Friday June 29th, 2012

The exercise:

Write four lines of prose about: the party.

More cherries and berries are set for the long weekend market (Sunday is Canada Day). Hoping for good weather, but refusing to look at the forecast since they've been more incompetent at the weather office than usual lately.

Sorry about neglecting the comments the last couple of days, just haven't had the time or energy. Hoping to get back on track either tomorrow evening or Sunday.

Mine:

He stood leaning against the wall in the living room, empty beer bottle in hand. At regular intervals he would bring it to his lips and pretend to sip. Then he would return to nodding his head in time with the too-loud music as he eyed the other attendees.

And all the while he silently counted down the seconds until he could leave without being viewed as the old man he knew himself to be at the tender age of nineteen.

5 Comments:

Greg said...

Heh, I sympathise with your narrator. Teenage years are a terrible time for angst :)
Hope the weather holds for you, and not to worry about comments. Not that I have anything for yesterday anyway, as I've got no time at all at the moment either :(

The party
LaTurf's mammy was drinking her way through the punchbowl, her girth effectively blocking anyone from getting past her and getting a glass herself. LaTurf was dancing wildly to an overloud iPod, played through some garish, diamantéed speakers. The women of the neighbourhood gathered around the cocktail sausages, which they agreed were good, and the mustards, which they agreed were not good, and gossiped about the party.
"Yes," said one at last, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the music, "but this is supposed to be a wake!"

Heather Banschbach said...

Marc- I have always enjoyed reading your stories and look forward to seeing how your writing changes as your inspiration and priorities change. You may find you feel like the old one in the room... at least for a few years.
----
My husband found the three of us crowded around the small vanity chair in the bathroom. Alexandrea leaned heavily toward the mirror and Evan and I pulled our fingers through small chunks of her hair, all of us looking for the same small prize.

"It's quite a party you have going on in here," he said, exasperation weighing down the tone of his voice as he turned from us on his search for a more private place to pee.

"Would you like to join our hunting party for ticks?" I called after him knowing full well he wouldn't return.
----

Still don't have the knack of writing back :( We did, however, find the tick in my son's hair today.

Morrigan Aoife said...

A huge party is thrown by Mom and Dad
To say congratulations to The Grad
Thirteen long years you’ve all had to wait
For you to pass twelfth grade and graduate!

Marc said...

Greg - ah, what busy lives we seem to be leading (following?) these days. Perhaps one day things will settle down a touch.

Sounds like an Irish style wake to me. Best way to do it, I reckon!

Heather - this one was a little autobiographical, actually. I can remember feeling that way at many parties I attended in my younger days. Thankfully get togethers are much more enjoyable these days.

Ugh, ticks. Unpleasant business, those.

Morrigan - I should go to bed. I couldn't stop myself from adding a fifth line to your poem in my head:

Now get a job, you profligate!

So I think I'll pause here and finish catching up tomorrow.

Morrigan Aoife said...

ROFL! That's too funny!