In order to work on my writing, I’m going to start doing some exercises and trying to write often – even if what I write sucks (which I’m sure it will more often than not – especially late nights like tonight).

Tonight’s exercise: Go to www.flickr.com/photos/, find the first photo of a person, and write a brief story about what just happened to them, and what they’re going to do next.  Here’s my photo:

Just like that, it was over.  No screaming or drawn out arguments, just a note taped to the door, and even that was simpler than he expected.  It should have been harder.  There should have been a struggle.

But there wasn’t.  Part of him was angry that he wasn’t even given the chance to fight for her.  But he did have a chance.  He’d had plenty of them.  But despite knowing this day would eventually come, he did nothing.  He couldn’t even gather the energy to form a tight fist before his fingers went flaccid.  The wooden bench bit into his back, but he made no effort to move.  His feet may as well have been glued to the floor.

He thought about that bench.  They had had their first real conversation there.  He remembered how the party raged on around them, but never intruded; like the eye of a hurricane.  He remembered her smile, and how her face lit up.  Nobody had ever been so interested in him, and he had never been able to talk to someone so freely and openly.  Even in the middle of the crowd, as long as he was talking to her, they didn’t exist.  

But that was then.  Three months ago – had it really only been three? – he had been sitting in this exact same spot, but in a completely different place.  He stared at the note on the door.  He hadn’t read it yet.  Didn’t need to:  he knew what it said.  

Without breaking his gaze, he took a sip from the bottle dangling precariously from his lifeless fingers.  He barely noticed; It was almost reflex.  But he caught himself and held the bottle out in front of him.  That damned bottle.  

Suddenly finding the strength he stood and whipped the bottle at the door.  It exploded in a glittering shower of glass and cheap beer.  Without breaking stride he shoved open the door and slammed it behind him.  The ink ran down the now shredded paper like tears.  There was going to be quite a mess to clean up in the morning.