Prompt: Write a short story, poem or scene containing the following:

Character: Shepherd
Place: New York City
Object: Sweater
Theme: Pity

It is my first night in this city of artificial stars. The streets here never see nighttime. They are always bathed in lights.

I tried to imagine my home from here but it is not possible. If someone told me today that New York City and my cottage home on the hillside were on different planets, I would readily believe. On one edge of this glut of people are the ones who prance and preen in all their dignified self-importance, and on the other edge the struggling mothers with no shoes and ragged sweaters that do nothing against the chill of indifference, let alone the icy slash of a north wind.

Indeed, it's hard to imagine these dirty, tattered pieces of clothing being fashioned from the backs of my friends. These people are missing the warmth of real wool--the kind that I watch grow from the time I cradle a suckling lamb until they grow and their coats are first shorn. Afterward a mother, sisters, or wife takes over to turn the wool into thread, the thread into a gift. Not, of course, in the way that most think of gifts--wrapped in special paper for special occasions. These are the gifts of skilled fingers eager to lend you comfort. There is no present quite like loving care. There is more warmth woven into my sweaters than the protection offered by threads fashioned into a garment.

Then there is the noise here. I never knew there could be so much of it. Even a flock of sheep in full panic bleat would be a whisper, and a welcome one at that. I can't even tell where all the sounds come from. They just lurk in alleyways and spill out of the doors of establishments to mingle with the people on the streets. The sky is close and the blue of it muted. Seeing the sun is a treat, amid the high rise buildings that block it from view unless you are in the right place at the right time.

My uncle wanted me to at least try it. He begged and pleaded with my mother and father until he was able to convince them that I needed to cross the endless water and have a couple months in New York. He says there are more opportunities for a smart young man here in America than at home. I believe him. He will say that I need more than a day to decide such things. So I will humor him and work alongside him. I will meet his friends who will probably laugh at me. I will learn everything I can about this place, because to give up an opportunity to gain knowledge is insane. Still I know in my heart that I don't need these opportunities. I don't need money to make my life rich. How could I possibly become part of a culture that I have to pity? For all they have, they have lost so much.

Prompt: Write about a tall woman who is married to a jockey.

From our Workshop write today:

Valerie watched him with the baby out of the corner of her eye. She didn't want to disturb them. More than that, she didn't want him handing the bundle over, which he would do the instant he knew she was awake. It wasn't that he didn't like taking care of the infant, or that he didn't like to carry his fair share of the work. He did so much for her she felt guilty. He just had no onfidence where the baby was concerned. Which was so unlike how he was when he raced. A smile tugged at her mouth and she closed her eyes to savor the chance to think.

It had been poetic justice, to be sure. Valerie had been riding a horse of a different stripe. It had taken years of stubborn determination to build her florist business, and when it started turning a solid profit her arrogance grew right alongside the bank balance. Of course, had anyone pointed that out to her at the time, she would have reacted faster than Alice in Wonderland's Queen-of-Hearts to lop off a head--verbally of course. She had had no idea that she was becoming impossible to tolerate. Employees came and went like tourists, but she chalked it up to the way the game was played and hired the next person desperate for an entry position.

Then she managed to land the contract for the race track. Not the roses; she couldn't have handled the winner circle contract with only the part-time assistant she had. But she was in charge of the plants for the executive suites and other bouquet orders for whatever the ocassion.

Jeffrey had first come to the shop to send flowers to his sister on the birth of her child. Valerie didn't even notice who he was, just what he ordered and how he paid. He however, noticed everything there was to notice about her, and started needing flowers quite frequently. He seemed to like calla lilies and carnations.

Then he asked.

"I don't suppose we could go to dinner sometime?"

Valerie couldn't summon the grace to keep her jaw from dusting the floor. She turned around to look behind her in case there was an employee there she'd forgotten about.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Dinner." Right. Here she stood looking down on his head full of tight chestnut curls. And he wanted to have dinner?

"I bet we don't notice the height difference if we're sitting at Rudolpho's," he said, demonstrating that uncanny ability he still had to read her mind.

"I don't know. I mean--"

"Is there someone else?"

"Someone else? Excuse me?"

"Someone else you're dating."

"Well, no. But I hardly know you--"

"I know. That's why we should have dinner."

"To get to know each other? You mean like a date?"

"We can call it something else if you'd like. I'd just like to talk for awhile."

"Talk? Why?"

"Because you're quick and you have a brilliant artist's flair, and if you haven't looked in the mirror lately, you're sweet on the eyes as well."

"But, but--who are you anyway?"