Apr 9, 2014

Weekly Writing Challenge Debut

Weekly Writing Challenge 4.9.2014



Set your timer to 10 minutes and start writing. Your opening sentence should be

I remember the first time I ....



Remember you can write in any style or format. When you are finished cut and paste your 10 min piece in the comment thread below OR put a link to your own blog or area where you write online.

24 comments:

  1. I remember the first time I held him in my arms. He climbed out of the pet crate after his flight from Tokushima. Head popping out and shoulders following hesitantly. It was love at first sight. Well, second sight I guess as I had already fallen in love from his internet photos sent to me weeks before in cryptic emails.

    He was almost a she and a totally different little soul. I was supposed to adopt Chloe a 1 1/2 year old female frenchie. But after getting all excited about being a new dog owner and removing her from a home that seemed fraught with allergy related tensions the offer was rescinded. needless to say I was pissed off. So Chloe's owner tried to come up with a solution. I had been so ready to adopt. Already had dog toys, a crate and puppy chow. So she introduced me to the Frenchie breeder in Shikoku. It seemed a good sign since my first three years in japan were spent on that same island.

    So I chose from two puppies- by photo alone. A little girl and my little fella. It was an easy choice. His big bat like ears and peaceful expression made me swoon. So emails went back and forth and we arranged his flight to Tokyo.

    I left for Haneda- all a bundle of nerves. And then went to find the shipping and cargo area. There was so much noise and I heard a dog barking insecently in the background. I was sure it was my new friend and I already started worrying about what the neighbors would say!

    There were pages of paper work and then finally after about 45 minutes they brought out a small crate, very heavy and wrapped in blankets with air holes. The barking as still going on somewhere else in the terminal so I realized it was not my new dog. In fact the crate was silent except for loud nose-breathing noises. I was afraid to open it up at the airport (looking back I have no idea why I didn't) So I got in a cab and headed home. The weight of the carrier surprising because it was small.

    I came into our place. My Husband waiting expectantly. The crate was totally silent as I cut the tape and straps from around the small prison. What he must have been thinking, and how scared he must have been. But such a brave little guy. the reason the box had been so heavy is that he was much too big for the size of the crate. He could only lay down. I felt horrible that he had had to wait so long.

    His head popped out. And he looked around, and then looked at me, and I was undone. I scooped him up in my arms and he licked my face. That first day was full of challenges but we quickly fell for each other and I can't really remember much of anything else. 4 years later- he is my constant companion and he makes every day amazing in some small way.


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    1. I love your last paragraph. Straightforward with no embellishment, but you show in simple language how love can take hold.

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  2. I remember the first time I'd ever seen a Caucasian. I think I was three or four, and back then, even in Tokyo, a white gaijin was a rare sight. The tall, thin, fair-haired man with a beard and a mustache was stuffing his groceries into a plastic bag next to my mom at one of the stands near the cashiers at a neighborhood store. I don't remember thinking anything; I do remember standing very close to him, possibly with my mouth open. He let me gawk up at him until he flashed a smile and winked at me as he turned on his heel to head for the exit.

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    1. I like the vividness of the memory even though it was short. The wink is great!

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  3. I remember the first time
    I sat in a circle
    With others who bent heads to paper
    In concentrated concentration
    On a shared beginning,
    A similar journey, perhaps,
    To very different places.

    Their words stemming from thoughts
    Stemming from feelings, from experiences
    That could only be shared if there were words to share them,
    And would only be shared if those words were shared.

    My hands shook
    Long before my turn came to read,
    And though I tried to focus
    On keeping them still, there was
    A catch in my voice as I said,
    "I'm not sure this is what...",
    And then apologised for apologising, and opened my mouth
    For the words to come out.

    I'm not sorry I did.
    I forget what it was that I said,
    But I remember leaving with fire in my belly
    And steel in my spine,
    And pleasure and purpose
    In my voice, in being heard, in being understood.

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    1. Wow thank you for sharing then AND now.

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  4. I remember the first time I set out writing, emboldened with dreams of dragons and princesses. I dug deep into my trove of clichés and verbs, little knowing their employment would render my prose an absurd amalgamation of sub-conscious thoughts. These early days led to thousands upon thousands of words on the page, and without any conventions ruling my story, I saw no need to buff the Back Space key into oblivion. I remember learning from mistakes and hearing my voice, and planning and plotting and sculpting a heroine; oh, to think my novel should evolve as it has, from listing high fantasy tropes to laying out slow-burning prose surrounding a Victorian murder!

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    1. love it! thank you for joining in! There is a theme under pinning all our memories about writing and imagination. And connection. nicely written.

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  5. I remember the first time that I did it. I was nervous. Heck, aren't we all nervous when it comes to this sort of thing? Of course I was also excited as I slowly removed my clothes, and felt the cool air on my bare skin. This was it. I was going to be a grown-up at last. Of course, I was also a little shy about doing it. I gave myself some more courage by telling myself that maybe it was going to be a little hard for me the first time, but it was going to be a lot of fun. Everyone told me that it was fun. Otherwise, what would people do it?

    I'd been building up to this, and I wasn't going to let the chance slip away, not when it was as close as this. I looked through a crack in the door, and shivered with anticipation. Sarah was already there, standing, waiting. Her bare legs were tanned. I'd never really noticed before how long they were, and what a wonderful shape they were. Why hadn't I?

    "Come on," she called. "I'm ready. Where are you?"

    "Coming," I called back, opening the door, and walked towards her.

    She took me by the hand. "It's the first time you've been swimming in the grown-ups' pool, isn't it? Excited?"

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  6. sorry - p1 last line "Otherwise, why would people do it?" (not what)

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  7. thanks for posting! Love the little sensory details! nice

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  8. I remember the first time I knew it was more than lust. You fed me strawberries and put a cold cloth on my fevered forehead. You tucked the blanket around my toes as my body shivered and burned. You turned out the light and tiptoed away, gently sliding the door behind you.
    I can't honestly say I stamped our relationship with indelible ink in that moment but I knew something deeper had begun and rather then making me want to run, I sunk into it. I let this feeling in and when the fever broke, you were there smiling and concerned. And I was thinking about matching tattoos.

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    1. Loved all the feelings and sensations in this one!

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  9. I Remember the First Time
    I remember the first time I felt someone’s faith. It hit me with such strength and speed that it seemed to penetrate the pores of my skin, travel through my bloodstream and fill my lungs until I could only gasp – a single surprised expulsion of air that left me struggling for more. The saffron-robed monks kneeled in their stillness, intoning their single syllable over and over again as it expanded to fill the space, as it hummed through the air and shook my world. When I stepped through the door, they cast me a quick look of acceptance. But, though, I lightly touched down with hesitant feet was I trampling on their ritual, was I placing a footprint stain on their beliefs with each step? I, the non-believer? I can still smell the exotic mix of musky incense, flowers and melting wax with burning wicks, and still see the semi-darkness with its shimmering shafts of light and dust motes floating lazily about. I can still see the light glancing off the golden urns, man-sized candlesticks and bowls of purifying water, and see it glinting off the gentle planes of their gentle Buddha. The force of their belief drove me away. I ran with tears threatening to stream down my face hidden behind my dark brown, over-sized sunglasses that offered me my only protection. They say faith can move mountains. That day, I believed it could.

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    1. I love the image of "man sized candle sticks"

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  10. I remember the first time I let my brother pick me up after a baseball practice. I was always a starting member of Walnut Street Cubs, the heroes for 8-year-olds and younger kids at my school, before they find out the neighboring Little Zebras could squish us in the first few innings. My brother was ten years older than me, a Cubs veteran, who garnered much attention in high school as a star swimming and soccer player, but still remained humble and a nice big brother to me.

    He had been begging our parents if he could pick me up after school, for like a year. What a nice brother, right? Normally, an 18-year-old would curse and kick away a younger sibling trying to trail behind. But no, not my brother Nick. Finally, our mother said alright, and so he swirved into our grade school parking lot on that Thursday late afternoon, in a used VW Beetle (yellow, a man’s got do with what he can get), and told me to hop in the back after getting off all dirt off of my spikes. I crawled into the back seat, pushing away a big plastic bag filled with salty and moist beach towel and a deflated red beach ball. That was when I first met Sandy.

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    1. I love this as a beginning/ and the colors and images are great. I can really see the yellow vw and the the dirt on your cleats.

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  11. I remember the first time. It clings to my heart like a shadow haunts a tree. Rain or shine, night or day, it will never be free of it. And neither will I.

    I remember, and sometimes it hurts so much I can barely breathe because the air is too thick with the smell of sick, sweat, and blood. I close my eyes and his eyes stare back at me . Eyes so wide the whites glisten. Dark stains on my hands that only I can see scream in outrage. Coat my skin like mud.

    I wish I could say that it was an accident, or the work of some sick fate that forced my hand. The man came at me, it was self-defense. Better yet it wasn't me at all.

    I remember the first time I killed a man. I wish I could say that it was the last time.

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  12. I remember the first time I saw one of my siblings get hurt. Not just a little hurt- a scratch or bruise was so common to a house with a big yard and four kids who ran about, tumbling over each other and down staircases. No, I mean really hurt, hand slammed in the car door accidentally even though we weren’t supposed to be playing there kind of hurt. There was a lot of blood for such a tiny little girl. I remember that she shrieked and R. scooped her up, looking comically small even though I always thought of her as such a strong and capable older sister. We rushed L. to my mother and all I could think was that R. had blood running down the back of her shirt and it was one of her favorite t-shirts. I remember thinking about this because I could not think about the fact that my little sister was hurt. It is still like this. An injury to my siblings hurts more than any scrape on my own body. Sticks and stones may break my bones but a scratch on my little sister’s arm sends bile coursing through my veins instead of blood. I would rather get paper cuts under my nails everyday than see tears rise in my brother’s eyes. The only times I have ever woken up crying is when I have a dream that they have died. It makes the world fold in on the corners, like a tissue that’s been set on fire. My heart is a shrine to our childhood together and I don’t want to turn it into a graveyard. I think I must die first so I do not have to see them be in pain and then I think I must die last because I cannot be the thing that causes them pain.

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    1. Such well conveyed strong emotions! These feelings are always hard to capture in words. Well done- I especially liked this image...
      "four kids who ran about, tumbling over each other and down staircases"

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  13. Sorry, I might have posted way too many posts cause it didn't seem to work.
    --
    I remember the first time I cried over a boy.
    It was a few years back when I had just returned from my trip back home.
    This guy with soft blond hair and eyes that I swore in which I could have melted.
    I remember we sat on this bench outside the club far away from the city. The midnight sky was a canvas of black ink and silver glitters. There were a few fireflies surrounding us, trying to escape from the remain heat of that summer. We met for the second time in half a year.
    The first had been when he was new to the city and I was about to leave.The second was that time we ended up ditching all my other friends and went to sit together underneath this abandoned gazebo outside a club.
    He told me the lines every boy was supposed to tell a girl. He told me I was beautiful and he wanted my number. He told me we could have done what other couples who left their friends normally did. But we didn't. We talked and he held my hands. We laughed and he pulled me closer, putting his arm around my waist.
    My heart was so new to this alien feeling of wanting more, of happiness and butterflies. Every beat was another push towards something new and exciting. Or so I had hoped.
    We had breakfast together at this bakery he loved when the sky was still a lingering color of gray. He took me home and we hugged good bye...

    Summer hadn't ended when I left the city again.
    The boy was gone from my life, quick and sudden like when he entered it. I cried myself to sleep every so often afterwards.
    I had thought I couldn't fall for anyone like I had for him. Time and another boy with soft hair and a mischievous grin proved me wrong.
    But on that summer night under the starry sky, I really thought I was special. And for that, I am thankful.

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    1. lovely images of young love. so iconic and yet so personal.

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