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Barry White

June 9th, 2008 Comments off

WritingAssignmentIconMaster found a podcast for writers today and made me listen to one of the episodes. The podcast is called Writing Excuses and the episode is titled “This Sucks and I’m a Horrible Writer.” Perfect for me.

In any case, at the end of their episodes, it seems, they leave you with a prompt sentence. The one at the end of “This sucks…” is Barry knew his mumbling was going to get him killed some day. Master gave me an hour to write something with it. This is what I came up with.

Barry knew his mumbling was going to get him killed some day. It didn’t make sense. It was irrational. Who kills people over mumbling? But it would happen just as sure as his name was Barry White.

Not the famous Barry White, mind. No, this Barry White was unexceptional in every way. Except his mumbling.

Fast and low. Almost completely inaudible. And people were always misunderstanding what he had to say. Women he thanked for letting him pass thinking he told them they had a fat ass. Men he asked for directions thinking he was asking for sex. Thankfully, so far, everyone he spoke to had the intelligence to ask him to repeat himself before just hauling off and punching him and he would attempt to slow it down and enunciate. One day, however, he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

He kept his routine fairly simple. Up at eight; showered, dressed and out the door by eight-thirty; bagging groceries and carrying them to customer cars by nine. At one he took his lunch. One-thirty meant back to work and five put him on his way home. He didn’t take the fifteens because he smoked a cigarette at ten-thirty, eleven-thirty, two-thirty and four.

He walked both ways. It was cheaper and better for him and the store was only twenty minutes walking distance. Yet Barry was a large man. At six feet seven inches and three hundred seventy five pounds Barry white was the largest black man on his block. And the least feared. For Barry was a teddy bear.

He was slow. Child-like. And at the end of the day, after eating a dinner of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes and savoring a tall glass of sweet tea, Barry liked nothing more than to meander out to the neighborhood ball park and throw around some balls with the kids whose fathers were too busy. He never used a glove. Couldn’t quite get the hang of them. And the kids would throw the ball hard as they could and still go home groaning about how they hadn’t been able to hurt Barry’s hands.  Read more…

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