some of the best writing I did this week came from Fletcher's workshop.
here are stretching exercises

The phone rang.  And it rang.  And it rang in to the emptiness of the room.  dust motes meandered through the air, illuminated by shafts of sun streaming through the blinds like an indoor Jacob's
Ladder.

A man sits beside me.  He sighs and flips the page of his magazine.  he shifts in the uncomfortable seat and apologizes as his elbow brushes my arm.  I smile.

All three girls were in love with the dog.  Daddy can we keep him?  They asked in unison.
the dog looked at the man with its soft, deep brown eyes as if asking too.  It sat at his feet and the girl's father smiled deeply, his eyes crinkling.

The night unwrapped itself like a woman removing diamonds after the opera.  The glittering stars of the Milky Way strung out like a necklae against black velvet.

here is a write like "Thumb Sucker"

The Borrowers

You can call and call all you want but I am not here.
In my hands I hold the thick grey rectangle of another world.  Inside are pages and pages of places you have never been and could never imagine.  You are too busy with others to go there with me.  You don't take the time to feel the rough scratch of the page edges as they turn and turn taking me further away on my journeys.  you want me to play Barbies on the porch with you and pretend we are grownups, but I am borrowing another life, another world between the pages of my books.

Here is a postcard memoir:

They looked confidently in to the camera lens, those sassy women.  Her arm extended behind Justine's back just to let her know she was there.  they laughed when they saw the barrel sitting in the studio with the slogan "We Should Worry" on its side.  They should worry, they giggled, knowing what they knew about their friendship.  Sure, people talked and rumors flew.  But no one really know for sure how deep and true their love was for each other.

Finally, we wrote about a conflict and a person

Julie

Your hands are open, palms flat and wide, fingers stretched to make your pint.  Your left hand waves to the side as though you are clearing the air of negative energy.  We are at the bar, surrounded by dark woodwork while heavy beams loom over our heads.  It is raining and grey outside.  Why are you so sad all the time?  I ask, turning sideways to face her.  She sighs, Oh Sue, you remember what it was like growing up.  Sure, but what parts made you so sad?  Well, think about it, I was 5 when we moved the first time, 9 the second--each time I had to start all over.  Now both hands, still open, wave in the air and one falls to my forearm seeking understanding and connection.