Writing: Edgar Allen Poe buys some milk and a mysterious box is found.
written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post
The homework assignment for today's writers' group session was tricky. We were to write a mini-mystery between 500 and 1200 words. That's not a lot of space to hook a reader, build a plot, sprinkle in the mysterious and bring it all to conclusion. I've included my homework assignment in the comments section of this post. Anyone else who gave it a try is welcome to do the same.
Our ten-minute writing assignment was taken from The Writer's Book of Matches: 1,001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction. We were to write on the following: Due to the raven that follows him wherever he goes, a young man is convinced that something terrible is about to happen.
I'll share mine. Leave your efforts in the comments if you'd like.
Poe's Milk
by Julie R. Neidlinger
(me, trying to remember the poem off the top of my head)
There it was again, a compressed shadow flitting behind him, closely following the two-second rule. Its darkness was still visible against the fading daylight.
"What does it want," he thought, sweaty palms clenching and unclenching the grocery list in his pocket.
It spread its dark wings and with a sharp snap of them, landed on the wrought iron fence near the sidewalk.
He kept walking, looking forward but thinking backward, focused on what was behind him.
This was too much. For milk, eggs and fabric softener he was going to have to deal with the devil. He walked faster.
It tilted its head up, throat rippling slightly, sharp mouth opening. An off-tune rasp came out. His heart began beating faster, held in only by his rib cage. All this for groceries! He turned around and, in a dead run, headed back home.
It lifted up, a floating shadow, a moving grimace, diving after him.
He reached his front porch and threw open the screen door.
It sat there, watching him through the screen, moving with sharp twists of its neck. Its dark eyes watched him silently, as eyes are prone to do, seeing everything.
The raven rippled its wings, relaxed its legs and settled onto the porch. The evening darkened around him converging shadow upon shadow, leaving his shiny eyes the only movement.
Assignment: If you're in the mood to try, our prompt for next week sounds like fun. It's from The Writer's Book of Matches, but we've added our own twist. A woman digging in her garden uncovers a sealed, ancient box. Write between 500-1200 words. Provide two different endings.
Labels: writer's group, writing, writing prompts
Copyright (c) Julie R. Neidlinger 1/28/2006 05:36:00 PM
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2 Comments:
(My homework assignment)
Born into Murder
by Julie R. Neidlinger
The moment he broke out of the egg he was born into murder. Though it was nothing unusual where he lived, this murderous birth would have an effect 3,000 miles away on the cold plains of North Dakota.
His life was monotonous, death being his monthly dose of protein and only way to live. He slept much and his muscles grew in strength and the natural world continued to flower and green around him.
She arrived just after Christmas, her holiday season joyfully over and her season of goodwill, ten days' worth, about to begin. Everything was as planned, but with saddened hindsight, it's unfortunate that she was the tie-breaking vote, for her raised hand condemned her.
She voted for the volcano.
The volcano was just outside of the city, though to the American travelers it seemed as if the bus taking them to its base was headed in the wrong direction. Cement houses painted yellow and raspberry red and lime green, all well-fortified with ornate wrought iron bars on the windows and doors, seemed to have sprung up out of the earth with no respect for perpendicular streets. The bus traveled back and forth on itself many times, like a snake, going to the north then sharply west, and back to the east again.
Up front, Roberto, the bus driver, frequently tapped his horn and roared around the rickety carts made out of car parts and pulled by horses that looked like skeletons covered in fur. Melons, backpacks, rice and cheap electronic knock-offs lined the market stalls, their corrugated and cardboard scrap roofs joining in with the clamoring noise like a badly dressed auctioneer. The cobblestone streets jarred the teeth of the bus passengers, reminding them to never again complain about the county roads back home. Slickly groomed locals flooded the streets, only a few lucky enough to find safety on the slivers of sidewalks that came and went as randomly as the entire city seemed to have been planned.
There was no hurry. The volcano wasn't going anywhere.
To traverse to the top would require the entire day, the jungle path to the summit and part way down into the bowl decently navigable with two police guides in case of bandits. And climb they did, each member of the group basking in the sun and greenery so unlike the white silence back home.
She took photos. She bemoaned the fact that the photos wouldn't capture the real moment, the peripheral edges of sight and sound she experienced at the lip of the volcano. The vastness of the Nicaraguan landscape spread out in front of her, Leon a shrunken pile of white blocks on a green blanket, it's clanging church bells and smoke and clucking chickens all but gone.
She took a deep breath and smiled. Life won't get better than this, she thought, packing her camera and water bottle back into her backpack.
She was right.
The hike down seemed the reverse of the hike up until, trying to steady herself against the steep decline and loose soil, she found herself far behind the group. Rushing to catch up, her foot caught against a fallen piece of wood, the chattering monkeys overhead clashing even louder as she tumbled off the path and down into a ravine.
She felt the powerful scale-covered muscle drape around her shoulders and loop about her head, the cold band tightening until her breath ceased to come. Then it grew dark and the boa she was wearing went to work.
He was born into murder even though it only meant lunch.
By 
Julie, at
January 28, 2006 6:51 PM
As always a great story. For those of you that are in the area Feb 11th feel free to attend the next meeting at Liquid Bean and meet the author of this story and others that have been writing. Julie is a talent;
Bill
By 
, at
January 29, 2006 1:39 PM
