing Maureen’s’ mother to hover.  He worked long hours, often leaving at the dawn’s cusp to beat the inevitable traffic that loomed throughout the city.  His nails were black like tar but I never thought of him as dirty.  He was a man’s man but he had a work ethic that I had come to envy.  I would see his red truck pull into the back alley each night half past suppertime.  It was what you did though.  You did what you had to do to support your family.  My mother was doing the same.

Because of the shift in employment dynamics… our weekend gatherings became few and far between.  In my mind at least.   I’d spend my after schools at Maureen’s dodging the glare of my father’s sloshy eyes.  We were in 9^th grade when I noticed that Maureen’s mother hovered less.  She seemed pre-occupied and my visits to Maureen’s house weren’t as they used to be.   Often times she wasn’t there.  No cookies, no warm milk.  I didn’t miss the latter. I also didn’t miss her hovering.

When Maureen’s family grandfather clock struck five.. I’d leave for home knowing that my mother would be home with dinner  soon.  She’d be expecting the table set. 

I said my goodbyes to Maureen and headed out the heavy metal storm door.  Opening it wide enough to scoot out fast as it had tendency to close the gap even faster upon closing. Threatening to grab you ankles in it’s clutches.  Headed towards the edge of the cement cracked porch I primed myself for the jump I had executed so many times before:  with skill and precision.  I got two large steps into my run before something made me halt at the edge and ultimately grasp for the pole holding the porch up.  I missed and fell directly into the dragons teeth.   As I looked up Maureens’ mothers face appeared coming out of the wooden screen door that I had seen her and my father through.    Looking shaken and a bit stirred,her blouse was haphazardly buttoned and she was smoothing  the remnants of her perfectly mussed up hair.