Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Your Writing Prompt, Should You Choose to Accept...

So my friend got a call last night from her desperate neighbor that someone had broken into her house.  When she got there, she found a broken window and the only item taken was her wedding dress.  As a professor with an incredible sense of humor, a great deal of personal strength, who grades an inordinate amount of writing,  she patched the window and today, issued the following writing prompt to her fb friends:

Writing prompt of the day: Your main character's house is broken into and the only thing that is missing is a wedding dress hanging in the spare bedroom closet.

And a request for short stories.

Now you can stop reading here (for now) if you're suddenly possessed with a burst of creativity and the need to accept the challenge!

....Back?

Yes, I totally understand.  That's what happened to me.  I read her prompt, and embraced my "need to write  and accept this challenge NOW!"

I had no idea what I was going to write, but I ran with it.  And so here's the short story I sent to her, written in all of 12 minutes, slowed down only by my swyping speed:

For five years they'd been dating.  For five years she had smiled through the sentences that started, "My ex wife and I used to love..."  For five years she had smiled and looked along while his parents dragged her  through the photo albums of the fairy tale wedding.  For five years, she waited.

Tonight was supposed to be the night.  When his love would be her love and a shiny bauble would proclaim it to the world.  That she too was worthy of the fairy tale.  That she could make it a happily ever after.  That the photo album would be full of her.  Of them.  Of a marriage gone blissfully right.

He just had to drop off a box of things his ex wife wanted.  He'd meet her at their favorite restaurant at 7.  His ex just lived up the street.

He should have met her there at 7.  They should be drinking champagne and celebrating.  They should be starting this new chapter of their lives together.  Should.

But she'd just hung up the phone with the police.  There might have been a deer.  Or maybe the glare off the windshield.  They didn't really know.  It didn't matter.  He was dead.  Sprawled amongst the broken remains of his broken marriage, his ex wife crying on the scene.  His parents comforting her.

Gone.  The man. The dream. The fairytale.  And the fault of that bitch of an ex-wife.  Shadowing their future always.

Through her head flipped memories of the photo album of the wedding she would never had.  And in that moment, her mind cracked.

With broken dreams and a large rock she broke the window into the home she would never have, fingering the dress that harbored all those memories, all those fairytales.  As she fastened the last hook up the back, snugging the lace beneath her hands, she looked up in the mirror and thought, "It's finally mine."

She slunk out the window as carelessly as she entered, leaving just a small tatter hanging, unnoticed in her passing.

When they found her bloated body floating down river three days later, the ex-wife didn't want the dress back after all.

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