The art of knitting in red

I swear, we were just minding our own business, having our Sunday stroll through Kennedy Park. Clara and me, holding hands, like we always do. I was on the right, she was on the left. Like always.

I don’t remember what we were talking about. Nothing important, just chatting. God, she’s beautiful, I remember thinking. I was so wrapped up in her presence, her being, her scent, I didn’t even see it coming.


It was a gorgeous day to walk in Kennedy. Spring was in the air: birds chirping, green leaves swaying in the breeze, kids running around laughing. The wind caressed my hair, Tom held my hand in his, and all was right in the world.

I smiled at the little old lady sitting on a park bench. She was knitting something red this time. We walked by her every Sunday. By now I felt like I knew her, even though we had never exchanged a word. She looked like such a dear, sweet woman, right up until the moment she lunged at my husband. I can’t imagine what came over her.


Click click, click click, click click, go my needles. Red rum, red rum, red rum. I grin. Funny. Glance up. That couple again. Happy. Woman smiles at me. Always smiles.

Man doesn’t smile. Dirty man. No smiles for old auntie. Red rum, red rum, red rum.

My needle finds its mark. Tears on man’s face. Good. Tears cleanse the soul. Red yarn the color of fresh blood. Yes. Red rum, red rum, red rum.

Writing 101, Day 9: A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Today’s twist: write the scene from three different points of view: from the perspective of the man, then the woman, and finally the old woman.


Al(m)as, Part 1

“C’mon, Nells,” Patrick insisted. “We have to go home before it gets dark.”

“I don’t wanna,” Nellie sang out as she started up the ladder to the slide for the twentieth time.

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