Wednesday, 4 May 2022

#IWSG April 2022 - Writing from the heart - Ode to the Innocents - WEP Winners.

Hello there! Here we are again, time for the May IWSG. Hilarious how fast this year is going. 


The awesome co-hosts for the May 4 posting of the IWSG are Kim Elliott, Melissa Maygrove, Chemist Ken, Lee Lowery, and Nancy Gideon!

  Be sure to visit the

Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!! 

Each month there is an optional question:

May 4 question - It's the best of times; it's the worst of times. What are your writer highs (the good times)? And what are your writer lows (the crappy times)?

I'm going to do the question - sorta. To me, one of the highs of the writing life is writing from the heart. That's different to the sometimes cold-hearted plotting we do for a short story or a full-length novel. One of the reasons I love WEP is that I get to fire off a from-the-heart flash fiction in response to a prompt every second month. Really keeps me on my toes and I value the feedback from the WEP writers and anyone else who comes by and reads.

For the April WEP challenge for the Year of Music - A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall - I knew I was going to write from the POV of someone in that Mariupol theatre where at least 300 people died while sheltering, thinking the word 'Child' at both entrances would save them from the Russian missiles. Fat chance. Anyway, after reading the first-person accounts from people hiding there and in similar places, I studied the photographs that emerged and I imagined being one of those unfortunates and wrote the following story using a fully immersive POV. Why I'm reposting is that there were very few readers as the WEP numbers were down for whatever reason and virtually no one else came by. I know April is an impossibly busy blogger month. So, forgive me for wanting my story to reach a wider audience than I had in April. 

So, with a few edits, written from the heart, here is ...


Ode to the Innocents



I can’t move, I can’t think, I’m freezing.

Anastasiya gathers her overcoat around her, pulls her woollen hat over her ears, wriggles her toes in her stiff boots. There’s no room to stamp her feet. Bodies press against her from all sides.

Why didn’t she run when she had the chance? Was it her love for her country? Her reluctance to be parted from her remaining relatives, especially her brother who returned from Poland to fight after her mother died in the bombing? She has no answers, not even to herself. Glory to Ukraine.

Lord only knows how long she’s sat upright, huddled, with nothing to lean against. Her back feels like it’s breaking. But she's grateful to have escaped here after the bombing of her apartment block. Yelling and screaming, along with hundreds of her neighbours, empty handed, she’d stumbled through broken earth, tripped on broken glass, only just avoided being torn apart by sharp steel girders lying half buried in her path. But she made it here ...

... to the shelter. Dark as pitch. It separates them all as surely as it binds them together. She’s been inside the shelter for hours, days, weeks, she’s lost track of everything but the gradual warming of the atmosphere from the press of too many bodies against the coolness of the cement floor, the weeping walls. Their collective breath in the chilly room forms a moving fog. The faint aroma of fragrance, the smell of beer breath, the bitterness of stale cigarettes is by now woven into their clothes, hair and skin. Oh, how she longs for sunshine, for fresh air.

The mournful sharp notes of a Jew’s harp played by an old man sets her teeth on edge even though it’s no more than a whisper. The vibrations resonate with the beat of her heart. Her grandfather played the Jew’s harp. Now her grandfather is dead after picking up a gun and slipping away one night to fight the enemy. Her father played, but she has no idea if he’s dead or alive. The last she heard he was in an operation to take back a city in the south. Her brother was learning to play before war broke out. She wonders if he'll ever place it to his lips again. Glory to Ukraine.

She’s hyper conscious of every movement, each and every sound – the whimpering of small children and beloved dogs, the snores of the elderly exhausted by the sharp turn their lives have taken in a short time, the rustle of clothing as people try in vain to get more comfortable, the faint click of knitting needles as a middle-aged woman fashions a colourful  scarf to keep her son warm at the battlefront, the fragile stillness of the woman sitting nearby as she holds her breath, afraid to exhale.

Then … air raid sirens … muffled gasps as the missile sings its death song overhead.

The ground shudders. Is it only the weight of tanks and trucks on the roads escalating the ferocity of sound, drowning out the knitter’s coughing fit and the elderly gentleman’s incoherent cries. She clenches her teeth, holds her breath, counts, waits for the next blast and the weight of the debris and soil as it presses down, weighs down their flesh, levels the building as they all disappear further beneath the earth. She imagines being found days, weeks later, her stiff arm protruding from the rubble, her legs snapped like twigs, captured for the evening news. The two lovers who embrace at her feet, will their arms still be locked around each other? Their desperate lips clamped together for eternity? What of the bundles of clothes and prized possessions brought to the shelter for safekeeping, will they become scorched artefacts in this communal tomb?

Shaking her head, she tries to dispel the gruesome images which isn’t helped by the laments from those awake who fear what’s about to happen. Glory to Ukraine.

I can’t die. I won’t die. I have my whole life before me. God help me, I’m only sixteen.

There’s nowhere to run. She clenches her fists to her stomach. This is it.

The atmosphere thickens. Her breathing intensifies. Opening her stinging eyes, she sees flecks of ash skittering around her head. If she pokes out her tongue, she’ll taste death. She struggles to think of something else, to grasp hold of a thread of something normal, the way it was only weeks ago. Not this deepest, darkest hell they've fallen into. This slow death. She wills the thudding of her blood and muscle to cease, to force her heart back to its normal size and her breathing to slow enough to stop overtaking her thoughts.

She smells the fear all around her in the dank perspiration of the terrified inmates of this prison which had offered the last vestige of hope in a city being pummelled into the ground. She senses it in the unease that has overtaken their shared space. Hears it in the desperate prayers as people call on God to deliver them. But God has turned his back on this hideous war where once again it’s man against man. When will they ever learn, she imagines Him asking?

Her legs are numb and her back locked rigid, her muscles set in permanent contraction. Head between her knees, she shivers uncontrollably, she cries for her mother. Amongst hundreds, she has never felt so alone. The earth is so cold and pressed against her so tightly that the pain begins to spread through her like the fire that surely rages overhead, engulfing the shattered building where she shelters.

“Glory to Ukraine!” The cry is so loud she wonders if it will rally them in their last moments. “Glory to Ukraine!"  Louder. Louder. She joins in. “Glory to Ukraine!” She screams in anger for her beautiful country, decimated by war, by hatred, by brutality.

It grows eerily quiet. Above their heads, the cement girders snap, falling, burying them. Her mouth fills with debris. With her last breath, she can see in her mind’s eye the latest video from her President.  

“We are here with you,” President Zelensky said. “Glory to Ukraine.”



The WEP winners for the Hard Rain's Gonna Fall prompt have just been announced: We have 
Carrie Ann Golden for her wonderful poem, Tears in the Rain, for which she wins an online writing course with Nas Dean, Shannon Lawrence, Runner Up, and Hilary Melton-Butcher, Encouragement Award.





If you'd like to write an entry for WEP, how about joining us in June? A wide-open prompt.


June's prompt is based on the song, Please Read the Letter by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss - a break up song and a moving plea for understanding at the termination of a relationship.

What's not to like?

I'd love to read your comment after reading my Ukraine story - good or bad reaction?

Denise




Wednesday, 20 April 2022

#WEP April challenge - A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall - Ode to the Innocents - Glory to Ukraine.

 Hello all!

It's time for the WEP April 2022 challenge. This month for the Year of Music, we have Bob Dylan's A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall.


From the blurb, courtesy of Nilanjana Bose.

A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall, described as the ‘most idiosyncratic protest song ever written.' Bob Dylan, the Nobel Laureate and another 60's icon, wrote, composed and sung it in 1962 when he was only 21. It’s been covered by many artistes including Pete Seeger, Joan Baez and has never really stopped being sung ever since.

The form is modelled on the traditional ballad in the question and answer format, the themes being human suffering – pollution, warfare, isolation, angst. Sixty years after Dylan presented it at a performance at Carnegie Hall, the lyrics are striking in that how relevant they are today, how contemporary their feel and the depth of their appeal. Read more about the song here and here.

Unsurprisingly, I've gone with the human suffering angle. The #flash wrote itself. Sadly.


Ode to the Innocents



I can’t move, I can’t think, I’m freezing.

Anastasiya gathers her overcoat around her, pulls her woollen hat over her ears, wriggles her toes in her stiff boots. There’s no room to stamp her feet. Bodies press against her from all sides.

Why didn’t she run when she had the chance? Was it her love for her country? Her reluctance to be parted from her remaining relatives, especially her brother who returned from Poland to fight after her mother died in the bombing. She has no answers, not even to herself. Glory to Ukraine.

Lord only knows how long she’s sat upright, huddled, with nothing to lean against. Her back feels like it’s breaking. But she's grateful to have escaped here after the bombing of her apartment block. Yelling and screaming, along with hundreds of her neighbours, empty handed, she’d stumbled through broken earth, tripped on broken glass, only just avoided being torn apart by sharp steel girders lying half buried in her path. But she made it here.

To the shelter. Dark as pitch. It separates them all as surely as it binds them together. She’s been inside the shelter for hours, days, weeks, she’s lost track of everything but the gradual warming of the atmosphere from the press of too many bodies against the coolness of the cement floor, the weeping walls. Their collective breath in the chilly room forms a moving fog. The faint aroma of fragrance, the smell of beer breath, the bitterness of stale cigarettes is by now woven into their clothes, hair and skin.

The mournful sharp notes of a Jew’s harp played by an old man sets her teeth on edge even though it’s no more than a whisper. The vibrations resonate with the beat of her heart. Her grandfather played the Jew’s harp. Now her grandfather is dead. Her father played, but she has no idea if he’s dead or alive. The last she heard he was in an operation to take back a city in the south. Her brother was learning to play before war broke out. She wonders if he'll ever place it to his lips again. Glory to Ukraine.

She’s hyper conscious of every movement, each and every sound – the whimpering of small children and beloved dogs, the snores of the elderly exhausted by the sharp turn their lives have taken in a short time, the rustle of clothing as people try in vain to get more comfortable, the faint click of knitting needles as a middle-aged woman fashions a colourful  scarf to keep her son warm at the battlefront, the fragile stillness of the woman sitting nearby as she holds her breath, afraid to exhale.

Then … air raid sirens … muffled gasps as the missile sings its death song overhead.

The ground shudders. Is it only the weight of tanks and trucks on the roads escalating the ferocity of sound, drowning out the knitter’s coughing fit and the elderly gentleman’s incoherent cries. She clenches her teeth, holds her breath, counts, waits for the next blast and the weight of the debris and soil as it presses down, weighs down their flesh, levels the building as they all disappear further beneath the earth. She imagines being found days, weeks later, her stiff arm protruding from the rubble, her legs snapped like twigs, captured for the evening news. The two lovers who embrace at her feet, will their arms still be locked around each other? Their desperate lips clamped together for eternity? What about all the bundles of clothes and prized possessions brought to the shelter for safekeeping, will they become lonely artefacts in this communal tomb?

Shaking her head, she tries to dispel the gruesome images which isn’t helped by the laments from those awake who know what’s about to happen. Glory to Ukraine.

I can’t die. I won’t die. I have my whole life before me. God help me, I’m only sixteen.

There’s nowhere to run. This is it.

The atmosphere thickens. Her breathing intensifies. Opening her stinging eyes, she sees flecks of ash skittering around their heads. If she pokes out her tongue, she’ll taste death. She struggles to think of something else, to grasp hold of a thread of something normal. Not this deepest, darkest hell. This slow death. She wills the thudding of her blood and muscle to cease, to force her heart back to its normal size and her breathing to slow enough to stop overtaking her thoughts.

She smells the fear all around her in the dank perspiration of the terrified inmates of this prison which had offered the last vestige of hope in a city being pummelled into the ground. She senses it in the unease that has overtaken their shared space. Hears it in the desperate prayers as people call on God to deliver them. But God has turned his back on this hideous war where once again it’s man against man. When will they ever learn, she imagines Him asking?

Her legs are numb now and her back locked rigid, her muscles set in permanent contraction. Head between her knees, she shivers uncontrollably. The earth is so cold and pressed against her so tightly that the pain begins to spread through her like the fire that surely rages overhead, engulfing the shattered building where she shelters.

“Glory to Ukraine!” The cry is so loud she wonders if it will rally them all in their last moments.

It grows eerily quiet. Above their heads, the cement girders snap, falling, burying them. Her mouth fills with debris. With her last breath, she can see in her mind’s eye the latest video from her President.  

“We are here with you,” President Zelensky said. “Glory to Ukraine.”


 TAGLINE: All too often, hard rain leaves victims in its wake.




WORDS: 919

FCA

This was difficult to write. Maybe it lacks editing because I found it so painful to re-read. 

Please click on the names in my sidebar for more takes on the prompt, A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall.

And if this prompt stumped you, start thinking about the June prompt, 


Thanks for coming by and supporting the writers at WEP.



Wednesday, 6 April 2022

#IWSG April 2022 - #amwriting too much?! Rewrites, new story, new book.

 Hello all!

Time for the April #IWSG. I've been so busy with writing, I hardly noticed March slipping by.


Alex's awesome co-hosts for the April posting of the IWSG are Joylene Nowell Butler, Jemima Pett, Patricia Josephine, Louise - Fundy Blue, and Kim Lajevardi! Thanks ladies!

I'll skip the audiobook question as that's far from my reach at the moment. I know they're popular - not with me - give me a book to read any day, but I know lots of people love them, and for some, it's the only way they can fit reading into their busy schedule. Someone who is blind, or partially blind, must thing audiobooks are the best!

I'll be so interested in reading the posts and see what everyone thinks.

Skipping the audiobook question means I have to think of something else to say. Hmm. 

My biggest faux pas for the month of March was dawdling over rewrites for Betrayed, then finding out it's been chosen for the #iwsgbook club for April. I quickly published the revisions (which aren't live yet), but not the new cover which is not yet ready. 

Maybe my problem is I do too many things at once - as I'm traveling for most of April, I've been getting ahead of myself. I've been writing a #flashfiction for the WEP challenge - A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, rewriting Betrayed, my beloved vampires, writing my next Paris foodie novel and getting feedback from my critique partners along with actually giving some time to my family and friends, LOL. 

I think that's enough.

Hope you'll join us for the WEP challenge for April which is held alongside the busyness of the A - Z Challenge. Some make it work for them by using the same letter.


A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall, described as the ‘most idiosyncratic protest song ever written. Bob Dylan, the Nobel Laureate and another 60's icon, wrote, composed and sung it in 1962 when he was only 21. It’s been covered by many artistes including Pete Seeger, Joan Baez and has never really stopped being sung ever since.

The form is modelled on the traditional ballad in the question and answer format, the themes being human suffering – pollution, warfare, isolation, angst. Sixty years after Dylan presented it at a performance at Carnegie Hall, the lyrics are striking in that how relevant they are today, how contemporary their feel and the depth of their appeal. Read more about the song here and here.

Love to read your response to this ever-popular Bob Dylan ballad.





 





Wednesday, 2 March 2022

#IWSG March - #amwriting - What goes? What stays? What's a non starter when writing a story or adding a scene to a story?

 Welcome to the March 2022 IWSG.


Alex's awesome co-hosts for the March 2 posting of the IWSG are Janet Alcorn, Pat Garcia, Natalie Aguirre, and Shannon Lawrence!


 Like me, you're probably wondering where those first two months disappeared to. I've spent most of the time in my writing chair. How about you?

So my state has been/still is, being inundated with floods. Had 80% of our annual rainfall in a few days, causing devastation to a large swathe of South-East Queensland. Luckily I live on a hill and was never in any danger, but my heart goes out to those who have lost everything.

A lot going on in the world with disasters hitting many countries. Now we have war in Ukraine. Shocking to think of the suffering that war brings. Let's hope for a speedy solution with a minimum of bloodshed. I have a writer friend who has lost the will to write because of this turmoil, while others feel even more determined to write. Our winning WEP entry in February is about war - not in Ukraine - but a past war. It struck a chord with all at WEP and our judge Nick Wilford gave it the winner's gong. Congratulations to Sally Stackhouse who always writes pieces that speak to our emotions. Click HERE to read her heartfelt story.


Now there is a March 2 question - Have you ever been conflicted about writing a story or adding a scene to a story? How did you decide to write it or not?

Let's just say that like a film editor, my floor is littered with discarded story ideas and scenes that either didn't work or I felt were too controversial. I've seen some authors include discarded chapters and scenes at the end of a story or offer it for free as a reader magnet for their newsletter. I'm thinking that's a good idea. I love some of the chapters/scenes I've cut and that would be a good way to put them to good use. 

For example, this is my original opening scene to Betrayed, the first in my vampire series which is undergoing a full re-write, new cover, new blurb:

OLD CHAPTER ONE

 

Florence, capital of Tuscany, 1610.

 

 

I

t was easy to lose your head under the rule of Grand Duke Cosimo II de’ Medici in the year of our Lord 1610. Whether noble, craftsman, brigand or mercenary, an accusation of treason could result in decapitation. Well aware, Duke Vipunin de Castellina knew he must tread carefully to ensure his head remained firmly upon his shoulders.


He had much to look forward to, but it depended on the success of his journey tomorrow – finally taking up his inheritance at Castello de Castellina in Chianti and announcing his betrothal to Lady Ciassia de Fioravanti, daughter of the Marquis Fioravanti of Florence. He’d loved her these many years, and she loved him in return. His military duties to the de’ Medici had prevented their nuptials, but now the time approached when they could wed. It would be the most joyful thing when they became man and wife. They would live together in his castle, raise children, guarantee the Castellina line.

But the imminent beheading of one of his noble friends was foremost in his mind when at twilight a messenger hammered loudly at his palazzo gate in via del Canneto by the River Arno. The rider handed him a document sealed with the ubiquitous red crest, still warm, summoning him to an audience at Palazzo Medici. A quiver of trepidation passed through him, along with vexation at yet another last-minute command from his brother in all but blood. Each time he planned his return to Castellina, Cosimo found a reason for him to delay. Why had his friend interrupted his preparations for his journey yet again? Had he found yet another reason to forbid Vipunin to leave Florence? 

Directly following a PREQUEL about Premonitions which play a large part in this story, this is a snippet of my new opening chapter:

NEW CHAPTER ONE

 

Florence, capital of Tuscany, 1610.

 

I

n the pre-dawn darkness, Duke Vipunin de Castellina hurried down the stone steps of his villa in via del Canneto by the River Arno. With each footfall, his head pounded in time to the beat of his heart. He rubbed his temples, relived the visions he’d seen throughout the night – shrieking vampires attacking with swords as he and his men battled their way through the Tuscan Forest.


Blood. Decapitated heads.

But whose blood? Whose heads? 


                                                         ***************


If you took the time to read both, which do you prefer? I think it's a no brainer, but I could be wrong.


                                                                *****************

Very soon, the winners will be announced for the February challenge, All You Need Is Love. Just a head's up, the WEP team aren't eligible for prizes. Not to take away anything from the winners, but just check out the wondrous post from team member, L.G. Keltner. So psst, here I'll tell you. We have Sally Stackhouse as the outright winner, and here is second and third.




Already we at WEP have our brains full of ideas for the April challenge of the Year of Music. We'll also collaborate on an entry for the A - Z challenge - D for Doors.


Thanks for stopping by. I know what it's like to be super busy, so I appreciate it more than I can say. Until next time .. Peace and Love ... Denise





Wednesday, 16 February 2022

#WEP FIRST CHALLENGE FOR 2022 - YEAR OF MUSIC - ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE, the BEATLES.

 Hello there!

Welcome to WEP's Year of Music. First group/song to be featured is the Beatles and their iconic song, All You Need is Love.


For this challenge, I take you on a trip to Liverpool, the home of the Beatles. I've always loved park benches, so I imagined myself sitting on a park bench admiring the Beatles' statue on the waterfront. Park benches are under-rated. They can be great places to sit and dream and watch people living their lives.

Trigger warning: This #flashfiction contains drug taking. Given the subject matter, sorta has to, don't you think?




TAGLINE: There comes a time to stop running and embrace life.

Learning how to be you.

I stumble around the deserted waterfront at Pier Head, numb.

It seems wrong that the sun is shining this morning. This is Liverpool, after all. The sun rarely shines. A bleak day would be more fitting, but today the sun bores into my eyes, casts shadows on the cement. Casts shadows on my soul.

I pause a step. Stand at the edge of the pier where the murky River Mersey slaps waves onto the pylons. The ferries bob, tethered, waiting for a time when they'll run again. 

The sun embraces me. Offers comfort and warmth. I won’t give in to the grief ballooning in my chest. It’s quiet here on the pier. Peaceful. But my legs are shaky. I slow-walk to the bench in front of my favorite four local boys made good.

An hour ago it must have rained, because the bronze statues are slick and shiny. I feel like the Fab Four are out for a casual stroll, walking toward me, hope on their faces. Stillness steals over me, eating away at the paralysing shock of arriving at the hospital this morning to be told the worst news.

A flock of tourists vomits out of a huge bus slathered in peace signs and bright flowers and other sixties’ symbols. I’m about to be engulfed in a tidal wave. A burst of humanity surges toward me – vibrant, alive, optimistic – like the Beatles at the top of their game. I feel like a little fish swimming against the torrent, struggling to stay afloat, gasping for breath.

Lennox is dead.

Why is a busload of tourists belching toward me like a chattering of choughs?

Lennox is dead.

Why aren’t they at home, taking the pandemic seriously. Haven’t enough people died already?

Lennox is dead.

No guesses where these bright birds are heading.

The Beatles statue. 

A landmark. 

My city’s must-see piece of art.

The birds land. I am swamped by humanity. Surrounded. Overwhelmed. Overcome.

Cameras click, flower-holding fans in sixties’ psychedelic coats with peace symbols on the back, jeans, boots, Carnaby Street caps. They pose, arms around the Fab Four, kiss them, pay homage as only died-in-the-wool Beatles’ fans know how. To make it worse, they’re murdering my favorite Beatles’ song, All You Need is Love, making a game of it. Every time someone warbles the chorus, heads pop up from behind the boys, shouting, ‘love!’ ‘Love!’ ‘Love is all you need!’ All you need be damned.

I don’t know how I manage it, but I drift. Sleep. Dream of that dreary hospital room with its dreary view. Where Lennox breathed his last in a room full of impersonal machines, tended by angels in blue head-to-toe PPE gear, shields, goggles, the whole shebang.

The smell wakes me.

Earthy. Herby. Sweet.

I’ve never taken drugs, unlike the Beatles with their field trips to India to sit at the feet of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi to study spirituality. In the statue in front of me, George’s belt has been engraved with a mantra revealing his deep interest in Indian spirituality. It was especially important to him, more than the sitar playing he toyed with.



      

I love the sitar in Norwegian Wood. I’ve nothing against Love You To from their 1966 album Revolver. George wrote and sung it and it features Indian instrumentation such as sitar and tabla. A digression from their usual sound. 

 But I digress.

That smell. I recognize marijuana from the hours I spent at Lennox’s bedside in the early stages of the illness before he went to hospital.

My heartbeat speeds up. Someone daring is sitting beside me. The tourists have gone. I squint my eyes. Not a beanie-clad, tousled haired, grubby person, but someone who embodies sophistication and privilege. His hair is blond, brushes his shoulders, unlike the Beatles with their black mop tops. From under his bangs, the pot smoker studies the foursome, a smile quirking his lips.

I sat holding Lennox’s hand while he smoked, but that was different. That was to alleviate the pain, to make the end more bearable. Medicinal cannabis. Which this is not.

I’m rooted to the spot. Wondering what will happen next.

The sunshine, the sweetness, the sexy smile.

He hands me the joint like we’re old friends at a party. He raises his eyebrows, interested, waiting to see what I’ll do.

I’m a stickler for doing the right thing. But what is the right thing here?

I take it.

First time ever I’ve smoked, but I do it for Lennox, somehow brings him closer.

I’m suddenly a woman who tries new things. Who knew that about me? Not me.

Nothing you can do, but you can learn how to be you in time
It's easy…

It hasn’t been easy.

My life has revolved around caring for my brother, Lennox, and before him, my elderly parents who succumbed in the first wave of the virus.

No one you can save that can't be saved

I hate that.

The smoke passes down my throat. Wraps around my lungs. Chokes me.

The tension pours from my pores.

He smiles but I see the sadness in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Karla. I’m here for you. Always.’

I take another drag. The air is warm, cloying. The sun seems brighter. Brilliant.

He stretches out his hand. I take it. He pulls me to my feet. Wraps his arm around my shoulders.

I’ve been running away from things all my life.

Now I’m running forward. With the love of my life, Johan.

Lyrics pound through my head:

There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be
It's easy.

Will it be easy this time?

 ~*~

 I hope you enjoyed sitting on a park bench with me.

WORDS: 940

FCA

If you're into music, even if you're not, in April please join the writers at WEP who love using their imagination to respond to a prompt. We love newbies! And we love those blasts from the past who once wrote for us. Doesn't this image conjure up all sorts of story ideas?