What can a writer’s mind come up with a sentence, a word and a photo?
This month’s torture—err, assignment at Scene13 Blog was Flash Fiction. Our task was to take the first sentence of the book we’re currently reading, pull the LAST noun from that sentence, google it and write a scene about the first picture that showed from that word.
The book I’m currently reading is While We Were Watching Downton Abbey by Wendy Wax. This book, I highly recommend. I’m almost finished with it, just passed the “OMG I can’t believe that happened…” moment and from the first page, I haven’t wanted to put the book down. It’s also set in Atlanta, which is a city I used to live in and LOVE, and after a recent vacation there, I’m still enamored of it. So the setting is a plus. But the book is about 3 women who all live in the same building, but have very, very different lives — and very different expectations about each other’s lives. It’s a great story of feelings, belief in yourself… all with the easy, readable style of your favorite contemporary women’s fiction. A definite “worth reading.”
Anyway…I digress. From that book, my first sentence was: As a child Samantha Jackson Davis loved fairy tales as much as the next girl.
My word? Girl.
My image?
So what did I write? One scene, based on this photo.
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Was that man watching her?
Evie’s fingers tightened around the cool orange she had just lifted from a street vendor’s basket. Spider legs of wariness crawled up her neck, a feeling that had become an old friend. She had thought…no, hoped, this time would be different.
Adrenaline shot through her, negating the desperation she’d felt for food, for something to fill her stomach and keep her going just moments ago. She turned around and strolled down the dirty, busy walkway of Covent Gardens. There was an alley just steps away she could slip into and—
“Miss, ye must pay fer that!” someone yelled after her.
Evie looked at the orange in her hand, and her heart jumped. “Here.” She handed it back. “I’m sorry.” She glanced behind her.
Blast.
He was following her. He was watching her.
How far was it to her tiny little room? Could she run fast enough, hide from him long enough to gather her belongings? Stupid, stupid girl! She shook her head, hurried her gait. She’d grown too comfortable. Too confident that in the fog, dirt and crime-ridden streets of London, she would blend in with every other dark-haired, orphaned waif.
Who had they sent this time? It wasn’t a face she recognized, not a family member of the very esteemed, old-as-dirt noble family from whom she ran. But a pain settled inside of her heart just the same. If they had found her again, then it meant he had betrayed her.
Sending him–the boy she had loved her entire life–to force her return had been cruel.
And brilliant.
And just like the family she abhorred.
She refused to marry their heir, their golden child, no matter how many people they sent after her. She would just have to run again.
The alleyway was just around the corner, and she hurried toward it. Two steps and she could—
A hand landed on her arm, skidded her to a stop. She fought the urge to scream and turned around instead.
Dread melted her bones into a puddle of fear at the cruel smile of the man in front of her.
“At last,” he drawled. His fingers curled like talons around her arm, a purposeful move intended to make her aware that he’d stolen her freedom. “We meet again.”
originally posted on: http://scene13ers.wordpress.com/2013/09/08/flash-fiction-scene-we-meet-again/