Three Minutes Searching

Normanday #74: It was the last place I looked.

Write for three minutes about…

…a discovery.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day May 5 (put “Norman Can Ride a Unicycle While Hula-Hooping” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…a celebration.

Tren Rewy Steb

He said he wouldn’t let go. I felt his steadying hand on the seat as I pedaled. I wobbled to one side and then the other but I wouldn’t fall as long as he kept his promise. Pedal harder! he yelled. Don’t let go! I yelled back. I pushed down hard on the right pedal and the left one swung to the top so I pushed down on that one, too. It was easier now, the pedals feeling less like walking in mud and more like treading water. The handle bars evened out. I was at the bottom of the drive-way now, my brother running along behind me. Onto the street now. Going faster and faster. I took a chance, took my eyes off the road, turned my head to see my brother. There he was. Half a block away, at the bottom of the driveway. He broke his promise. But I was riding on my own. I celebrated with a loop around the block. My first taste of freedom.

Three Minutes Whooping it Up

Normanday #73: Don’t forget the balloons.

Write for three minutes about…

…a celebration.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day April 28 (put “Norman Has a Green Thumb” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…going fishing.

Tren Rewy Steb

I tied a shoelace to the end of a stick. I tied a fishhook to the end of the shoelace. On the fishhook, no worm. I didn’t have the heart. I rolled my big inner tube into the lake. Slipping my legs through the center and sitting on the ring’s sun-warmed edge, I kicked my legs to propel myself backwards toward Florida. My brother and I had seen fish hover beneath the flat moss-covered rock we named after a state we had never visited. The shoelace, weighted with the hook, sank into the water. My brother had laughed. The fish will see the shoelace, he said. The fish will want a worm, he said. I ignored him, until I needed his help to remove the fish from the wormless hook tied to the end of a shoelace tied to the end of a stick.

Three Minutes on a Fishing Trip

Normanday #72: One day I went fishing for compliments.

Write for three minutes about…

…going fishing.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day April 21 (put “Norman Makes Thunder When He Sneezes” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…a rock.

Tren Rewy Steb

My brother showed me how to pick the best rocks. They had to be flat, he said. The flatter the better. We were in luck. The lake shore was littered with rocks like thin, flaky wafers. They had to be round on the edges, he said. The rounder the better. We were in luck. The flat flaky wafer rocks were brittle and the edges could be broken away until the rock was the right shape. You had to swing your arm like you were throwing a Frisbee underhand. He demonstrated. His rock skimmed the lake, lightly as a water strider, lifting off the surface for a moment before touching down again several feet away. On and on the slip of rock skipped until it almost seemed to reach the opposite shore. Now you try, he said. I found a flat rock. I held it, my forefinger curved around its already rounded edge. I bent my knees as I extended my arm to keep the rock low and send it sailing. It hit the water and…sank.

Three Minutes Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Normanday #71: I walk my pet rock three times a day.

Write for three minutes about…

…a rock.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day April 14 (put “Norman Makes Delicious Waffles” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…stormy weather.

Tren Rewy Steb

First the wind comes in gusts. Not quite a warning. More of a hint. You pull me inside and soon we’re in bed, you curled by my feet on top of the blanket. The wind presses against the window. There’s a rumble of thunder, and another, and another. Flashes of light follow. Suddenly a sound like ice cracking in a glass of warm soda sends you scurrying under the covers. Cuddled safely under the covers we listen to the storm together and drift to sleep.

Three Minutes Weathering the Storm

Normanday #70: It’s raining bats and frogs.

Write for three minutes about…

…stormy weather.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day April 7 (put “Norman Tap Dances Through the Tiger Lillies” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…the moment you realize it’s finally spring.

Schae D. Lane

I don’t believe there is any point at which to determine when spring will come. I’ve heard the “it must snow three times on the daffodils before spring will come.” I’ve heard the “after the last major snowstorm of March, spring will come.” I’ve heard the “return of the robins forecast the beginning of spring.” This year I’ve heard a new one. Noteworthy groundhogs can be brought up on charges of fraudulent spring predictions punishable by death. Ironic isn’t it that spring symbolizes rebirth? I now believe spring shows up when it feels like it and when it does, the sun seems a little more brighter, trees and flowers pulsate with color and the air smells cleaner, more fragrant. Spring releases us from the tightly, coiled feeling we all get from the cold, dormant winter.

Tren Rewy Steb

Heavy boots come off and my feet feel light and free. I run down the sidewalk, tennis shoes slapping on thin puddles left from melted snow. I could run forever…right into summer.