Think of the elements that make a story,
work of fiction, attention grabbing. Or,
what keeps you reading a story? Is it
the title? The first line? The action
on page one? A character’s name?
The notion that you can write it better
keeps you gripped?

“Why?” You asked.

We’re going to have fun. I’m going
to start a story, and you add a
part to it.

Ask me about the story. Comment,
or suggest an idea. I’m open, and
much can be learned from feed-back.

Also, let me know if there’s a topic
you’d like to discuss, or want more
information on.

Let’s go to the story.

I stepped one foot out of the elevator
with these thoughts. My work-day
ended on a bright note, for once.
The train ride, even, seemed less
hectic.

A sudden pain punched me in the
stomach. I struggled to breathe,
leaned against the elevator. My
body kept the elevator’s door from
closing. Slowly, I collected myself.

I felt the same kind of ache before
being told of grandmother’s
death.

Donnie, my cousin, floated to
mind, unwelcome house-guest.

“Hey, Susan.” Bonnie startled me.
“Why ya holdin’ up the elevator?”

Shock gripped me as I glanced at
my apartment door.

“What’s wrong?” Bonnie turned
toward my apartment.

“My door.”

Talked to Donnie earlier, said come
over.”

“Donnie!” I shouted from the entrance.

I gasped at the sight of Donnie’s
sneaker sitting against the wall.

“Something happened.” I pointed
at the sneaker.

“Left that one here to mess with ya.”
Bonnie entered the apartment.

Something was wrong, out of order. I,
simply, couldn’t figure it out.

I paced to Donnie’s bedroom. This
time of day he’d be asleep with the
television on.

It was quiet, strange.

“Donnie,” I called through the closed
door.

No answer.

I looked back at Bonnie whose eyes
had become slits. Why was going on
with her? I didn’t feel like dealing with
her issues too.

There was no proof, but Donnie was
in trouble. It was the nagging feeling in
my stomach that had me uneasy.

Now, what would you add? Change?

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