writer’s group. 1.0

out here we sometimes get together on saturday nights and write some things. i think maybe i’ll start posting a few of those things up here. this is one from last week.

8.27.11  prompt: use the sentence ‘sand!’ someone shouted. ‘get some sand!’ at some point.

her pockets are filled with lima beans and grand intentions to smuggle them into the afternoon showing of annie get your gun. there’s really no reason to disallow the carrying of lima beans in ones’ pockets to a matinee,  though sally was sure someone would like to make a fuss of such a thing and defiant actions like this lima bean scheme are what keep her bobbing about in this crowd of tophats and not-too-cared for bees nest hairdos. is that what they call hair like that? no. beehive. bees make hives not nests and would certainly be pretty keen on these lima beans jangling about in sally’s pocket. she slips a couple of fingers in and pinches a bean at a time, letting the outer glossy layer bump one bean into the next. with each bean she thinks of a different sunset. no just thinking of a different sunset doesn’t quite do it. with each pinch of lima bean she becomes a different sunset as the crowd around her shuffles in line, slipping like quicksand through the theater doors.
sally was that one sunset back in college when she half-drunkenly scaled the old parking garage, reaching the peak just as the sun touched down and in that moment there were no stuffy noses or runny eggs or decisions or indecisions. and not just because this was a lima bean memory. it’s easy to become an old sunset and pretend it was perfect. but even the first time, long before the lima bean, that sundrop instant had no end.
sally is this sunset as she reaches the ticket booth and skiddles one lima bean under the ticket window and he tears her off an ‘admit one.’
‘admit what?’
‘all of it.’ he replies.
‘super. i’ve got nothing to hide.’ she says and feels boring and means: i’d like to keep finding these things i don’t know i’ve hidden and maybe you could help me out with that but i know that wanting you to help me out with that means that you can’t.
‘sand!’ someone shouts. ‘get some sand! this butter will clog in arteries but not theater isles!’
he sprints out the back door, thankful for the real life flood which will be much easier to contain than the one he nearly unleashed in sally. he grabs a sandbag on the way out and hefts it over his shoulder; the weight wobbles only a couple of his steps before he again finds balance.

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