Writing: Something is unearthed.
written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post
Today's writers' group went a little over time so that we didn't get to do our usual ten-minute writing exercise. However, everyone did their homework assignment from last meeting. The assignment had been to write about a woman digging in her garden who discovers a sealed, ancient box. The word limit was 500 to 1200 words, and we were to provide two different endings. Though the assignment wasn't followed exactly by all, there were a few interesting developments in the stories. I've included my story in the comments, and anyone else who tried their hand at the exercise is welcome to do so as well.
As usual, we had a lot of good books on writing brought to group and lent out. One I'm enjoying is 78 reasons why your book may never be published and 14 reasons why it just might be by Pat Walsh.
Assignment: Use the quote "It's lonely out here...surrounded by all of these people" in your writing. There is no word minimum, but it is important to not go over 600 words. It's as important to learn to write tight and not go over the limit by allowing yourself the luxury of bloated writing. (This writing prompt comes from The Writer's Book of Matches)
Labels: writer's group, writing, writing prompts
Copyright (c) Julie R. Neidlinger 2/11/2006 07:19:00 PM
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Find what you've lost
By Julie R. Neidlinger
Knowing that there was more life behind her than ahead of her did not bring fear. Most people never know when they cross that magical middle point and start down the other side of the hill, never aware of it especially if their life ends early. She took comfort in knowing she had safely crossed; the worry had long been displaced by comfort in the gentle wind that brushed her face as she picked up momentum down the other side.
Her garden reminded her of these things, this garden that she'd let go to the wild plants over the years, excusing herself with bad knees and a rebellion of geometric English gardens.
"There’s beauty in the random," she'd often said to anyone who asked her why she was letting the cosmos and the yarrow crowd out the less hearty flowers. "It knows the way it should go."
But the random no longer let her sleep at night; she could not see the pattern in the overgrowth of the flower beds and the decorative grasses and pattern, even in disorder, should always be knowable. The random had crossed its own middle line and gone downhill.
Her spade chipped into the ground around the tiger lilies, cutting the web of crab grass into pieces, breaking the grip they had on the roots and the water if only temporarily. Sharp black against green grew, and her lilies seemed to stand up taller now that they had a proper outline.
Her spade hit something solid, ringing out with not the dull sound of a rock but something metallic. She shifted her position on the padded gardening mat and pushed her spade into the dirt again, just a little over from where she had just tried to dig. Her hand seemed to bang against her wrist as the spade stopped with another sound.
There was something in her garden.
She worked the spade around in the soil to determine the edges of the object, see-sawing the handle to loosen the hold of the ground. Sweat began to pour down the side of her face, near her ear, pooling into the sheer scarf she wore tide over her hair and under her chin.
The object was a box, metal and rusted, set into the ground slightly askew. With gloved hands, she slid her fingers under the bottom of the box and tugged upwards. The metal box was free.
Once shiny rivets had become black and mottled, much like the rest of the box; it was silver. She rubbed her hands over what appeared to be a clasp mechanism on the front. Years of dirt flaked off onto her pants leg as a faint gleam appeared.
She removed her gloves. Feeling for a way to release the clasp and open the box, her hands felt the faint grooves of design or writing. She berated herself for not having her glasses with her, but was too curious – and her knees were too stiff – to get up and go into the house to retrieve them. She continued to pry and feel around the clasp until the box cracked open slowly, with a grating sound, in her hands.
Ending 1
Pushing the lid back, its stiff hinges snapping and flaking off dirt, she peered inside. Her first concern was that she had dug up someone's pet and would find skeletal remains inside, though she couldn't imagine what kind of person would bury a pet in a silver box. She thrust her gloved hands inside, feeling about the darkened interior while trying to angle the box to catch what sun was able to filter through the overgrown lilies. There in the corner, scratched into the tarnished silver lining, was the number 42. The box was otherwise empty.
Though disappointed, she was intrigued by the number and curious about what it might mean. 42 was the year her sister had died. 42 was the street number she had grown up on, back in Baltimore. And 42 was half her age.
Ending 2
Pushing back the lid, the ancient hinges snapped and the lid fell off, permanently displaced from the box. A cloud of fine rust billowed up into her face and entangled her nose in a sneeze, followed by a sharply manacled hand which entangled her neck, the clawed tips becoming more fluid as the centuries of rust and neglect shook to the beat of her struggling. For a brief moment, before she died in her snarled garden, she thought back to forty years earlier. Who would have thought her middle would have been then?
By 
Julie, at
February 12, 2006 7:48 PM
