Language:Now we get down to the evil part of writing. We write our daily shorts to work on our weak spots, but we undertake novels to celebrate our abilities. Do some self analysis and identify your strengths and weaknesses as a writer. What things go well for you, and what things give you a struggle? How can you focus on your strengths and avoid your weaknesses?
Midnight Snack
Listening to the owl's story bored her, and all the dead people kept saying the same things over and over, so she began to make a new plan to ...
Almost Full
Describe the time you ran out of gasoline. Describe a trip on a crowded elevator. You've been hired as an elevator design engineer, how are you going to make it more fun?
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Midnight Snack by Wolfgang Glinka
It all started with a piece of cold sausage.
They were in bed, it was 11.30 and they always tried to sleep before midnight.
Well, that is not entirely true.
She always wanted to sleep then. He just went along with it. Lay there silently, thinking about things.
Thinking about what had been and what might have been.
She slept soundly. Pleasantly guttural baby snores, a smile with a slight frown around the eyebrows.
They let the moon shine in...no blinds...the morning sun awoke them every day. She bright and refreshed. He tired, depressed by the after-taste of restless night.
And so it started: a midnight snack.
He crept out of bed, even though she would never wake.
The fridge opened its heart to him. Lit up, full of temptations and, like his sleeping wife, it hummed gently, but this sound eased his stress.
First it was just a sausage then, the following night, some cheese and a piece of pie. He was soon planing this secret trip during the day. Excitedly, furtively even though his wife must have noticed.
A glass of wine then turned it into a banquet.
No longer standing by the opened fridge, he set the table, buffing the glass with a tea towel. Making it special.
Then he heard it.
Outside the apartment.
Another gentle noise, but unlike the fridge and his sleeping wife, this was the sound of pain.
He went to the door. Listened for a moment.
Yes. Someone was crying.
A woman.
Should he go to her? Did he want to?
She encroached on his happy hour.
It was useless ignoring her so he opened the door and opened his heart.
There she was, sitting outside her apartment door, crouched, arms hugging her knees, sobbing quietly and continuously until she saw him.
"I don't want to wake him," she said with that conspiratorial tone born of the midnight hour.
"I come out here to cry. It helps. I don't want him to know."
His hand smoothed her arm, brushed back her hair, none of this intentionally.
She sniffed back her tears and a smile, slowly growing from a look that had been haunted with sorrow.
"I can't help it" she told him. "I need this time. I don't mean to cry but the tears come....every night."
And so it began., their midnight snack.
It began with some cheese and a glass of wine.
In time, it was so much more.
Wolfgang Glinka
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