Today’s Author, todaysauthor.wordpress.com, has been featured on “Freshly Pressed”, and I really like the layout. They have a pretty big team of writiers, and they’ve gathered quite a following. Along with prompts, they’ve been giving out a lot of useful information, especially now, during NaNoWriMo season. I certainly be reading up on that, as I will indeed attempt NaNoWriMo a 3rd time (probably next year). Since I’m choosing to focus on flash & short fiction this year, it’s their prompts that I’m most interested in.
Here’s their prompt for November 12. I played loose with it, and this came out:
Joe, being who and what he is, sipped at ice cold milk while I heated up my heart with sweet caffeine.
“Storm’s a coming.” It wasn’t any question, but Joe nodded anyways.
“Should start Monday, right before dawn.”
“Won’t be all bad as the ice of ’97 or the snap in ’05, will it?”
He sighed. Edna popped over, topped up my cuppa, and I tossled her sweet grey curls, in that way only I can get away with.
“It’ll be a big one. I’ll need your help spreading the word.”
“I can get out all the old generators too, make sure all the big houses got one.”
Joe nodded. “Yeah. We’ll have to make sure Ol’ Saint Mary’s has at least three working. Going to need lots of beds too.”
“Sounds like ’97 all over again. Well, thanks to your warning, I reckon we got outta that a lot better than most.”
“Wish I could stop it. It’s all part of Mother’s cycle, you know that Miles?”
“You are what you are. I’ve known ya long enough to see that.”
“A very Old Man,” he said, getting up from his empty glass. Edna came over, and Joe put a fair wad of bills in her wrinkly old hand.
“Oh, Joe Snow!” She smiled, bless her heart, but she couldn’t hide the shiver that came with touching Joe. Joe looked at her sheepishly.
“It’s enough for all you’ll need to get through. Least I can do.”
Joe and I left Edna’s little place in town square behind, walking out in the middle of the street. This time of day, in our little old town, there ain’t no one who’s going to run you over or even complain.
We stood in the street, our grey hairs blowing about in the breeze building up. We looked out toward the low sun, away from the wind.
“I’d offer you a place to stay for the storm, but I reckon you don’t need it.”
“My home’s coming here. You’d best get to yours, Miles, and give your wonderful Delilah a good kiss. There’s time yet afterwards to get ready.”
“You do your best to tone down the winter, Old Man. Give my regards to your Mother – hell, give Her all of our regards.”
“I’ll shorten it, soften it as much as She’ll let me. Least I can do.”