writing prompt

I love…

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment

I love puppies.  I call all dogs, regardless of their age, puppies, but in this instance, I am talking about newborn puppies.  I love their glossy fur, round bellies, and milk smell.  I love the little noises they make when they suckle.  I positively chortle with delight when they try to walk or jockey for position to reach one of mama’s nipples.

The Creator was in a good mood the day puppies were made.

I love coffee first thing in the morning.  Fresh and piping hot.  I wrap my hands around the mug and hold it like it is the Holy Grail leading me to redemption.  I love the aroma and will breathe it in with the steam.  Once in a while, I will pour heavy cream into it until it is the color of dark caramel.  The richness of the cream coating my tongue.

Morning coffee is my daily ritual – my must for starting the day.

I love the beach in summertime.  I have a low chair that allows me to dig my feet into the sand as I stretch out, my mug of coffee with me in the morning, and a ridiculous umbrella drink in my right hand in the afternoon.  I sit there and I watch people and I watch the ocean and I meditate on the sand.  I do not read.  I do not write.  I do not think.  I just sit and let negative ions from the crashing surf pour over me until my skin begins to redden -the signal that I need to get out of the sun. 

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The Ugly Swan

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

George adjusted the neck and waded in.  The neck kept doubling over on its side and looked like a swan in distress, which was certainly not George’s intention.

Although initially a joke, the idea was, in fact, the perfect solution.  George had thought about it for several days, examining the proposed solution for flaws and drawbacks. Other than getting wet, he couldn’t find one. The whole village knew Gina was the smart one.

He wanted a close-up of the the swan family: the cob, the pen and their five newborn cygnets. The babies were adorable, and he wanted to win the village’s photo competition this year. After six years of participation, he had yet to even place. This was his year. He just knew it.

He stood on tiptoe to keep the water out of his mouth.  He bent the neck one more time, hoping the wire framing would hold, and zipped up, leaving enough room for the camera lens.

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My intentions are good.

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I like writing unless I have a formal project to work on and then I procrastinate it.  I do a lot of head-writing but don’t put it on paper.  Fear of failure?  Needing an adrenaline surge to produce?  Right now, I have hanging over my head, an article that I need to write from an interview of one of my all-time favorite people.

Photo by Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash

I think this piece will get a reasonably large readership.  Everyone knows her and everyone loves her.  She’s more fun than a box of puppies. 

I like having an audience.  I do write to know what I think, but I also write to be read.  Of course, I have some pieces that will never see an editor’s pen, but others I want out there for anyone to read at will. 

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The Isolator

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The postman said, “You need to sign this delivery ticket” and handed the parcel to Karl. 

Karl’s hands trembled as he carried it to his study.  The anticipation of the past few weeks was now boiling over.  The Isolator was here. 

Just before closing his door, Karl hollered “Do not interrupt me upon penalty of restriction.  I mean it.  The Mayonnaise Jar Rule is in effect.”

The rule decreed that there needed to be at least a jar’s worth of blood before the five children were allowed to interrupt their mother during her afternoon stories.  It was the first time Karl had invoked it. 

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