Writer’s NicheIMG_2112

Let me introduce the writers.

The Writer’s Niche is a table, complete with coffee, cookies and the occasional cinnamon roll or doughnut. The table is in my dining area. The Niche is open every Friday after school until supper, work or Friday fun disperses the group.  They meet to write. With the writing, they talk. With the talking comes laughter, sharing, and  questions. The Niche is an outgrowth of a creative writing mini-class.  The writers are in high school. They aspire to become published authors, but they all realize the necessity of a day job.  Until then the Writer’s Niche is an accessible hang-out, a comfortable atmosphere in which to write, and talk, laugh and share, and ask questions. One Friday afternoon a writer took a call from her mother. The mother suggested the name be “Friday Night Writes.” It fit, except that we meet in the afternoon. But then the winter nights do come early.

 Today’s best sentences:

2/ 26/16

Not sentences, but paragraphs inspired by this jolly baker and his bread basket.

Deb B:  Beppo’s baked bread, the bountiful breaded bounty bypassing breaded beuty breaking breaded bondeges becoming breaded bahemoths beguiling brownies, baguetts, and bonnie’s best bagels be better be Beppos baked bread.

Becca K:  “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!” Bippo belted as he waddled through the swinging door to his restaurant. He hummed a few more off-tune bars as he set the basket of baguettes on his cold marble countertop. His mother made him that basket when he was only seven. At the time, he could barely lift it on his own. Now, the fifty-two-year-old man could swing the bulging bread carrier over his head and sing for the enjoyment of his customers.

Jordan Q: The portly chef worked his way through the dining area, carrying a basket of bread to his valued customers. He spoke to them each by name, his heavy Italian accent so real it sounded fake. As he went into the kitchen, he stuck his finger in a pot to taste the sauce. (This is what they mean when they say “made with love.”) It was the last time he would ever taste, as that small sample put him into a diabetic coma the he would’t waken from. He died doing what he loved.


No sentences offered today, the act of writing was lost in a lively imagination driven storm of ideas. They were sketching (verbally) five rather unique characters. I certainly hope the piece gets put to paper…though hopefully not during class time.


Thanksgiving is a week away and the dorm dwellers are getting a little loopy. Here is what we get today.

Becca K searches her files for a contribution. It is proving difficult to find one.
“She first gave me life, then gave her life for me, so I could live: a double sacrifice.”
Becca’s comment after sharing this, “Why am I so morbid?”

Deb B declines. To show the sketch she is working on is not possible. “It is the most ridiculous horse ever.” Is her evaluation of her effort.


New school year, nearly the same group

Deb B offers this sentence composed in her sleep:
Colors speak a thousand languages.

Mikki H first line:
It would have been a beautiful day except for the dragon.

Becca K shared from her notebook:
From the moment I saw you, I knew it was you. I needed you to follow me. To help. To be there when I needed you most.
Ha, ha, not for love, like you’re thinking, dear reader, although it did turn to that later on. I’m speaking of a follower (every adventurer needs one, just one)…Obviously I needed a mage, but not only a mage, a companion. A friend. A protector. And he checked all those marks off the list.  And then some.

Nathan B took time from video game talk to contribute:
However it was only about a couple years ago that we found other sentient life in the universe. And it was a huge disappointment. Firstly, the “aliens” we discovered looked almost exactly like us, so it was a huge downer to the “green skin and multiple appendages” – loving crowd. Secondly, and probably most importantly, we found out the reason that we had never seen other aliens is because Earth was considered by the universe to be a no-fly zone because it was unbearably dull and uninteresting. Oh well. That was 100 years ago. I should mention I’m 452. We’ve come a long way.

Off the end of  Rebecca K’s pencil  – “With one quick moment, all my hard work, a year’s worth apart with one final scream. My heart is dead now; there’s no more self-repair. And this time it wasn’t he who broke it.”

From  Deb B’s notebook – “In one furious sweep of my sword and down it went. No longer proud but wallowing in the dust of my fury.”

Fresh off Benji N’s computer – “You could tell from the wrinkles on his face, that he was used to smiling.”

Back from Christmas break the Friday Night Writes meet again.

Deb B. offers this: “I took him into my arms, its fur so soft against my hands, that I had the urge to rub the bunny all over my face, but refrained from doing so.”

Rebecca K.  After paging through three notebooks dictates the following: “‘Just answer me that question, Alli! Why?’ I can’t believe he’s accusing me of my faith, of my God who I’ve trusted in since my childhood, of the Savior’s call to spread His Word. I should be angry, but I only feel a knife in my chest, cutting deeper and deeper. ‘Because I love you,’ I whisper.”

Mikkela H.

“Oh, to have the skills of the great detectives. To have the mind and eye for clues equal to those of the famous untanglers of mysteries. Not to parade my knowledge, returning lost diamonds and catching dastardly killers. Not to share with the masses the secrets behind the downfall of kings and the rise of emperors. Not to unravel the elaborately spun lies of conmen. No, had I the deduction of Holmes and Poirot, I would quietly solve the commonplace. Like why the escalator handrail moves slower than the escalator and what happens to all my missing socks.”


“We have Indian summer, what do we call a spring day in winter?” Mikkela wanted to know.

“January Thaw? February Thaw?”

Not satisfied with either she came up with “Colonial Spring.” After all, wouldn’t the winter weary, starving colonists be happy to see an early spring? Even winter weary  non-colonists in 2015 would be happy to see a “Colonial Spring.”


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