The writers group I participate in starts out every meeting with a writing prompt exercise. Someone grabs a random book from the shelves of the library where we meet and picks out a page.  The first sentence of the page becomes our writing prompt and we have five minutes to come up with something. Every now and then, I actually come up with something coherent, so I’m happy to share it.

Today’s writing prompt is the sentence, “That’s the park.”

 

That’s the park.

I can’t go in there.

All the others, chasing, biting and scratching. If I go in there, I’ll die.

But I have to. There is nowhere else. Everywhere but here is blanketed with cold white powder, impenetrable.

I squeeze through the bars, skipping lightly over the snow.

There it is, the great worn edifice, guarded by two grey ones. They flick from one side to the next, bushy plumes standing upright.

I circle around a bush and then I see the others, gathering the biggest pile of acorns I’ve seen all winter.