The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: when push comes to shove.
Long day, with an early start tomorrow morning for the farmers market. So I'll just get to it tonight.
Mine:
She picked up the knife and fork that had been laid before her and took a long, slow breath. So it had come to this. There was nothing else to eat in the house, and all the stores in town were closed until morning.
After a final shudder of revulsion, she stabbed the Spam with her fork and began to cut.
3 comments:
Ouch, your poor protagonist today. Down to eating pink, wobbly luncheon meat!
Good luck with the market, I hope it's a good one for you and there's no left-over solitary apples to bring home!
When push comes to shove
The engine gave out one turn from the peak of Sixticton's little mountain, and Alf climbed out, ignoring his wife's jeers and unhelpful comments, and got on with pushing. After a couple more raspberries and snide remarks Ethel heaved her bulk – a far cry from the trim, sexy dancer he'd married just eighteen months ago – into the driver's seat and conceded that she might steer.
"Push harder, you lazy ass!" she yelled, not seeing the look of anger on Alf's face.
So at the top, where the view was magnificent and the safety rail was gone from the fires earlier in the year, push came to shove and the car – and Ethel – went over the edge in a beautiful, sparkling arc.
Even though his feet were rubbed raw and he could feel his blood congealing around his toes, staining his skin, he continued to run. He needed to get away from the horrors of the war. He didn’t want to stay in the camp anymore, learning how to shoot his friends’ parents and others his own age.
He just had to keep running until he reached a safe place or he couldn’t run anymore.
Greg - good for Alf. That's... pretty much all I have to say about this one.
Ivybennet - very powerful opening line, and those following did it justice. Nice work.
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