Saturday, December 28, 2013

Writing Prompt #1

Writing Prompt: Fall out of love, without using the word "love"

His kisses, his smile, his soft, husky voice made my insides quiver. Late at night we’d languish in each other’s arms and whisper we’d always be there for each other. He changed a washer on our dripping faucet, and grinned when I told him he was my rain and my sun. I’d throw vegetables and a roast into the crockpot before work, and he’d say he could hardly wait until we’d be together to eat it. He drained the gas from our mower when the bags of fall leaves were tossed onto the garbage truck in the misty dawn, saying I was brighter than autumn. When I’d duck into the cleaners to pick up his suits during the evening commute, he'd laugh and say I was his angel.

One day a note under the plastic covering the freshly pressed clothes indicated a stain could not be removed. Bright pink lipstick. Not mine.

At first I thought nothing of it, but he started to come home late, go to bed late. He complained he didn’t like pot roast. Long into the winter, the lawn-mower gas remained.

A dusting of snow slicked the roads. On my way home, my car slid into a ditch. I punched his number with shaky, cold fingers, listening to the ring until it went to voicemail. I tried again. Voicemail. The cold seeped through my jacket and my teeth chattered. I pressed redial.

“What do you want?” I heard the impatience in his growl. “I’m busy.”

“I slid into a d-ditch. It is going to be at least an hour for the t-tow truck.”


Okay? That was it? My eyes filled. “Will you c-come get me?”

“Wait for the tow,” he said. “I’m busy.”

In the headlights, the white snowflakes fell in silence, like my tears. Trucks rumbled past, making me balance against the wind of their wake. Adrift, I huddled into my jacket and shivered on the edge of the dark, icy street until the snow quieted the world.

He wasn't mine anymore. I was alone.


  1. Thanks Pam. I'm hoping to have something by our next critique meeting.

  2. Hmmm. Now what's she gonna do?

    1. What, are you saying I should continue this? I'd feel bad, because I think things would just get worse.

  3. #ivebeenthinking "Punched his number," sounds aggressive, mad. If she is shook up from sliding in the ditch and maybe this is also a figurative cry for help, maybe her fingers are shaking as she finds the right numbers. #justathought.

    Also, I didn't know you were supposed to drain the gas from the mower in winter. Have I been doing it wrong all these years?


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