“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in five minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like that guy who shoots free throws in the park. Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.
The Southampton drizzle was a fine, oily mist that seemed to have a diabolical intelligence all its own. It slipped between seams and under umbrellas, soaking socks and undershirts no matter what precautions were taken.
Jack sat in the pub, finishing his pint. Elaine’s was getting warm; she’d barely touched it. Jack hadn’t waited about to bandy words. Her ring sat on the table where she’d left it, pulled off of her finger without a word. Her tears said everything for her, quiet in their eloquence, falling in an even meter like the stanzas of a poem. There hadn’t been a scene–only an ending.
Jack looked over at his suitcase. He hoped he had enough socks.
(prompt: Write the same scene three times, emphasizing first anger, then sadness, and finally happiness.)