Write About a Group of People Doing Something
Shore - Mike
Peter walked down to the edge of the water. Wind skimming the waves brought in the scent of brine and seaweed as they tossed bits of past life up on the shore - coral, crab claw, mussel shell. It was a comfortable spot where the ocean carved out a cove. He and Maddie had come down here so many times during their lives together, and now he was here with her for the last time. This time it was to fulfill her final request - to toss her ashes into the ocean.
It had been five years since she had closed her eyes for the last time. He’d never been good at letting go, but the guilt of not having honored the one thing she had asked of him overwhelmed him and he’d forced himself to make the journey. He sat down, planting the carved wooden box that held her ashes beside him in the sand. Carefully, he lifted the lid. The scree scree screeing of gulls flying into the shore on his left, like ambassadors from some foreign country beyond his imagination, drew his attention. And far down the beach he could see the form of two people holding hands walking away from him.
A rush of boys’ voices from behind made him turn sharply. First there was the image of boys in soccer shorts running towards him and in the same moment a ball coming directly to the spot where he was sitting. Before he could focus on what was happening, the ball hit the box, toppling it, ashes scattering over the sand. Voices sharpened. “Get it.” “Over there” “Out of my way.” Then knees, thighs, calves running past him.
Dazed, Peter jumped up and turned, “Damned kids.” But they were gone. The next voice was the rush of a wave coming towards him, not stopping at the shoreline but continuing up over his feet. He looked down to see black flakes swimming in the water, suspended momentarily and then withdrawing back into the ocean. He watched the retreating wave making one last gesture towards the shore. On its surface the brown box bobbed. Fighting the impulse to race toward it, Peter stood and began walking towards the parking lot.
The Coffee Shop - Maya
Alice glanced up as a gust of cold air swept into the coffee shop. Stepping through the open doorway was a man she didn’t recognize - and she recognized most of the customers here, being a regular herself. The stranger walked slowly toward the counter, his shoulders slightly slumped, his chin tilted downward. Alice examined the man. He appeared to be in his 50s, his graying hair unkept, his camel-colored coat looked far from clean and several sizes too big. The small backpack he carried appeared weathered. At the counter, the barista smiled and handed the man a coffee as he dug through his pocket counting out change. His coffee paid for with the coins he’d rummaged up, he turned and appeared to be scanning the room for an empty table. The stranger shifted side to side, looking uncomfortable, and Alice noticed that the only free seat was at a community table occupied by five other customers. The stranger hesitated before finally placing his mug on the table and lowering himself into the chair. He was seated next to a coffee shop regular that Alice knew only by his first name, Geoff, and his daily order, a double espresso with one sugar. As the stranger took a sip from his coffee, both hands tightly holding the mug as if to warm them up, Geoff sighed audibly and scooched to the far side of his seat. Looking at the stranger, he grabbed his phone from the table and placed it in his messenger bag. The stranger lowered his head and took another sip of coffee. Geoff sighed again, grabbed his bag, and stood up and walked away from the table. The stranger looked up, his gaze briefly seeming to notice Alice. He lowered his head again and took another sip of coffee.
The Awkward Conversation - Melissa
To describe the current situation as awkward silence would be an insult to the meaning of awkward. For that matter, you might be insulting the meaning of true silence as well. Paul contaminated the sound waves with a tedious nervous tapping as he swung his heel from side to side bumping it on the right leg of the seemingly undersized wooden dining chair. Mara sighed in cut time, syncopated to demonstrate her unrest over the unresolved and uncomfortable conversation. Caroline shifted in her chair, peering around the corner where her children lay sprawled out on their backs and bellies restlessly watching whatever distraction PBS kids could provide at 4PM on a Sunday afternoon in February. The adults were on borrowed time. It could be seconds, or minutes, but the two preschoolers would surely explode in discontent before things had been properly settled in the dining room.
Mara held her breath and headed back into the frontline: “Paul, it has nothing to do with being gay or straight!’ My mother diplomatically left out that it had everything to do with Paul’s husband Eric being a narcissistic asshole. She continued, “the timing for you two…doesn’t seem right. I mean.... you have so much time…your career is just taking off…you have years to think about adoption.” My mother sacrificed the truth. Betting on her chances to take home all of the winnings she stood her ground, knowing that it might pull her brother further from her yet. The payout would be in worth it, deterring Uncle Paul from further fusing his life with Eric’s while bringing along a child hostage. They had reached the impasse. But, stubborn as she was, my mother took a deep breath in and: “AHH-WAAH-HA-HA, AHH-WAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA”, just like that, my cousins closed out the conversation.
A Botched Incantation - Amelia
Faint, rapid scratching could be heard through the dark hovel, the source coming from a small grey rat scurrying across a ceiling beam. As the wood tapered to a splintered end, the rodent attempted a jump across to the next section, but narrowly missed, letting out a screech as it plummeted into the basket of chicken feathers below. It dug its claws into the container’s wicker sides, lifting its head up to see the ragged backs of three women.
The short one turned towards the basket, bending down to grab a photograph of a man from the floor. Brushing the dust off, she croaked to the remaining two, who stopped their quarreling and swiveled to lunge at the first. They fell to the ground grappling for the paper, and the sickly, dark-haired figure grasped the short one’s wrist, pulling with the maximum force she could exert. Her thin arms could not last more than a couple of seconds and her bony fingers began to slip, searching the air for something to grab. Skeleton-like limbs flailed into nearby jars and crates as she thumped onto the floor. Hairy and unwashed, the third woman yanked the torn cap off her scraggly hair, angrily clenching it into a fist to shake at the one on the floor, but the short woman stomped her foot, and the others collected themselves after exchanging scornful expressions.
The dirty woman fetched a large book from a wooden stool across the room, and they huddled around the only candle in the hut. After reading the open page, the three wandered around searching through the scattered containers, each returning to a large black pot in the middle of the room once finished. They took turns tossing their objects inside, while two creaky voices chanted in unison, trailed by a hesitant, off-beat murmur. As the recitation came to its climax, the short woman tossed in the photograph, the frail one poured in a bucket of water, and the unkempt threw in a lit match, which was put out immediately after hitting the water’s surface. A thin line of smoke floated up from the pot, followed by a hoarse scream. The women were nowhere to be found, instead three larger figures immediately jumped through dark. As they tussled, the dim light briefly cast on to their faces, revealing features strikingly similar to the man in the photograph.
