As a writer, nothing moves me more than words. I fall in love with them a lot. It’s not hard; all I have to do is open a book, magazine or anything with the written word. Whether it's about a person, an animal, a tree, a flower or a lady bug, I feel the words with a passion. I devour them like a literary cannibal. They cast a spell, tossing me into far to reach places. Words ring in my head, they taunt me, seduce me, stroke me, lull me, and manipulate me until I have to let go to cook dinner or go grocery shopping. Breaking the word spell is like being jilted by a lover; it hurts to leave before I’m ready to let go.

I am challenging myself to create a fictional tale each week. My goal is to push myself beyond my comfort zone in not keeping my writings to myself. I will write a variety of compositions that include playwriting, screenwriting, poetry, short stories, non-fiction, and a draft of a fictional novel I’m writing. At times I get jammed in my thoughts and would love for you to throw out ideas that would help me move my writing beyond a snails pace. I will be posting exercises and challenges for myself and others who wish to join me in my creative journey. Look forward to your comments. (just click on the below comments option)

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Life In A Bottle

first drink
of alcohol
came pour-
ing down
my mom’s
throat passing through the umbilical to me.
I was only in my second trimester and don’t
remember the taste, but somehow I liked
the way it made me all warm and homey. I
didn’t have to worry about the startling loud
noises I heard out side my mom’s body or
worry about maturing to fast or gaining
weight. My third trimester my brain cells
weren’t growing very fast, so I just dosed a
lot as opposed to swimming and kicking
around in my amniotic sac. Most of the time
I was content while mom was passed out
drunk. Today, something weird is happening.
Mom is awake, and pushing very quick and
hard. She shoves a wash cloth in her
mouth to choke her screams as she pushes
with all of her strength. I’m born on the
cold hard bathroom floor. Mom cuts the
cord with a razor from an old leg shaver.
She’s thankful I’m so quite. Quickly, she
wraps me in a white towel, and cleans up the
blood on her. She dresses into fresh clothes
and picks me up. She creeps slowly out the
back door. The night air is freezing cold.
Mom runs over to the dark Wal-Mart store
across the street. She prays no one sees her.
With caution she walks up to the dumpster;
I’m calm inside the bloody towel. She lowers
me into the trash and places an old newspaper
on top of me. Without any emotion, she turns
and leaves.

1 comment:

  1. I was so afraid that that was you.

    Glad it wasn't!