The exercise:
Write about: a record.
Showing posts with label Record Prompt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Record Prompt. Show all posts
Monday August 30th, 2021
The exercise:
Write something to do with: the record player.
Work was hectic but manageable. Almost caught up by the end of day, I think. We'll see tomorrow.
Wednesday November 14th, 2012
The exercise:
Write about: the records.
Went in to see the local Public Health Nurse this afternoon to get Max weighed (among other things). It went well (other than Max deciding to soil his diaper right before she put him on the scale, which was directly after I'd told her it was dry because I'd changed him just before we left home).
Anyway, he's regaining weight at the upper end of the normal scale, so he'll be back to his birth weight in no time.
They grow up so fast.
Also: the slight delay in getting this posted was brought to you by a sleeping baby on my chest, who somehow managed to trick me into falling asleep as well.
Mine:
"If you wish to access the records vault," Miss Vandenbeeker told the visitor in the tattered trench coat, "you must know the password."
"This is a matter of life and death!" Blood flew from his lips as he spoke, spattering across the elderly curator's glasses.
"I can understand that," Miss Vandenbeeker said, taking a cloth from her breast pocket and using it to clean her glasses. She did this with an efficiency and serenity that indicated this was not the first time she'd been forced to do so. "That does not, however, mean that I can simply cast aside the sacred duties of my position in order to allow any and all fools inside that hallowed room."
"Sacred?" the man shouted, looking around in disbelief. "Hallowed? Are you insane?"
"Provide the password," Miss Vandenbeeker said calmly as she returned to the romance novel she'd been reading before this most recent interruption, "or go away."
"Unlock that door or suffer the consequences!"
"Nice try, dear," Miss Vandenbeeker said without looking up, "but that's not the password."
Write about: the records.
Went in to see the local Public Health Nurse this afternoon to get Max weighed (among other things). It went well (other than Max deciding to soil his diaper right before she put him on the scale, which was directly after I'd told her it was dry because I'd changed him just before we left home).
Anyway, he's regaining weight at the upper end of the normal scale, so he'll be back to his birth weight in no time.
They grow up so fast.
Also: the slight delay in getting this posted was brought to you by a sleeping baby on my chest, who somehow managed to trick me into falling asleep as well.
Mine:
"If you wish to access the records vault," Miss Vandenbeeker told the visitor in the tattered trench coat, "you must know the password."
"This is a matter of life and death!" Blood flew from his lips as he spoke, spattering across the elderly curator's glasses.
"I can understand that," Miss Vandenbeeker said, taking a cloth from her breast pocket and using it to clean her glasses. She did this with an efficiency and serenity that indicated this was not the first time she'd been forced to do so. "That does not, however, mean that I can simply cast aside the sacred duties of my position in order to allow any and all fools inside that hallowed room."
"Sacred?" the man shouted, looking around in disbelief. "Hallowed? Are you insane?"
"Provide the password," Miss Vandenbeeker said calmly as she returned to the romance novel she'd been reading before this most recent interruption, "or go away."
"Unlock that door or suffer the consequences!"
"Nice try, dear," Miss Vandenbeeker said without looking up, "but that's not the password."
Monday December 27th, 2010
The exercise:
Let us begin this final week of 2010 with: the record.
This article is what inspired the prompt. But not my writing. That happens sometimes.
Thankfully I managed to get internet access here, because I totally forgot to schedule a post before leaving my parent's house. The trip to Vancouver went fairly smoothly, hopefully the same will be said after tomorrow's journey home.
Mine:
Turn the lights down low,
Let all those busy thoughts slow;
You've got nowhere to go,
So let that mad wind blow.
That wild storm will pass,
But oh this moment will last.
Rain splatters against glass,
While Miles comforts with class.
Kind of Blue is here
To fill you with peace my dear;
This record is my seer
And this will be a good year.
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