New Orleans Writing Marathon

In the spirit of the Writing Marathon the pieces below are unedited.  The concept is to walk or meander through an area, stop, write what inspires you from the place, and then share your writing with your fellow group marathoners.


Writing One:  Nonfiction Piece

7/11/17 3:42 pm

at Molly’s window.

A drunk wasted off her ass girl came up to the window thinking I’m a local. You always know the wasted drunks when they tell you they love you. She moved her long, dark hair behind her ears with her long, slendor ivory fingers.  Once finished, she took my hand into hers and through slurred speech told me her name was Jubilee then took my pen out of my other hand and wrote on the side of my notebook.  If it were possible to name a mix of sweat, marijuania, and Jim beam it would be Jubilee.  The Portlandesque guy who stood by her side told me I’m a lover, he raised his eyebrows and so did Jubilee.  I knew where this was going and maybe I’m a prude, but a threesome in New Orleans with a wasted twenty-something couple was and is not on my agenda this week, quite honestly not on my agenda at all.  I replied, “I’m a lover of dogs.” I gave up my water to their apparent overheated, in need of a good brushing tan dog.

mollys window

Writing Two: Creating fiction from nonfiction

11:10 croissant cafe Fiction writing techniques and prompts  7/13/17


I open the door, looking for something to eat, notice the congealed cranberry spill that moved its way to underneath the crisper.  “Wasn’t it on the first shelf yesterday?” I ask myself – in my mind I say it in a perfect Irish/Gaelic accent.  But I answer myself in Red’s Russian accent from Orange is the New Black,  “No, it was on the first shelf last month.”  Argh, why can’t I do it, why can I clean every other part of this house and all the other appliances except the frig.

My bad southern lilting accent kicks in to remind me that I was a clockwork refrig cleaner when I lived in my other house.

What is it about this one, I now ask in my normal voice, “is it possessed, is it?”  Then I answer “I’ll worry about that tomorrow,” and I close the door realizing I have nothing to eat and decide to head to Peking to order some take-out Chinese.

Same scene  – fiction different character view:

11:10 croissant cafe Fiction writing techniques and prompts  7/13/17

“Yea, yea, yea.” Charley chomped into the phone as she smacked the bubble gum in her mouth. “I gotta go, I’m at that place again.”

Charley, flipped her phone down annoyed that her parents still won’t let her have a smart phone – it is 2017 and she is the only teenager with an outdated flip phone – it is so embarrassing. She dug out the oversize key ring at the bottom of her backpack – it is a clear pack because her school requires it, all because some kid brought cherry bombs to school a year ago and started a small fire in the history wing. Most kids had their school pack and their afterschool normal pack, but again not Charley – her parents said two is a waste.

Once she found the key to Mr. Berlin’s apartment, she unlocked the door and turned the knob. She headed straight for the refrig – she knew it would be bad, every week she had cleaned his house, the refrigerator has always been the worst. She is not sure why, sometimes she is not even sure if Mr. Berlin lives here, because she doesn’t see any other signs of life in the home – except her cleaning supplies left on the kitchen table and a card with her “under the table” pay inside it. She always pocketed a few extra dollars for herself before giving the rest to her parents. She was determined to buy a smartphone and plan and pay for it herself without her parents being the wiser.

She opened the refrig door and arctic air blasted out and chilled her bones. Once again cranberry juice was stuck to the bottom shelf. She never knew anyone could drink so much cranberry juice. One by one she took out the cold items, and then headed over to the cleaning supplies. “What the…” She stopped, as if some hand of punishment was looking down on her and ready to threaten a grounding if she swore. The bucket of supplies was empty. No scrubber, no cleaning sprays, no soap, no rags.

She picked up the bucket, wondered what she should do, looked at the cash that was left, and knew if she wanted her phone she would have to buy some supplies to keep this job.

But, she mentally counted the money she had already saved up and placed inside a manila envelope on the top of her school locker – the one labeled chem lab notes. Four grand. That could be for college, but four grand will get her a new smart phone with a prepaid plan.

She left a note for Mr. Berlin, that told him, she can no longer work for him, and Charley walked out the door.

She closed the door before she could see the refrig open on its own and Mr. Berlin emerge from a new stain of garlic and marmalade.


Writing Three: Starts off with me describing a room and then turns into a fictional piece.

1:48 pm Wednesday July 12, 2017

Evoking the power of past spirits and lives I imagine myself the flapper as the intoxiating music winds it ways through the pipes and into the Seance room.. reds and pink evokes the spookiness, and o the left an old time gangsta sits with a pipe hanging out of his mouth, drinking his prohibition whisky and smacking the waitresses behind. She looks at him, its a warning, not in public someone might figure it out and your wife can not know.  Across from an old grotesque vaudeville act stand straight in their masks – white porcelan blue collars there is no laughter – only sneers- these are the nightmares brought to me in my youth by Kingarian Imagery.  The sneers know too much, they can ruin you through way more than haunting your dreams.  To the right are the little girl, one in a pale blue satin dress and the other in a french silk white embroidered dress – both of high status bt the french silk girl;s bit of cheek roughe clearly defines her as a little higher in social class – the one who will have the fortune of being married by the time she is eihteen – the blue satin girl will work : she is the one who gets her hands dirty telling fortues to the misfortunate souls, spinning stories of lore and monsters then selling a protection spell or vial of potion to wear around the neck.

If I look closely, past the dust, the furnishings, past all that is in the here and now, I see this blue satin girl grown up – an old maid of 28, sitting in this very room, an old friend in front of her, deep dark purples on the side of her face, a limp, and everytime her right leg touhes the ground a grimace she tires to hide.  Can you please tell me my fortune blue satin girl – she asks

but blue satin girl doesn’t want to, how does she tell her old friend the future of a ghost. How does she tell her old friend the eyes at night that are on her arent spirits of kindness, but flesh of meanness.

White silk girl knows though, she knows her time is near for she is the one who taught blue satin girl the tricks of hte trade – she knows that just because a man has the means to be wealthy, the means to take you to the opera and bring in a costumer to your house and have material imported from the finest ports across the globe, white silk girl knew that man wasn’t always good.  At eighteen she didn’t know, for one can nver tell their own fortune – it’s never in the cards – blindness lives instead.

blue satin girl can you sell me a charm, can you sell me a potion, can you save me from my husband.

Where were you white silk girl when I lived destitute for awhile on the old canal roads, where were you when I begged for alt to preserve what little food I had, where were you.  You laughed at our friendship, you called me unrefined, and said no one will love me.  Beauty only takes you so far  and sometimes it takes you to your disaster.


for you I shall give you this potion.

the man, he knew, but blue satin girl didn’t know her man  – her silent master was  white silk girl’s husband.

fate is cruel

The three play out their story in this room – an endless cycle of living and dying an endless cycle of cold chills and raised hairs on visitors since.

do you feel that?

Does your hand stand p on the back of your neck?

I the jazz really playing or is it a forgotten memory implanted by one of the players of the story?

Are the pillows always the same or have they moved since you sat down?

Listen, they will tell you their story again.