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.
Enjoy!
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.
SAMUEL PRESCOTT
(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!
~ ~ ~
1 comment:
Hehehe. LOL. Sounds like my muse, though I'm not saying her name. I think she's napping and I don't want to rouse her from sleep 'cause I want some rest tonight. *giggle*
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