Monday, March 29, 2010

Writing Prompt #1

Feeling stuck or just need to oil those creative muscles before you jump into you next writing project? Try this writing prompt to get things going.

Green Mangoes and Red Sweaters
The E Street Farmers' Market was loud and swollen with Sunday shoppers. Gillian inspected the green mangoes at the rickety fruit stand. Her orange tote bag hung from her wrist, that was encased in a dingy,white cast. She pulled the arm closer to her as she made it over to the stall with summer corn. Something made her look behind her. To this day she still doesn't know what. There he stood, clad in a red wool sweater. Completely inappropriate for New Mexico in July. He didn't look at her, but she knew he was there for her. WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

1 comment:

Thembi said...

Oh my God, she thought. He was absolutely breathtaking. His close-cropped black hair was lightly oiled, giving his entire head a heavenly glow in the midday sunlight. He had a faint, impeccably groomed goatee which circled his full, brown lips. The color of his skin was an impossible amber; it glowed brightly from within with red undertones that perfectly reflected the stark crimson cashmere of his sweater. He stood in dark jeans and a well-worn pair of cowboy boots. And thank God, he was tall. He was so tall.

A middle-aged woman in a bright yellow tube top passed leisurely in front of him, temporarily blurring Gillian’s sight and yanking her back into reality. Embarrassed, she quickly turned back and feigned interest in the corn. How long had she had been staring at him?

It was her idea that they not exchange photos before they met in person. It had never occurred to her that he’d turn out to be better looking than her! The back of her neck felt strangely cold all of a sudden. She slowly slid the tote bag over her cast. Had he recognized her yet? Did he find her repulsive? Had he already spotted the cast, disapproved of her, and was presently scoping the quickest way out of town?

“Hey! Stop that!” She jumped. “You’re ruining my tomatoes! Either buy something or move on, lady!” A short, squat man was yelling up at her. He was so close to her face that he could smell the mixture of alcohol and garlic that wafted through his pores. She looked down. Her good hand was littered with tiny yellow seeds floating in bits of red juice. She had been kneading the poor little man’s tomatoes beyond recognition. She was mortified.

A twenty-dollar bill floated in the air next to her right ear and the man snatched it angrily.

“Keep the change.” The voice was deep, confident, reassuring. She whirled around to thank her anonymous savior.

“Hi Gillian.” It was him.