Hands

Prompt:  Begin a story describing only two hands. Use the physical characteristics of the hands, as well as any relevant activity or movement, gesture, fidgeting, and so on, to reveal who the hands belong to.

“I don’t know what’s wrong.” She held her hands palms up, helpless.

“When did it start?” His right hand hesitated over the keyboard.

She touched her slender index finger to her pursed lips, thinking. Her fingernails, well-tended and cut short, shone the palest pink in the florescent light. “It’s worse now.”

He keyed her answer into the computer, the nail on his ring finger chipped and discolored.

She covered her eyes with her left hand. “I can’t keep going like this.” No wedding band, no adornment at all. The skin smooth, well past the dimples of childhood but not yet bereft of the tissue that precludes wrinkles.

He rested his hand on the counter. His sun-browned skin as free of jewelry as hers. He made notes. “Can you describe the sound you heard?”

“A terrible screeching noise.” She clenched both fists and drew her shoulders toward her ears remembering.

“Could you tell where it was coming from?” He touched the keys, his delicate movements at odds with his beefy hands, the broad pads of his fingers.

“No. It was dark and . . . .” Her hand fluttered above the counter, fingers gracefully curved. “I was alone and . . . .”

He covered her hand with his own for the briefest of moments, reassuring her.

“Not to worry. It’s probably the fan belt.”

To see my daughter's response to this prompt cllick  http://sinandinconvenience.blogspot.com/2013/07/writing-prompt-only-two-hands.html

Writing Prompt: My favorite song

Last year my daughter Grace and I each got a copy of this book. A wonderful way to practice writing. We choose a prompt, write, then read them aloud. There's a link at the end of this post to Grace's story. See how she responded to the prompt.

Prompt:  Write a story based on the title of your favorite song.

I’ve missed you. It’s been a long time. Probably seems longer than it’s really been, but long enough.

When you left, it was supposed to be just for a while. A week. Two at the most. But then things happened. There was a baby and your grandfather died. I understand all that.

But then it seemed you might not want to come home.

I got called away, too. Then I was busy and didn’t think about the separation. That’s what I’ve started calling it—the separation.

When I get home now, the house seems empty. Like it’s been empty a long time. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. Your minty Altoids, fresh brewed coffee, a hint of tobacco smoke. Your deodorant.

Today I went in to the office at the regular time, but couldn’t face coming home again. Worked over. Stopped for a drink. Went to the movies. Late. Very late.

I came home to a dark living room. Lights flickered toward the back of the house. In the kitchen.

Candles.  

And flowers.

And you singing, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear…”

To see what Grace wrote using this same prompt go to   http://sinandinconvenience.blogspot.com/