I want to write fiction very badly, but I've been having a lot of trouble with commitment and ideas. I've expressed before that I think I have writer's ADD. Anyway, I found this site that gives writing prompts, and I'm going to try (repeat, TRY) to use them to write for a few minutes every day, like 500 words or less.
So with this photograph prompt (that came from Flickr's le vent le cri), here is my little piece.
(Keep in mind, it's very rough)
She kicked off her little yellow flats and leaped into the snow, squealing and throwing the little flakes into the air.
“Isn’t it cold?” he asked her.
She turned to him. “The snow?”
“Yes, of course the snow. You’re barefoot.”
She giggled, her cheeks and nose pink by now, her breath coming in little rhythmic puffs of steam. Snowflakes dotted her wild hair like stars, melting and dying only to be replaced by twenty more. Ducking her head and shoulders, she bolted for him, and in shock, he didn’t move, didn’t even take his hands from his pockets. He fell to the cold ground with a thud, and she just laughed.
But instead of laughing along, he kicked and struggled to get free.
“Ow!” he wailed, pushing her off him. He frowned and got up, brushing the snow off his jeans. “You got snow in my shoes.”
He hobbled on one foot while taking off his other shoe and beating the melting slush out of it. She was still sitting, only this time she was glaring at the white field, which was edged by gray spindle trees. It was still and quiet, with no birds tweeting in the trees. The snowflakes were falling harder now. It was hard to tell the difference between the white-gray sky and the white-gray snow. Her toes were pink, and she wiggled them to chase away the cold that had finally numbed them.
He was now standing above her, his hands back in his pockets and his shoulders drawn up tight.
“You used to like playing in the snow with me.”
He didn’t say anything.
With a deep sigh that came from some inner source of regret and sorrow, she heaved herself off the ground. He didn’t extend his hand to help her.
She slipped her cold, wet feet back into the flats, hardly remembering why she had chosen to wear them on such an icky day to begin with. They were pretty, but he hadn’t noticed.
Stuffing her hands in her jacket pockets and mimicking the stiff, hunched-shoulder pose that he was holding, she trudged up the white road. The footsteps they had made on the way down were already nearly invisible, buried by the new flakes that fell fast as she walked away, leaving him standing alone, gazing at the gray spindle trees, and wondering where was the fun in all this cold.