I warned you all that I'd be attempting to do some creative writing if I got my nerve up this next blogging year. So today I'm giving it a shot, and I'll be linking up with The Red Dress Club. The link up isn't until tomorrow (Friday), so you still have time to write and join in. I will eagerly await your comments, suggestions, hate letters, or whatever else you'd like to tell me about my writing.
Your assignment is to write a short piece - fiction, non-fiction, poetry, whatevs - in which each sentence starts with a the next letter of the alphabet. Starting with "A." So, yes, your finished product will consist of 26 sentences.
Air North wasn't such a bad airline to work for, from a flight attendant perspective. Barbara enjoyed seeing new cities and meeting so many people, even though her feet always ached by the end of the day. Cross country flights were the worst, and today their journey would take them from Atlanta to Seattle -- one long jaunt to be sure. Despite all this, Barbara was in a great mood because she'd won $40 on a scratcher lottery ticket earlier that day; and she planned to put it towards frosting her roots at A Cut Above next week. Everyone knew that blond flight attendants were much more desired than brunettes. Five aisles behind where Barbara was straightening the sugar and cream on her cart, in the first class cabin, the flight attendant call button was on. Gripping the overhead compartment for support as they hit a small bit of turbulence, Barbara glanced at the man in question. He was balding and broad-shouldered, with a mustache and a paunchy stomach that looked overflowed and crammed, even in the roomier first class seats.
"I bet he's going to be the type that is air sick," she thought to herself as she made her way toward him, her common-sense black pumps easing across the stubby blue carpet. Just as she stopped to address him, he raised his glaring brown eyes toward her and shoved back his laptop.
"Kind of you to bother coming back here. Like I haven't been waiting for freaking ten minutes already," he bellowed.
"My apologies, sir. Now I'd love to be of assistance," Barbara stammered, uncertain.
"Obviously you would," he said, dripping in sarcasm. "Pray God tell me you can get me a double Scotch and some fried conch back there. Quickly!"
Repulsed by this belligerent man, Barbara felt her palms grow sweaty and her heart start thumping rapidly, heavily, ominously. She'd been having these random attacks of nerves lately - unpredictable but terrifying nonetheless. Trembling slightly, she tried to calm her breathing, but she felt the heat of deep flushing spread across her face. Undulating waves of gray flashed across her vision, and she saw the man's puffy lips moving but she couldn't hear his words anymore. Very carefully, her hands squeezed the sides of the polyester plane seats, as she tried, desperately, to remain on her feet. Wobbling beads of sweat gently beaded on her so carefully powdered forehead. X-ray vision eyes loomed from the man, from his seat-mate, from all of the passengers on the plane as they glared through Barbara and her facade to stay cool. Yes, it was time to fall into the gray lines, the fuzzy darkness that had built in the back of her skull, as she panted for air.
"Zut Alors," she muttered as she closed her weighted eyes and sank to the dingy aisle floor, oblivious to the fact that she didn't know a word of French.