YOUR PART: Throw out words from the letter of the day and I'll pick some of them to include in the opening paragraphs of a short story.
WHY: I'm most inspired when there's a little challenge involved. Usually that means an opening line or a theme. This month: your words.
Each evening I'll post the beginnings of a short story using some of the suggested words, As to when I'll end those stories...well, that's what the rest of the year is for.
So join in the comments with D words. names, places, moods, genres, things, whatever you want to throw at me. My creative bucket awaits. If you're here later in the day and I've already posted the story start, feel free to leave words for the next day's letter.
Thank to you to all of you who have stopped by so far this month. I've enjoyed playing with your words.
Looking for more great blogs? Check out the massive A to Z blog challenge list.
Don't stop writing! Is there anything that would make you or has made you? Check out our assortment of answers to this question on this week's Authors Answer and join in the comments over there too.
The drip in the kitchen sink was getting worse, constant, rhythmic, setting David's nerves on edge. He put down the sock he'd been darning and glared into to the darkness that was the hallway leading to the kitchen. No one was going to come fix his problem. He didn't have the money to pay a real repairman.
Drip. He counted to ten, breathing in and out through his nose, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension building there. Maybe if he put a towel in the sink the noise wouldn't echo through the house quite so much.
Drip. He set the ball of yarn next to the sock and got to his shaking legs. His walker stood at the ready. Making his way slowly to the hallway, he passed the photo of his darling wife, gone six years now. He put a hand to his lips and then pressed it to the glass. Drip.
Sophia would be upset over his lack of dedication in keeping up the house once she'd departed. But the things about him didn't seem to matter as much anymore now that she wasn't there with him. The walls were still standing and the roof didn't leak. Drip.
The demons that ran the city could sell the house when he was done with it no matter what shape it was in. They'd probably just tear it down and put up a corner convenience store anyway. They kept sending him notices about the state of his yard. He kept discarding them. They'd turn his yard into a parking lot. They'd been doing it all up and down the street. Every time he looked out the window the neighborhood he remembered was diminished. It was like a bad dream.
Drip. The wheel of his walker stuck on the transition bar between the carpet of the hallway and the tile of the kitchen. He shoved it forward like he always did, lifting slightly, shifting his weight. The wheel didn't give. Drip.
David feel forward with the walker, lurching over the side of it, his arm dangling at an awkward angle. Pain shot through his side and his mouth went dry. Drip.
His heart began to race. His head throbbed. He called out, but there was no one there to answer, no one to help him. Darkness crept in around the edges of his vision.
If only he could get a drink of water. He tried reach for the sink, but his arms refused to obey.
He gasped for a breath, wishing for just one last drop to ease the tightness in his throat and chest. David went still.