I’ve been writing short stories recently and part of that, at least for me, is playing with openings. Sitting down, writing whatever comes into my mind, and then discovering whether or not that opening holds the seeds of a story.
Here’s an example:
I stared out the penthouse window with unseeing eyes, too immersed in my own misery to notice the spectacular mountain view that had caused me to purchase this particular property.
What had gone wrong? How had I not seen this mess coming?
Shaking myself out of my morose thoughts, I stepped away from the window and into the kitchen. No matter how bad my situation, starving myself wouldn’t make it better. With quick, efficient movements I prepared breakfast. Jasmine tea, poached egg, buttered toast. The same fare I ate every morning. I could have made that meal in my sleep. Given my scattered frame of mind, perhaps I just had.
I carried my breakfast to the small wrought iron patio table on my balcony and forced myself to eat. Picking up my cup, I inhaled the flower-scented steam and allowed my eyes to drift closed. My shoulders relaxed as I sipped, the hot liquid seeming to melt the icy grip fear held on my heart.
By the time I finished the last bite of egg-drenched toast, I felt more like myself. More like the highly intelligent, take-charge, competent business woman I had forged. If this new situation was to be a trial by fire, well, so much the better. Fire would only temper the steel of my resolve.
The problem was, this wasn’t a business hurdle where I could calculate the odds, weigh the risks against the benefits. No, this was a personal battle. A conflict between who I believed myself to be, the woman I had worked to become, and the being my blood declared to be my destiny.
I said I was an ultra successful business woman. The gargoyle in my bedroom said I wasn’t even completely human.
What do you think? Is there a story hiding in those words?
