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List Exercises and Selected Submissions

Check out the weekly exercises from The Write List. Below each exercise is my favorite submission to the list for that exercise. Can you top the submission of the week? E-mail me your completed exercise or subscribe to the list on the Main Page to compete in future contests.
Index
August 31, 1998 Exercise #1: Plot Development (Submission by Vanessa Weibler)
September 7, 1998 Exercise #2: Objects (Submission by Gareth Morris)
September 14, 1998 Exercise #3: Guess Who? (Submission by Chuck Bednar)
September 21, 1998 Exercise #4: Dialogue (Submission by Katherine Free)
September 28, 1998 Exercise #5: Self-Description (Submission by Luglenda McClain)
October 5, 1998 Exercise #6: Description (Submission by Christopher Curtis)
October 12, 1998 Exercise #7: Fairytales (Submission by Pamela Wilfinger)
October 19, 1998 Exercise #8: For and Against (Submission by Meg Murphy)
October 26, 1998 Exercise #9: First Lines (Submission by Anna Maria Junus)
November 2, 1998 Exercise #10: Borrowed Lines (Submission by Kim Fernandez)
Next 10 Exercises

Exercise #1: Plot Development

{1) Create a character. (2) Give this character a problem to deal with. (3) Write three different ways this particular character might possibly deal with this particular problem. Try to make at least one way cause more problems for your character instead of resolving the current one.

Exercise Submission of the Week
By Vanessa Weibler
Character/Decision: His name may or may not be Jerry. It might be Alan, or Joe, or Percival. I think it's probably Joe. He definitely looks like a Joe. But who can say for sure? After all, my name's not Jane, and that's what I called myself in the ad. It must be him, though, because he's right where he said he'd be. Second stool from the end, right in front of the dart board, drinking a dark beer out of a frosted mug. He's turned away; I can't see his face. The beer's mostly gone but the mug's still frosty. How fast is he drinking that thing? Maybe he's really unhealthy. Of course, I said I was a runner. Huh. Well, I've got a runner in my pantyhose right now, creeping from the back of my right knee right up under my skirt, so maybe that counts. I look again, and the beer's gone. He's signalling the bartender for a second. He's got a denim shirt on, nice forearms. He turns; I see him: he's got a mustache. A MUSTACHE. I have never, ever, ever dated a man with a mustache before. God! What makes a man think to himself, hey, I think I'll grow a mustache! Having this big hairy limp mess of a thing squeezed in between my nose and mouth would look so, so great. I should've known when he said he grew up in Pittsburgh. Ninety percent of Pittsburgh men have mustaches, after all. Take a look at the crowd at any Steelers game and that's pretty clear.

Second beer's almost gone.

There's foam hanging from it. Can I really go over and talk to that mustache?

OPTIONS:

1. I decide to go over and talk to him, Jerry or Percival or Joe. I remind myself: it can be shaved, it can be shaved, it can be shaved. I will look at his eyes. I will look at his chin. I will look at his strong forearms. It can be shaved.I head over.

2. Putting that ad in the paper was a mistake. I just know it. The next one might be bald, or live with his mother, or be a paperboy. Maybe I'll go home and call Bland Jeffrey. He'll be over within minutes, and he'll rub my feet and cook me lasagna and not expect to stay overnight. Maybe that's what I need. Oh, yeah, I definitely need some of that lasagna. I head for the door. I wonder to myself: what would ricotta cheese look like hanging off of that mustache?

3. Okay, so I'm not a mustache girl. But maybe that's my problem. Who knows-- maybe if I weren't so picky I would have someone right now. At least that's what my mother is constantly pointing out to me. I could definitely have fun with this. He already thinks my name is Jane and I'm a runner. And while I'm at it, why don't I also collect rare European coins and own a small cosmetics company? Okay, it's a little over the top... but like he'll really check on those things? Never. Oh-- and my last name's Montgomery. That sounds rich-- Montgomery. And I have a Doberman named Pistachio. And my appendix was removed when I was ten. And... what else? And I'm a twin.

Jane Montgomery, the twin doberman-owning coin-collecting mustache-loving cosmetic guru, heads over to bathe Jerry in her warmth and effervescence as he begins his third beer.

Exercise #2: Objects

Write a paragraph, essay, short story, book chapter, poem, news article, or any other format that you prefer which contains all of the following: (1) A pair of scissors (2) An empty milk carton (3) Something the color orange (4) A table (5) A window

It can be as long or as short as you want. It can be fiction or nonfiction, romantic, scary, dramatic, humorous, futuristic, etc. Just start writing and see where it takes you.
Exercise Submission of the Week
By Gareth Morris
We cry as we are born and as we die, the latter often unheard and unknown. This thought had been the sole occupant of Stem's usually crowded mind for days now. Why was he being so morbid about the whole situation? Every time someone killed one of those whom he respected so much, he felt hurt. He picked up the scissors again and looked at it glinting in the late afternoon sun. The sun's rays were sharp in his eyes and were simultaneously shattered and focused in the tears welling up there. Lately his sensitivity was becoming a problem.

Stem was one of those few individuals who felt that this type of murder was cruel and unjustified. Never in his life had he felt so alone in a cruel world. Everywhere he turns he sees murder most foul being committed. He remembered how, just this morning, Saraleen, his own beloved wife had ruthlessly been the perpetrator of multiple deaths. Genocide was not a completely inaccurate description of the whole incident.

Stem had looked through the kitchen window when he was outside and seen how she wielded the scissors with malicious intent and brought the point down in sharp stabbing blows before cutting open the victim and removing its heart. Every single victim was given the same cruel treatment. Stem could hear their voices as they cried out in anguish before they were eventually silenced by the slashing silver sheers. The thought of what he had witnessed made the tears spill slowly down his cheeks and drip onto his bright orange shirt where they darkened the fabric to a bloody crimson.

With a world weary sigh Stem picked up the empty milk carton which he had drained to fight his ever increasing heartburn and got up from the kitchen table. He strode over to the rubbish bin and deposited the carton through the swinging bin flap, catching a glimpse of the rotting carcasses within. His heart leapt into his throat and he felt the bile rising with disgust.

Frantically he scrambled to the kitchen sink so that he could get some water to kill the horrible taste of bile in his mouth. As Stem's eyes fell on the basin he screamed. Saraleen had washed the hearts off and left them in the basin to soak and Stem could not handle the sight of them. He fell to the floor weeping, the screaming of tortured artichokes, ringing in his ear.

Exercise #3: Guess Who

Write a poem either about or from the perspective of a famous person. It can be a person in the news, someone from the entertainment realm, or even a popular fictional character. The person may be alive or dead. The only restriction is that the person must be well known enough that the majority of people will know who he/she is. The catch is, you cannot tell us who it is. Either describe the person in your poem or have them "write" about things that will give clues as to who he/she is. Everyone else gets to guess who your person is.
Exercise Submission of the Week
62 By Chuck Bednar
It lasted only seconds
But the memories will last forever
With muscles straining he twisted,
Contorting so pine could meet hide.
With the sweet crack fresh in their ears
A nation watched victory
Soar barely over the distant wall.

Exercise #4: Dialogue

A common mistake that writers make is for all of their characters to sound the same. In reality, people have a wide range of speech patterns as well as vocabulary. For example, an 85 year old widow would speak differently than a 17 year old college student.

In this exercise, select an event and have 4 different characters tell someone about it. Given what you know about the characters, determine how you think that they would speak and write a section of dialogue about the event from each one's point of view.

SUGGESTED EVENTS: (You are welcome to ignore these and come up with one of your own)

While your characters were at the drug store, a masked man came in and robbed it. (You fill in the details of the event in your dialogue.)

On the way home, your characters accidentally hit a puppy, kitten, or small child. (How they handled the situation is up to you based on how you think each character would react.)

Your characters just learned that a close friend or relative died. (Who and how is up to you.)

Your characters just won an award. (You decide what the award is for.)

THE CHARACTERS: (You determine the other person in the scene. They could be talking with their spouse, parent, child, friend, etc...)

A 19 year old white male who is studying political science in college. He grew up in a nice home in the suburbs and his family is wealthy. He has been given every opportunity but is lazy and unmotivated.

A 36 year old black female who was born and raised in a small rural town. Her family was poor but she worked hard to put herself through college. She now makes a good living as an editor for a national magazine.

A 49 year old white male who works in a meat packing plant. He is a high school dropout and has worked as a laborer all his life. He has a criminal history which includes 2 DUIs (Driving under the influence), a theft from a department store, and trespassing.

A 63 year old white female who married young and stayed married to the same man for 40 years until the day he died. She worked as a housewife and raised 6 children.

Think about the person and what motivates them to say what they say. How open are they? How emotional? How educated? How well are they able to express their emotions, even if they have the vocabulary to do so?
Exercise Submission of the Week
By Kat Free
My characters are in a convienient store that has just been robbed. The police are interviewing the four witnesses.

My first witness is a fifteen-year-old white male. He's wearing baggy pants that barely hang on his hips, a black T-shirt advertising a video game and a chain that links from his wallet to his belt buckle. His head is shaved.

"Tell us what happened," the police officer says.

"This guy comes in here, right? And he holds a gun to her," he points to the cashier, "and says "Give me your money." That gun was phat. You shoulda seen it. Man, I gotta get me one of them. Shiat it was tight!"

The boy holds his hand up like he has a gun and waves it around making shooting noises.

"And then what happened."

"Yeah, she screams," his voice rises an octave as he attempts to impersonate the girl's screams, "Ooooh, don't shoot me, please." Man it was the bomb! You shoulda been there."

The police officer moves to the next witness, a middle-aged man dressed in a suit and tie. He's a business exectutive who stopped in the store on his way home from work.

"Can you give me an account of what happened?"

"Certainly. I stopped to buy a bottle of wine. My wife called me at the office and asked me to bring a bottle of wine home for supper. She has some exciting news to tell me. I was in the back of the store when I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He was a big man, about my height and weight. I couldn't see his face because his back was turned. His hair was blonde."

"Can you remember anything else?"

"Not at the moment. Look, I'm in a hurry. My wife is expecting me and I need to get home. Here's my business card." He reaches into the pocket of his sportcoat, pulls out a small card and hands it to the police officer. "If you have any more questions, call my sectetary and she will set up an appointment."

The police officers moves to the third witness. Her makeup is so thick it must have been applied with a putty knife. She's in her thirties, dressed in a tight mini-skirt and high heeled shoes. Her large breasts threaten to spill over her form fitting knit shirt. The smell of heavy, cheap perfume surrounds her sprayed, teased hair.

"Hello, ma'am. What did you see?" His eyes are drawn to her deep cleavage.

"I was sooo frightened." She leans toward the handsome officer after noticing he's not wearing a wedding band. "He was a big ugly man. Very ugly! Not handsome and strong like you. And he had a gun." She blinks her eyes to produce tears. "It scared the wits out of me, I swear it did."

The officer puts his hand on her shoulder to comfort her. "Please, take you time and don't get upset. He's gone now and can't hurt you."

She flutters her heavily mascared eyelashes at him. "I shudder to think of what he could have done to me if you hadn't come along when you did. I think that poor girl," she points to the cashier, "was scared out of her wits. She screamed and cried, then threw the money at him. He was wavin' that gun around like he was gonna shoot someone."

"Can you tell me what he looked like?"

"He was ugly and his hair was thin like he was goin' bald on top. Those beady little blue eyes was evil, they certainly were." She nodded her head to emphasize her point.

"Let me give you my number in case you remember anything else." He writes two numbers on a piece of paper and gives it to her. "This is my number at the station and my home number."

"Oh, thanks so much. It's big strong men like you who make me feel safe." She takes the paper and tucks it into her bra.

With a lingering look at the chesty blonde, the officer moves to his last witness, the cashier. She is only eighteen-years-old and this was her first day of her first job. She didn't graduate from high school and had a difficult time finding a job. Now she afraid she will get fired.

"What happened?" The officer asks gently.

"I'as just sittin' here, mindin' my business, waitin' for the next person to check out when this guy comes in and points his gun at my face." She begins to cry.

"What color hair did he have?"

"It was yella, sorta like straw and his eyes was blue - no, they was brown. I ain't sure. Am I gonna get canned?"

"No. They won't fire you. It wasn't your fault."

"But I gived him the money."

"It's a good thing you did. He might have shot you otherwise. The money is probably insured and will be replaced."

"Insured? They can do that? Ya mean somebody'll just give 'em more money?"

"Something like that," he mumbles. "What else do you remember?"

"He had a gun like my pa's gun he keeps under the bed. I just threw the money at him and he took off like a bee had stung him in the ass."

Exercise #5: Self-Description

Method #1: Have a character describe you. It can be a character that you have already used for another story or one that you create just for this exercise. The character can describe anything about you that you choose such as your background, your personality now, your writing, or how you "treat" this character (He pulls me out and uses me then tosses me carelessly into a desk drawer....) See what you can do with it. When I did this exercise once before, not only did I get my creative juices flowing, I learned something about myself.

Method #2: Similar to above exercise but write a poem describing yourself from someone else's point of view. In the poem, establish the relationship between the person doing the describing and yourself. It can be a real person (how your mom sees you) or a fictional person that you create.
Exercise Submission of the Week
By Luglenda McClain
The breezes teased at her, blowing strands of her long chestnut colored hair over her eyes, hiding the handwritten pages she called her journal from her view. She was going to be a writer someday. She just knew it. It was her destiny. It was as much a part of her as her arm, her chocolate colored eyes full of hope and expectancy, her sense of responsibility-even for one so young. Writing for her, even at fourteen was an entry into another world-a world she created away from what others referred to as reality-a world where what she said and thought mattered. It was her secret world.

Sighing she gave up trying to hold her hair out of her face while writing her thoughts in the small notebook on her lap. She leaned back against the tree where she was sitting and stared up at the cloud shapes floating by. Her lashes soon rested against her cheek and her hand released its hold on her journal as she began to dream of her future and the books she would write.

A kindly old woman stood above her and told her of a special gift that was hers for the taking. A gift that would reveal her future, if she wished. �You can pick the time you would like to see, and only you can view this gift. Your price for this gift is to tell me what it is you see, that�s all. For as you can tell, I can not see this natural world with my own eyes. Ah, but be careful for you won�t be able to change the future that you view. It is yours to know, and yours to live-whatever you may see.�

�I�ll take it. I already know what my future will be. I�m going to be a writer.�

�How far ahead do you want to see, child?�

�Thirty years. Let�s see that will be 1998. I will be 44 years old, my Gosh. Surely I will have written several of my novels by then.�

�Turn forward the pages of your journal and you will see yourself thirty years from now.�

�Is that me? Yes, I can see that it is. Look at me, I promised myself that I would never get above a size twelve! My hair is still long; it�s still the same color. No, wait a minute, I think it is a touch redder than it is now. And my eyes have a sadness about them, though I notice I still like green eye shadow.

Am I married? Do I have any children? Yes, I see it now. I married him? You�re kidding me-No way. No wonder we divorced. But who is that other guy? He must be my second husband. I can�t believe this! He�s not tall, dark and handsome, why he�s barely taller than I am and he�s a blond. He is kinda cute though-for an older man-you know what I mean. Oh, I do have children-two girls. One is 27 and the other is 24. Gosh, that means that I am going to have my first child in two more years! And I�ve got six grandchildren? -No way!

But what about college? I just had to have gone to college. I mean the sign on the office door where I work says that I�m a social worker. Oh, college came after the divorce, while the girls were still in school. I knew I would do it! But, a social worker? I am going to be a writer--I just know it.

No novels published-only a half dozen incomplete attempts hidden away in the closet? I�ve only published three articles-and didn�t even get paid for them? But there�s a stack of notebooks on the shelf. They�re my journals-the only real writing I�ve done. I can�t believe it. I don�t want to see any more. This isn�t true-none of it is. It can�t be.

No wonder my eyes look so desolate. Please old woman tell me it isn�t true.�

�I warned you child. Often a child�s dreams are put away in a closet because of the responsibilities of the adult. That is what happened to your dreams.�

�Will they never come true? Please don�t take my dream from me, please.�

�Your dreams will always be a part of you, always be there to remind you of the little girl you are today. I see that you are distressed because you did not achieve your goals as soon as you thought that you would. That doesn�t mean that you won�t accomplish them, the timing may be different, that�s all. To ease your distress, I can take this memory away from you. Your dreams will remain your own.�

�Yes, please. I couldn�t go on if I knew it would take so long, or that I might not ever hold a novel in my hand that I had written. Take back your gift, please I don�t want it!�

Uneasily she stirred as her brother called to her, waking her from her slumber. As she walked back to the house with him, she felt a nagging sense that something was terribly wrong, but she couldn�t think what it might be. Oh well, whatever happened she could write about it someday.

Exercise #6: Description

Describe a color, other than black, to a blind person OR Describe an object that can't be felt, such as a meadow, forest, cloud, etc. to a blind person. Use whatever format you like. It can be straight description, a poem, or a scene/story that incorporates the description.
Exercise Submission of the Week
I Can Sense a Rainbow By Christopher Curtis
"Why are you crying?"

Sally sniffed and wiped her nose with the cuff of her blouse. "Who's there?" she asked.

She felt someone sit beside her on the park bench. Instinctively she shuffled away.

"Don't be afraid little one," said the male voice.

"My mother told me never to talk to strangers," replied Sally.

"And very wise words they are," he said. "So where is your mother?"

"Don't know. I ran away."

"Oh, I see."

"Then you're lucky," moaned Sally. "I can't see nothing. I'm blind."

She cocked her ear and heard him chuckle. "It's not funny," she almost screamed. "I have to paint a picture of my mother! How can I, when all I see is black?"

"What's the opposite of black?" asked the man suddenly.

"White," she snapped back. "I'm not stupid. I know the colours of the rainbow, just never seen one," and she rattled of the colours of the spectrum.

"Very good. It took me years to learn those, now all you have to do is learn what the colours are."

Straight away Sally reached for his face to probe his features with her fingers. "You're old," she said, and smiled. "Your face is like my grandfather's."

"And what is his favourite colour?"

"Blue. He tells me the sky and sea are blue, but I -"

"Can't touch or feel blue," finished the man for her.

"It's just a name," she sniffed. "Like all the others � just names."

"So you're feeling blue," he chuckled.

Sally stopped wrangling her fingers. "But I'm unhappy � how can that be blue?"

"Blue can be sad. Touch the railing behind you, and tell me what you feel?"

With her hands searching she found the iron bars. "They are cold. Are they blue?" she asked.

"No, my child. What you can feel is another colour of blue. Cold, like the deep blue depths of an ocean."

Sally thought for a moment and then looked up towards the sky. "Can blue be warm, like the heat from the sky?"

Again the man laughed, and Sally stopped smiling. "Are you mucking me about? I know the sky is blue. My mother told me."

"But that's the sun you feel � the sun is yellow. It warms and comforts you.

Blue, and yellow, she thought. How can they be both warm and cold at the same time "Which is the strongest?"

"They can both be either strong, or weak. It depends on the temperature, my child � wave your hand in the air, and tell me what you feel while the sun warms you."

Sally did as she was told and then smiled. "I feel the sky!" she cried. "I feel the cold blue."

"Good. Now we can paint the sun and the sky. All we have to do now is paint and feel the ground � the colour green."

"That's easy. I can feel the grass with it's lush, wet blades through my toes when I walk," she said, and wiggled her toes. "See!"

"It feels good, doesn't it," he said. "And it's right in the middle of your spectrum of colours, a nice colour that is neither hot or cold."

I've got you, she thought. "But red is the opposite of blue. If yellow is warm like the sun, what is red?"

"Tell me," he said. "When you are naughty, and your mummy smacks you, does it hurt?"

Sally rubbed her cheek. Her mummy had smacked her earlier when she'd thrown a tantrum, which is why she ran away. "Yes, it hurts. My cheek goes all flushed, and it stings."

"Now we have found the colour red. I like reds," he said. "They are pretty colours."

Sally slapped the bench with her palms. She was now confused. How can there be more than one red! "Red is red," she almost shouted at him.

"Touch your face now."

About to say no, she obliged him and then swallowed hard. It didn't feel as red as when she got slapped, but there was a warmth there. "Could this be a faint red?" she asked, and ran her hand over her face.

"Sort of, but it's more pink than red. The stronger the red the hotter it is, like a fire."

"Know what you mean," nodded Sally. "I burnt my hand last year � it was so painful."

"Well, at least you know what to avoid now. Very bright reds are danger. What have we left?"

"Orange," grinned Sally. "I like oranges. They are sticky and sweet."

"Like a sunset," said the man, "dropping from the sky in a blaze of glory. Orange can be so thought provoking."

Sally curled her bottom lip in deep thought. What can be orange? she mused. "I've got it! Tibetan Monks wear orange robes! My teacher told me! � I love this game, Mr er..."

"My name is Mr Plum, and purple is a mixture of red and blue."

Sally felt her chest go tight. Surely a mixture of hot and cold would be warm, like the colour green. "You've lost me. Got me all confused."

"Forget the colour spectrum for a moment, think of purple, with it's association of grandness, and nobility. A plum's texture is like nothing else."

Sally brought her hand to her mouth. She could just about remember the smooth texture of a plum and its sweet taste. She could even remember the hard nut inside when she'd nearly cracked her tooth. "The nut came as a surprise," she said.

"Purple has its own core of knowledge. Which is why great statesmen wear the colour."

"Hmm," replied Sally, and counted the colours off on her fingers. "What about brown?" she asked. "I've heard there are different colours of brown."

"When you hear the squirrel ferreting around for nuts, what time of year is that?"

"Autumn. I can hear the leaves crackle beneath my feet. Are those brown? I always thought they were green."

"The leaves contain energy, which they leave in the soil when they decompose. Before they go all crackly they turn to wonderful shades of brown. The rich smell of the autumn are your browns."

Sally giggled to herself. "All that is left is white."

"The purest colour of all," he said, "full of all your senses and colours. White is birth, white is clean and fresh."

"Like my mummy's washing? That smells clean and fresh."

"Now you've got it. Now you can paint your mummy."

"Sally! Sally!"

"That's my mum," groaned Sally. "She hates me going in the park on my own."

"So what colour do you think your mummy is?" asked the man.

Sally sniggered at her new found knowledge. "Definitely red."

Her mother's breathing was short and ragged. She must have ran across the park. "Hello, Mum, this is Mr Plum."

"Did he touch you? Did he -"

Sally reached out to touch the old man, but she was sat alone. Turning her head she heard something tapping on the pavement. "What's that sound, Mummy?"

"The old man is tapping the pavement with his cane, Sally. He's blind."

"Oh no he's not," said Sally proudly. "Mr Plum can sense all the colours."

Exercise #7: Fairytales

Take any well known children's story and rewrite it into either an "adult" version of it, or some other specific slant (scientific, sci-fi, modern-day, ethnic, etc.--or a poem) that affects the wording, situation and characters, changing them all accordingly.
Exercise Submission of the Week
Alice's Mirror By Pamela Wilfinger
A trickery of light
played upon Alice's eyes
as she gazed into the mirror.

This round, glass gateway
must be a physical falsehood,
to show her such unreality.

Within the silver glow,
she saw her imagination
explode and expand into circles.

Mixing with disbelieving tears,
the images played in reverse,
then switched into a diagonal motion.

Sizes grew in proportion
and smells changed colors
in a confusing array of stars and seas.

Alice opened her mouth
and watched her reflection
speak words she never meant to say.

Come into my world.
Prove your eyes are lying
and visit this wondrous place.

Frightened but curious too,
Alice stepped into the glass
only to see herself do the same.

Silence filled her ears
as trapped inside the mirrored walls
she watched herself wave and ran away.

Exercise #8: For and Against

Take something you feel strongly about, whether it is positive or negative, and write about it as though you love it. (In can be as long or as short as you want, just convince us that you love it.) Then, turn around and write about the same thing as though you hate it. Then write about it perfectly neutral.
Exercise Submission of the Week
By Meg Murphy
"Where do you want to go?" Ben asked Kate.

"How about Legends?" Kate asked.

Ben groaned to himself - Buddy Guy's Legends was a Chicago blues club. It seemed that whenever he turned on the radio he heard some blues song by some blues guy he had never heard of singing a blues song that just plain depressed him! He remembered the first time he had heard B.B. King's 'The Thrill Is Gone'. He had just broken up with his girlfriend of three years and there it was - her reason for leaving him sung in a blues song! She actually told him he wasn't exciting her anymore! To hear it described in a song had depressed him no end.

It was his first date with Kate. "Sometimes trying to impress someone is hard work," he thought to himself. Still, with a glance at her, he didn't mind. Her personality was great and with that long curly red hair, she was very good looking.

"Sure, I'm in the mood for some music," he said. "Some GOOD music," he thought.

Kate was glad Ben seemed interested in her idea. She loved the blues. Lonnie Brooks, Magic Slim, Johnny Lang, Joe Louis Walker and Buddy Guy all played the music that set her soul free. She could hardly wait to get inside the club and feel that excitement.

Ben parked the car on Wabash. As they got out of the car, Kate grabbed Ben's hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and smiled at him. He almost drowned in that smile and those blue eyes of hers. "Ok," he said to himself. "A few hours here won't be so bad."

They walked in and paid the man behind the counter. Kate looked around and saw an empty table. "Come on, let's sit down before it gets too crowded." Ben followed her through the small but steadily growing crowd and sat down next to her.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

"Sure, a light beer."

Ben walked over to the bar and ordered the drinks. Suddenly, the stage lit up and there she was - Koko Taylor. He turned to look at Kate. She looked so excited and happy. "Hope she looks that excited when I kiss her," he thought to himself as he paid for the drinks and walked back to their table.

The crowd was getting more enthused as Koko started singing 'Wang Dang Doodle'. He got to the table just in time. The crowd went crazy, as did Kate. He sat down as she stood up. Her body swayed in perfect beat to the music. "Come on Ben, let's dance!" she yelled.

"No, that's ok, Kate. I'm fine." God he hated this music. All he could think of was that B.B. King song.

Kate got lost in Koko's rough voice. She closed her eyes and moved to the music. Lost in the guitar rifts, she didn't notice Ben look at his watch. God, she loved this music. It made the tensions of the day disappear and her mood lighten. The band never played the same note the same way and it always surprised her. Her body felt light and sexy as she continued to move in time to the beat.

Ben stood up and walked back to the bar, leaving Kate alone. While he made his way through the crowd, he was trying to think of a way to get them out of the club. "A headache?" he thought. He ordered another beer from the bartender and sat down on an empty stool.

"Don't know about you, buddy, but this music makes me crazy. Give me some good jazz anytime," Ben said. The man next to him picked up his beer. They clinked their bottles in a silent toast and drank. "My date just loves this music," he continued. "Me, I'd rather be home than be here." He turned again toward Kate and watched her move. Her hands were above her head and her hips were swaying.

The man looked at him over the rim of his bottle. "Well, the music isn't so bad. It's not my favorite but it's not bad. I'd never listen to Rap by choice but I could take it or leave it. It's the same with the blues. Even jazz is ok. Hell, music is music. Doesn't do anything for me one way or the other. Now TV, that's what I love."

Ben got up from his stool. "You're saying you could take or leave music? That's a unique perspective."

The man grinned. "Bet you feel that way about TV." He took another swallow of beer. "A lot of people do. So, I love TV and could take or leave music. You like jazz, yet here you are. Seems to me we're both somewhere we don't really want to be. The difference between us is, I don't mind and you do."

Ben clapped him on the shoulder and moved back to the table. He didn't see Kate at first, then saw her standing closer to the small stage. She was dancing with someone. For a moment, jealousy stepped in - memories of 'The Thrill Is Gone' still in his heart. As he watched, he saw that it meant nothing to her. She wasn't paying any attention to the guy and he could see in her face that it was only the music that kept her moving. He could tell she just wanted to dance and just feel the music and at that moment, jealousy left and envy took over. There was a sensuous ease in the way her hips moved to the music. She looked beautiful. She looked happy and that made him happy but envious.

She came back to the table. "Oh, Ben, don't you just love this place?" She stood close to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks for bringing me here."

He put his arm around her waist as she stood next to him. He wanted so badly to feel her joy but he couldn't. The blues made him feel empty and he wasn't sure he could ever get over the hurt he always felt when he thought of why his girlfriend had left him.

She turned and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "Ben, let's get out of here."

Thoughts of his 'headache' vanished as he looked at her with surprise. "Why," he asked? "I thought you loved this music."

She smiled at him. "I do, but you don't. Let's get out of here."

They made their way through the crowd, Kate still moving in time to the beat as Koko's bluesy voice started singing 'Hey Bartender'. Once outside, they walked a block before she stopped and turned. "Ben, that was sweet of you to bring me here. I could tell the minute we stepped inside that you hated this music."

For the second time that evening, Ben looked at her with surprise. "I thought I hid that fact pretty well," he grinned sheepishly.

Kate smiled and took his hand. "Ben, I love this music and I can't say I won't ask you to take me to Kingston Mines if you ask me where I want to go. I hate jazz and I know you love it. So, let's compromise, ok?"

He felt himself drowning in that smile and those blue eyes. "The man at the bar was wrong," he thought. "I am somewhere I want to be."

Exercise #9: First Lines

Use any of the following as the first line of a poem, essay, short story, vignette, book chapter, etc.
1. (For a brief moment -- optional) time stood still
2. What was I thinking?
3. He/she is/was perfect
4. The full moon cast an eerie glow
5. Nothing would ever be the same again
6. My heart skipped a beat
7. She/He knew instinctively that something was wrong
8. (It was) Seven years ago today
9. The blazing sun
10. As if by magic
11. I can't work with any of these lines, send me more!.

Exercise Submission of the Week
By Anna Maria Junus
Seven years ago, today,
I held you for the first time
Long awaited
Heavens glow, still lingered
In your eyes
I kissed your nose
And counted toes
And smelled your angel breath
And marveled at the miracle
That love was so immense
Seven years ago today
I held you for the last time,
And gave you to
Someone who
Could give you more than I.

Exercise #10: Borrowed Lines

Since last week's exercise got such a good response, I'm going to do another "first lines" type exercise but this one is a little different. Take the first line from your favorite poem, novel, or short story and use it as a beginning for your own poem or story. (You don't have to keep the same format as the original author, if you want to use the first line of a story to begin a poem - or vice versa - that's OK.)
Exercise Submission of the Week
By Kim Fernandez
I do not like green eggs and ham,
I do not like them, Sam I am.
I said it to the waitress, who
Looked shocked and said, "Now listen, you!"
I interrupted her at once
And said, "Your chef must be a dunce
If he thinks that I'm sitting here
To eat spoiled food and drink green beer.
The health inspector's going to know
About this dump--I'll make it so!"
She laughed out loud to my surprise
And wiping tears out of her eyes
Said, "I don't know just where you've been,
Under a rock or in a pen,
But check the date and you will see
The green food is supposed to be."
I thought it through and with a frown
Pulled a calendar from 'neath my gown.
My mouth developed quite a parch
It was the seventeenth of March
St. Patrick's Day--no wonder she
Took such joy laughing at me.
I grinned like an embarassed cat
and said, "Well of course I knew that."
And ate my food and drank my beer
And said, "I'm getting out of here."
I learned my lesson from that green plate.
Before complaining--check the date!

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