Yesterday I participated in the 24-hour free-write for the Carrot Ranch Rodeo 2018. If you don’t know what that is and would like to find out more and possibly enter the competition (which will probably be a fantastic learning experience!), you can check out the details here. There are more free-writes in September, so even though you may have missed yesterday’s, you can still do one or all of the others.
I do plan on doing all of them as long as circumstances permit. 297 words is out of my comfort zone of 100. 🙂 And, I’d also like to get out of the habit of feeling like I’m writing within the box rather than out of it. (I don’t know if that’s true or not. I’m never sure where the box is.)
I think this will also be a good opportunity to boost your (read: my) confidence as a writer.
If you do decide to join in the fun, best of luck to you. ❤️
Thanks to Charli Mills and all of the Rough Riders at Carrot Ranch. If you haven’t checked it out, do. It’s a tremendously supportive community of writers.
Here is my entry from yesterday.
We sit in a circle. To make us equal like the knights of the round table? Make it so we all can see each other’s scars? Determine who survived better?
“Adelaide, why don’t you begin?” Ah, the less equal one amongst us: Dr. Hearn, with black leather pad resting on crossed knee, black glasses perched on an ample nose, soothing voice with a hint of nasal suggesting a boroughs background.
The jagged scar on the right side of my face itches as the others stare. “This is my second climbing scar.”
Does Dr. Hearn realize her sigh is so audible? Shouldn’t she demonstrate patience and empathy?
I touch the puckered skin I know is bright pink. The doctor assured me it would fade in time, or I could opt for plastic surgery. On a box store sales associate’s salary?
“The rope slipped. I was on the face of El Capitan,” I say. Then I lift the leg of my yoga pants to show a thick pink scar. “This one was my first.”
“How?” the woman next to me whispers.
“I was climbing Mt. Rainier, and, you know, things happen.”
“Adelaide, you know the rules.”
I grin. “These are better stories.”
Dr. Hearn will stare at me until I tell truth. Their truth.
My good humor slips away. My arms fold across my chest, and I slouch. I don’t look anyone in the eye.
My finger lingers on my facial scar. “He broke a bottle, said he was going to kill me. He was tired of me mouthing off.”
The memory replays like a nightmare I can’t erase. His alcohol red eyes, slurring words, anger he’d inherited from his drunken father. I shudder, close my eyes, hear his primal scream as I toss the pot of boiling pasta.