Daily Writing

I struggle with the decision to quit my creative writing class. Between this and my technical editing class, I feel like I have one-and-a-half full time jobs. It’s overwhelming. But this is my sacrifice, my commitment. How can I improve if I quit when it gets hard? If I were the praying type, I’d do some right now.

Today’s object writing should include past and present tense, be in the third person narrative, include sense-bound writing (all the 5 senses + body + motion), and include time prompts. Here we go:

Sidewalk Restaurant (5 minutes)

She walked into Little Italy with her husband, Steven. They met during St. Anthony’s feast in 2001. Could it be called a meeting? Susan walked backwards away from a vending cart serving steaming-hot fried dough, topped with cinnamon and sugar, and straight into Steve, her Ferragamo heels sending crushing pain up Steve’s calf. Steve whirled around on his feels, fast like a ninja dragon defending the forest, hands up and his mouth open, brow furrowed in anger, heat steaming from his arm pits and his mouth. He was going to yell until he looked straight into Susan’s eyes. Her blue ocean windows of her soul melted his hatred faster than Buddha’s wisdom entering the heart. Seven years later, Susan and Steve married and living on Catalina Island. Susan works as a seamstress in the swankiest bridal shop in town, among the bird calls and the chattering brides. Steve works in real estate, showing his listings with more pride than a primo ballerino on the stage of the Metropolitan opera house. Don’t you get bored of me, Steve asks Susan occasionally, when the nights are warm from the temperature of the air and Steve’s fingertips on her shoulders. No, she murmurs gently, holding her arm across her body. Not at all.

High School Gym (10 minutes)

On Olympic Day, when every class in high school puts their designated country or city on display. The tenth graders strutted Puerto Rico across the right side of the gym, colorful streamers twittering in the air in front of medium-powered fans. The eleventh graders jumped and jived Miami, jeering and laughing with the tenth grades. English and Spanish mixed together in joyful reverie. Maps stood in front of bleachers, hand-drawn. The smells of the high school kitchen drifted in, with spices and sizzles taunting everyone’s stomach from next door. The twelfth graders, much too school-weary to enjoy their Mexican rally, half-heartedly sang the Mexican song of their country, out of town, laughing and swelling choruses together before breaking apart. The gym was not air conditioned. As noon approached, the heat intensified the sounds, the smells, and wore the patience of the chaperones thin. Pinatas hung from the ceiling. Whack! Whack! The beating of the poor pinafore pony cracked and spilled hard candies on the heads of the students, who fell hard on their knees onto the highly-polished hardwood floors. Smack! Who knew kids could act like insects who’d never eaten a meal in their puny lives? Scrabbling, scrambling, scratched hands, squealing rose in a cacophony of happy competition. The crunching of the wrappers in their hands as the kids scooped up the candy and shoved it in their pockets sounded like quiet firecrackers. Just after one pm, the kitchen staff rolled in three tables of food, one from each class. The students and staff descended on the tables before the tables could be secured.  Smells of chorizo, spicy chiles, refried beans, and steak filled the gym. Everyone swayed from hunger and heat. No one seemed to mind. The students huddled in small groups over plates teeming with crunchy tortillas, crispy lettuce shredded, mounds of sour cream, and salsa.  Conversation was replaced with the sounds of plastic cutlery scraping over soggy paper plates. Carlos found it very satisfying. Here in the gym, with all his friends, he was happy. Competition and friendship go hand in hand, he thought. The tortillas remind him of home, not far from the beach. His mother fills his mind.

Grocery Aisle (90 seconds)

Grocery aisle, bits of vegetable leaves darkened with crushing steps. The smell of old refrigeration and sour milk. Cleaning fluids shoved themselves down the throats of each customer that walks down there. An ugly necessity. Grocery boys wheeling heavily-laden pallets of food slowly by little old ladies, carts full of hair nets and dog food marked Cesar with a


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