Prompt: If you have done the exercises for June 2, 10, & 17, pretend that these characters are all part of the same family and that they are having dinner together for the first time in several weeks. What happens?

Well I did them, but not on the proper days--the same as I'm not doing this prompt on its designated day. :)

By way of reminder:
June 2: Write about a woman who is getting ready to go to work and who is lonely. Do not use the word "lonely" or any of its relatives (alone, loneliness, etc.). Show her emotion by the details you choose to use as she prepares to leave for her job. My write was done in workshop [6/2!] & I forgot to post it I guess!): Mara let the white silk blouse slip through the fingers of her right hand and it landed in a heap beside the cashmere sweater she'd just dropped from her left. If there had been someone around to ask which looked best, her bed wouldn't been littered from one end to the other with cast-offs. In fact, how nice it would be to have to tip toe as she got ready for work, because someone else was still sleeping in the bed. She pushed the thought aside and slid into the white silk because there was little time left before she needed to be downtown.

June 10: Show a boy or a girl who is walking home from school and who is angry with his/her mother. You're not allowed to tell the emotion outright. Let it come through as you write the scene. My write (on 6/10!): Brandon felt the sting on his arm and then swatted at the horsefly with a vicious slap. Had his mother been a horsefly, she would have bit him, just like that. Only harder. And he wouldn't have been able to slap her.

June 17: Show your reader a business man who is facing a tough personal decision. Don't tell (such as: John wanted a divorce but was having a hard time figuring out how to tell his wife) but show us the character as he struggles with the thoughts and feelings that reveal his predicament. My write (June 25): Dr. John, as he was known by his patients, stared at the bottom of his coffee cup. He desperately wanted another mug full--hot, black and strong--but knew in the back of his mind it wasn't a good idea.

Now: Pretend that these characters are all part of the same family and that they are having dinner together for the first time in several weeks. What happens? Um, this is going to be close to impossible, I'm realizing now, because I've already invented family members for everyone but Mara--who couldn't be lonely if she was part of a family, now could she. Or could she????? Hmmm........ Stretch the noodle here. John can't reminisce about his three children and leave two of them out (he had Madison, Ethan and Charlie; where do I put Mara and Brandon). So change Ethan or Charlie to Brandon, but then the age is wrong. So who else could Brandon be? Or Mara. Not immediate family.... Aah---there's an idea. Time to get the idea net out. Speed on fingers!!!! (Oh, and for the data banks, Critic, nothing is impossible. Challenging maybe, but not impossible.)

*~*~*~~*~*~*~*

The first thing John noticed when he walked through the front door was the smell of roasting chicken. There was no security blanket quite as comforting as roasting chicken. The next thing he wanted to see was his wife with her face flushed and glowing from the warmth of the kitchen, and a wicked smile in her green eyes that she would quickly hide from the children as they came tumbling down the stairs to greet him.

Well, roasting chicken really was more than he had a right to expect.

John put his briefcase in the closet and hung his coat, wondering if the house had been marketed as having sound-proof rooms. It was remarkably quiet for a household of four besides himself. The central heat hissed through the vents, and there was music coming from somewhere, barely audible alongside the sound of running water. There were no voices, no fights, and the living room was spotless instead of how he'd imagined it at work this morning while he was fighting with his conscience. Considering that he'd had to cancel breakfast with Stacy, thanks to the perfect and indescribable joyous delivery of Eileen Phillips' baby boy, he figured no one would be expecting him.

They weren't. Stacy and her sister Mara were in a world of their own at the kitchen table. He had to clear his throat before they realized he was standing in the doorway.

"Oh, John!" Stacy bounced to her feet and let go Mara's hand; Mara used the back of that hand to swipe tears from her cheeks.

"Welcome home, honey." She tiptoed to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "I asked Mara for dinner, Sweetie. Didn't expect you till later."

"Hello, Mara. It's good to see you."

"And you." John could tell she didn't want him to look any closer at her, so he turned his gaze back to his wife.

"She brought Brandon up."

"Up for what?"

"To spend fall break."

"I see."

"Sharon wants some uninterrupted time to finish her book and so I offered to let him stay here."

"I see."

"Why don't you go change and get comfortable, Dear and I'll bring you a drink. Sound good? Dinner will be ready in about half an hour, and since you're home, we might as well do it up right with mashed potatoes, gravy, the works. Will you be able to stay?"

"Henderson is on call for all my patients. Eileen Phillips delivered today, which leaves me with a quiet patch for the next few days."

"Did everything go all right?"

"Just fine."

"I bet Eileen and George are ecstatic."

"That's a mild description. And thanks for asking. I--I guess I'll go change and find the kids for the next half hour. Unless you need some help..."

"No, Darling. Mara will lend me a hand. We know how to keep out of each others' way. You go relax. You look like you could use it. Shall I bring the drink?"

"No, thanks. You go ahead with what you were doing."

(to be continued)

Prompt: Show your reader a business man who is facing a tough personal decision. Don't tell (such as: John wanted a divorce but was having a hard time figuring out how to tell his wife) but show us the character as he struggles with the thoughts and feelings that reveal his predicament.

Dr. John, as he was known by his patients, stared at the bottom of his coffee cup. He desperately wanted another mug full--hot, black and strong--but knew in the back of his mind it wasn't a good idea. How could he be preaching lifestyle changes if he wasn't willing to make them himself? Three pots of coffee a day couldn't be healthy.

He should go home and sleep instead. He imagined the living room of his house, which he hadn't seen in days, strewn with crayons and coloring books, half-dressed dolls with shaggy hair, and video game controllers tossed down on the couch as though they were pillows. Somewhere in the midst of the chaos his wife would be hard at work on something that he was clueless about.

John felt he was pretty much clueless about whatever it was that happened at home.

Both he and Stacy had expected that their lives would be like this. Between consultations, surgeries, and babies that came into the world as they pleased, they understood from the start that there would never be a schedule in their married life. What they didn't count on was the outrageous malpractice insurance and the fact that so many so many of his colleagues would decide to quit practicing. They had no idea that the work load would grow like this, that he would at times be out of the house for days on end, just caring for the endless stream of patients and paperwork. But there it was. So many had opted out....

How could he do that? How could he just walk out on Eileen Phillips who had been trying to carry a baby to term for four years now and was on the brink of delivering a full-term baby boy. She trusted him. She relied on him. Behind her there was little Angie Thompson, newly married thanks to her impending arrival and scared beyond reason. He was beginning to help her understand that she really had little to fear about birthing a baby. Then there was Constance Brown and her husband Evan who would might have been fighting an incredible package of guilt right now had they not been able to come to him and talk frankly about whether to continue a pregnancy that was unexpected. He could continue the list of women as long as his arm that were looking to him as one of the two remaining obstetricians that practiced at the local hospital. How could he dump all that work on Dr. Henderson, especially when he had put in his time and was due to retire within the next five years?

John fingered the pictures on his desk. Madison at two, with sunlight caught in her golden curls and her cheek nestled against her new puppy. He couldn't even remember what she'd named the dog who had since grown into a package almost bigger than she was. And then Ethan, pudgy and content and smiling the toothless smile of a healthy infant. Only he wasn't an infant anymore. The picture was almost two years old. Then there was Charlie. Charlie, who was perpetually mad at him for one reason or another, and he could never sit down with him long enough to dissolve it. He was growing that long jawline, and his legs and arms were turning into long spindly things, his voice cracking and squeaking, especially when he was biting out angry words and fighting back disappointment. He would be gone before long. In more ways than one, John was certain.

How could he miss any more of the lives of his very own children? How could he face his old age knowing he'd been a perfectly competent and involved doctor, but a perfectly absent, uninvolved father?

Besides the patients there was the money issue. What on earth would he do if he didn't have his practice?

Wearily John pushed his chair back and crossed over to the coffee pot. He had to be awake to discuss this with Stacy who was coming down to the hospital in a few hours to have breakfast with him. He couldn't wrestle it alone anymore. He couldn't even begin to predict what she would say; that's how distant they had become over the past year. Maybe she'd have ideas he'd not considered. He remembered that she used to surprise him that way from the beginning and wondered why he had waited till now to tap into her wisdom. No, no. Something had to give. He just didn't think it could be his family that did all the giving anymore.

Prompt: Write about an elderly woman who loves to sing even though she can't do it well

Mabel Stokes followed her normal routine that brought her to the gas station at Adair and Main that in its heyday belonged to Fred Beams; now some foreign fellow she couldn't even understand smiled from behind the counter of the Texaco Quick Mart. It was an easy place to get in and out of and these days anything that was easy was well worth whatever other inconvenience might come with it. Smiling at the attendant behind the counter was fairly easy. Resisting the urge to strike up a conversation about his family and kids was not.

Mabel slid the plastic slinky-type wrist band of her keychain over her left wrist and heard the keys clank like a melody from a triangle. Then there was the clunk of the gasoline cover when it hit its hinge and stayed open. The creaky crank of the gas cap when she removed it. Everything was joining together like a background band. The morning was glorious--a few high clouds, no wind and unusually cool for almost July. How could a person not sing?

She tried not to for the most part. Her sultry alto voice had fallen into a flat and dismal thing with her age. Mabel reddened just a bit at the memory of when she first discovered that she no longer sounded like she had in high school and college. They had been invited to karaoke night at a friend's house and it was the first--and last--time she'd eagerly embraced a new-generation gadget. Mabel still felt the excitement that coursed through her veins as she anticipated a whole nights' worth of melody and harmony. There was nothing that made her heart swell with joy quite the way that singing did and she poured that same heart out into her songs that night. Everyone was laughing because she and her hubby and the rest of their gray haired (or bald) friends did some pretty crazy stuff. She felt like she was 20 again. She had had no idea that they were laughing at her voice until someone gave her a recording as a gift.

Some gift.

That same swollen heart withered inside her when she listened to the notes crack and split over her vocal cords. How could she have possibly not heard it herself? Mabel had always prided herself on acting her age and knowing her limitations, but she never dreamed that those limitations would ever include her voice of all things.

She pulled herself back to the present and started the pump, thanks to the Middle Eastern accent that spoke from within it like the Wizard of Oz asking if she needed assistance. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to communicate that she did not, other than getting the pump started. The gas coursed in fits and spurts, an uncanny rhythm that reminded her of Sinatra's New York, New York. Mabel took a quick glance around. No one else was about at 6:00 AM and if Omar at the counter minded she didn't really care.

She belted out the tune until the tank was full and she grabbed her coffee cup and made her way inside to pay. Even then she was still humming. Life was just to short to worry about some things.

From workshop today:

Prompt: Write a piece about an apple.

Apple. Apple strudel, apple cake, apple cider, apple pancakes, apple juice, apple, apple, apple....

If I never see another apple I'll be happy. How do they stand it up here?

My mother thought this would be a good idea. I've spent the last three months with her sister and family here in Up State New York where I find it cold and wet and incredibly full of stupid apples. Their scent is sharp and pervasive because the atmosphere is too still, too self-contained, too little in the way of outside influence. They don't believe in video games and I'm lucky to get on the computer for a 30-minute stint when the phone line works. Which it doesn't when it rains and it rains so much.

Of course this isn't how things were supposed to turn out. After a month or so I was supposed to get used to the wind in my face, and develop healthy "apple cheeks" along with a new attitude that would make Mother's job of rearing me a breeze. Instead I've grown to resent my mother who can't be a real mom until she's real to herself, and my aunt for trying to fix it all when she doesn't even know what the problem is. No one listens long enough. They just want to talk.

There is my cousin Simone, who likes to be called Siren, only she'll never tell her parents that. We have a bit of a common thread between us, but I act on impulses whie she just dreams. Maybe, in the next eight weeks, I can change that.

Well, it's pretty bad when the prompts you made up yourself just don't so a thing for you. I went off elsewhere to find a story spark. It came from a mixed proverb:

Discretion is not gold. (and this little 10-minute diatribe is in absolutely no way autobiographical, thank goodness!!! I got worked up emotionally just doing the piece.)

Discretion is not gold. Or golden. It's a hold-out, a cheat. He thinks if he's "discreet" then I should turn a blind eye and not raise a fuss. He can think again.

Then I whither from my boldness and think about all the changes ahead and I back track a few steps. What if I let him go on thinking he has the best of both worlds. What if I go ahead and let him support me and the kids and go have a treat on the side the way he does? I get to keep my life, my house, my comforts, my children. Somewhere out there is a soulmate for me who is willing to share maybe?

Yeah, right. I can't get out of the house. I'm stuck here with children and dishes and his mother with Alzheimers. He has to work. Has to bring home the bacon. My job is to raise kids and be a caregiver. It's not fair!

So how could I be discreet? How can I turn straw into gold? I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. I'm hurt and confused and so very angry and that's not a good combination for making sound decisions.

I have to find someone to talk with. Someone who knows neither of us yet wouldn't mind me spilling my guts and then could give some objective advice. Please God, please. I am a wreck. I can't eat, can't sleep, can't mother, which is worst of all. What do these kids deserve? An honest father and a broken family? Or a "complete" family--speaking in terms of appearances, of course--and a dishonest father?

How on earth did this happen? Where did we stop being friends and lovers? I don't know that we did. He always is attentive to me and cares for his kids. Saturday mornings are his time to make chocolate chip pancakes and take them to the park.

To the park.
Saturday mornings.
Did he meet her there with my children while I washed socks? Was he practicing for being a part-time Dad? Is he planning on not being discreet sometime soon? How will I handle that?

I will soak him for every penny he owns. Make him pay for breaking his vow to me. This is not fair. So not fair!

Or should I call up Miss Discreet and give her an ultimatum? How do I preserve any dignity and grace? If I stand up and fight, I'm clingy and desperate. If I let go, I'm a quitter. If I cause a scene I'm being childish. If I'm discreet.....

Discretion is not gold. It does not pay for the errors of fathers on sons and daughters and wives. It cannot put together a life that is rent, a heart that is torn between self-care and survival. I just don't think I can take one more minute. Are you listening? Not another minute....I have to talk to someone.

Knock. Knock.