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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Out from Under the Bed
by Tabitha Grace Smith

There’s nothing about Tola that screams of her importance. China white skin gleams except for a long dark smudge along her leg. Zosia touches the synthetic curls with a finger and lets her eyes lose focus. Tola’s eyes are blue, bright and unblinking. It was a while since Tola had been removed from her sacred cardboard box under the bed.

Holy, bright light jars Tola as she looks at the older woman who holds her.Tola is young and old at the same time; she tries to push out that thought from her head. Her eyes are always open. She’s seen everything. Never blinking, never shielding and never unseeing. Tola, for the first time, notices her nakedness.

Zosia clicks a tongue and touches Tola’s hand. Only Zosia knows Tola’s story. Sighing Zosia licks a thumb and runs it along the smudge on Tola’s porcelain skin. The dirt responds to the slight moisture.

Tola would shiver, but being a doll, she can’t.

“We need to get you a dress,” Zosia says softly.

Her voice is warm, but Tola can hear the slight breaks in it. The last time Tola had seen Zosia she had been young, tiny and moved like a chased rabbit. Tola thinks Zosia’s gray hair and crow printed eyes are merely curtain dressings on the soul. Behind the bespectacled eyes Tola can still see the little girl who snuck into her mother’s room and pulled Tola out. Zosia had been very young and there was longing in her touch that Tola could feel. Zosia’s mother returned and Tola had been put hurriedly back in place and not brought out again.

Tola knew Beata had died. The musty smell of the house sings the news. Beata believed the house should be clean and placed in order. And the sounds of the house tell Tola cleaning had not happened in a long time.

Zosia sets Tola on the hard, oak desk. Tola watches, again unblinking, as a shiny silver needle weaves in and out of a lacy material. Tola stands at attention, the amount of colors in the room astounding the senses. Reds, blues, whites all mix together and play off each other like a field of children. The laughter of their movement fills Tola with brightness.

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There’s something innate within all of my close friends that makes us want to be creative. I’m drawn to creative people. It can be music, art, writing, film making or knitting! Maybe it’s because I came from a highly creative family. We’re a long line of storytellers. It’s really the best thing for wanting to write. Plus you can do some really awesome things when you combine all of your talents!

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I never know what I’m going to write when I get a topic. Though I often try to puzzle it out before I start. Once fingertips are on keys it just comes (or doesn’t). But I often have the “jump to the end” mentality that tries to anticipate where my writing will go. It’s as if I’m a kid again opting to switch to the last chapter to find out what happens.

Yet, I never can. Very often in the middle of my final journey to the end of a story I realize that I knew nothing. My characters know everything. I’m, once again, a doofus.

So when handed a writing assignment in class I endeavor not to skip to the end. Yet, I couldn’t help myself. In the lull of conversations over dinner I find myself wondering. “What do I do with a drunken sailor?”

Only a writer, I imagine, has these thoughts. I know from experience most of the folks in my immediate life can’t put themselves in the eyes of a best friend, let alone a character in another historical time period, gender and culture.

But here I sit, fingers posed over keys trying to get into the mind of the imaginary Sanchez, the lazy and drunken ship’s cook for Cortez’ trip to Eastern Mexico. I’m trying to decide on voice and style and my own distance from the character. I’m trying to decide what a drunken ship’s cook in 1519 would say about Cortez deciding to scuttle the ships and burn them. Trying to decide what a drunken person would do in such a situation at all is a bit of a stretch.

What does one do with a drunken sailor? I’m not sure, but I can’t wait to find out.

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Talking about space and routine is kind of like asking what makes the sea come in and out. There’s something about telling me that the moon’s pull that causes the sea levels to change that takes the magic out of writing. And it truly is a magical experience. My routine is: I never realize that I’m writing until it’s done. It’s almost like the siren’s call that causes me to write. I could write for ten minutes, ten hours or even a full day and not realize that the world has passed me by. I write every day, it’s just never the same thing. I write on Twitter, I write about my cats, I write long emails, I write blogs, I write because I can’t “not write”.

My writing space is here. In the moment and now. I write wherever I am. I feel comfortable writing in the middle of chaos or at home where two cats vy for my attention. I’ve written cross legged in the middle of the floor at a convention. I’ve written sitting on a rock by the ocean. One of my current favorite audio drama scripts I wrote in the middle of a large thanksgiving dinner. My space is my laptop and a warm cat. I get teased often that my laptop is glued to my body, but is an extension of my being. It doesn’t have to be my own laptop, though the words start easier on my own. It’s been a close friend for years and it knows all of my secrets. One of my co-workers once told a fellow co-worker, “all your problems today have been solved by God, a computer and Tabz.” And really, that’s what it’s all about.

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It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, but really it’s more of a real life comedy. Here I am in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania attending a intense week of writer’s bootcamp. That would be fine if it wasn’t for the fact that I am in the middle of snow and ice and freezing temperatures. Thankfully I am not alone in my distress. My roommate for the 10 days and another fellow beginner are all from California.

So we trudge through the snow, wear big coats and funny earmuffs and get laughed at for thinking the weather is cold (apparently it’s not THAT cold from what everyone says), but my idea of cold at this present juncture is 58. Thankfully I was somewhat prepared after going to Moody. I know what cold is. But I never got used to it. I am just not an extreme temperature kind of gal.

Other than that, so far so good. Can’t wait to see what the rest of the week holds since yesterday was kind of a “intro” day. And I never do good with “lets get everyone on the same page” kind of days.

~ Tabz, the frozen one.

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Just something I designed to bring something extra to “the Tardis” (my Macbook).

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(another writing assignment – this time based on my reading of Stephen King’s book “On Writing” in which, on pages 34-35 he says: “…I’m glad. I am, when you stop to think of it, a member of a fairly select group: the final handful of American novelists who learned to read and write before they learned to eat a daily helping of video b.s. This might not be important. On the other hand, if you’re just starting out as a writer, you could do worse than strip your television’s electric plug-wire, wrap a spike around it, and then stick it back into the wall. See what blows and how far.”)

Dear Mr. Stephen King,

While I admire your writing and your success (as twisted as your stories themselves may be) and couldn’t imagine anyone denying your claims to fame, I do feel it necessary to balk at your suggestion that writers should not watch television (though, I will again admit how funny the twisted suggestion was).

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[From my "writer's journal" for grad school - Tabz]

I’m not a fan of rules. I’ve found that to be true when I read how to books. My back goes up when they tell me “you must”. I’m not entirely sure why this is true. Maybe it’s a rebellious nature, curled out of nothing. I was usually a rule-keeper when I was growing up. I kept rules, I whistle-blew on folks who didn’t keep rules and I was very happy about it. But not anymore.

For example, I’m fairly sure the good folks at Wilkes want me to keep an actual notebook. Something that feels like paper and tangible. Not, the hard cold light of a virtual document in my laptop. Truth is though — my laptop IS my notebook. It’s an old friend that follows me everywhere. I’m rarely without it. I’ve just realized I hate this font.

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