Some more writing club fun. Writing something for the joy of writing. If you are a writer, you need a writing club, seriously. It's great fun to get together with other people that just love writing stories on the spot or talking endlessly about anything literary.
For me, it's a free for all write when I get that prompt. I don't have to write something pretty. Heck, I don't have to sell it to anyone. It might be serious, or rattling on ridiculous. It's pure intellectual or maybe stress relieving fun. I write to suit whatever the prompt is on the piece of paper pulled from the box.
When the time is up, we read and enjoy stories spiralling out from one common vantage point to a myriad of possibilities, some serious, some darkly funny or maybe light-hearted.
I admit this prompt was tough. Nothing came to mind immediately and I could hear the clock ticking and the time running out. This story came to me in a slow trickle at first.
Prompt: "A man can bring back the dead, but every time he does, his life span shortens."
Time: 25 minutes
Sparrows
The first time it happened, Harold hadn’t even known it was his fault. He’d been out for a run through town. There were a couple of kids playing in the yard. Harold waved as he passed by. The little terrier dropped the ball the kids just tossed it and ran across the street towards him. He hadn’t even noticed the car coming. There was thud and the dog lay still in the road. The kids were crying.
Even though the accident wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Kneeling down, he picked up the little wretch and carried it off the road. Harold had been sure the animal was dead as still as it was in his arms, but by the time he reached the sidewalk, the dog twitched. As he laid it down in the grass to check, children circling round. The dog yelped, opened its eyes, nipping at Harold’s hand, catching his thumb.
The children shrieked with joy and then started agape. Harold was busy wiping the bloody thumb on his t-shirt to think anything of it then. He carried on, seeing as the dog took after its ball again. That was the day his hair had turned gray.
Harold didn’t put two and two together until the starling hit the picture window, snapping its neck. The loud thwap drew him away from his crossword puzzle. Clearing up its little broken body, head dangling, he felt sorry for the poor thing. The bird suddenly struggled in Harold’s hands. Mortified as its neck swung back into place, he threw his hands up tossing the creature in the air. It flew away into the oak outside his home. Later one of his molars fell out in his hand as he brushed his teeth.
Next there was the dead rabbit in the flowerbed when he was planting tulip bulbs. The osteoarthritis set in. It put an end to jogging.
Around the same time, Harold found out his neighbour’s 5 year old son, Ben, was going for tests. The boy had been sick off and on for a while now. A week later there was talk around the block Ben had been diagnosed with some rare bone cancer. Poor kid, just started life and was getting pumped full of poisons on a regular basis.
Six months later, Harold donned his black suit. With a deep breath, he stood on the porch just enjoying the sunset leaning on his cane. The evening wind was warm and fresh. Rain was coming tomorrow his bones told him. Life carries on. More things grow wither and die with the seasons. He turned to lock the door, then paused and left it be.
He set out down the street for Hanson’s Funeral Home to pay his respects. What would be would be. If he could spare one more little sparrow…..
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