Exploring Creative Writing #01

Today I’m sharing an excerpt from a short story I’m writing. I last wrote something in October, but ever since then my protagonist, Angel, has been out of reach. I’m really hoping he’ll come back to me. In the meantime, I’d love to know what you think.

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We always waved to one another when I walked the dog. Mrs. Velasquez and I. She’d sit out on the front porch in this white rocking chair and tilt her head up to the sun and close her eyes. She looked like a sunbathing turtle—she had this long, wrinkled ass neck and her skin was dry and flaky-looking. I was always glad when I saw her out there cuz honestly, she really needed it. She looked like shit. I mean, I’m sure the fresh air was doing her some good, but not much. Anyway, sometimes she’d wave us over and I’d cross the street real quick, dragging the dog behind me.

When the dog and I would finally get over there, she’d reach her knobby fingers toward him – pat his head, part his fur, massage beneath his collar. The dog would groan and lean against her legs and—as much as I hate to say it—his pink thing would usually come out. I’d always try to stomp on his paw real quick, you know? Hope he got the hint, but he never fuckin’ did.

Anyway, Mrs. Velasquez always told me a lot of stories about Cuba. She said she was from there even though Velasquez is a Spanish name. I told her once that she looked like a Spaniard and she told me that I looked like I didn’t know shit, so I never brought it up again after that. She lived alone and was a foul-mouthed lady and I didn’t want to push my luck. So instead we’d talk about buying lottery tickets or the weather or what we were gonna eat that night. I liked Mrs. Velasquez. I think she might’ve liked my dog more than me, but overall she was cool.

I was home the day she died. I watched as her family pulled up. They were already dressed in black and their crying echoed across the stretch of street. I brought the dog onto the porch. I was thinking that Mrs. Velasquez might appreciate it, you know? Assuming she could actually see us from the sky or wherever the fuck she was. The dog didn’t understand shit though. Even had the nerve to start barking. Mrs. Velasquez’s family looked up, bewildered, and I raised a hand. A few nodded in response and then turned back toward the house. I smacked the dog in the nose. He growled and then lay down. Silence.

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Thanks for reading! I would love it if you’d share your thoughts with me:

• What do you want to happen next?

• How do you envision Mrs. Velasquez? The protagonist?

• What setting came to the mind’s eye? Where is this story taking place?

Ciao, xx