Looking under rocks for ideas
This is just a little story about a woman named Mared Berger and her quest to find the perfect story that would make her the perfect writer.
Mared had attended workshops about writing, she took class, after class after workshop.
Through this all Mared couldn’t come up with a story- unless the story was about Mared paying a lot of money to ask permission to write. Come to think about it that IS a story but Mared didn’t see it that way.
Tonight we find Mared was at a Writer’s Retreat that is held every second Tuesday of the month in a little cottage with a herb garden in the back and a rose garden in the front that was currently under siege by dozens of little garden gnomes.
The inside of the cottage had been gutted and in its place were smooth cold plaster walls, softly by electric candles and tiny Tiffany lamps on little tables with lion’s feet.
The furniture was wicker and all of it was white.
In front of propane fireplace with a painting of a flower opened wide to the sun above it the writers in Mared’s group shared stories about their journey.
How hard it was to find a meaningful story, one worth of being told.
Mared was of the opinion that anyone could come up with a story, but there was a lot of poorly written stories out there polluting the human mind- and her sister workshoppers agreed.
So after a few hours of sharing their views and eating pounds of cheese and chocolate and drinking wine and bottled water the workshoppers called it a night.
Mared felt very confident on her drive home that she had inspired herself and others with her views and she just felt it in her bones- she had really connected with her inner writer that night.
It was almost dark when Mared pulled up into her driveway but her security lights dutifully popped on and as she gathered her things together from the seat next to her she looked out the passenger window and saw her neighbor struggling with something in the bed of her truck.
Inez Malak was one of those neighbors everyone saw and nobody knew. She kept to herself.
” Good evening Inez.” Mared trilled across the yard to Inez who was now standing in the bed of her truck.
Inez was snapped a bungee cord off of whatever it was attached to and she tossed it to her side.
” Hey there Mared.”
” How was your evening?”
Inez answered almost mechanically, ” I spent most of it in customs and do you think anyone helped me load this son of a bitch into my truck? Hell no. Bastards. I should have left it there. It’d have served them right.”
” Well. That’s a shame. People do lack courtesy and empathy now days. It’s a disgrace how we have all become our own little islands.”
Whatever was in Inez’s truck shifted and she stumbled and caught herself before she fell out.
” Yeah. No kidding Mared.” Inez straightened herself upright and kicked whatever was in the truck with her hard. ” It’s a disgrace alright.”
Inez reached down and lifted up a crow bar.
” I have to get this out of my truck and into my house before it gets dark.”
” It’s supposed to rain too.”
” Super.” Inez sighed.
” Well. Goodnight Inez.”
” Yeah. Night Mared.” Inez waved the crow bar at her .
That’s when Mared saw the bite marks on Inez’s arm, her black eye and it looked like a clump of hair had been pulled out of her head just above her ear which looked swollen and was turning purple.
” I hope you get whatever that is in before the storm hits.” Mared looked up at the black clouds that were sweeping in overhead and she held her notebooks to her chest.
Inez closed her eyes and when she opened them a second later Mared was walking into her house and wishing her a good night.
Inez shook her head, leaned over and got busy prying nails out of the crate in her truck. When she was done she pried the lid off and looked down into the painted face on a mummy’s sarcophagus.
” Try any more like you did at the loading dock and I’ll rip your name off this thing and tear your face off. Got it?”
Inez hopped out of her truck, slammed the tailgate shut, got into the cab and backed her truck into her garage.
The garage door whispered shut as she killed her engine and next door Mared was busy preparing herself a cup of tea and wondering where on earth she was ever going to find that perfect story, that one story worth being told.