You have been doing great work. 

Your new challenge:  Send it out.  Post samples of your story in the comments on this  Go to comments, paste a bit of your story up to 3000 characters.  See yourself in print.


  • Here’s the whole story that I couldn’t finish reading in class:

    If only Mom had never stepped foot in a glider. If she had stayed with the dirt and sweat of horses, the arena grounds. A horse is only a few feet high, and Christopher Reeves notwithstanding so few folks die for love of horses. Pilots, grey-eyed like Mom when she thought of the sky, alone with her thoughts and the silent movement of slick wings through hot rising columns of air. Mom, so in need of peace and a moment to think.

    On that morning, was she thinking? A power plane is not quiet like a glider, and Joe our tow-pilot, a man of few words, could he hear her wonderful laugh? Did she have time to think? I’ve never worked out how many seconds a fifty foot dead drop is. My heart is hollow enough already.  Mysti Berry,  San Francisco, CA

    Mysti BerryMay 30, 2008
  • At the spa, people came running out looking at the car half in and half out of the building. Some with their faces covered in mud masques, others in only towels. The front end of the once beautiful blue ’66 Mustang hung sadly in the window while its back end was showered by the fire hydrant’s shooting spray. A young woman wobbled out of the driver’s side, stumbling.

    “I don’t know what happened,” she cried, tears streaming down her face.

    “It was like it had a mind of its own and headed straight for the hydrant.”

    The spa goers looked over the college girl with the blond hair and vacant eyes and nodded wisely as they headed back inside.

    The police arrived on the scene shortly and then the tow truck. As the driver of the tow truck mounted the car up, he could have sworn he heard a sigh of contentment.

    And he would have been right. For many years, the car was such a wondrous machine. She was a souped up ’66 metallic blue orgasm for her first driver. He lavished love on her, cleaning her religiously every weekend. He never forgot a maintenance check and her oil was changed every 3500 miles, if not sooner. The car had felt contentment.

    When her first driver died, the car based down a line of owners, each one more a driver than an owner. The last one had been the worst. No cleaning, no oil changes. The car felt sick and dying. Brine and ice hung off her, salt marred her paint job. She could not take it anymore. In a desperate attempt to feel alive again, she drove herself into the fire hydrant, her first accident ever.

    The car eventually wound up at the junk yard. There she sat for years. She waited as the years passed, if not happy at least resigned to her fate.

    A young man tripped his way around car parts as he walked up the aisle where she was parked. The car watched him, mildly curious. Then it happened. He saw her. When he looked at her, she saw love at first sight. Cash traded hands and her new driver ran his hands down her sides.

    “Metallic blue, I think”, said the young man. As she took another trip on the tow truck, her life began again…with someone who loved her.  Libby Mitchell,  Garland, TX

    Libby MitchellMay 30, 2008
  • Thanks Misti for completing this writing and posting it.  This is a powerful moment.  I appreciate your bravery in addressing it and your courage to share it.

    How great having you in our workshop in Santa Fe.  Thanks so much for all of your contributions.  Let’s stay in touch.  Do post more of your writing.    Anne

    Soup Kitchen WritingJune 2, 2008
  • Libby,  Great hearing your work in Santa Fe and to hear about some of the connections you made there.  I love this story about  treasured car. 

    How great having you in our workshop in Santa Fe.  Thanks so much for all of your contributions.  Let’s stay in touch.  You can subscribe to this block by clicking subscribe in the comments.  Do post more of your writing.   Anne

    Soup Kitchen WritingJune 2, 2008

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