Today’s prompt comes from Dverse. Our challenge was to use the lines from a poem by Constance Urdang titled Clouds. Then we were supposed to include the lines (in italics below) exactly as they were written in our flash fiction (prose) writing of 144 words or less.
Staring up at the stage, she twirled her auburn hair rapidly between her fingers. The woman at the podium let out a soft breath of air, then began,
“But these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter
Against the blue cloth of the sky…”
What the heck! There was no way she was going to get up to read her poem after that woman. Her juvenile attempt at poetry would be laughed off the stage. This had been a completely asinine idea. She was a closet poet. Her poems had never been meant to be heard by other people.
Her heart’s drumbeats thundered in her ears.
‘Get a grip, Melody.’
She inhaled slowly. Then exhaled even slower. She repeated this several times. Suddenly, she realized everyone was standing clapping their hands.
It was time. It was her turn.
She stood. Then promptly fainted.
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