The exercise:
Apparently I've used the List Prompt 13 times... but the last time was over a year ago. Allow me, if you will, to fix that.
Use all of the following words in your writing today: cute, cloud, choice, cave, crusty.
I wasn't going to go with a theme there but after the first two words I was like, eh, might as well.
Spent some time at the park with Max this afternoon. Came home accident-free. I consider that a win.
Mine:
My childhood was not an unusual one. I do not claim otherwise. Don't all boys have fond memories of ice cream and summers spent digging in the dirt? Of hot chocolate winter nights and snowball fights with the neighbourhood children? Of splashing in fresh-fallen rain puddles and chasing puppies? Walking hand in hand with cute girls in town, across fields, in shopping malls?
I do not know. I have lived but this one life and can speak only from my experiences.
But I do feel some confidence in my ordinariness. There is one occasion that stands out from the rest, but I think that has its common elements as well. We all have such outliers, only the specifics differ.
For me it was a time with one of my previously mentioned young ladies. The day had begun beautiful and clear, the sky as blue as her eyes. So we set our sights to the mountains east of our town and began hiking, youthful and carefree.
Then a cloud appeared on the horizon, black as death. We were halfway to our destination by then and we had a choice to make: scurry back home at the mere threat of Mother Nature's wrath or continue on filled with the certainly of our immortality.
We, of course, continued on.
The rain began to fall as we reached the steepest terrain our adventure had to offer. We kept on for another five minutes and then the storm descended upon us in earnest. Soaked to the bone within a matter of moments, we sought shelter in a fortuitously placed cave, thinking to remain there until the sun returned to guide us back home. We would keep each warm by... whatever means necessary.
But then, we had not counted on uncovering a buried treasure chest in that cave. And we most definitely did not expect to meet the crusty, foul-mouthed, long-dead sailor who had buried it there.
3 comments:
Do you and Kat have a little whiteboard near the front-door where you keep track of how many injuries Max has sustained while each of you were looking after him? (ducks). I'm glad you managed an injury-free trip to the park, I'm sure they're easier than you make them sound :)
It does feel like it's been a while since we had the list prompt, but you've done an excellent job with it, creating a neat little pastoral scene there. Well, right up until the end, anyway :) Now I'm wondering if the crusty old sailor is the Captain of the Pink Daffodil....
Cute cloud, choice crusty cave
"Carpe canem," said Sid, a smug smile playing on his face. Deborah, engulfed in clouds of steam at the sink, turned off the hot tap and waited a moment until she could see Sid; by this time he'd composed himself and his smile was nowhere to be seen.
"Seize the dog?" she said. "Aren't you in the wrong prompt?"
"What?" said Sid.
"What?" asked Deborah. For a moment they stared at each other, not quite knowing what had happened. "I said," said Deborah, her choice of words carefully made, for Sid was prone to flying into bouts of irrational anger, "Did you really mean to say Seize the dog?"
"Beware of the dog," said Sid. The corners of his mouth were turning down and his crusty eyebrows were beetling together in a presaging of an emotional tempest.
"Cave canem," said Deborah. "Did you know it's inscribed on the walls in Pompeii?"
"Very cute," sneered Sid. His fingers were twitching now, wanting to ball into fists.
"What dog?" asked Deborah.
"What?"
"What dog?" She repeated herself carefully, as she could see his temper was about to give way.
"Oh, that–" he turned to point, just as the slavering, three-headed monster landed on his back and pushed him face first into the floor.
"Oh, that dog," said Deborah, returning to the washing-up.
Cute, Cloud, Choice, Cave, Crusty.
Oh, how I love the clouds.
Their ever-changing forms,
Their constant movement.
They're never held down to a certain form;
They're free to become whatever they may choose.
The choice they make is not judged - but admired.
Their decision to become something small, cute, and petite is solely on their preference.
Unfortunately, we cannot all be like clouds.
We are molded clay blobs by society's evil, crusty, destroying hands.
Their judgement and torment is what drives us into the ugly, black cave we call "insecurity".
Sure, they tell us to become anything we want to be,
But then we are criticized for paving our own path;
Deviating from 'the norm';
Defying society's ways.
And, in doing so, we become another number.
Another statistic
Instead of creating our own ways.
So, why can't we be like a cloud?
Without a care in the world?
Choosing our own form, and being who we are created to be?
Not who we are taught to be.
Greg - no, and I'm reasonably certain I'm glad of that. But I'm not going to spend any time tallying things up to confirm that :P
Hah, good old Sandy. I should bring him round for another visit soon.
These two are quite the pair. I'm pretty sure I'd like to hear more from them. Should Sid survive this appearance...
Courtney - hello and welcome to the blog! Thanks for sharing this with us.
It's a really well done piece. I like the theme you've chosen and found myself nodding along in agreement at several points. I think the ending four lines are especially strong.
Hope to see more of your writing here!
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