I have been ignoring my blog of late and I apologize. My characters are clamoring to be heard and refuse to be ignored. Following are the beginnings of a couple of stories I'm working on:
It was a cold, windy morning near the beginning of spring, my Sophomore year, when the principal poked his head in the door of our history class. I could hear the bounce, bounce, bounce of basketballs in the gym where the Indians were practicing nonstop for the big game with Paducah Tilghman. If we won, we would go on to the regionals at Murray State and maybe win the state title.
"Pupils, I have some real bad news," Mr. Perkins said, "Louetta Alcock has just been killed in an automobile accident."
There was a group gasp followed by nervous twittering. One girl left crying. I was dazed, dumbfounded, various questions zipping through my mind: Was she ejected from the car and died on the highway, looking peaceful, as if asleep? Trapped in the car, dying in a pool of blood, face mashed beyond recognition?
As the March winds squalled around the corners of the old school house, the air charged with anticipation about the big game and my crush on the basketball star in full swing, I felt I might explode.
And now this.
The Transient Hotel
Fred Watts sits in his worn recliner, gazing at the ancient hotel next door. Several transients are languishing in the two porch swings, vacant looks in their eyes. No doubt anticipating their daily trek to nearby liquor stores, thinks Fred. He watches them leave around noon each day, returning with bottle-shaped brown paper bags, some taking swigs every now and then, eyes darting here and there; others hurrying back to the hotel, expectant looks on their faces.
Fred sighs, wishing he were a drunk. Then he would have something to look forward to.
All words and pictures © 2008 Brenda G. Wooley