Write about a: goodbye.
Had a visit today from Kat's friends, who brought their two little girls with them (one is nearly five, the other is just over two, I think). Much entertainment to be found with those two.
Also: a definite desire to only have one of our own.
Though I've been told (many times) that will change.
I remain unconvinced.
After visiting for just over two hours this afternoon, it was time for their parents to take the girls back home to Penticton. Gracie, the five-year-old, was very vocal about not wanting to leave but was eventually convinced. Sophie, the two-year-old, was fairly quiet about it, proceeding to put on her boots and coat without much of a fuss.
Once she was all set to go out into the snow, Sophie came over to where I was sitting and gave me a gentle kiss on my forearm. Then she went over to Max (who was feeding), kissed him on the head, then gave Kat a kiss on her arm as well.
Seeing this, Gracie came over and gave me a hug and a kiss on my arm, then went over to do the same to Max and Kat.
Not to be outdone, Sophie decided she had to have the last kisses goodbye. So she came over and gave each of us one more kiss: arm, head, arm. Thankfully their parents got them out the door shortly afterward or that loop might still be running now.
Either way, it was just about the cutest and sweetest thing ever.
Use the title of a nursery rhyme for your inspiration today.
I took Max to a Mother Goose group this morning and had quite a bit of fun. We sang a bunch of songs (well, mostly the parents did - but a few of the older kids got into a tune or two) and talked about various baby things.
Would have been nice if I wasn't the only dad, but hey, I kinda expected it.
Also: how is Max 12 weeks old already? I honestly only remember about 6 or 7 of those.
The Itsy Bitsy Spider
His daughter's scream woke him like a wrecking ball smashing into the side of the house. He was out of bed and moving down the hall before he remembered that he was completely naked. With his wife away for a month on a safari with her sisters, all of his nightwear was sitting in a sweaty heap in and around the laundry basket.
After a quick detour to the bathroom to grab a reasonably clean bathrobe he hurried the rest of the way to his daughter's room.
"What is it, honey? What's wrong?" he called from the doorway.
"Daddy! There's a huge spider on the ceiling and it's gonna eat me!"
"I highly doubt that," he muttered under his breath as he entered the room. Looking up, with only the weak light of a bedside lamp to chase away the night, he saw nothing of interest. "Where is it?"
"It's right there, daddy! Can't you see it? It's huge!"
After a few tense moments he finally spotted the dreaded beast. Then, looking between it and his daughter, he couldn't help but wonder when in her education, precisely, had he and his wife neglected to provide her with the proper definition of the word huge.
Write two haiku about: the strongman.
Finally got back to the gym this morning, mostly to get in a run on the treadmill - carrying Max around the house is enough weightlifting for me.
Anyway, there was a guy there today who was easily the largest man I've ever shared gym space with. The kind of guy you avoid being anywhere close to when exercising because the easier it is for others to make a direct comparison, the worse it is for you.
So yeah, he's the inspiration for today's prompt.
Oh, and if any of you thought that I was the source of our topic... you're hilarious.
Bench pressing a horse
that's just finished a large meal?
More muscles than brains.
* * *
Lifts weights nine to five,
spends his evenings fighting back
tears while reading Poe.
Write about: the hook.
We're in the process of figuring out our seed orders for this year, which is always fun. It's a hopeful, anything can happen time of year.
Though once they're in the ground come planting season, they're pretty much at the mercy of the weather. And our ability to keep up with the weeding.
There was something missing, something vital. Everyone seemed to know it wasn't there, but nobody had thus far managed to figure out what it was, precisely.
With the deadline approaching faster than anyone cared to admit, each tick of the clock was like a gunshot in the room. Coffees were spilled by nervous hands, sweat stained overpriced shirts, priceless pens were twirled or tapped against teeth... but still the crucial element remained out of reach.
Footsteps in the hall dragged all eyes to the open doorway. It was too soon, surely. They still had time. It couldn't be over already...
An intern walked past, studiously ignoring the stares he felt coming from the room. Breaths were taken, shoulders slumped in relief. The hangman had not yet come.
They still had a chance to find a hook for their Super Bowl commercial.
Trying out a new prompt that I'd like to bring back every now and again. I shall call it the Bad Day Prompt, with the idea being that each time we'll write about someone in a different profession having... drum roll please... a bad day.
Let us begin with: a superhero.
I was going to provide a link to a proper list of superheroes for you to choose from, but all the ones I'm finding are pretty craptacular. Sorry about that.
Temperature stayed above zero today. I am in favour of this trend continuing.
He loves playing hero -
Thwarting evil, saving lives;
Grateful not to work one
Of those boring nine-to-fives.
But this cold, lonely night
Has turned his thoughts quite sour.
Now, if given the choice,
He'd ditch his super powers.
Sure, moving fast is great -
He's always ten steps ahead;
But it would be better
If he could slow down in bed.
Write a four line poem about: the outfit.
I'm sure I was going to write something interesting here, but Max is snoring away right now and I'm finding it rather distracting.
A skimpy little number
Draws so many stares.
"So what if I'm sixty-five?
Ladies love chest hair!"
Write four lines of prose about: longevity.
Went up to Penticton this morning for various errands and took the opportunity to buy a bouncer chair for Max. We're hoping it'll help with this daytime fussiness that has emerged over the last week or so.
Just when you think you have him figured out, he pulls out another new development.
Canucks won big tonight, avenging their opening night lose against Anaheim. Looks like they're starting to roll.
"Around here," Scott's boss told him the day after he'd been hired, "today is know as Mr. Carter Day."
"Why's that?" Scott asked, not particularly interested in the answer but feeling like it was too early in his career as a waiter to stop caring.
"Mr. Carter has come to our restaurant on this day every year for the last hundred and five years!"
Scott was suitably impressed by this revelation - right up until the local undertaker wheeled Mr. Carter's coffin into the lobby.
Today's writing instigator shall be: bones.
We got an unexpected call this week from the chef at the Watermark Beach Resort here in Osoyoos. Apparently our friends at the bakery had passed our card on to him and he was interested in meeting with us to discuss making use of our produce in their restaurant.
We'd considered approaching them in previous years but for various reasons never got around to it, so we were definitely interested. We went in this afternoon to meet him and things went well, so it looks like we've got a new destination for our veggies, berries, and fruit this year.
It would appear our next farming season has begun already.
He studies his creation in silence, allowing the cares of the day to crumble to dust. The meetings, the deadlines, the endless reports and spreadsheets. Complaints from underlings and demands of supervisors fall away as a lone finger traces the intricate details of his pet project.
It is not complete, but he finds that less bothersome than usual. For this condition is temporary, he can see that now. An end is in sight, nearly within reach.
He has found the missing pieces.
She arrived last week. Introductions were made by that dolt in Sales. Terry or John or whatever his name is. Unimportant.
Molly. She's all that matters. And those magnificent cheekbones of hers. How long has he searched for them without even knowing it?
The wait is almost over now. Soon his masterpiece will be whole, the way it had first come to him while he slept. Pure perfection.
All that's left is to find a way to get Molly alone.
Let us write a few words about: the instrument.
It's been a long day and I am ready for bed.
Oh, the Canucks won their first of the season tonight. Wasn't pretty but I'll take it.
It lurks in the corner of the living room, gathering dust and regret. Holding tightly to both, it watches me. I can feel its gaze crawl across my skin.
It watches me read, watches me as I, in turn, watch mindless television shows. It sees me eat, sleep, clean - everything else in the room, the house, my life. Floors and walls cannot stop its stare.
It watches most keenly when I ignore it, neglect it. Which just happens to be all the time.
Filling me with guilt and shame, it reminds me of the long ago lessons that my fingers have forgotten. No words are needed for this, I just need to glance in its direction.
Daunting and debilitating, this supposedly inanimate piano.
Write two haiku about: a winter evening.
Had a bit of time to myself this morning and actually managed to get some writing done. It felt spectacularly good.
Iced drinks in each hand,
watching soft waves kiss the beach;
winter in Cuba.
* * *
Beneath thick blankets,
hypnotized by the fire,
dreaming of Cuba.
Our topic for today shall be: the lost letter.
As of this morning it has been seven years since I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Which meant a trip to Tim Hortons with my family in order to celebrate Diabetes Donut Day. I went with a blueberry fritter this time around and I do not regret it.
The addition of Max to the festivities has left me especially grateful to these guys this year.
Its message fading,
It sits waiting
Upon the ground,
Hoping to be found.
For years unkind,
The light of day
A world away.
But it is not.
Write something that takes place in: the graveyard.
Canucks did slightly better this evening, as they managed to not lose until the shootout. So... at least they got one point, as opposed to the zero points they brought in last night.
I think they're going to appreciate having the next two days off.
It feels strange, walking through a graveyard on a sunny afternoon. My mind insists on conjuring up ghosts, rain, at least a dash of fog here and there. Too much time spent planted in front of the television as a child, I suppose.
Still though, that blue sky overhead, this bright light surrounding me, the gentle breeze tugging at my clothes, it all seems too... happy for this place. Intruders, all of them.
Perhaps I don't belong here either. I'm not depressed, no thoughts of suicide haunt my dreams. Work is going well, I have all the friends a man could hope for, my love life is... respectable seems a good word. Not lacking, at any rate. No complaints to speak of at the moment.
Yet here I am. As I have been every day for the last month. Surely someone is going to notice me soon, start asking questions. That could get awkward, if not dangerous. I have to find what I'm looking for before that unpleasantness begins.
That bloody grave has to be around here somewhere.
Write a four line poem about: getting started.
The lockout-shortened NHL season opened today. It was not a good beginning for the Canucks, but I'm not too worried since they only had a five day training camp and no preseason games to help them get ready for the real deal.
Hopefully they can turn things around quickly, because they've got another game tomorrow night.
Drop the puck already,
We've waited far too long!
Put on your uniform,
Get back where you belong!
Write four lines of prose about: the cheater.
Because, I mean, seriously Lance. You cannot make us forget what you did - and all those years of lying about it which followed - with a weak interview with friggin' Oprah.
In other, much more fun news, Max seems to be back to his usual self.
If, you know, a 10 week old can actually have a usual self.
I know she's cheating. I know it to my very core. There is no other possible explanation for this series of victories - or defeats, if one chooses to see things from my point of view.
The problem, it has become immensely clear to me, is finding a way to prove it.
Write something which takes place: at sea.
Max has spent a large portion of the day asleep. I'm hoping he's just recovering from the unpleasantness of yesterday and that he'll be back to his usual form tomorrow.
Although, to be totally honest, I wouldn't mind too much if he slept this much every day. We managed to get a fair amount done around here!
We'd been at sea for twenty weeks,
Our supplies were running low.
The wind was deader than a ghost,
Our men were too weak to row.
The captain was looking nervous,
His faith in his crew long gone.
I'll admit that night I was sure
He'd not live to see the dawn.
I think we all made that mistake,
We failed to give him his due;
For under cover of darkness
He took to the ocean blue.
The last we saw of our captain
He was bound for the horizon;
We could nearly hear him laughing
As he waved, astride a dolphin.
I do believe it's time to bring back the list prompt. So use all of the following words (in some form or another) in today's writing: sunshine, lake, chase, luck.
Max did pretty well this morning, getting through his shots without too many complaints. This afternoon and evening, on the other hand, have been more of a challenge. It's like it just took a while for him to figure out exactly what happened.
Hopefully he'll be feeling better tomorrow.
"Well this certainly sucks."
There really wasn't any room for disagreement. There we were on the only weekend of the summer that we all had off from our various jobs, all set to relax by the lake in our bathing suits, and the sun was nowhere to be found.
On our side of the lake at least.
"Those lucky bastards."
This was directed, without much enthusiasm, at the campers on the opposite shore. They were perfectly positioned to capture the rays that had managed to slip between a crack in the clouds that had otherwise smothered the sky.
We had been watching as the patch of sunlight moved slowly from east to west, never even thinking about moving in our direction. Talk was turning to building a fire, maybe making the long trip back into town to get some coffee or hot chocolate. It was all rather depressing, really.
"Forget this," I declared, dragging myself to my feet and brushing the sand from my legs. "Come on, let's go."
"What are we doing?"
"We, my friends," I said over my shoulder as I strode along the edge of the water, "are chasing sunshine."
Write two haiku about: originality.
Max is getting his first round of vaccinations tomorrow. I am not looking forward to it. Kat is not looking forward to it. Max?
He has no idea what the morning has in store for him.
Here's hoping it goes as smoothly as possible.
Forget trends and fads,
who cares what everyone says?
I gotta be me.
* * *
with a dark secret: his words
are not really his.
Write about: the quarantine.
Doctor's appointment went great this morning, as Max was his usual smiling, charming self. Everything looked good, and the little man is now up to a rather impressive 13 pounds.
The NHL returns to action this Saturday and the Canucks are set to open their abbreviated season that night. Fingers crossed that it will be one worth waiting for.
One little cough
Was all it took.
Now I'm locked up
Like a common crook -
They just had to
Do it by the book.
But I'm not sick,
Soon they will see
They've made a mistake
In confining me -
A common error
In times like these.
Why the delay,
Why can't I go?
Around here must know!
Cause I'm bleeding from
My eyes, ears, and nose?
Give me what you've got for: the horn.
Visiting plans did not fall through today, but that's because plans were never actually formed (someone was supposed to call to arrange a time to come over and didn't). On the plus side, we got quite a few things done around the house instead.
We're taking Max to see our family doctor for the first time tomorrow. Just a general checkup and a chance for her to meet him, plus we'll have our usual array of questions to ask.
Also: I'm curious to see how much he weighs now.
They were to be blown the moment an enemy was spotted by one of the tower guards - one short blast for any force too small to be considered a threat, and three short blasts followed by a long note for anything larger. There was no written rule about the length of that final call to battle but each guard understood that their horn was not to be set aside until the entire castle had been brought to the walls.
Six towers stood watch over the citadel and a guard was present and watching within each at all hours of every day. The six guards on duty wore their tower's horn on their left hips nearly always, with the lone, brief exception coming during the changing of the watch when the horns were passed on to the next man. At no other moment were the horns to be found elsewhere.
The penalties for allowing a horn to slip beyond your reach while you were on watch were brutal and carried out in the main courtyard before all of the residents of the castle - all those who were left vulnerable by your negligence. This had only occurred once, three generations ago, but it was still an event spoken of only in nervous whispers.
Invaders had attempted to slip past the castle defenses in countless ways but none had managed to successfully avoid the piercing cry of the horns, that shrill shout of a younger brother alerting the household to an older sibling's attempt to sneak out after curfew.
But they continued to try, for the treasures held beyond those walls were legendary. Enough gold to purchase a fleet of dragons, unparalleled weaponry, unbreakable armor. Dusty, dark tomes of wicked magic that history was in the process of forgetting.
Powerful motivation for men consumed with greed, fixated on power. But no man outside those walls has ever forced their way inside. Every attempt has been doomed to failure.
But my attempt shall be different. Mine shall end in triumph and glory. For I have an advantage over those desperate fools.
I was born inside these walls.
Write a four line poem about: sharing.
Had two different sets of plans for visitors fall through today. Hopefully we'll manage to have at least one successful gathering tomorrow.
They say sharing is caring,
But I have to disagree -
Because if you gave a damn,
You'd not have shared crabs with me.
Write four lines of prose about: worry.
Nothing serious going on here, just the normal, usual worries of new parents inspiring a writing prompt.
Expecting a couple of visitors this weekend, one of whom hasn't had a chance to meet Max yet. Quite looking forward to that. The other visitors are Kat's friend and her two little girls, who have met him on a couple of occasions. I suspect Max would be looking forward to that, if he had any clue that they're coming.
Sitting at her desk and looking out the second-floor window, Olive could only purse her lips while shaking her head. Panic or fear would have been more appropriate responses. After all, the front lawn was crawling with the dead come back to life.
But the only image in her mind was of her husband, that very morning, telling her, "There's nothing to worry about - I've got it covered."
Today we write about: the bottle.
We had a little bit of rain yesterday, but not as much as they had originally called for. Shocking, I know - an inaccurate weather forecast.
Anyway. Combined with above freezing temperatures, it was enough to melt some of the snow but certainly not all of it.
So the winter wonderland survives another day.
The empty bottle rolls inexorably toward the end of the table. Fighting to keep the panic from her face, the bartender watches from across the room. It seems as though the entire building holds its breath as the bottle teeters on the edge, its shattered predecessors staring up at it from the floor.
Everyone knows that was the last drink the bartender could provide. Supplies have run out and the next delivery has been delayed. Everyone knows she has done all she can.
Everyone, that is, except the drinker.
He is blissfully unaware as he watches the bottle tip over the edge, smiling as it falls. The crash of glass doesn't seem to bother him. He is satisfied, or so everyone hopes.
Because if he demands another bottle and it fails to materialize before him, everyone knows that there will be no negotiations, no reasoning with him. No milk when he wants it? Then that baby is going to drown the room in tears.
Write about: the punching bag.
There's a punching bag at the gym I've been going to. I punched it a few times last time I was there, just to try it out. And now we get a prompt out of it too.
"How can you be so stupid?"
He shrugs awkwardly, smiles bashfully. Mistakes have been learned from, he knows how to respond now. No more backtalk, never cry, don't even let the anger reach his eyes.
Just keep himself small, non-threatening. Weak. Not worth the time or effort. Being a pushover avoids all that extra abuse. It's much more manageable this way.
Roll with the punches, that's how he survives. At least, it has been.
You have to understand, this has been going on for years. Longer than he cares to think about. And all that rolling has covered a lot of ground on the plains of his soul. He is running out of territory now, the cliff is approaching.
A few more blows to his confidence, a well-placed shot to his self-esteem. That's all it will take to bring him to the brink.
And then he will be forced to make a choice: fall to irretrievable depths or, at long last, take a stand for himself.
The word of the day for this week's Two Haiku Tuesday is: double.
I dropped Kat and Max off at a mom and baby meeting this morning at the health clinic - they're doing a four week series of talks, starting with today's discussion on sleep. As I was about to climb back in the car I noticed another mother arriving, a baby carrier in each hand.
"Need any help with those?" I offered, thinking of how heavy Max was when I brought him inside.
"Oh no, I'm fine thanks."
"I guess you must be pretty used to it," I said, feeling a little stupid for not already realizing that.
"Yeah, it's amazing what you get used to."
It turns out her girls are three months old, but they were born two months early so they're pretty tiny. I went to a coffee shop to do some writing until it was time to pick my family up again and I couldn't stop thinking about that woman and her two babies.
Thus, today's prompt and haiku.
Oh! I promised a snow picture. Here you go:
That's the view looking out one of our back windows. They're still calling for rain tomorrow, so things could look quite different in less than 24 hours.
Everywhere she goes
there's a baby for each arm -
that's just her life now.
* * *
Twice the trouble but
twice the love? Maybe. For me?
One is plenty, thanks.
Write about something that is: delicate.
Our little Max turned two months old today. That soft, subtle sound you hear is time zipping past.
We had a big snowfall overnight, which made sure the snow we already had didn't have a chance to melt into puddles and mud. I should really get out there and take a picture to share with you guys, as it's quite beautiful.
Which means I should get on that before the rain comes to wash it all away.
Which, apparently, will be on Wednesday.
So... tomorrow it is then.
"Hello, Darling! I'm home from another busy day at the office!"
Busy doing what, exactly? Your new secretary?
"Hi, Honey. Good to see you made it home safely - I heard on the radio that traffic was especially bad today."
"Oh, you just have no idea. Maniacs behind the wheel, all of them."
Well you're still alive, so I guess they're not quite maniacal enough.
"Mmm, you poor thing."
"So what's on the menu for tonight, Precious?"
Your head on this platter if you call me that one more time.
"There's a roast in the oven and a potato salad in the fridge - with extra dill, of course. Just how you like it."
"Oh you are just the absolute best!"
I wonder if I could put this steak knife through his eye from here...
"I couldn't possibly be the best, Sweetums. That title already belongs to you!"
"You are much too good to me, my delicate flower. Much too good. I'll be in the living room watching TV - just give me a shout when dinner's on the table."
If you're watching sports again I'm going to take this frying pan to the back of your balding head.
"Will do, my dearest. Will do."
Today we write about: the marathon.
The NHL lockout finally ended this weekend, after several marathon bargaining sessions. A shortened season is set to begin later this month and I'm looking forward to sharing Canucks hockey with my son.
I made my less than triumphant return to the gym this morning, after time away due to the holidays and, more excusably, the flu. Hoping to get back on some sort of regular schedule now that all that is in my rear-view mirror.
Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm going to be sore tomorrow.
Because I am already sore right now.
The finish line
Must be retreating.
That it is not
That's the sole reason,
Not physical depletion,
That I shall never
Ever reach completion.
Write a four line poem about something that is: toxic.
This afternoon I finally installed the printer I got from my parents for Christmas. It's a colour one, which is exciting enough, but it also scans and copies (and faxes but we'd need a phone line in order to use that and we only have cell phones).
It'll be great to do our own colour printing, especially when it comes time to do up this year's box program posters for the farm. I've also wanted a scanner for a long time, and that function will likely eliminate most of our faxing needs as well.
The printer also does photos, but I want to look into cost and quality issues before getting too excited about that.
Fleeing from the wreckage,
Fumes slither toward the sky;
It's too late to stop them,
So we might as well just lie.
Write four lines of prose about: day care.
With both of Kat's parents coming down with the flu in the last several days, we've had to steer clear of their house this week. And while I wouldn't call what they've done for us day care - I mean, do you know of any centers that regularly cook dinner for the parents? - it's close enough to turn it into a prompt.
Also as a result of this, we actually made ourselves a good meal this evening. We picked up some salmon from the fish shop in town, pulled some acorn squash out of storage, grabbed some green beans out of the freezer, and cooked up a pot of wild rice to top it all off.
Felt good to put together one of our usual meals again.
The evidence was impossible to miss. Parents could discern what had happened before they had even stepped out of their cars in the parking lot. The little girl, though not yet four months old, truly had a style all her own.
Debra The Destroyer of Diapers had struck again.
Going to try something a little different with today's prompt. The plan is to introduce you to a setting and then you guys will have the chance to write something that takes place in that setting. Feel free to completely disregard all other responses and keep your piece self-contained. Or, and I think this would be much more fun and interesting, you can incorporate other takes on the prompt into yours.
I think I might have done something like this before, but there's an added twist this time:
I'm hoping to revisit this setting once a month over the course of this year. So if everything works out (aka, I actually remember to do this every month), today's entries will be the first of twelve set in this locale. I think that if you're able to contribute to the entire dozen it would be pretty cool if all of your entries related to each other in some way. My intention, since my first entry is being spent on the intro, is to have the next eleven connect together.
So what's the locale? A village named: Mejaran.
And what do we know about Mejaran? Well, let me tell you...
As it gently curls its way back and forth across the valley bottom, the unnamed river splits the village of Mejaran in half. The division is geographically perfect, though residents on each side secretly hold on to the belief that their portion of land is slightly - but somehow significantly - larger.
The handful of homes and shops on both banks are of simple design, as the focus of the craftsmen during their hasty construction was on functionality and longevity.
Also: the self-appointed foreman had been born without a creative bone weighing down his undersized body. Unfortunately for those that would come after, none of the men suffering under his withering gaze were foolish enough to suggest a non-utilitarian addition to any of the projects.
In the near century since then little has changed. The villagers have been too preoccupied with carving out a living beneath the impassive eyes of the northern reaches of the Nadaga Mountain Range. Days blended into weeks, which melted into months, which were in turn lost among the passing years.
Rare were their visitors. Rarer still were the villagers who departed with breath still filling their lungs.
But still there was drama and mystery and love and hatred in their lives. Still there were stories and legends and songs worthy of being shared with outsiders.
Outsiders such as ourselves.
Write a little about: the clearance.
Not quite what I've got going on here, but more accurate words (discount, sale, etc.) have already been used as prompts. So... here we are.
I've decided to have a little photography sale over on our farm site to kick off the new year. From now until midnight on January 9th if you order any regularly priced print, you can get a second print of equal or lesser value for half price.
Shipping is extra, but I do my best to keep it reasonable. I'm planning on getting all the orders into the printers on the 10th and I expect to start sending them out around the middle of the month.
I had originally intended to do this as a Christmas sale in early December. But then Max kind of took over everything around here and I wasn't able to organize things in time.
Then I thought I'd do it as a Boxing Week sale. The flu bug had some interesting thoughts on this idea, eventually convincing me to wait until now to put it out there. It was really hard to argue against the kind of logic he was using.
Anyway, if any of you happen to be interested in taking advantage of this sale please do get in touch with me at firstname.lastname@example.org
And of course if you know anyone who might want to buy some of these prints I'd very much appreciate it if you passed this along to them.
Let us begin the new year by writing two haiku about: possibilities.
So I figure this month will have six posts published with the wrong year in the header without me noticing until (at least) the next day. Anyone else willing to pick a number? Fabulous prizes for whoever comes closest.
Although fair warning: we might have vastly differing definitions of 'fabulous'.
A road, a trail, a
passageway to somewhere else -
where will yours take you?
* * *
Standing at a fork
in the road, hair turning grey,
paralyzed by choice.