Friday, June 05, 2009

Writing Exercise on "Time"

This post is inspired by Kim's Thank Goodness IFs at Zook Book Nook. (Congrats on her new baby girl!)

The prompt is:

Write a story about Time.

(So here is my try. I think maybe I could use this little draft somehow.)

Gina's life is a collection of unorganized photos in a shoe box, each picture an isolated moment protected from Time. One day she decides to open the lid and dig through her life.

As a child, Gina has a favorite stuffed toy named Fishy. Fishy is supposed to be a dolphin, but because he is hand sewn his species is difficult to pin point. At her grandmother's house Gina shares her breakfast with her toy, smearing and entire bowl's worth of oatmeal all over Fishy's face while her grandma is on the phone.

Moments upon moments stack higher.

The line for the pay phone at Rider Street Middle school sometimes reaches several feet in length after school. You needed 25 cents to dial out. Kids ask for change and sometimes Gina gives away her last nickel, especially if the request is made by a handsome boy.

Forgotten moments surface.

Her 18th birthday rewards Gina with freedoms. It costs $6.50 to get into Sun Highway Beach. She rides with one of her friends, a new driver. They stop at 7-Eleven for red Slurpees and eight D batteries for the radio, then zoom across the bridge with the car windows rolled down all the way.

Moments that shed a tear rest on the bottom of the pile.

There is a skylight in the limo that carries Gina and her new husband from the church to the reception. She slides back the glass plate and squeezes out halfway through the roof so the photographer can snap a carefree picture of her in her wedding gown.

Some moments are stained with apple juice at the corners.

Gina and her friend Jen set their newborns under a tree on a cotton blanket for pictures. The babies wobble and gurgle, finally balancing on each other, heads turning toward the familiar, beloved voices of their mothers.

Moments upon moments blink by.

Gina looks down at the hands of her teenage grand-daughter holding the shoe box lid. They are smooth and creamy, so young. Gina has grown like a Wisteria plant, her skin grooved with age, her life reaching through fences, climbing over rooftops and clinging to walls. Gina is old and finally ripened. Time transforms tiny plants into magnificent trees. She hands the box over to the child, ready to let her organize the moments.

6 comments:

Todd Lemieux said...

I love your ability to write fiction. I don't know if you have aspirations for Flannery O'Connor in our time, but I can see the potential in a huge way.

Elizabeth Kathryn Gerold-Miller said...

Very rich in detail, definitely could be the seeds of something!

Kimberly said...

This story is priceless! I love the imagery you used throughout it with numbers and snapshots of items with meaning. I particularly like how you wrote "some moments are stained with apple juice at the corners". Fantastic writing :)

Loren Christie said...

Thanks for the feedback everyone! Well, a story is not a story without a plot, and this is just bits of description, really. Writer Anne Lamott suggests you write and look for pieces that come out that you can take off on. Thank you for the encouragement. Todd, that was an A+ compliment. You just made my day.

Putz said...

i agree with liz, todd and kim

Loren Christie said...

Thanks Mr. Putz!

Dear Internet Traveler,

Welcome to my writer's blog, started about six years ago for fun. Over time, the writing I have posted has ranged from personal reflection, to Long Island history research, to tall tales for my own amusement, to feature articles for local newspapers. As you can see from topics listed here, I travel in many mental directions in regard to interests. Click on the tabs and labels to explore my strange mind which senses that you may be having a criss-cross day. If so, perhaps this blog will distract you. However, please note that if you tell me my blog is beautiful just to get me to advertise rhinoplasty surgery and cheap drugs from Canada in your comment, I will ask the gods to give you a tail that cannot be concealed.

Fondly,

Loren Christie

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