One of my favorite writing exercises is also the simplest. I ask for three words at random from whoever is closest to me at that moment (physically, not emotionally), and then I write for fifteen minutes. Somewhere in that writing, I have to use all three words in a way that feels organic.
Sometimes, that’s not the easiest thing to accomplish. Especially, it seems, when folks figure out why I want the words. Some people take particular joy in a game of “stump the author.” And the harder somebody tries to trip me up, the more contrived the writing sounds. About the time that starts, I stop asking for words. But I always come back eventually because, as I mentioned, it’s one of my favorite writing exercises.
Today’s three words are: Black, Joker, Mixed.
The results are below the cut. Y’all are invited to play with me. Rules are simple. Just write. Fifteen minutes. No editing. Just write. Post the results in the comments. Looking forward to seeing your results!
Black, Joker, Mixed
All it took was a bass line, heavy with the promise of sex and sweat and heated exchanges. Micky kept hers long after she left the band. Arlene had pulled her away after a weekend of passion that went well beyond the normal clothes falling off after a show. She’d spotted Arlene during a long drum solo that left her and all the other members of Joker’s Myth free to grab a drink or just shake off the built up tension in their fingers. Only this time, this solo, when the lights went black except for the one spot on Jamison in the back, she reached for her water and came up with a handful of Arlene. She held the glass up, making it easier for Micky to get. Micky, not paying close attention, wrapped her hand around Arlene’s and almost pulled her onto stage before she realized she had a hold of more than she’d intended.
She’d picked up plenty of women at shows. It was one of the perks of the job. The hours sucked. The pay was a mixed bag, depending on the venue. But the women? The women were always willing.
Arlene, though… She was… different. The look she gave Micky, water sloshing over her hand, was a crazy blend of lust and anger and daring. And there was this weird tinge of recognition, as if seeing an old friend for the first time in years. Except she’d never met Arlene before. She could tell, by the startled look in Arlene’s eyes, that she felt it too.
The first time they fucked, backstage with the sweat and stink of cigarettes and whiskey still clinging to her, she’d pushed Arlene up against a stack of cases the roadies would come for at any moment. She didn’t know Arlene’s name yet, but she knew the heat of her touch, the way she felt around her fingers, the puff of her breath against her lips. She knew the way she sounded when she tumbled over the edge, the noise of the bar, the crew members, the groupies, the party, all forgotten, overpowered by the guttural groan as she tensed and then slumped against Micky.