Today I have the honor of hosting Friday Fiction. A cluster of us writers link up each week to share our stories. If you want to join us, add the link of your blog or website at the bottom of this page. Of course, if you just want to spend a few minutes just reading them, that's fine too.
Any writer will tell you about the voice in their head that pester them with all kinds of ideas at most inappropriate times. This voice (or muse) is continually creating up plots and poems and imagining mysteries and romances. It can drive a writer crazy. Meet my voice -
Quixy the Great Imaginator
Up and down….up and down…I dunk the tea bag into the hot water. My sleepy mind slowly gains consciousness as I watch the liquid darken.
Hey! There’s a story in that!
Oh no…my quixotic imagination is awake.
That teabag is like Christ. He is in you and you are in Him! The more time you spend you spend together, the more you become like Him. That’s a good devotional. You ought to blog about that.
Yes, Quixy, that is a good idea, but I don’t have time to write about it this morning. A sunbeam falls across my open Bible and I gasp.
Ohhhhh…how beautiful, how symbolic!
Purest holy light
Showing what is right
Teaching treasures true
“Mom! I can’t find my shoe!”
Thus starts my morning-fixing breakfast, packing Scott’s lunch, signing a permission slip, driving to school, grocery shopping, etc. I notice Mrs. Ackroyd staring at a package on her front step. She doesn’t notice as I wave to her.
A mystery! I love mysteries! Maybe it’s from a long lost lover that’s been waiting years for her husband to die so he could court her again or maybe it’s from a child she gave up for adoption. Maybe it’s a bomb!
“Don’t be ridiculous, Quixy. She is probably only having trouble reading the handwriting.”
After washing the dishes and vacuuming, I settle on the couch to fold the laundry. I laugh at little Sally putting some shorts on her head. I give up trying to quiet Quixy and let him play his game.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl that did everything backwards. She wore socks on her hands and mittens on her feet. She wore a pair of shorts for a hat and zipped her snowsuit upside-down. She was a very silly girl.
I decide to take advantage of the warm weather and go to the park with Sally. We stop to sniff some tulips, and I read the plaque on a monument nearby.
(Aug. 19, 1751- 1777 ?)As Tuesday, April 18, 1775, drew to a close, Dr. Samuel Prescott of
Cool! I didn’t know that-did you? There must be a lot more information you could research and write about. Maybe you could write it from girl’s point-of-view.
Sally swings for awhile and slips down the slide. We spend the next hour playing and digging holes in the sandbox. Sally spills her water bottle, and the water makes a mini river before disappearing into the sand.
Hey, this sand is like a desert-like a wilderness. Imagine you are an Israelite mother and your child is crying with thirst. When the water gushes from the rock, steam rises as it hits the hot sand.
I realize that it’s almost time for Scott’s bus and Bill will be home soon. Lifting Sally on my back, I gallop back home and put her down for a nap. Scott bursts in the door and tosses his back-pack on the kitchen table before rushing outside to play. The spaghetti bubbles, and I’m almost done preparing the salad, when I hear the front door open.
“Hi, Honey, I’m home!” Bill pecks me on the cheek and says, “That smells good,” before collapsing before the TV in his recliner.
You call that romantic? I can do better than that! William clutched Eva around the waist and handed her a scarlet rose. He dipped her back and kissed her long and hard until she gasped for breath. “Eva, you are more gorgeous than a hundred roses!”
Quixy, stop that! I love Bill, and I know he loves me.
Bill comes in the kitchen long enough to grab a soda can from the fridge. “Did you say something to me, Eva?”
“No, I was just thinking out loud, you know….writing in my head.”
Late that night, I snuggle into my pillow. Bill’s steady snoring lulls my mind into the misty land of dreams; when I sense something jumping up and down on my pillow.
Wake up! Wake up! I know what you can write about. I have the perfect idea. You can write about me, Quixy the Great Imaginator!
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