Friday September 20th, 2013

The exercise:

Write four lines of prose about: the finale.

Bringing the first Ambrosia apples of the year to tomorrow morning's market, along with lots of carrots, heirloom tomatoes, and a collection of other produce.

Unfortunately the forecast is still calling for rain, but we shall see how right they are this time around.

Mine:

The percussionist sat at the back of the orchestra, perfectly quiet and very, very still. He listened as the other players blew and strummed and fingered their instruments, the noise level rising and falling around him in waves.

All the while his eyes never strayed from his conductor as he waited for his big moment, the grand finale of the night's performance.

He just hoped that, unlike during practice earlier that day in the field behind the auditorium, his lighter would ignite on the first try.

2 Comments:

Greg said...

Yay, the apples are ready at last! I can't remember – do you have pears as well? I bet they'll sell well anyway, apples are fantastic :)
Heh, that's quite the orchestra you've got going there! I wish I were that percussionist....

The finale
Joan looked at the cards on the table. In order to make the slam now she needed to find the Queen of Hearts in her left-hand opponent's hand, and she had a sneaking suspicion after the bidding that that wasn't the case. But there was no way she was letting a misplaced card ruin her finale at the Binghampton Bridge club.
She pulled a pistol from her purse, pointed it at her startled opponents and said, "I claim the rest of the tricks."

Marc said...

Greg - we do have pears, but not very many. Just a tree, maybe two, and they're already done.

Hah, that is one competitive bridge player you've got there. I certainly wouldn't argue with her!