An experiment in writing

You just need to start writing. Write about anything and everything. And it's going to be bad and no one will want to read it. Write 100 stories, it's all about the practice. Maybe story 101 will be ok.

she paints in her room. the room is small. small small small. studio. she loves that room. rainbow splattered paint dropped on the floor from creations past. walls covered in magazine clippings and posters and pictures of loved ones. memories float in the air. she scratches her head and squints her eyes. her hair is in her face. its short and fluffy and clean. smells like roses. she loves roses. paints only roses. to be continued...

did you see the news today?

albert trebla went away.

he went away in chains today.

he went away for strips of clay.

strips of clay, come what may.

it happens every time they say.

did you see the news today?

albert trebla went away.

toulabelle loved driving with the top down. the wind rushing through her hair when the car moved, the sun warming her shoulders when it stood still. the perfect late summer afternoon, a nice drive would be lovely. she flew into town on her magic carpet of cars. thats what her sister used to call their fathers convertible. this is what it feels like to ride on a magic carpet toulabelle, she says as she perches across the back, legs kicking frivolously, shoes lightly scuffing the seat. dad says get down from there, you will fall out and i will be forced to run you over. giggles bubble out as she slides down into the seat beside toulabelle. smiling at the memory, she slows to a stop, red light, glances into the storefronts along the street. something catches her eye, an unusually long scarf draped around and around and around the neck of a mannequin. black with yellow and white and pinkish flowers blossoming on thin tree branches dotted with tiny green leaves. shes never seen anything quite like it. she wants it. she must go into the store and touch it, at least. car into spot. drive into park. quarter into slot. she has twelve minutes. wait, why does a quarter only equal twelve minutes? why are parking meters so expensive? whosh, into the store. a sweet smell of perfume washes over her. glamourous pieces of clothing decorate the small shop, hanging daintily on wooden hangers. each one beckons. dresses shimmy and smile, blouses flutter happily at her touch. but she cannot be distracted by such expenses, as she only has minutes on the meter. may i help you? yes, that scarf in the display, how much? the eyes of the sales associate light up. we just got that in today, isnt it just stunning? its $249.99. a steal, really. toulabelle hears an inner shriek as her conscience pounces. you canNOT afford that do you hear me? taking a deep breath she smiles back at the sales associate and nods. i love it, can i try it on? the scarf is so long, but the point is to layer and drape. it feels as wonderful as it looks. she wraps the scarf slowly, loosely around her neck. of course it hangs beautifully, so soft to the touch. sales associate brims over with excitement, it looks really great with the boots you are wearing. toulabelle agrees, it completes her outfit. it will complete every outfit. she starts performing mathematical equations in her head. i must own this. she saunters up to the register and boldly pulls out her wallet. digging out the credit card, taking deep calming breaths. her love for fashion trumps her lack of funding. toulabelle walks out of the store $250 poorer but within moments receives a stranger's compliment, making it all worth while. what a beautiful scarf. she struts back to her magic carpet of a car, a breeze tousles her hair and scarf as she climbs in. she cant stop smiling. the sun is setting, a golden glow washes over the streets. she takes the long way home, enjoying the summer evening. speeding over the hills, she feels like shes flying. the air rushes across her face and arms, her hair. the scarf billows in the wind, trailing out behind her like in those old time movies. stop signs bring back the reality of driving. the car stops, the wind stops, the magical flying carpet stops, the ladys scarf in an old time movie drops to the ground. toulabelle hits the gas and starts to fly away. for a moment she feels something go tight around her neck. there is no scream. it happens so fast. the magic flying carpet weaves off the road, crashes into a tree. but toulabelle doesnt feel it, she is already dead.

isadora duncan on my mind...