Let's Do Dan's Writing Prompts
THIRTEEN
WRITING PROMPTS.
BY DAN WIENCEK
1.
Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.
***
Inside a bus, running red lights, a big bus, a city bus, there is a whoosh. It is the noise of a familiar bra and a dictionary open to the page containing the word "suspicion" beneath bus tires. As the bus rolls away, the dictionary flips to the page containing the word "accusation." It is the noise of specially-made, call them "surprise-gift," chocolate chip cookies left out on the pavement after something overheard before ringing the doorbell. Also, beneath bus tires, the cookies and the plate. It is the noise of going home, slamming the door, beneath the bus tires. It is the sound of the president's wife trying to convince him to read poetry. It is the last sounds of Joan of Arc. The only reason the sun, even at 93 million miles doesn't deafen us is because space is quiet. There is no atmosphere. The bus has atmosphere. It is, it's like opening a door into the street beneath traffic. The bus on its route has rolled over that door daily for two good years. It is two good years gone beneath the bus tires. It is the noise of late night text messages, telephone tones, pointing fingers. The bus runs all night. It is the noise of bus tires on pavement.
A red roadster passes the bus.
The bus halts.
The door opens. It is another kind of whoosh. Closes.
The bus pulls away into its noise.
***
Your turn.
WRITING PROMPTS.
BY DAN WIENCEK
1.
Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man's friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.
***
Inside a bus, running red lights, a big bus, a city bus, there is a whoosh. It is the noise of a familiar bra and a dictionary open to the page containing the word "suspicion" beneath bus tires. As the bus rolls away, the dictionary flips to the page containing the word "accusation." It is the noise of specially-made, call them "surprise-gift," chocolate chip cookies left out on the pavement after something overheard before ringing the doorbell. Also, beneath bus tires, the cookies and the plate. It is the noise of going home, slamming the door, beneath the bus tires. It is the sound of the president's wife trying to convince him to read poetry. It is the last sounds of Joan of Arc. The only reason the sun, even at 93 million miles doesn't deafen us is because space is quiet. There is no atmosphere. The bus has atmosphere. It is, it's like opening a door into the street beneath traffic. The bus on its route has rolled over that door daily for two good years. It is two good years gone beneath the bus tires. It is the noise of late night text messages, telephone tones, pointing fingers. The bus runs all night. It is the noise of bus tires on pavement.
A red roadster passes the bus.
The bus halts.
The door opens. It is another kind of whoosh. Closes.
The bus pulls away into its noise.
***
Your turn.
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