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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
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My 15 For 15 Entries 9/18- 10/2/09 - #668901 added September 22, 2009 at 10:51pm
Restrictions: None
September 22 - Corner
Wendy hunched her shoulders against the chilly morning air and dug her balled fists deeper into her jacket pockets. She looked at her three expressionless friends, all of whom looked to her like they could use a cup of coffee. “Where is Stephen?” she asked no one in particular. She rocked back and forth on the balls of her Mephisto-clad feet, trying to feel warmer. “He’s always late.”
Eric leaned over the handle bars of the bicycle he straddled. “Don’t see him up the street. Lousy bastard is probably still in bed.”
Wendy followed his gaze then shifted her eyes to the three people on the corner across the intersection. “I know how we’ll pass the time,” she said. “Let’s decide what those people over there are discussing.” She pointed discretely.
Catherine turned for a look. “Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “Grandpa there is back from a trip to Guatemala. He was bringing specialty items to rural villages off the main routes like sugar, cigarettes, and battery-run flashlights. He’s telling those ladies from the church all about it.”
Jason snorted. “No way. Those two women were on their morning walk. They live in adjacent apartments and when they met they had a combined weight of 445 pounds. They became great friends and decided to help each other lose weight. They started by walking up and down the hallway of the second floor of their building, and lost the first twenty pounds fast. That’s when they got the dog. Now they walk fifteen city blocks every morning. They ran into Mr. White Hair, who used to live in their building. He can’t believe the transformation and is praising their success.”
Wendy smiled, nodding her head. Then she said, “That’s good. But I think you’re both wrong. That man is the woman in the white shirt’s biological father, but she doesn’t know it. Every morning he watches her walk with her niece and her niece’s dog. He aches to speak to her, but he knows it will devastate her to learn after all these years that the man who raised her as his own, who was so kind and loving to her, wasn’t really her father. He knows the truth would destroy her. He--”
She was interrupted by her cell ringing. A moment later she said, “Stephen stopped for coffee at the Starbucks down the block. He wants us to meet him there.”
As the four of them set off across the intersection, heads bowed against the frigid breeze blowing down the sunny street, they passed close to the three people on the opposite corner.
“So I go three blocks down and take a left onto Morningside Drive?” the woman asked.
“No, go right onto Morningside,” said the white haired man, who looked up at them as the four passing kids burst out laughing.
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