I woke on the first chilly morning of the Texas Autumn, made coffee, and sat down to see what I had missed since falling asleep early on Saturday night, by taking a look at what my friends had posted on Facebook while I had slept.
I was amused by an "myecard" share from a friend with whom I went to Elementary School:
As I shared this with an author friend of mine, Sue, I was intrigued by the thought that my elementary school friend, Sarah, might also be a writer. I scrolled down through the various posts and came upon yet another post from her:
Awesome, is it not? She had shared this from another Facebook page and in a follow-up comment, when asked by a friend, "What is it?" Sarah responded, "It looks like any number of unfinished stories waiting to be discovered."
The plot thickens! I thought, and so I commented.
Me: "Okay, Sarah, what is the deal with the story-writing theme?
"I mean, I am sitting here with my word processor up, and trying to decide which, if any, of my gazillion unfinished stories I may work on today, and this is the second such post from you I have seen. (Sidetracked by making a list of real-life people who have annoyed me, and so will be killed off in a story!)"
Sarah: "LOL @ Crews. I love this image. Any image that is so perfect in exposure, focus and lighting, AND is of such interesting, flawless artful composition as to make you wonder about it, is award winning photography. I get images from stories, and from really good images, I get stories.
"This one is about 125th of a second in time, maybe twice that, but it is somehow not that stagnant. It defies it's medium and moves forward suggesting a rather interesting series of events yet to unfold. And a complex back story.
"Go ahead, I challenge you to write it!"
The Cranberry and the Squirrel
The cranberry woke in the cold morning frost and, realizing its predicament, said, "Damn" and gave up its last. After fermenting there for about a week, the very squirrel which had gnawed its way, first into the attic, second into a box of my unfinished manuscripts, and finally into the papers themselves ventured out of the relative warmth of its winter nest and ate the sweet and strangely pungent cranberry. Minutes later, the effects of the fermentation took hold in a most unfortunate set of circumstance, as drunkenly the creature darted under the front right wheel of my car as I returned home from work. Clutched in its tiny paw was a mere scrap of paper from the box of manuscripts-turned-squirrel-nest. It read, "The Cranberry and the Squirrel."
Time for that second cup of coffee.