03 | February | 2014 | Cancer Isn't Pink

Today’s Daily Prompt asked for : Publish a post in the style of a favorite author/blogger or photographer.

Hmmm, how on earth can I write like someone else? I honestly think that writing styles are somewhat like fingerprints, unique to each of us. I did not know where to begin and then it came to me! I would copy something that I had written and go to that website that compares your writing to famous authors and see who they say I write like.

Earlier copy and pastes compared me to Arthur C. Clarke, however, today’s writing (which is an excerpt from something I have been working off and on for a long while) compares me to Kurt Vonnegut. Wow! What flattery!

Daily Prompt: The Sincerest Form of Flattery

* * * * * Here is my offering to today’s Daily Prompt: * * * * *

One of her bosses, Marcus Jr., was the owner’s son, the other, Kyle, … well, he was a little different; she surmised he must have been a family friend since he was out of character, contrary, compared to the other two higher-ranking accountants – Jr. and Sr. Nat did not like Kyle. In her opinion, he was rude, often making cruel remarks that he passed off as jokes. She found nothing funny in ridiculing another person and tried to avoid any conversation with him, which was difficult since her job duties included processing his paperwork along with Marcus’ client load.

Four years of employment seemed to pass so quickly since high school graduation. Nat enjoyed her job, did what she was told without question, pristinely conscientious, quiet, with no ambition of anything other than maybe, just maybe, working there long enough to inherit her secretarial supervisor’s position. Of course, in her mind, that might be when she was an old lady, fifteen years down the road when she would be thirty-three years old.

Nat had no major life-plans to save the world, claim fame, find a cure for cancer, or start a revolution. Nat would live the life she saw her own mother live – marry, have children, return to the work force when her own daughter was planning to marry so that a halfway decent wedding could be provided. She would get tired, retire, and refuse to babysit for her grandchildren because that is what her mother did, “…I already raised my children, I’m not raising my grandchildren too!”

That was it in a nutshell, the story for Nat’s life, played out right in front of her, as though the pattern was already laid and cut, all that was left to do, was sew the pieces together, with one exception, Nat was of different material than her mother. Some fabrics ‘give’, some do not, some have naps, revealing shadows and movement, some shine and shimmer, some are see-through, and others are opaque.