Every once in a while I get a feeling like a fermata in my chest, like a tight little ball below my heart and a big sigh across my back. This feeling is my Call to the Notebook, and it can only be relieved by putting pen to paper. I feel most like myself with a pencil in my hand. Writing is so important to me, but I am plagued by my Inner Editor. Hopefully the 6 Minute Story regime will help me fix that.
Captive. Surrounded by watr, the woman could not breathe, could not fight, could not even open her eyes. Her waist was bound and her feet were weighted and she was sinking. Soon to be erased.
The man in the boat had asked her one last question before he rolled her out. Now, sinking like a parachuter, she did not think about her little boy at home, or her parents (they would be so sad), or all the things she would leave behind. No. Her last moments, the last grains of sand in her proverbial hourglass, and Mari was thinking about...