Please note the plural in the subject line. Yes, I have managed to find myself in not only one but two writers groups. To be fair, both groups are run by the same person, Brent. However, the weekend group focuses more on emotional expression, or as I like to call it, play time. Brent provided four prompts and we wrote for five to ten minutes on each.
Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 1: Fear
The waiting room’s air conditioner was broken, obviously. Not only did she wipe the sweat from her forehead, pushing her brown bangs to the side, she saw several other patients waiting do the same. The rather plump man with the heavy metal band tee shirt had damp stains under his arms. He didn’t seem to mind, she thought to herself. He flipped through a men’s fitness magazine without much care.
“Rebecca?” The nurse’s voice was as pert as her smile, which annoyed Rebecca all the more. Her palms were damp, but it wasn’t from the heat. It wasn’t from the abundance of water she had been drinking in the last month. She slung her purse on her shoulder and folded her arms over her chest and walked into the doctor’s office.
“If you wait in here, the doctor will be in with the results.” She slipped Rebecca’s folder into the holder on examination room 3A. Se waited for the patient to enter.
“Can’t you tell me right now?” Rebecca refused to enter. She stopped short and stared at the nurse. She could feel the bump through her bra. She couldn’t decide if it felt bigger today or if it was just her imagination.
“The doctor will be by in a moment.” The nurse touched her shoulder gently, but gave it a firm push.
For a moment, Rebecca thought about punching her right in her sharp nose. She didn’t want to go into the room. She didn’t wait to wait. She felt like screaming until it all made sense. She was too young to be going through something like this. The doctor said so at the last examine. The surgeon said as much during the biopsy.
Too young. She hadn’t done anything with her life.
Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 2: Anger
His slap flipped the switch. She had sat with her legs folded under her in her favorite chair. A library book, covered in protective plastic covering, sat in her lap. Her white night gown kept her warm enough, even with the french doors to balcony open. Even in the wee hours of the night, she didn’t move to wrap up in her fluffy bathrobe or climb beneath the six hundred thread count covers of her master suit bed.
She waited, passing the time with a library book because Charles wouldn’t grant her a large allowance. According to him, she had enough for household bills, groceries, gas for the Cadillac Escalade he insist she drive, and clothes for all the parties and social functions he felt she needed. In her walk in closet, there wasn’t one pair of Manolo Blancs that weren’t purchased without Charles’ approval.
From the canopy bed to the Italian bathroom tile, everything in her life required Charles’ approval. But what Charles didn’t approve of was her asking where he had been all night and why didn’t he call. She learned that his disapproval came as a slap across her face.
He flipped a switch. He would find out what it meant to earn her disapproval.
Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 3
The first rule they teach you in mortuary science class is you can do everything wrong and you can’t get a pulse. The second thing they tell you is the dead don’t come back to life. It’s a hard, fact rule. And I’m not talking about the recently dead, still hooked to machines with doctors beating on their chests. I’m talking about the kind that have a sheet thrown over them or zipped up in a body bag type of dead. The dead that have evacuated their bowels and stomach because muscle control is long gone.
That kind of dead.
I had works for the Schultz Funeral home for less than a month when the incident happened. Being fresh meat, as the funeral home director Bob put it, I was on call. If a stiff needed picking up after 10:00 pm or before 8:00 am, my cell phone received a call and I would trudge into work for the meat wagon to head off to the hospital for the body. I would sign all the paperwork, check the toe tag, drive them back to work and slide them into one of the individual meat coolers to keep them fresh until Marg came in to do body fluid draining.
As I was tucking Mr. Simmons, ninety-one whose heart gave out after taking a viagra and watching an episode of Hot in Cleveland, in for the night, I thought I heard a noise. A moan. Maybe it was a creaking of some sort. I couldn’t be sure. And since I couldn’t be sure, my brain rationalized that I was hearing things. However, my stomach did a flip as I walked to the board to clip up Mr. Simmons paperwork.
I heard a banging sound. A meaty thump against metal that repeated over and and over. I turned back to the row of stainless steel refridgerators, I could see one of the doors shimmer as if it were shaking.
Thump. Thump. Thump. It repeated in sets of three over and over as I stood welded to the spot. I clipped the paper work as quietly as I could. I walked slow, making sure each step didn’t make a noise.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The door shook harder. The noise was louder. I was closer. I put my hand on the smooth, shiny handle. I felt the vibrations. Maybe they taught guidelines and not rules.
Writing Group - June 22, 2014 - Exercise 4: Enthusiam
“Yeah. Whatever.” She hadn’t heard what her mom said in the driver’s seat. It didn’t matter anyway because she could tell by the way the parked cars passed outside her window that they would end up in the back forty of the stadium’s parking. As she leaned against the passenger side, rear door, she could see that her makeup was flawless still: black eye shadow with black eyeliner, black lipstick with black blush. Her skin looked all the paler for it.
It had taken her three hours in the bathroom. Three hours of washing and re-applying so her brown eyes looked darker and her skinny face looked deader. If she hadn’t picked out her clothes and jewelry the night before, she would have never made it out the front door of her suburban home.
She shoved her hands in her black jacket pockets. A group of girls, some with pigtails sitting high on top of their heads, walked by in patten leather boots with six inch platforms on the bottom. They all smiled and held hands. One even skipped.
She sighed.
She pulled open the car door as soon as her mom parked. Another group of youngsters, all sporting the band’s tee shirt and black jeans, walked past. She pulled her hood up over her hair and slumped against the car. One of the boys, the one with his ear pierced with a spike, asked if anyone knew who was opening for the band.
She could’ve answered. She had all their albums, along with all the albums and imports from the band. She could’ve told them the release dates for each number one song on the alternative chart and why their music would never be mainstream. She could have told them the band members’ birthdates and hometowns.
She could have. But she didn’t. She leaned against the car and looked at her shoes while she waited for her mom to get it together. Her stomach tightened. She bit her lip to fight back the scream.
Expressive Writing Group doesn't critique or criticize. There is nothing but supportive, wonderful things to be said. And my ego-starved writer needs it. And like I said, it's play time.
The work week group does constructive criticize and has exercises that will help develop voice, grammar, story-telling skills, etc. It's much more serious group with the specific focus of being published (whether it's a traditional publication or self-publication). I haven't been to one of those in a while because the meetings fell on a night when hubby worked. However, after hearing my plight, Brent changed the date so it falls on nights my husband doesn't work so I could attend.
That made me feel good. The next meeting is next month. I'm combing through draft thirteen of the short story so I have something to present to the group. I'm nervous, but we'll see how it goes.
