Eve Bunting’s words from p. 16 of Fly Away Home:
Once a little brown bird got into the main terminal and it couldn’t get out. It fluttered in the high, hollow spaces. It threw itself at the glass, fell panting on the floor, flew to a tall, metal girder, and perched there, exhausted.
“Don’t stop trying,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can get out!”
For days the bird flew around, dragging one wing. And then it found the instant when a sliding door was open and slipped through. I watched it rise. Its wing seemed OK.
“Fly, bird,” I whispered. “Fly away home!”
Though I couldn’t hear it, I knew it was singing. Nothing made me as happy as that bird.
My words using Bunting’s sentences as patterns:
|Roxy wasn't particularly thrilled to be|
cast as the villain in my story.
Once a small brown mouse got into the basement and couldn’t get out. It scurried into a corner, hopping and clawing at the wall. It found the shabby sofa, got a grip on the upholstery, and climbed to the arm, where it perched. Waiting. Nose twitching.
“Don’t stop running,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can outsmart Roxy the cat!”
For days the mouse scuttled around, successfully hiding from Roxy. And then, thwack went the trap! I feared the worst. In an instant I saw a flash of brown run under the sofa. The mouse was okay.
“Run mouse,” I whispered. “You are indeed brave.”
Though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was hiding, twitching, waiting to respond to the next hazard.
The next step is to take the paragraphs and use them to produce more writing, possibly a story. I’m going to let the words take me wherever they want to go. And if my internal editor gets too loud and begins to prevent me from getting my words on the paper, I will shush it because it is time to write.