WRITER'S WORKSHOP
A place for writing that is not part of my blog
![Picture](/uploads/4/9/8/3/49833919/7751920.jpg)
THE PINK PORTA POTTY AFFAIR
"The Pink Porta Potty Affair" is a character sketch featuring Vera Olive Gardner and her husband Arthur. It is based on experiences I had walking through a construction site near my sister's apartment complex. I have been thinking about writing a mystery, and Vera is my main character.
Vera saw it casually roll past as she stepped out of the side street. A medium sized bright pink beach ball was traveling down the street of the apartment complex where she and her husband, Arthur, had recently moved as part of their retirement downsizing plan. The ball was all by itself.
She was out for her morning stroll. The streets were deserted. The apartment complex was very new. Vera and her husband lived in the part that was finished, but just blocks away was a section under construction. The ball was headed for the construction zone.
She looked to see who had thrown the ball. There were no visible people anywhere. No one threw it, no one rolled it, it was traveling on it's own momentum. She guessed that the slight incline of the street was keeping it going. There was a light breeze that was a perfect accompaniment for her walk. The breeze seemed to push the ball along as it zigzagged down the street.
Vera imagined that she was in a science fiction movie where the end of the world had happened and she was the only person left, just her and the ball — and maybe Arthur, who was sound asleep back at the apartment. She envisioned herself as a female version of that man in the movie she had seen, who was marooned on an island with only a soccer ball for company. His soccer ball had a personality all its own, and so did the pink beach ball. It was very cute in its pinkness and she wanted to take care of it. It brought out her maternal instincts. She followed it into the unfinished side of the apartment complex.
Even on the gravel part of the street it kept right on going. The only thing that stopped it was a large pink porta-potty. The beach ball wedged its little self between the curb and the porta-potty. It was stuck. She felt compelled to rescue it.
Vera headed towards the porta-potty, carefully dodging debris that might trip up her slightly unsteady senior legs. It was imposing and a bit mysterious. She had seen the porta potties before on her morning walks, set out randomly next to the curbs around the construction sight. She couldn't understand why someone had selected pink as their color. As an artist, she was very conscious of color and it's effect on people. She thought the porta potties should be a color more suited for the construction workers who used them, like gray or khaki. Pink was too garish, although it did make them easy to see, like the pink beach ball that had captured her attention and still waited to be rescued. Perhaps, she thought to herself, that was the reason for the color.
She pulled the beach ball out of it's prison and stood contemplating the porta potty up close. She had been a little curious about what they looked like inside, but was too embarrassed to check them out when the construction workers were around. It occurred to her that today might be a good day to satisfy her curiosity since the place was deserted.
Vera looked around to make sure no one would see her exploring the inside of the porta potty. There were no construction workers or dog walkers, just her and the matching beach ball and porta potty. She wished she had a pair of gloves or a handiwipe to protect herself from the handle of the door that was undoubtably crawling with organisms passed on from all the people who had used the facility, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear of contamination. She pulled open the door.
There were no dead bodies or duffle bags filled with drugs, but the inside of the porta potty disturbed her. The inside of the door was filled with scribbled racial slurs and epitaphs. Obviously there were some deep riffs between the construction workers that labored on this site. She felt the hatred of the words and it made her afraid. It destroyed the peacefulness of her morning walk.
Vera closed the porta potty door and tucked the beach ball under her arm despite the fact that it was covered in dirt and gravel. She wanted to find a new home for it away from this ugly place. It was so close to, but so far from the peaceful surroundings and security of her apartment. She needed to get home and share her experience and feelings with Arthur.
Arthur gradually awoke from a sound, dream filled sleep. He let the images in his head gradually slip away. They were memories from their old house. The garden, filled with out of control tomatoes and flowers, with fat black bumble bees humming happily among the plants, faded as he gained consciousness. He knew from the empty space beside him that Vera was out walking, as usual.
He missed the garden and the creatures that inhabited it. He had an affinity for plants and animals. He loved experimenting with different varieties of vegetables and nursing them into bountiful production. He encouraged the bees and the lady bugs that protected the plants. Even the snails got special treatment, tossed into thick underbrush away from the garden instead of being smashed. Birds ate out of his hand and wild creatures big and small would often venture close to him, sensing they were safe with this unremarkable looking, but very special man.
He heard the front door open and close and saw Vera walk past the bedroom door with something under her arm. He saw a flash of pink as she headed into the kitchen. It was time to get up and discover what new adventure his wife was up to today.
![Picture](/uploads/4/9/8/3/49833919/published/549662.jpg?1676409494)
TUNNEL OF LOVE
"Tunnel of Love" was written for a senior writer's group I belonged to. The prompt was a photo of a tunnel from a contest in Writers Digest magazine.
Who the heck put the idea in my head that I was even capable of setting foot in a place like the “Tunnel of Love.” It seems more like “Tunnel of Apprehension and Fear.” The décor looks like an urban version of “Raiders of the Lost Arc.” I keep expecting a giant stone ball to come rolling down the corridor and crush me like a bug, unless I can outrun it. Considering my age and diminished physical condition, I doubt that I could. As a card carrying Medicare recipient I have found my ability to run at all is limited to a few seconds when I need to make a quick dash to the bathroom.
The only reason I’m even here is because of my Evil Twin. She has been bugging me lately, trying to tell me I can’t do this. She is constantly on my case about how I’m not young enough, thin enough, or attractive enough to ever have a chance in the “Tunnel of Love.” She may not realize that instead of convincing me it’s not worth the try, she has motivated me to take the risk. It’s not exactly that I want to show her I can do it, it’s just that I’m sick and tired of listening to her. She would never do this herself but maybe I can do it without her.
I may not be young or thin or attractive in the way I was when I was younger, but I am stronger than I used to be. I’m tired of letting fear and my Evil Twin’s nagging voice get in the way of doing something that has the potential to bring something new into my life. I’ve gotten stuck in keeping myself safe and comfortable and forgotten how wonderful it can be to go on an adventure, where I don’t really know what’s going to happen. Sure I could get hurt, but it won’t kill me.
So here I am, putting one foot in front of the other. I can do this. I just have to get past the thought that poison darts, in the form of stinging criticism, might come flinging out of the walls at me. I remember walking down the corridor near the bookshop at the college I attended. There was a line of guys that always hung out there ogling the women and making comments to each other about every female that walked by. It amazes me that almost fifty years later the image of them and their snarky expressions is still with me.
Thank God I am not that vulnerable young woman any more. I have experience and a lifetime of loving support from my friends and family behind me. I know who I am and I don’t need to worry about what other people think of how I look. I do care about how I look, but I’m not obsessed about it. I feel confident in my new outfit from the plus size department at Macy's. I’m wearing the makeup I bought to wear for my nephew’s wedding. It was carefully selected to make me look like I’m not wearing any. There is irony in this, and the fact that it cost more than my outfit, but I feel fresh and dewey. My new cute but comfy shoes have a little sparkle in them, and so does my heart.
I do a quick check for my Evil Twin. It looks like she is not here, at least not at this point. Ahead of me is, literally, a light at the end of the tunnel. It's coming from an open doorway. I don’t know what I might find there, but I’m willing to take a look. A shadowy figure is standing at the entrance. When he turns towards me I can see his face. He is kind of cute in a senior citizen way. “Welcome to senior singles night,” he says in a pleasant and welcoming voice. I hand over my ticket, take a deep breathe, and step into the “Tunnel of Love.”
"Tunnel of Love" was written for a senior writer's group I belonged to. The prompt was a photo of a tunnel from a contest in Writers Digest magazine.
Who the heck put the idea in my head that I was even capable of setting foot in a place like the “Tunnel of Love.” It seems more like “Tunnel of Apprehension and Fear.” The décor looks like an urban version of “Raiders of the Lost Arc.” I keep expecting a giant stone ball to come rolling down the corridor and crush me like a bug, unless I can outrun it. Considering my age and diminished physical condition, I doubt that I could. As a card carrying Medicare recipient I have found my ability to run at all is limited to a few seconds when I need to make a quick dash to the bathroom.
The only reason I’m even here is because of my Evil Twin. She has been bugging me lately, trying to tell me I can’t do this. She is constantly on my case about how I’m not young enough, thin enough, or attractive enough to ever have a chance in the “Tunnel of Love.” She may not realize that instead of convincing me it’s not worth the try, she has motivated me to take the risk. It’s not exactly that I want to show her I can do it, it’s just that I’m sick and tired of listening to her. She would never do this herself but maybe I can do it without her.
I may not be young or thin or attractive in the way I was when I was younger, but I am stronger than I used to be. I’m tired of letting fear and my Evil Twin’s nagging voice get in the way of doing something that has the potential to bring something new into my life. I’ve gotten stuck in keeping myself safe and comfortable and forgotten how wonderful it can be to go on an adventure, where I don’t really know what’s going to happen. Sure I could get hurt, but it won’t kill me.
So here I am, putting one foot in front of the other. I can do this. I just have to get past the thought that poison darts, in the form of stinging criticism, might come flinging out of the walls at me. I remember walking down the corridor near the bookshop at the college I attended. There was a line of guys that always hung out there ogling the women and making comments to each other about every female that walked by. It amazes me that almost fifty years later the image of them and their snarky expressions is still with me.
Thank God I am not that vulnerable young woman any more. I have experience and a lifetime of loving support from my friends and family behind me. I know who I am and I don’t need to worry about what other people think of how I look. I do care about how I look, but I’m not obsessed about it. I feel confident in my new outfit from the plus size department at Macy's. I’m wearing the makeup I bought to wear for my nephew’s wedding. It was carefully selected to make me look like I’m not wearing any. There is irony in this, and the fact that it cost more than my outfit, but I feel fresh and dewey. My new cute but comfy shoes have a little sparkle in them, and so does my heart.
I do a quick check for my Evil Twin. It looks like she is not here, at least not at this point. Ahead of me is, literally, a light at the end of the tunnel. It's coming from an open doorway. I don’t know what I might find there, but I’m willing to take a look. A shadowy figure is standing at the entrance. When he turns towards me I can see his face. He is kind of cute in a senior citizen way. “Welcome to senior singles night,” he says in a pleasant and welcoming voice. I hand over my ticket, take a deep breathe, and step into the “Tunnel of Love.”
TWINS
A Haiku and illustration for a grief group I attended after my twin sister died.
A Haiku and illustration for a grief group I attended after my twin sister died.