photo by darron birgenheier
I thought we would have a bit of fun today, to get us going for the week. Below, you will find a sentence to start our story…I will like you to add a sentence in the comments.
Read the sentences before yours…and you may want to refresh right before you post to make sure you are completely up to date…ha. Then add one sentence.
You can add it to the end, or inside the story to add more depth.
Feel free to come back and add more, or just read the composition that is developing. So let’s have at it.
Slapping shutters against house sides, the angry wind whistled by the ears of the man in the odd hat, though it barely stirred his gaze from the pitted concrete before him.
dVerse 
He hardly stirred, but with nervous hands he still fumbled with the soiled remains of a letter whose words had been branded to his skin.
his finger traced the postmark…nearly 15 years ago…the last time he…
had felt her whisper in his ear, had touched her hand before she gripped the pen ..
and wrote down just a few words that would change his life forever.
But alas the text in code only a secret to break in love or hate…
The hunt to find answers was just starting to make sense…
Days had been a search for clues, nights had been decoding the enigma of collected candy-wrapper scribbled notes.
it was a riddle that haunted his waking hours
but nights were worse, fueled by dilerium dreams of drowning in her raven hair
He turned his odd hat upside down and deepened inward…
for 15 years he had lived this nightmare, and now he clung to a mere sliver of sanity.
Ron and Becky were immersed in a vivid conversation about his day at the office when he took the corner a bit close, catching the man in his headlights a split second before…
the man dropped to his knees trying to interpret the scribbled letters in the cobblestones.
“hey, watchout!” Becky screamed, grabbing the wheel, sending the car onto the adjacent sidewalk, smashing into several trashcan before coming to a stop
Ron jumped out of the car, more concerned about the potential dent on his “baby” than he was about the man he had narrowly missed.
The man seemed to be praying while his grubby fingers traced a faint striation in the street.
Becky, concerned for the man, rounded the rear of the car, but drew up short at the bumper—entranced by the man on his knees, “Do you think we should check on him?”
“What are you doing here?” – cried Becky, with tears her voice sounded even more sexy to Ron.
“ER-37-BQ-6” is all that the man replied.
“He’s obviously crazy beck…or a star wars fan, spouting those droid names. Either way, you should stay back. DId you see what he did to my car?!?”
Bending down, Becky says “F5-R2-TS-E”, touching the tapered fingers of the man.
Creaky sounds of brake, loud voices drawn attention of people on the street.
The crowd grew, but one person pushed her way to the inner circle around the man ,seeming desperate to find what he was looking for..he looked up at her with tears in his eyes.
with tears streaming down his face, the man looked up at Becky and asked…
Ron rolled his eyes, Beck was always like this — caring more for others than…him. He turned away from her and began to buff at the scratches on the front of his car, telling all who began to gather how the man had caused him to wreck.
The old man, shaken, couldn’t make himself heard above the din of the gathering crowd. Becky ignored Ron and leaned in, listening for his word.
She touched his scraggy face, trying to coax the words out of him and noticed that he was pointing towards her pendant which clung on her neck by the cold silver chain and heard him say, “She is not dead.”
Becky stepped back. Not dead? she stammered. But…
Years later the man was often seen shuffling through the darkened streets to then bend low over pavements bathed in the glow of orange street lights or pause before a time worn wall. There he would write in a glorious, flowing copperplate script one single word – Eternity…
“Can we go somewhere to talk”, Becky gently beckoned to the man holding out her soft young hands. He hesitated for a moment wringing his hat like an old gym towel, his gaze darting back and forth between her pendant and her sea blue eyes. “10-4 gZ-7 -n1” he whispered. Then taking her hand they disappeared through the crowed.
Miley’s All-Nite Diner sees its fair share of characters each night. After the sun goes down, the freaks come out — Jen always chuckled when that thought ran through her head. And look, here comes an old man and a woman at least 40 years his younger.
The old man seemed no different from her general clientele, stooped with years of dusk in his frayed jacket, pockets filled with everything and nothing; the girl with night club glitz and fashion statement eyes, expensive high heel shoes and a dress for PI hours at the gym; here was a story to be told.
Slapping shutters against house sides, the angry wind whistled by the ears of the man in the odd hat, though it barely stirred his gaze from the pitted concrete before him.
The marker on the grave had been crudely made and was now, hidden by grass, tall and determined, as if it wished to hide the diseased face of the memory, and the words which had been crudely inscribed….
“Let’s sit here,” Becky gently prodded the man who had yet to say anything. He settled gently into the booth, candy wrapper still firmly between two fingers. “Would you like something to drink?” He still didn’t speak.
“I damn you to an eternity of reliving the worst days of your life”
I’m not sure you can damn, man.
Just then, a soft aura fills the room easing the lurking gloom, behind the eyes of dark doors a light of hope. “What will it be folks” ? Becky replies “Two coffees please” the man fumbles with the candy wrapper. Becky notices the lines on his face the journey has not been kind. A scar on his wrist now visible just as the hot mugs are placed on the table top adorned with plastic daisies in a vase. He removes his hat.
Then stirs at the beautiful blooms jar of assorted gerbera daisies with a cheerful sentiment; what shall I favorite this journey on? A Michaelmas daisy or a Shasta daisy?
“What’s your name,” Becky asks timidly, afraid of his response after the initial muttering.
“James.”