tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post2649326658810281806..comments2023-07-06T07:33:06.262-04:00Comments on * Writers' Spark * Every story has to start somewhere *: Prompt: Chewing on the Bones Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post-22926590053640720002013-05-04T23:45:59.951-04:002013-05-04T23:45:59.951-04:00I like it! Nice characterization and back story, a...I like it! Nice characterization and back story, and a great hook at the end!<br /><br />I know what you mean about the struggle, and I agree that's probably the most important time to write! I'm so glad you're keeping me company on this adventure!Margaret S. McGrawhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18301618521427459626noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post-23490317089051436302013-05-04T18:17:47.878-04:002013-05-04T18:17:47.878-04:00Ugh! Really like pulling teeth tonight. Well, wr...Ugh! Really like pulling teeth tonight. Well, writing when it doesn't flow is probably even more important than when it does. Got to get a little more rested!Annenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022413452547277809.post-51047879034985784412013-05-04T18:15:34.565-04:002013-05-04T18:15:34.565-04:00Prompt: Chewing on the Bones
Karl swept the car...Prompt: Chewing on the Bones<br /><br /> <br />Karl swept the carved bone counters from his desk and lay his head down. It was counter-productive: he would have to pick those up again. But for the moment, he closed his eyes and searched for calm.<br /> <br />If he had known how badly his father was running the business into the ground, he would have...probably done nothing. The irresponsible, fun-loving boy--and he could not call himself anything other than that, for all that he was in his twenties--had not cared where the money that paid for his leisure came from.<br /> <br />But his father and elder brother had been so responsible. How could they let this happen? _Why_ had they let this happen? It made no sense. And despite searching through the records for the last three weeks since word of the ship wreck, he could not find where all those funds had gone.<br /> <br />_I'm sorry, Papa, I was not the son you expected me to be_. But it was too late. Words never to be said; his father beyond reach now. The grief had not really come on full yet, for he still believed--just a little-- that it could not be real. Papa and Arthur had been gone for months on their trading mission, and not expected home for months more. It was only scrawled words on parchment that let him know they were gone.<br /> <br />And the hounding of the creditors wanting what was due from a dead man's estate. Karl could have given up, vanished like the wastrel son he was, to leave the vultures to pick over what was left. It was clear by now that handling the estate would leave him no better off than simply stealing his own horse and making a new life somewhere else. But somehow he now felt the need to redeem himself. Papa would never know--unless it wasn't true, unless they came back.<br /> <br />He leaned over and picked up the counters. One had rolled far under the desk, and he kneeled to go after it. As he patted forward in the dark underside, his hand touched a raised metal bar--a handle. He lifted it.<br />Annenoreply@blogger.com