Saddest Picture In the World + Stuff for you, Cos I Like You.

I took this picture at Trout Run Park

They were just an abandoned pair of Crocs that blended in with the landscape such that I nearly didn’t see them.

Immediately, I started to tell myself the story of the person who used to wear those shoes, how they got there, why there was a ponytail holder just next to them.  The brownness of the scene struck me as sad and serene. And when the picture (that I took with my phone) came out so well, I wanted to share it with you, and to offer you this prompt:

In 500 words or fewer, tell me the story of those shoes.  Do it in the comments.  I’ll repost the really good ones on my blog next week with credit to you, and a link to your blog/social media/whatever; and if you share your email address, I’ll send you a free critique.

An Exciting New Thing

I want to invite you to Writer’s Boot Camp.

It’ll be a mind-bending day of all different sorts of writing activities.  You’ll push your comfort zones, engage in all manner of writing activities and exercises like Weight Training, Gimmie Twenty Words, Gimmie Twenty Sentences, Cross Country Writing, and of course there’ll be a groovy, mind-massaging lunch break.  Show up at 10, leave at 4 with a refreshed or revolutionized sense of yourself as a writer, of writing as a creative act, and some new ideas for getting motivated beyond Boot Camp.

You need a clip board, a few pens or pencils, a notebook or paper (at least 20 sheets), and a brown bag lunch or $5 to chip in on pizza.

The cost is low, $55, and you can pay the day of or via paypal, you’ll get instructions by email when you register.

The spot is Gallery #13 at The Pajama Factory, 1307 Park Ave. Williamsport. I’m teaming up with Susquehanna Life Magazine on this effort.

The first one will be November 4, it’s a Sunday.

You can register here.

Author: April Line Writing

Writing about whatever the f*ck I want.

5 thoughts on “Saddest Picture In the World + Stuff for you, Cos I Like You.”

  1. Thanks for the challenge. 405 words.

    She was born in a house more wood than metal, in a time of calm between nations. She grew in the smell of the old wood her cradle was crafted from. Halcyon green and garden hoses were the first memories she kept. Warm rain and the breath of dirt-hot fields were indelible from the time when she first learned to run.
    She always loved to run. She loved to just burst, legs a numb blur, carrying her to her whims. Fleeting and veering, belly laughs, just her and the sky, the clouds, the sun. As things became less simple, her running changed. She still ran; often, cherished the act, but more often now with hot cheeks and gray skies. No longer was she given to her whims, but led by the frenzy that drove her legs. Surly clouds occupied her sky, pressed her shoulders and picked at her youth. As the years accrued, she strained to remember what words like simple and content even referred to; felt like. Not every day, not every run was acid-in-stomach, just more than she wished.
    And as sure as nations will war, she grew older. The determined roots of worry and toil invaded her gut. The coiled into a cancer of doubt and a crisis of infirmity. With the most of what made her compromised, her legs slowed and the sun mocked instead of nourished.
    It took two weeks for her to sneer; three to steel, a month to decide.
    She woke Thursday morning to sun, poured a tumbler of whisky and walked to the creek behind the old house. She took a slow moment to relish the light on her cheeks. Taking an impossibly deept breath, she smelled grass and knew summer. And she ran.
    An impossible speed came to her. Even when she hit the water she was moving like light in outer space; effortless, mercurial. When she should have been climbing the opposite bank, instead, the surface of the creek became as the roof of a cave, icy and jagged-looking, opening to a world without weight and without cloud. Up or down, by now, were relative.
    She glimpsed just the corner of the farmhouse at an odd angle from her right periphery. And it was quiet.
    She was sure her arms and legs were moving, but she felt no resistance to the movement. She was calm. She was light. She was free.

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