Well I have not been even close to a great blogger. Still figuring it all out- but in the meantime I have done a writing rave with three of my good writing friends. What is a rave you say? Well its a writing exercise- one of us picks five words and from those five words we develop a story, a commentary, something using 300 words or more. Mine I did in under 30mins and I grabbed a character I developed years ago from a blog that started my novel …
Blog Words: Tomato, Label, Star, Express, Picture
“You don’t deserve to be a mother”
Jo tried to shield her eyes from the faces. She long ago stopped hearing their rants and accusations. They were only words but the faces, she couldn’t bare their faces. Their faces haunted her in dreams, contorted, angry faces. Eyes bulged with hate, mouths coiled in rage with spittle dripping from blistering red lips. Jo managed to block out the words but she could not block out those faces.
The officer sat her down with a little more force than he should have. They all hated her. She’d deprived them of a wonderful woman. She’d ruined her. It was hard to contain the rage. Detective Flaherty himself had loved Bethany. It wasn’t so much her beautiful face, which of course was beyond debate; it was her exquisite bright disposition. He’d never met her personally but saw her in interviews. Bethany Woods was a star of the rarest quality. Unlike most of the new Hollywood pacts of women with no talent and only famous for showing their tits and ass in a sloppy sex tape, Bethany was a Harvard educated drama major who started in theater. Not a big deal for many but her choices had shielded her exempt from much nasty tabloid fodder. Now she was dead and her own mother stood accused. Colin shook his head, there was not much he hadn’t seen in his line of work but this kind of slaughter from a mother was beyond his comprehension.
“I didn’t do this.” Jo protested. She believed they had long ago stopped listening to her cries but she could not stop her mouth.
The detective slid a picture in her direction. “You mean you didn’t do this?”
She would not look at the pictures again. She’d never forget the horrid site of her daughter splayed out at the gate of her home and her car crushing her body against it. It was real blood all over her dress and the car, not the fake blood they used in the studio that looked like tomato paste. It was her car but she was not driving it she was sure of it. She had not pinned her daughter up against the gate and drove her Rover into her, then backed up and did it again. There was just no way. She didn’t remember but she knew she didn’t do it.
The door opened and the other detective came into the room. Jo’s eyes welled with tears as they had so many times during the last thirty-six hours after she was picked up for her daughter’s murder. How could she express to these people she was no murderer even though she knew in the folder the detectives was carrying was tons of evidence pointing at her.