(no subject)
I am taking a prose writing workshop, one of our writing prompts was to tell an entire story in one-sentence, 200-250 words.
I am putting the rough version of it here, but you can only read it if you give me constructive criticism and feedback, because I don't like the idea of phantom friends.
It crackled the same way as it had when her father would scroll through the stations on the CB radio in the small, musty garage in the tiny farm village of her youth, bullshitting with the truckers passing through their highway at night or being the first to hear the calm directions of the fire chief sending his boys out to extinguish some family’s barn which contained their life savings, while her father perfectly timed the exhale of his cigar smoke with the man-in-command’s, only this time her fingers pressed the ridged wheel that moved the orange needle from left to right trying to steady between stations, so that maybe all of these years later a response would come through on his favorite station on her regular radio with the code name “Head Hen” and she would finally know that the electric popping of satellite waves carried the words she always imagined he would say but that never actually came from between his constantly chapped lips, maybe muffled a little, bits of the sound swallowed by black holes, the cup of the big dipper, or perhaps simply the clouds, the noise would come like all of the glory her father had found in ironed flannel shirts, “my Baby Hen, I am so proud of the woman you’ve become.”
I am putting the rough version of it here, but you can only read it if you give me constructive criticism and feedback, because I don't like the idea of phantom friends.
It crackled the same way as it had when her father would scroll through the stations on the CB radio in the small, musty garage in the tiny farm village of her youth, bullshitting with the truckers passing through their highway at night or being the first to hear the calm directions of the fire chief sending his boys out to extinguish some family’s barn which contained their life savings, while her father perfectly timed the exhale of his cigar smoke with the man-in-command’s, only this time her fingers pressed the ridged wheel that moved the orange needle from left to right trying to steady between stations, so that maybe all of these years later a response would come through on his favorite station on her regular radio with the code name “Head Hen” and she would finally know that the electric popping of satellite waves carried the words she always imagined he would say but that never actually came from between his constantly chapped lips, maybe muffled a little, bits of the sound swallowed by black holes, the cup of the big dipper, or perhaps simply the clouds, the noise would come like all of the glory her father had found in ironed flannel shirts, “my Baby Hen, I am so proud of the woman you’ve become.”