One of my writers' groups starts each monthly critique session with a different line chosen at random from pages of one sentence prompts. We never do the same prompt twice and allow less than a minute for each of us to write the prompt at the top of our pages. Then we have a firm five minutes to write the first thing that comes to mind. We read our responses to the group, with a combination of embarrassment, frustration, futility, or...very rarely...pride.
Today, I'll try something a little different and play detective with my only clues being the words on the page and my knowledge of the each author. Okay, I'll be cheating a little bit because I collected the responses via email and know the answers. But, even without remembering who read what aloud or seeing the emails, I'd be able to match respondent with response. My deductions will follow each prompt and may help you get to know my Pen Friends a little bit more. -cjh
~~~~
The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when…
...the student stood up.
The young man was silent. Silent, serious but not menacing, with eyes as black and shiny as obsidian.
The professor gestured for him to continue, then waited patiently. He understood indigenous people carried a deep well of silence that persisted even in their descendants.
During this pregnant silence, some students squirmed in their seats, others shot meaningful looks to their friends. The athletes, male and female, threw their heads back to take a long-awaited nap.
“You tell us,” the young man finally spoke, “our horses came here with the Europeans.”
“Yes,” the professor replied eagerly, glad that the conversation was about classwork.
“But you’re wrong.”
Students’ eyes widened, heads perked up.
“My people have always had horses.”
~~~~~
The Fishes’ Perch
The
professor stopped dead in the middle of the sentence when...
... a fish fell from the
ceiling onto the stage in front of where he stood.
The fish
was a large sea perch. The kind of perch that really no one cooked or ate at
all anymore because ocean stocks had dwindled so alarmingly.
The fact
that it had been a perch was vital to the unfolding investigation and figured
largely in the reason that two hours, twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds
later the professor was removed from the classroom in hand cuffs.
It fell to
detective Smith-Collins to untangle the market chain in order to follow back to
the origins of the perch.
Detective
S-C began with a walk around the desk where the professor had stood in
beginning his lecture.
“Why would
he have placed the fish above,” the detective asked no one in particular, while
looking up and stroking his goatee in that manner that drove his wife crazy.
He noticed
that not just one perch had been stored above in its’ lofty perch, but dozens
of other fishes, all of endangered species, were stored there as well. There
were rows of swordfish, cod, mussels and even salmon.
The first clue? The respondent sent their response neatly typed with a title! That was the dead giveaway that the author takes her writing and presentation very seriously. Only a freshly minted MFA recipient would take the meticulous steps to present a five minute work product with such care and a title! Geez!
The second clue? The subject matter. Sustainability issues and protecting endangered species, whether fish, fowl, or fauna, tipped the deductive scales to Elizabeth Rose. Elizabeth is writing a memoir of her travels to Guatemala to help people with issues surrounding poverty, farming, clean water, and literacy. She is a gladiator, and even a simple five minute prompt provided an outlet for her warrior spirit.
~~~~
The professor
stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when...
... the black shaggy pup scrambled
up the three short stairs to the stage. The class, afraid to be too disruptive,
twittered softly to one another.
The puppy
trotted proudly across the stage and sat, with ceremonious dignity on the foot
of the professor. The professor reached down and picked up the little fella. He
held him an arms length away from himself and with a look of disgust, asked, “To
Whom does this belong? Please claim him.”
At that point my
face had turned cherry red. I slipped out of my seat and approached the
stage…out of the corner of my eye I saw a squirt!
A puppy? Wholesome drama? A scene that could have been plucked from a Disney movie? Oh, yes. It must be Donna Burke Seim! Donna's recently launched, middle grade targeted, Cheeky and Charlemagne is populated with adorable animals and playful drama. I don't know how Donna does it, but each of her responses channels an innocence of another time, and you don't have to be a kid to love her writing or her books.
~~~~
The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when...
...he saw me standing in the doorway. I wasn't sure it was him, but when he stuttered over his words and blushed crimson, I was sure.
Thirty years and a lifetime, and now I had found him.
We were each other's first lovers when war tore us apart. He came back to a changed world. I had married. I had to marry, but I made the most of those years.
It took him all this time to emerge from the Hell war had torn into him.
It took this time for life to free me from a marriage that was fine, but without love.
When he stuttered, "C-c-class d-d-dismissed," we stood and looked at one another and the years vanished.
The class emptied and we stared.
I took a halting step forward. He said, in halting phrases, "I've been waiting."
Okay, no deduction here. This one is mine. Usually I try to have a murder or a crime be central to the prompt concept, but this time, I tried for love. Remember when I said that each writer or witness brings their own set of biases? Well, the readers do the same thing! I got a kick out of hearing the other writers were waiting for the narrator to kill the professor.
Does writing about love mean I'm losing my edge? I hope not. Killing people on pages is too much fun.
Does writing about love mean I'm losing my edge? I hope not. Killing people on pages is too much fun.
~~~~~~
The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when…
… that freakish-looking girl waddled in – more like swaggered, if you can imagine that – this big, wide girl, swaggering.
Well, good for her, I thought, studying her straight bangs that circled her head midway up the back of her scalp. Yipes! She had used a bowl, with that below, at the back, shaved. She took off her coat and was instantly more statuesque.
Professor’s face had gone red. He picked up his chalk piece – to send it from hand to hand – then shoved it in his pocket. “Are you quite comfortable, Miss - ”
“It’s MS, and no, I’ll need a minute to set up my desk. I once pinched the inside of my arm on one of these swivel tops.” She sat down then, after adjusting her leopard skin coat. Faux, I’m sure. No! there was a stain of orange paint – wet! I could smell it, edging
