I love words.
I love to read. I love to
write have written. I love word games, puzzles, poems.
So when my friend Jim told me about the short story writing contest in Esquire that required a story of 79 words, no more, no less, I was intrigued but not inspired. I’m not a writer, and when I am, it isn’t fiction. Until a friend and neighbor at a recent show began to tell me her family story, one so compelling it has to be a book. And, as I was trying to
inspire cajole her to begin writing (because I desperately want to read it as a novel) I remembered the short story contest.
I have now found my number one way to entertain myself during the slow points in shows and the long hours in the van!
Here is my first go at it, 79 considered words. But remember I’m not a writer, and when I am, it isn’t fiction.
Hector arrived at his childhood sanctuary in a custom tailored American suit, hugging the walls to avoid the family’s silent glare. Convinced that he was robbed of a richer life that existed elsewhere, he lived as an outsider, especially now. He knew no hope of reconciliation remained when he read her obituary. Hector was leveled by the absence of his name. Four decades of drama with his caribbean bride, as hot-blooded as her native colors, would end in silence.