Here’s the assignment: Your two-page story must be written in the THIRD PERSON, must be written in the PRESENT TENSE, and must be written entirely IN ACTION—what can be SEEN. No dialog. No inner thoughts. You are a camera.
Sitting in a large, LA Metro bus are three African-American girls. They sit towards the back of the bus, obvious to any of the other seats. Sharonda, is a bit more buxom than her counterparts, but still cute. She’s got a scrap piece of ribbon tied under her shoulder-length dark hair and flourished with a bow at the top of her head. She has a tight white t-shirt, short dark blue mini-skirt, black nylons that are shredded on purpose and then bright pink thigh-high pink boots. She fiddles with one of the giant bracelets on her arm and looks off to the side.
Then Sharonda starts picking at the shredded nylons, tying together some of the looser strands with the air of a delicate craftsman. She is thus engrossed when the bus stops. There’s a hiss as the hydraulic doors open and Jerry, a white 20something jumps on.
Jerry greets her as he stops in front of Sharonda, putting his butt in the face of her friend Lily. Jerry slips sunglasses on top of his head.
Sharonda blinks in response to his greeting. Her fingers hesitating over her thigh and she doesn’t respond for at least five seconds. Then the fingers fall into her lap, tightly interlaced together. Instead of greeting she merely inquires how he’s doing with a thin smile. He shrugs as he sits beside her she shifts slightly away. Her fingers wriggle out of the intertwinedness and she starts picking at her nylons again.
Jerry leans in, whispering in her ear. Sharonda doesn’t even look up. “No.” Her voice is flat, short and she continues tying. He attempts to say something again, but she ignores his questions.
It’s two months later, Sharonda is wearing a dark blue sweater, picking at dark black nylons without any holes. Once again she sits in the back of the rumbling orange Metra bus. She brushes back a stray hair, tucking it back into the silver ribbon that ties her hair off of her face.
Looking out the bus window Sharonda stares for a long time. The seats of the bus are nearly all empty, a couple of elderly folks dot the front of the bus. She furrows her eyebrows and squints out the window of the bus, then she looks at the LED sign at the front of the bus. Checking her purse she digs out a small Metra map and consults it.
With a small nod she pushes it back in the bag and picks up a single white rose and a thick envelop from the seat beside her. There’s a large, garishly decorated “sorry” handwritten on the envelop.
Sharonda sighs as she looks out the window again. The city gives away to rolling green hills covered with tiny gray headstones. An imposing gray stonewall is topped off with rings of barbwire. A large white sign, or at least it was probably supposed to be white, officially says Angel’s Cemetery. Unofficially the spray-painted parts of the sign mark it as Piru territory.
Sharonda picks up her rose and an overly photocopied bulletin with Jeremy Jones in a cursive font right above a series of dates. She stands by the back door of the bus, looking at the bulletin with a sigh. The bus doors hiss as the bus stops across from the cemetery.
Stepping off the bus Sharonda waits for it to pass. She stares at the bus as it leaves. Then steps off the curb and she heads towards the dark iron gates of Angel’s Cemetery.
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