Last night at writing group, we made a bowl of words. Each person drew six or seven words and used them in a seven-minute writing.
Trina wrote an excellent piece in the genre of Flash Fiction--a short story with all the elements of longer fiction compressed into one paragraph, a beginning, a middle and an end, along with great descriptions. I asked her if I could share it here and she said yes:
She hobbled to the bathroom and groggily peered into the mirror above the porcelain sink. Her face was a bloom of spectacular bruises. Black faded to purple faded to green and finally yellow. Her right eye was swollen shut. Her busted lip puffed out and she touched it gingerly, wincing as she did. The blood from this injury was a smear on her nightgown, its lacey ruffle torn and hanging from the hem. She turned from the sink and looked back into the bedroom. The aftermath of their argument had reached a new level. The room looked as bad as her face. Broken furniture, carpet blotted with blood, clothes strewn everywhere. And he was sleeping like a baby in a bed with no sheets. God only knew where they were. Limping to the nightstand on his side of the bed, she decided she was going to end this chaotic life. She pulled the gun from the drawer. The exhilaration was still coursing through her body when she called the police to confess.
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