Note: Fred Stenson wrote a great book for writers called “Feigned or Imagined.”  What follows is the result a simple exercise from his book.  Hope you like these, I had a lot of fun.  My imagined characters were Thom, Dick and Harry


It was his move.

“Check mate,” he said, and looked at me, his head tilted down, eyes tilted up just clearing his gold-rimmed glasses on the bottom, and rumpled sandy hair on top.  

These were the only words he uttered all morning.  Between smirk and smug he seemed right pleased with himself, deeply satisfied, like Saint George wiping his sword on his neckerchief after successfully finishing the dragon.  Thomas played with military precision.  His uncluttered mind moved swiftly, like his blinding wit, lubricated and unhindered.  He is my toughest opponent, and soon he will graduate to grade three.  



He poured steaming tea, twice.  And slid the second cup across the walnut table, clattering, but spilling none.  The leather dining room chairs were covered in map lines of continuous long service, like the deep and varied lines I studied on Richard’s face as he talked.

 It was bone-cracking cold out which made the warmth of the apartment even more welcoming.  

And then there were the scones, soon to be out of the oven as promised.  Richard’s thick shock of hair stood like stiff prairie grass, humble and stubborn.  White.  You could see plainly that it took some time for thoughts to form before delivery of sentences.  The best indicator of thoughts forming is the movement of the wooly caterpillar-like eyebrows that inched and arched as thoughts fermented quickly and rose solidly to be baked and delivered in Irish Brogue.


I was thinking of warm rain.  Rain that starts with a tinkle and proceeds to a drenching rain.  Big fat drops of rain you stand in and let soak you transparent.  Her long fingers caressed the ivory of the ebony grand, raining notes down like a storm, I felt like you could see though me.  

She swayed at the piano bench like a raven colored willow in the breeze, gusts of notes washing her and us completely away, lost in the rain.  

Completely transparent.  Harriet lived her life like that, transparent.  There was difficulty, along the way, but the music for her was the soul keeper, the salve of sanity.  When the rain stopped, she bowed her head at the keyboard for what seemed a long time.  She stood, faced the crowd and bowed deeply.  We were all dry, except our eyes.


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