Here is my prompt writing that Don was so adamant I had gone the wrong way on. "I'd have gone a totally different direction," he said to one and all, but he was strangely deaf when I retorted, "Then you write it."
"Red trails drawn over yellow ocher tell the story of what early men saw in the crystal clear sea where they fished." In the baking hot midday on a desert island I stand, arms akimbo, listening to the tour guide dressed in khaki shorts, a Red Stripe t-shirt, mismatched flip flops, and a rasta hat. His dreadlocks dangle out and wave in the onshore winds that carry salty spray over us, bringing cool relief that people pay dearly for in the parched parts of the US. I have been on this tour before, I've heard the story of the Arawaks being overrun by the Caribs, a bloodthirsty tribe, of early Europeans coming ashore to harvest salt, and of the bad old slavery days. My attention wanders from the speech to the speaker. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery, sure evidence to this child of the seventies of a more than passing familiarity with ganja. I've seen those eyes in my mirror. Though it's been decades, I still recognize them.
That's it. I thought I had shown it to you at writer's but maybe not. Hope you enjoy my little prompt scribble
Bob, your observation that I might have been writing a series of Better Than Mom's Cafe novels has reignited something in my brain and heart. I plan to spend the day putting all those ideas I was sprouting last night down on paper to see if I really have enough for a few books. Yikes, scary! But a fun kind of scary.
No comments:
Post a Comment