B Writes Fiction

Hey, I’ve missed you readers! You haven’t heard from me in awhile, but not because I haven’t been writing. I’ve been writing a lot! More than two thousand words a week actually! And now I actually feel like a writer! A for real writer!

This semester one of my classes is a fiction writing class, and you know what? I LOVE IT!!! Each week we are assigned to write the first page of a short story while following a prompt with narrative crafts we learned that week. It is actually the most fun I have had while writing in, well, ever! So…I decided to share some of my fiction writing with you! Love it, hate it, read it, delete it, do whatever you want with it. It doesn’t matter because, it ain’t even true!


Story one prompt – Juggling Craft: The setting should be a physical activity you are familiar with. Use 3 terms specific to that activity. Switch back and forth 3 times from physical activity to internal emotion. Include a flashback and a song lyric.

“Silly Rage” 

“Jab, jab, cross.”
“Jab, jab, cross.”
“Switch feet.”
Jericho’s commands ricocheted through the temperature-controlled, modernesque, yet somehow still musty smelling gym. The other housewives and I wipe our sweat with our overpriced custom boxing gloves as Jericho torches us through another warm-up. This is the Thursday class. It goes unsaid, but you have to be accepted into the Thursday class and everyone knows you can be dropped to Tuesday in an instant. For the Thursday class, we all arrive in our white Mercedes’, a Louis bag on our shoulder, and our perfectly peaked high ponytails swish back and forth just so as we kick and punch and spar for an hour and a half. We were all one failed marriage, one bankruptcy, or one bad year away from Tuesday. I dare them. I really think I belong in the Tuesday class with the working mom’s anyway. Maybe I will try and switch. Let the gossip start flowing like their pinot after dinner.
I don’t have to listen to the commands anymore; I’ve been taking this class since the kids started school. I needed something to do while the house was so quiet, and someplace to get out this silly rage.
“Hook, uppercut.”
“Hook, uppercut.”
“Now move to your bags for kicks.”
Silly rage. When was the first time he used this fun little phrase? Oh, that’s right, it was right after I backed into his brand new Chevy truck when he told me I was too outspoken at his company Christmas party. Silly woman. Silly rage. Driving home that night he was different than I’d ever seen him. It doesn’t take long for someone’s true colors to start showing.
“A little chatty tonight weren’t you, babe?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but said let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again. He dropped it, expecting that to be enough of a warning. The warnings worked for his first wife, didn’t they? I’m sure he thought I’d straighten right up and enjoy my pretty new life.
Bless his heart, he didn’t know then, but I couldn’t just let that go. And that’s when it started to come out. Silly rage.
“Alright ladies, let’s take it to the center for sparring. Get a partner.”
I picked Autumn again because she was about my size and about my speed. We could feel each other’s rhythms and she pushes back hard. Jericho gives us time to shake off the little nerves that come with throwing punches and taking a few. She glances up at the clock waiting for the secondhand and then gives us the go ahead.
Autumn and I start our sparring bout. I’m in my head today, and am not ready for her fast right hook. I don’t duck and she catches me right across the face. The feigned concern is thicker than the extensions in their hair as the housewives rush over to see the blood pouring from my nose. I catch the music playing over the gym radio and Taylor Swift was reading my mind. “You need to calm down, you’re being too loud.”
“Would someone please get me a towel?”

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