The following is my post for this week’s Weekly Writing Challenge, which you can find here. The one rule: Fifty words. Take it away, me.
It’s those dead eyes that get me.
Her stuff is everywhere, and it’s free. Wildly festooned scenarios all. Someone put time and work into these. No one works harder than her.
But every time I see her, I see those lifeless, empty eyes. I don’t know how she does it.
Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty
“No rules. Just stick to the word count-no more, no less than fifty words.”
Here is my entry.
Third-wave
Rosamund was born disliking two things: being ordered about, and the baffling human impulse to join social clubs. At five, she was horrified to discover that girls were expected to politely comply with those very requests. She thought, “To hell with that!”, and screamed so long that her throat soured.
[This originally appeared on the blog one year ago.]
Oh, Jean-Louis. You problematic, magnetic SOB. Ninety-two years to the day after your birth, and we-the writers, readers, and open souls of the world-still cannot escape your torturous orbit. As for me: my heart is willing, but my mind is not quite able to sprint the final few yards into your embrace. I promise to try again, like I always do. You know how it goes. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not me, it’s you. It’s the two of us, together. I love you and hate you and love-hate-hate-love you. This dance we do will never end; the steps and the rhythm will change, but the tune will echo to eternity. Until next time.
Love and kisses and shrugs,
Maedez
On the Road
“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”-Jack Kerouac
What does this alternate world look like?
Thanks to Vickie Lester for letting me know about the Travoltify Your Name generator!
This is entirely unnecessary. No one in the world needs a Jane Austen cookie cutter. However, I give not one fig about practicality. I want one. I want one, like yesterday. Yes, please!
Curious? Go here to see it for yourself.
Yours truly on fiction
Everyone was a child once, even serious wordsmiths. Let’s get started:
A poised Gertrude Stein:
Gertrude Stein at three
An uncomfortable looking Franz Kafka:
Franz Kafka
The literary Gods certainly favoured the 7th of February, at least during the 19th century. Charles Dickens, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Sinclair Lewis were born on that day. Impressive, right?
Charles Dickens and His Characters by William Holbrook Beard. Birth year: 1812.
“A loving heart is the truest wisdom.”
Laura Ingalls Wilder. Birth year: 1867.
“The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong.”
Sinclair Lewis, 1914. Birth year: 1885.
“Every man is a king so long as he has someone to look down on.”
The International Exhibition of Sherlock Holmes
The Center of Science and Industry [COSI] in my hometown of Columbus is the second stop for this fabulous interactive Holmes experience. It runs 8 February-1 September.
Does this look amazing or does this look amazing? Your call. I am going next month. I’ll be sure to do a follow-up post!
A Study in Scarlet by A. Conan Doyle, with artwork by David Henry Friston. Beeton’s Christmas Annual, December 1887.
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 