Friday August 4th, 2017

The exercise:

Write four lines of prose about: the grey.

Tried to get a new phone this morning. Lineup was too long for me to deal with, as I had a chiropractor appointment just before lunch. Was hoping to get there right when the phone store opened but apparently getting there ten minutes after opening is much, much too late.

I can't even blame the long weekend, as I'm pretty sure everybody in front of me was local.

Guess I'll try again... hmm. Maybe next Saturday?

Smoke was bad again today. Feeling pretty much done with it.

It, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be at all done with us.

Mine:

They move in the twilight, features obscured by the encroaching darkness and their grey, hooded robes. Silent as death, they go about their grim business with delicate fingers and practiced ease. They are not bothered by the forest fire smoke that envelops the valley - they have made their peace with it.

And soon, so shall you and I... whether we wish to or not.

1 Comments:

Greg said...

I admit to being astonished that the line-up at the phone store was that long -- I didn't think anyone had released a new phone recently. I prefer to go about a half-hour before closing if it's just to buy a new phone, on the grounds that people with problems turn up early expecting queues and are reluctant to go late and risk not being seen. I don't know how well that would play out for you though given the unexpected queue this time!
Hmm, your Greys don't seem like the kind of thing I'd like to encounter anywhere, or anytime for that matter -- they seem, not exactly hostile, but certainly uncaring of human life. Which I hope is what you were trying to get across!

The grey
Tommy did not think the apprenticeship was going well. Artist Margaret would only let him sweep the floors, and Artist Reginald kept telling him that he was holding it wrong -- and it was the broom he was holding, not even a paintbrush!
"Pass me the grey," said Reginald, holding a flabby, toad-like hand while he gazed at a portrait of Margaret. Tommy died a little inside: grey was made, as Reginald had to know, by mixing black and white, and whatever shade Tommy made was certain to be wrong.