As I get back into the blogging thing, I thought I’d precariously begin with a writing prompt from Tipsy Lit.
As I begin to take on the task of regularly writing (as I once did for just me), these prompts really do get the creative process going. I’m writing more on my book and a short story I began months ago.
The rules say that it has to be around 500 words. This is very difficult for me. When I first wrote this, it came in at a hefty 700 words plus. It’s not my usual, there’s barely any dialogue. What’s great about this process is that it forces me to fiercely edit myself and go outside my comfort zone.
Though it was a kind of “paranormal” prompt the. . .story does not need to fall into the paranormal category as long as it reveals something more than ordinary about your person, place, or thing. And. . . leave the reader with double vision – allowing them to see both the ordinary and the extraordinary at the same time.
I honed in on a “specific object.” I think objects have essence, a kind of life, if you will.
Why not write one of your own?
I’d love to read it — I know how many talented peeps are out there that I follow. Now, please read mine and don’t hold back, tell me what you think. (Also, go vote on Friday at Tipsy Lit for your favorite.)
C’mon write yours, it’s fun.
Enjoy and listen to some tunes while you read.
Things Left Behind
An elevated coastal home sat atop a large garage that was slotted and open. An antique chest sat in a corner of the garage. Water stains marked its once regal appearance. Its two doors were slightly askew, the hinges rusting.
Long ago, the chest was the centerpiece of a Savannah home. A filigreed key stored inside a mahogany box unlocked it. A gift from her husband, the lady of the home treated it as if it were a precious jewel. When her husband died, she moved the chest near her bedside where it stayed until she joined him three years later.
Auctioned off in 1935, the chest moved to a New England home and acquired a new key for its lock. The executors of the estate told its new owners that the original key had been placed in a mahogany box and buried with its owner. Whether the story was true didn’t matter. It gave the chest some history, romance, mystery.
Its wood creaked and breathed over the years as it was moved from this space to that, the New England winters retracting it as much as the Savannah summers had expanded it.
Decades later, it was sold to a dealer from Virginia. Moved to a dank, dusty shop, it was shoved into a corner, forgotton. Worn crocheted dollies, chipped china and a flowered pitcher were placed on top of it. The key, stolen by a patron, caused its doors to yawn open. Piles of stained linens spilled out of it. Its splendor faded; no one noticed what it was or what it had been.
The shopkeeper tried to remove one its dovetailed shelves. The shelf held, suffering only a three-inch hole at the back corner. Frustrated, the man sanded the chest, sloppily painting it a dull pie-crust color. He removed its metal pulls and tossed them in a bowl with a sign that read, “Vintage Hardware – Cheap!”
Sold “as is” to a dealer from Charleston, it was loaded onto a trailer where it was jostled and bumped by other bargain-ware; a rusted stove, grillwork from an old church gate, rotting rattan furniture and a salvaged beer sign from a burned down bar. It sat among tarnished silver, cheap lamps and a linoleum-topped table at a weekend flea market, selling for forty-five dollars to a decorator who stripped it of its paint.
The decorator meant to restore it but it stayed in the corner of the large garage with slotted openings. It expanded, retracted through hot summers and cool winters.
In a hasty move, the decorator left the chest. Six months later a couple bought their first home and upon move-in, found an old chest in the corner of the garage.
“Beautiful,” the woman said. She would restore it, treasure it.
She ran her hand along its classic lines and tested its weight by lifting it up on one end, groaning as she did so. The chest creaked in relief.