I’ve been on Twitter for a couple of years as part of the writer community. Last year I came across the Writer in Motion challenge and wanted to participate but was taking summer classes at the time and felt spread too thin. I decided to take this summer off from academic work, for various reasons, so, in the final month before getting back to the books (and what I hope will be my final year of grad school), I decided to participate in this year’s Writer in Motion challenge. For more information on the challenge, check out the Writer in Motion website, or follow them on Twitter @WriterMotion.
The challenge is to create a story based on a visual prompt. This year’s prompt can be seen here. Each week, participants post a revised draft of their story. The challenge is an excellent opportunity to see works in progress and to get a sense of the writing process while engaging with a supportive community.
Writing based on visual prompts is one of my favorite ways to come up with ideas for new projects. This image spoke to me in two ways. It is both lonely and comforting at the same time. I could imagine myself in a building much like the one in the photo, content with my solitude, alone, but not lonely. On the other hand, there is a sense of sadness about the building, as though it is waiting for someone to come along and fill it with laughter, the smell of good food, the taste of a fine wine, and the companionship of comfortable silences between good friends, or lovers.
The first draft of my story, A Place of Her Own, is below in all of its raw, un-edited, un-spell or grammar checked glory. It is only about mid-way to an ending. Enjoy.
A Place of Her Own
Lawrence knew she’d follow him. The little concrete house on the hill was her after all. She’d bought it for herself just before they got married with the money her father had given her. “I need a little place all my own,” she’d told him. “Every woman needs a little place all her own.”
Lawrence also knew he’d let her in, despite everything inside of him screaming not to, he’d let her in. It was her house after all. So there they were. Lawrence leaned heavily on the kitchen counter, his shoulders slumped, head hanging as though he had lost the strength to hold it up. And she sat at the table, her green eyes, calm and cool, watching him, her shoe bouncing on the end of her toes. Her foot always seemed to be tapping to a tune that only she could hear. She was a dancer after all.
“We can’t go on like this.” Lawrence’s voice sounded like gravel. “It’s over. We know it’s over.” He turned to face her. “You know it’s over, right?”
A small smile crossed her pink lips. They were never red, always a soft pink. She stood up, placing her wide-brimmed straw hat on top of the cascade of deep red hair that flowed down her back.
Lawrence swore softly under his breath. He turned back to his work. She’d been asking for new kitchen cabinets for months. “The cabin needs new cabinets, Lawrie. Those old things just don’t fit the personality of the rest of the place. You know? She’s humble, but she’s got some class.” Lawrence wasn’t sure if she was referring to “the cabin” or herself.
Nighttime was the hardest. They hadn’t shared a bed in over a year. Sometimes he’d wake up on the sofa, forgetting for a moment where he was, before getting up and looking out the window. He’d see her there, the pale moonlight painting the brush with cool shadows and giving her pale skin an eerie, yet disarmingly beautiful glow. Her feet were bare. She liked the feel of the earth beneath them. Her hair swayed in the breeze coming off of the ocean not far from the hills.
Sometimes, she’d turn her head, as if she could hear him, as though she could hear his thoughts reaching out to her, “I miss you.” She’d turn back, continue looking off to the horizon and Lawrence would shuffle back toward the sofa and fall into a restless sleep where dreams of her, of her smile, would haunt and comfort him in equal measure. He often woke up crying.
Lawrence thought she’d leave after he’d finished the cabinets. “There. Now you have no more use for me. It’s just the way you wanted it, right?” She walked around the kitchen, inspecting his handiwork, a small smile on her lips. She looked at him, her head tilted to the side as though trying to read his thoughts. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I’m thinking it’s time for you to leave. This isn’t your place anymore. It’s mine now. Don’t you understand? Mine!” Lawrence’s fist came down heavy on the table, making the dishes jump.
She laughed, walked outside to her favorite spot and looked toward the horizon.
R.J. Perry 