PRACTICE
Write a story or scene involving money.
Write for fifteen minutes. When your time is up, post your practice in the comments section, and if you post, please be sure to leave feedback for a few fellow practitioners.
Happy writing!
Photo by epSos.de (Creative Commons)
Here's my practice:
Who uses cash anymore? For the last five years of my life, money has been numbers on my computer screen that I check occasionally through internet apps which tell me how much is coming in and, more often lately, going out. I can't tell you the last time I had more than $40 in my wallet, except in those unfortunate incidents when some troglodyte business or government agency only accepts cash and I have to make a feverish run to the bank.
And yet, as I sat in that uncomfortable Jersey hotel room chair, staring at the heaping pile of twenty-dollar bills on the stained bedspread, I had to admit, there was something magical about cash money. Perhaps it was the smell, like linen sheets after sex, like a magazine bought off the rack at the airport before your flight to Barbados, like long fields of white cotton spotted with the flannel shirts and grey sweatshirts of laborers and the dirt and the sweat. Or the way it drew all attention to itself, as if two million dollars had a gravity like a planet and could pull objects into elliptical orbit, try to extract your attention and be drawn back around.
It was Friday. I was in a rush to get home from work, a 30 minute drive. First, I had to go to the bank before it closed, to cash my check. Debit cards weren’t even invented back then. After the cashier handed me the white envelope, I counted my cash and placed it on the seat next to some bills that needed mailing.
Then, I drove to the nearest mailbox. I reached over, grabbed the stack of envelopes, and dumped them into the mailbox chute, and headed home.
I don’t remember when I realized the white envelope was missing, but I do remember the terrible feeling that crept up inside of me. I looked everywhere. Then, I remembered. I must have picked it up with the mail and put it in the mailbox. I was sick. There was really nothing I could do about it. The cash was gone.
I began to pray. Dear Lord, All I can ask is that whoever finds the money really needs it. Amen.
Over the next few days, I repeated this prayer. I found that it calmed me. Soon I forgot about it.
Then, one day, I received an unusual package in the mail. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was my cash, still in the original envelope. I realize the post workers are held to high standards about tampering with anything that comes through the system, but it would have been so easy for anyone to pocket that cash.
To this day, I’ll never forget how God took care of a situation that I had no control of. He loves me enough to take care of me even in my carelessness. What a great Father he is.
It’s always great to be reminded that there are good people still out there who will do the right thing.
Shelley, a true story?
My first writing prompt, I never really enjoyed writing in high school, so I never tried and recieved horrible marks.
Here is my attempt at trying.
He handles the money with care as Stephen stacks his $100 bills into piles of $100,000 into his military issue duffle bag.
Stephan a tall dark lanky 24 year old just recieved news that his boss, Murcuio, had been arrested.
“Dammit” Stephan mumbles as he locks his duffle bag at the zipper. “Things were going so well, pulling in $500 gs a week.
Stephen had been running errands for Murcuio.
“Bang” “Bang” there were a series of loud knocks at the door.
I like the dialogue, but it’s very difficult to understand the context. I hope you post more of this story. It would be interesting to see how this idea develops.
Jayce, now that you’re not in school, you’re FREE TO WRITE whatever you want. I had a few teachers that made us write for punishment.
Little wonder we still want to write at all 😉 Must be a call.
“Money is no object”, said the tall man. That was redundant. Jim smiled at him, which was in direct contradiction to his growing sense of loathing.
It started with a mild abstracted resentment with the black Maserati that had parked a little too smoothly just outside the shop. The door opened, and a tall, expensively dressed and ridiculously handsome man stepped out. He stood there for a second, looking around as if considering whether he felt like buying the entire street this morning. Then he walked right into the shop.
It was then that Jim started to dislike him in earnest. Something about this person made it look like he owned everything around him; so much so, that Jim suddenly felt like a guest in his own shop. He had always considered himself a successful and even conveniently influential person in his own circles, but now the full scope of his insignificance struck him like a blow. He was reduced to being a faceless stand in his customer’s show. The fact that he had made Jim feel this way without uttering a single word, made it far worse.
that really does make the reader wish to hear more of the story!
Thanks! That’s just about the best compliment a writer can get 😉
Hi Doron!
I like how you capture the sinister nature of the ‘tall man character’ right from the very beginning of your scene. It feels like something dangerous will happen next. Definitely keeps the reader interested!
I felt the arrogance in this tall, handsome, rich man. I’m rooting for the underdog, Jim, to throw this guy out on his rear.
The clock was a pleasing shade of blue but looked incongruous next to the badly painted bright orange walls of the room. It looked almost like a character from a Disney fairytale, you could imagine it sprouting spindly legs and arms, and jauntily walking across the room speaking aloud in a high-pitched voice. The clock had a hinged door and once opened, there was a shelf inside where all the money was kept.
Money! You’re wondering why anyone would keep money inside a clock. It had to be kept somewhere and the housemates decided that the comical clock was as good a place as any. So the door of the clock opened and closed, keeping rhythm with the lives of the inhabitants of the house. When Andrew got paid at the end of the month, his subscription would be added to the pile. That’s if there was anything left to call it a pile. Quite often there were only IOU notes, scribbled, messy, full of good intent to pay back what was owed to the clock. The clock knew better. It had seen it all before. As soon as Andrew’s money was added, Ed would be a bit short that month. He’d just take a pound. Or two. It was all he needed for a filling spicy samosa from Sheerkhan’s take-away at the end of the road. He thought better of borrowing from the clock than raiding the fridge or someone else’s food shelf in the communal kitchen. His art installation for the local council was coming along, surely he’d receive payment soon. The samosas would be on him.
The clock’s door opened and closed, transactions coming and going with a steady beat. Scatter-brained Rosie shoved a tenner in. She was sure that’s how much she owed for the TV licence. The fact that John flatly refused to pay anything towards the BBC, meaning that all other occupants of the house would have to pay more, was lost on Rosie. Vet bills, cat food & litter, TV, video shop, milk – at some point or other all these items were under the jurisdiction of the clock. “Have you paid yet?”, you’d ask in an accusatory manner. “Yes!” they’d confidently reply, “the money is in the clock”.
I can totally relate to this, having lived in student digs myself. I’m very intrigued by the clock. Could it turn out to have magic properties? Just a suggestion 😉
hi katie that is a excellent suggestion about the clock, thank you! could try some magical realism 🙂
My earliest memory of money was a silver dollar my mother gavve me when I was six years old. I had performed on stage in a holiday play, and the silver dollar was her gift of reward. I remember looking at the disk in my hand like a priceless treasure or a piece of jewelry, admiring its shine and engraving. I kept it for years in a box in my bedroom and never dreamed of spending it.
Some years later I recall a visiting uncle passing out dimes to all my brothers and sisters and me. He carried a small leather coin purse shaped like a half moon. When he flipped open the top he could shake out the coins into the empty half of the purse. A dime was just what we needed to meet the Ice Cream Man.
One day I received money from a full time job in the form of a paper paycheck. My first check was spent on a dress, something I had not owned for years, and a dozen roses for mother purchased from a street vendor in New york City. I felt rich.
But over the years I’ve wondered if the old-fashioned method of paying for necessities wasn’t more simple and less stressful. Suppose we could still exchange home-grown vegetables for medical services and a chicken we raised for clothing. No monthly budget, no checkbook, no taxes.
Wish I had back a dime for every moment of worry over money!
Having worked in retail, I don’t value paper money highly. The value of a piece of paper fluctuates on a daily basis. There are things of more solid value, such as land, gold, oil and diamonds, and these are at the route of much conflict. I’m fascinated by markets, and have therefore submitted the following piece:
“Keep your money concealed at all times!” I remember the tour guide saying, “and watch out for people getting too close or brushing past!”
Tall order, I muse, as I enter the bustling market hall, leaving the glare of the midday sun behind me. There’s a buzz of activity, but no one seems particularly interested in me, absorbed as they are in their own business.
Everywhere, merchants are setting up tented enclosures, promoting their wares with gusto. There are dusty Persian carpets draped over walls and spread chaotically on the floor. They are hand made using vegetable dyes, some from wool, and others from silk. The silk carpets, which are pinned to walls, seem to light up optically even in the shaded sun. They are the finest of all rugs, and are jealously guarded, so I’m not allowed anywhere near them.
There are whole walls covered in embroidered table cloths. Most are white or cream, embroidered with gold thread. A contrasting one catches my eye. It is made from linen dyed red using the blood of cochineal spiders. It is embroidered with appliquéd snow capped Christmas trees, to appeal to a seasonal market.
A pungent aroma fills the air. Everywhere there are stores selling spices piled high into mountains of red and gold. There are abundant supplies of pitted olives, and a huge variety of exotic fruit including pomegranates and mangos. Further along there are stalls flaunting the catch of the day: huge salmon, swordfish and octopus.
I return to the store selling the unusual table cloth. Nervously, I think about bartering with the merchant over the price. I speak little of their language, which makes me more nervous still.
In the end, I just point and say “How much?”
The merchant points at the price ticket, which I had overlooked, and says “You must pay. You cannot barter. Goods as priced.”
I feel a little embarrassed. You’re not meant to barter when goods are priced. I reach into my pocket for my purse. It’s not there. I feel a rising sense of panic. All my cards are in there too. No money. No means of getting money.
The merchant gestures towards my feet. I look down. Astonished, I see by purse down there. I feel in my pocket. There’s a hole. It wasn’t there earlier, I’m sure. Difficult to prove. I wouldn’t normally put it in a pocket. Did it, for security reasons.
Gratefully, I hand over the money to the merchant, and take the table cloth. That was a close one, I thought upon leaving. It really is scary to find you’re without money or ID, especially in a foreign country.
True story? Great description.
Shining through the frost on the window, the lights hugged a
faded halo tight to their bright bodies. They twinkled red, green and white as
they hung in the early darkness, little suspended constellations outside the
lonely house.
Jeremy checked his bank accounts again: everything balanced
well into the green. The clock read 8:05. It would be past eleven o’clock in
the uniquely cold city of Montreal, where his family was this Christmas Eve
night. Tom and Jean would be fast asleep; Christine would be deep into her
Santa work. He had been on the phone with his family two hours ago to tuck in
his children and kiss his wife goodnight, but on this cold, cold night in Anchorage,
only his wallet hugged him close, warming his hips. It was a different sort of
cold, in Anchorage than in Montreal, and it kept him awake at night.
He had never thought he’d be one of those who sold his
family for a higher paycheck, and at the time it hadn’t seemed like he had. He
thought of the brick house his wife could proudly entertain in, the prep
schools his children would attend – he thought of the 3,000 cold, empty miles
that separated them. The lights sang out
sadly the only cheer for miles. They reminded him that he wasn’t being paid for
the new title, the promotion; his raise was worker’s comp for the pains of loneliness.
He’d always been three hours behind, though, so he only just realized it.
With his head full of his family, Jeremy let his elbow
clumsily knock his glass. It spilt whisky all over the bottom half of his shirt
and lap, soaking through his pocket and into his wallet. He took the bills out
of the fold and laid them flat before the small fire in the fireplace before
changing his shirt and pants. The cash was dried out before Montreal Christmas.
No telling who the black man with the hole in his throat really is. My husband only knows that when he can’t start his car today after buying gas, the stranger approaches him and offers a helping hand.
He lifts the hood and takes a look, fiddles around and voila! The jeep is resurrected. My husband opens his wallet and offers a $20 bill to the man – the last of the cash he has on hand after purchasing a tank of gas.
“Much obliged,” the stranger says. “I’ve only got half of my rent together for this month, and this will help me pay the rest.”
Interesting what $20 can mean to each individual, how it smoothes the way we communicate. Thanks for sharing one slice of life!
Carla wiped her sweaty palms on her navy skirt. Her financial advisor, Robert, had agreed to meet with her that afternoon to discuss her inheritance account. Normally her husband, Joe, would attend–but not today. Today was different. Joe was different. Lately, he’d been in one of those moods–the kind of mood that moved him to go on drinking benders for weeks. The kind of mood that led him to withdraw over 100,000 dollars from their joint bank account. This wasn’t the first time Joe had made reckless decisions. Now he was after her Social Security checks. She was worried about paying the mortgage–worried about life in general.
“Come on back,” Robert said.
Carla walked into his office.
“Have a seat.”
She sat on a cushy leather chair. Her knees shook. Her eyes watered. Everything about her life started to change.
Very intriguing. Will Joe have spent every last dime? Had Robert squirled it away in time to save it? Is there more going on between Carla and Robert? I would love to read more.
Annie looked back
into the satchel and gingerly began to open the canvas bags. Packed inside the two bank sacks were several
tightly bundled rolls of hundred dollar bills.
Annie took a deep breath, pushed the rolls of money around inside the
canvas bags, and looked for any hidden contents. She found a single roll of brightly colored
Chinese Yuan, and again she gasped. She
caught her breath and grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam from the glove box one
more time. She put the bottle to her
lips, took another drink, shut her eyes tight, and swallowed. This time she did not shudder. She held the leather bag tight against her
thighs, looked over to Alex and offered him the bottle of Beam. He took two swallows and continued to look straight
down the road as he handed it back to Annie.
She took one more swallow before she slid it back into the glove box on
top of the road map. She gazed out the
windshield to the road ahead. Her
thoughts were racing at full throttle.
Alex turned the
Patrician left on Ecorse and right onto Telegraph Road. They were leaving Detroit and heading
south. Countless thoughts rushed into,
and swirled all around, inside his head.
He was particularly excited about beginning a brand new life with the chestnut
haired beauty beside him. Two bank bags
full of money, a good-looking woman as his new bride, and a fast car. He did not know exactly why, but he seemed in
a hurry. Driving down the road above the
posted limits, he had the big engine throbbing and knew the Packard could
easily muscle away from any Michigan State Police black and white Ford. Alex reached across the seat and put a hand
on Annie’s leg, just above the knee, and gave her nylon covered lower thigh a
gentle touch. His fingers caressed her
leg and played with the garter snap. He
kept his gaze straight ahead and his left hand on the wheel. Alex moved his right arm up and around his
bride’s shoulders. The sobering thought
of a police cruiser chasing him down the road persuaded him to lighten up on
the accelerator pedal. He remembered
there was a 38-caliber pistol packed inside the satchel.
Financial security. Money always meant safety. A home, food, clothes, car, etc. But did it really? I have those but I’m scared to death to spend it. Helen struggled with balancing her checkbook. Today was one of those days. When I retired I thought I was set for a simple but comfortable life.
She ripped open the bank notice. An overdraft! How did that happen? I’m always so careful. She looked at the purchases. I didn’t buy that, or that, or that. Had someone gotten her debit card info? I have to stop this right now. But it’s 8 o’clock at night. Who do I call? Why didn’t I pay attention to those instructions about fraud?
Helen picked up the phone. Then put it down as she searched her purse for the card. Yes, she had it. On the back was a number to call. She started to sweat. The phone shook in her hand.
“Hello, hello”, she gasped. “There’s a problem,” ah, ah,ah. “My card–I can’t breath. I..” The phone clattered to the floor.
I sat up tall to the kitchen table and dumped the coins and dollar bills from my stocking cap. I smiled hopefully at Dad as he counted my paper route money. I had worked for two days to collect the money from my customers. Some I even over charged to make up for the ones who told me to come back tomorrow, but who I knew still wouldn’t pay.
I swiped my finger under my nose, wiping the snot that dripped all winter long. “So will I have any left over to put away to buy Christmas presents with?” I asked Dad.
Dad sat across the table from me, reaching and pulling the coins into neat little piles. Quarters stacked in fours, dimes in tens, nickels in 20s. The few pennies he just dragged off to the side. I got up on one knee and reached for the dollar bills and smoothed out the wrinkles, making sure they all faced the same way.
Okay, so now I’m sweating profusely. She’s staring at me, waiting for me to say something, to keep this horrible, long-dead conversation alive, but I’ve got nothing. I sit there, slack-jawed, staring at her from across the checkerboard table.
I look gross. I know I look gross. I feel a bead of sweat dripping down from my right eyebrow, sliding down my cheek now. Do I wipe it away? Or just pretend it’s not there? She’s gotta notice this river rolling down the side of my
face, right? I look away and wipe my face with the back of my hand. She definitely notices.
“So, um, I had a great time,” I say. Too enthusiastic, too eager to please. Like always. She smiles and nods but says nothing.
The check comes. She reaches for her purse.
“No, I’ve got it, don’t worry about it!” I nearly shout. She looks up at me. “You can take care of it next time,” I say. She cocks her head a little sideways, raises her eyebrows, and puts her purse away.
Strange: spending forty-five dollars for the privilege of embarrassing myself in front of a beautiful woman.
There was a long silent pause after my purse fell and all the money and changed scattered across the floor at the local java shop. Shit, shit, shit!!! I scrambled to start picking it up before any grubby hands started reaching for twenties and fifties. How will I ever explain this to my boss, that money was supposed to be at the bank by two, and here I am trying to get another iced coffee. Well, serves me right. I better grab up this money and start counting. I wonder if they have a broom I could use.
448, 449, 450…..Ok I think I’ll make it. There was 450 dollars all together in that bag. Now I’ll head for the bank.
As I approached the counter, I noticed the very handsome man in a suit at the counter window next to me. As I stood there waiting for the teller to finish on the phone, I listened to his voice. Deep and a little husky, he said, “Read the note, do not show any surprise and keep your hands above the counter.” Why would he say that I thought. Then I saw the tip of a gun on the top edge of the counter pointed to the teller. Damn, Damn, Damn, will I ever be able to deposit this money!
I haven’t written anything in several years. I know I need practice. But thought I would give this a whirl.
I liked it! The topic of money enters our lives from many directions. You held my attention. I like the visual of a broom sweeping up money!
Continuing from: https://thewritepractice.com/all-around/
Thomas had just stepped onto the street when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not so fast, mate. You’ve not paid for that.”
He turned, and saw that it was the shopkeeper, a burly man who didn’t look like he was about to take any prisoners. Thomas felt that he ought to know his name – after all, he came into the shop almost every day – but nothing came to mind.
“I’m very sorry,” Thomas said. “I didn’t mean to leave without paying, but I forget sometimes…”
“That’s OK, just come inside and we’ll get sorted out, shall we?” The man ushered Thomas back into the cool of the shop, and up to the counter at the back. “Seventy-five pence, please.”
Thomas reached for his purse, which was always in the right pocket of his jacket. His daughter always teased him when she saw him wearing a jacket and tie even on a hot day like today, but he had certain standards to maintain and he wasn’t going to let them drop now. Besides, he would feel naked if he were to walk down the street without his tie on, and a tie without a jacket just looks silly, like some office junior who’s been sent out to buy lunch.
Now, where was he? His hand was in an empty pocket, and for a moment he didn’t know why. Then he saw the expectant face of the shopkeeper, and the hand reaching out for something. Oh, yes, money. There was none in his right pocket, how about the left? No, nothing there either. He started to tap all of his pockets in turn, even the ones that couldn’t possibly contain anything useful.
The shopkeeper withdrew his outreached hand.
“Could I possibly bring the money tomorrow?” Thomas asked.
“Sorry, store policy, no credit. Not that I don’t trust you personally, but if I let you then I’d have to let everyone out without paying, and then there would I be? Perhaps you could pop home and come back later? I’ll set this aside for you, if you like.”
Thomas’ head dropped. There was no way he was going to manage the journey twice in one day, but he couldn’t argue. He put the paper down on the counter, and shuffled back to the door. No paper today, then.
I enjoyed reading this. Sounds like Thomas is suffering a bit of short term memory loss.
This is how the story ended… http://alexbrantham.com/fiction/thomas-and-the-newspaper/
Too bad for Thomas! nice one.
I thought I would treat Joe’s exercise response as part of the prompt. 🙂
Here it goes:
“The end justifies the means,” she said, her face partially
framed by the wad of bills in my hand. I held them up as one would the marker
directing a shot gun’s nozzle, seeing how the frame improved her auburn hair
and blue eyes. Not much.
She continued, “The water fund for Cambodia may have taken
longer to set up than our website claimed, but at least now—”
She spoke with an excited, breathless smile, like those of
young children proud to show a parent something stupid.
“Now we are rich, and those kids in Cambodia can live as
they have always lived—impoverished,” I said, tossing the wad of cash into the
pile at the foot of the bed. I was near the headboard, leaning on one arm
against the pillows as I smoked my cigar. She was still ladylike, with her legs
folded under like a sculpture of some mermaid famous in Denmark. I continued, “Hey, it’s not like they know any difference, right? They walk a couple miles to the well, boil the water at home. . . it’s closer to man’s raw state, you know?
Closer to nature.”
“What are you saying?” she asked. Her face jerked my way,
emotionless – the excitement from a moment earlier was a rare, rare state – but
I knew her. It took everything in her to keep from recoiling back. But she didn’t,
although we both knew that was her wish. Yet that is how it should be. How I
want it, in fact.
And yet…
I extinguished the half-used cigar against the ash tray on
my bedside table, almost feeling the thrum of the gun in the scratched drawer
below. It was there, separated from my fingers by a thin veil of wood, beside
the blood red Bible…
It was settled. Rick was going to pick me and my best friend, Fiona, up Friday night around 7 and we’d hop in his BMW with him and his side kick, Thomas. I had knots in my stomach. It wasn’t like we hadn’t hung out before. It was just now, Rick and I both knew that we liked each other. It was one of those unspoken understandings. The other thing was he had chosen an expensive European style brasserie for our dinner date.
Money had always been a source of anxiety for me. I was a bit miserly about money because I hated getting close to being broke.
“I wonder why Rick chose such an expensive restaurant. He has to know I don’t have very much money.” I said.
“He’ll probably pay for your food, Lisa. He’s got money.” Fiona tried to reassure me. “He probably wants to show that he can provide for you.”
I could imagine that was the reason. He’d already bought me a good amount of alcohol after my 21st birthday.
“Maybe, but what will I wear?”
Since I never went to fancy restaurants I didn’t really have anything that seemed appropriate for the occassion. A new outfit would cost money, too.
After hours of searching and taking myself out of purchases, I spent $60 at the mall on a new outfit for the dinner date. It was a short white and black dress to wear over leggings and a maroon cardigan to throw on in case it got cold. I also bought some jewelry and shades. It was cute, but I hoped that it was worth it. Dating Rick could end up being pretty an expensive adventure.
Glad to visit your blog. Thanks for this great post that you
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The look on the man’s face was forlorn. He neither noticed the loud hooting of the car as he crossed the road, nor did he seem to care about the explicit swearing of the driver behind the wheel.
This was definitely not one of his best days; and why would it? The landlord had just given Patrick and his family the final eviction notice. They owed 4 months in rent arrears. The man was truly down. Wild thoughts raced through his head. ”Where do i get money? Where will we go? Who will give me a job?”.
The scene of 6 months earlier occupied his mind for a moment again. His company had just been taken over by new management. They felt that they could do better with less staff. He was one of the staff that were laid off due to poor technical skills. ”When did i get to this point?”, he wondered again.
A slight pat on his shoulder finally got his attention. He wheeled around defensively, perhaps expecting a mugger. ”What would a mugger get from this poor soul?”, he wondered. Then a wide smile spread across his face, as he came face-face with his elder sister, Cindy. They had not seen each other for nearly a year. She screamed loudly, as she jumped into his arms. ”Look at you, kiddo!”, he grinned.
Fifteen minutes later, as they settled down to receive their order of coffee and croissants, at a local cafe, she finally spoke. How was he? Why did he disappear? How was his family? Tears welled up in his eyes. ”Sweet Cindy” ,….”my dear sweet Cindy”…
He explained how fortunes had turned for his family in the last few months. She cried with him, and put her arms round him. ”It will be fine. You’ll see. It’ll be fine. I promise”, she reassured him. Then he inquired how she had been the last one year….
Cindy had made a good name for herself in the Real Estate Industry. She had started small barely 2 years earlier. She now owned a relatively medium-sized company. She was doing well. As it is, she was in need for a Field Supervisor for some of her properties. Her brother would just be the perfect man for the job.
Later that evening, as he shared supper with his family, Patrick wondered again how elusive, yet so accessible, money could be. Now you had it, with all the happiness alongside it; then you lose it, with all the frustrations….and then you had it again.
He finally had a source of income. He felt reborn again, as he smiled, and drifted off into sleep.