The Writing Life

Chilled, sterile air filled the hotel room. The air conditioning was hardly necessary, and yet she left it on. Over her shoulder, she could see the harbor, and the tops of some palm trees through the gauzy sheer curtain. She sliced into the pink flesh of her steak. Being in Sydney felt good, even alone. The television was inexplicably tuned to a sports channel. A horse race was in progress until it wasn't. A horse fell, then two more, calling over it, and finally a third stumbled and crashed down. The last seemed to have landed on its neck. She swallowed the unchewed meat in her mouth.  The camera left the track for brief moments to show the tears on the faces of wealthy women in brightly colored hats. One of them was an owner of the third horse. Why the tears? Crystal wondered. Were they for the animal? For the loss of a trophy? Jockeys soothed their charges, to no avail. All four were put down within minutes. She pushed the plate of food away from her and left it to go...

As she reached for the door handle, Marcy looked back at the empty chair she'd been sitting in a moment before, and wondered if she'd ever return to Paris again, without her sister. Rita sighed with exasperation behind her. The sunlight of late afternoon cast a shadow of the window decal on the restaurant wall.  The end of their last day here was imminent. To Rita's further annoyance, Marcy lifted her phone and took yet another picture before she turned and pushed past her sister to step out into the empty street. Open the door...tell your best story with one of my workshops .