It Only Took 15 Days...

...to get tired of my lazy-ass writer self and pick up a pencil again. It suddenly occurred to me that if I didn't get a pencil moving, I'd be in danger of letting it go for good. So I sat on the edge of the bed before laying down to sleep last night and wrote to the prompt from A Writer's Book of Days. Here's what came...

December 15--Write about a red convertible. Vroom, vroom. Derek lay on the celery green shag carpet pretending his ancient Matchbox car, stripped of paint by too many summers spent in one sandbox or another, was a shiny red convertible. He could imagine it clearly--the gleam of paint that rich cherry red with just a hint of blue in it and the eye popping flash of the chrome like expensive braces across the front. He could feel the sweep of wind through his hair as he drove his red convertible down the living room highway, the blue ceiling sky arching overhead and the summer sun of the lamps beating down. The shade of the coffee table brought cool relief as he traversed the shag Serenteti littered with potato chip crumbs and Cheerio trails left by his big and little sisters as they followed their traditional migration patterns from the den to the kitchen and back.

That's it. My first tentative venture back into making sh*t up. Ahhh. Thanks for the reminder, Jenny, about having "writerly activities" to report on Thursday night. (Damn, it's cold outside.)
--Barbara