I used to belong to a writer’s group ’til I joined a therapy group that caused a scheduling conflict (close call as to which is the better therapy, but the therapy group won out). We did great exercises at the writer’s group meetings, like the one where we wrote down four words, passed them to the left and that person had to make a story using the the words in ten minutes. I was cleaning house tonight and came across the piece I wrote with my four words (to the best of my recollection, my four words were red, diamond, turtle and feral). On re-reading the story, I liked it, so here it is. Maybe someday I’ll make a longer story out of it.
The moth, unsuspecting, circled the red flame. When it ignited, Jezebel sighed–regrettable that she had lost her one source of entertainment.
Being confined like this was wearing on her, she was no Nelson Mandela, and while torture so far had not been part of the picture, random scenes of violence popped into her head without the ballet of the moth to distract her. She heard the growl of a feral cat nearby, escalating to a steady whine–she amused herself by the thought that perhaps it was giving birth–if she had to suffer, so should the rest of God’s creatures. Her belly grumbled, and she felt a diamond stab of hunger. She was shaking again, and reaching for her crutch, stumbled at turtle’s pace across the room to the table where her negligible meal had been laid. Good thing she had gained a few pounds before they caught her, they had certainly evaporated by now.