Walking the Plank Naked & Other Works

By Kevin Moriarity, Diane Lincoln, Fran Fredricks and 4 more

The authors in this book are part of Writers Anonymous, a writers group based in Geneva, Illinois. Founded in 1998, they have met weekly at bookstores, cafés, libraries, homes, and during Covid, via Skype. They are prompt writers. They're given a prompt and take 4 - 5 minutes to write and read the results out loud. Think of it as a gym for writers' brains! But mostly they enjoy each other's company one evening a week and put aside their concerns while keeping their creative minds limber.

 
Some of the stories in this year's book:

⦁    Potential disaster and adventure on the high seas
⦁    Are writers obsolete?
⦁    Science fiction inspired by the true story of Stephen Hawking's party for time travelers
⦁    Poetry about the possibility of romance and running errands
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Moriarity
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215707890

Book preview

Walking the Plank Naked

&

Other Works

Also by Writers Anonymous

Promptly Created

Walking the Plank Naked

&

Other Works

Gieda Afdal

Donna Amburgey

Fran Fredricks

K D Lassiter

Diane Lincoln

Kevin Moriarity

Marie Otte

Walking the Plank Naked & Other Works, Copyright ©2023 Writers Anonymous

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover pirate ship image from Vecteezy.com

Zucchini courtesy of Dall-E

Contents

Introduction

Gieda Afdal

Ode to a Willow in Prose

Donna Amburgey

Infirmities of the Blood

Fran Fredricks

Poetry Pup

Walking the Plank Naked

K D Lassiter

SoulSong

Sons

Diane Lincoln

Why Nobody Showed

In the Shadows

Aseptic Responses

Out of the Way

Limited View

Kevin Moriarity

Culture War

Are Writers Obsolete?

Marie Otte

Strangers

Stops

Introduction

Our writers group, Writers Anonymous, resides in the Fox Valley area of Illinois, west of Chicago. Founded in 1998, we’ve met weekly at bookstores, cafés, libraries, homes, and during covid, via Skype. Sometimes the writers number three, and other times we’ve swelled to 15 attendees. We do free writing based on prompts. We’re given a prompt that we can take in any direction we want. We write for 4-5 minutes on each prompt. Everyone must read what they wrote, though we get 1 pass per evening. Everything is off the top of our heads, no editing, and no critiquing when we take turns reading aloud, sharing what we’ve scribbled down.

Writing can be a lonely, isolated activity, but we do it together, writing in company. We can enjoy each other’s company one evening a week and put aside our concerns. Writers Anonymous is yoga for the brain, a creative etch-a-sketch, writing practice, therapy and friendship. That is what we love about it – our time together keeps our creative mind limber. It's also fascinating to see how different writers take the same prompt in completely different directions. And sometimes the writings spin off into other writing projects, like this book for instance. Some of these works are the result of prompts during our meetings, some not. Either way, we hope you enjoy the works in our book.

Gieda Afdal

Ode to a Willow in Prose

Gieda Afdal

Y ou don’t have to worry about trimming the dead branches on the willow.

What do you mean? I asked holding the cell phone to my left ear, looking through the plate glass window in Grimm’s Hallmark store. Heaven and earth had merged into a sea of fat raindrops, wind driven horizontally across a grey blackness. Lightening pitched in zigzags downward, followed instantly by deafening claps of thunder. The lights in Grimm’s Hallmark store flickered off and on. The computerized cash registers chimed and pinged, occasionally registering non-purchases. The automatic glass doors opened and shut on their own as if letting in invisible customers. I scanned the store wondering where to take cover, just in case. Where was the bathroom?

I overheard the cashier, a middle-aged woman in a long black jumper sprinkled with pumpkins, teased silver yellow hair, and black eye make-up painted along the sides of her face a la Kiss, whisper on her cell phone the words, Tornado sighting over Elgin. On my cell phone, Christina continued, From the corner of my eye, I saw sparks through the upstairs bedroom window, then I heard a big crash. When I looked out the window, the willow was gone.

What do you mean ‘gone’?

Gone!

Gone???

Yes, it’s lying on the ground.

All of it?

All of it! It smashed across the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

Oh, my God. My willow can’t be gone. Are you sure?

The roots are sticking up. It’s gone.

It can’t be gone. I wailed to myself, suddenly anxious to get out and see for myself.

When the wind and rain abated to a clear, straight downpour, I drove to my house through a green, sodden world with branch strewn streets, houses with huge tree trunks jammed into their roofs, and front yards strewn with snapped off tree limbs, submerged in drowning lawns.

I arrived at my house. I looked across the top of the roof. Blank grey sky. I shut my eyes, opened them again: blank grey sky. God! It was true. Gripping the house key, I ran to the front door, jammed in the key, flung open the door, screaming, Christina! Christina was in her upstairs bedroom with the baby, placidly rocking in the glider. I hopped over baby stuff scattered across the carpet to get to the back window. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! It really is down.

Coming with the baby to the window, she said, I told you. There were sparks. Then a big thud. When I looked out, the willow was down.

Yes, the willow certainly was down. A crater with giant wooden shards loomed in the corner of the yard where the massive willow once grew. The willow’s trunk had broken off right at the soil line, crushed my neighbor’s