Saturday March 31st, 2012

The exercise:

A four line poem about: white lies.

It's Kat's birthday today, and I managed to pull off a little surprise party for her. I'd outline all of the careful omissions and lies I had to tell in order to do it, but I've honestly lost track of them all at this point.

Mine:

For all my deceit

I must apologize,

But it was needed

For this birthday surprise.

Friday March 30th, 2012

The exercise:

Four lines of prose about: the town elders.

Two guesses where I was when I wrote mine, and the first one doesn't count.

Mine:

"I seek the honored wisdom of The Town Elders."

"Surely you must know where they can be found, my child."

"No, Sister - my search has proven fruitless thus far."

"It is two o'clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday, they can be but one place, doing but one thing: the corner table at Tim Hortons, having coffee."

Thursday March 29th, 2012

The exercise:

Let us see what we can do with: results.

I got my blood test results back on Monday, and everything looked good. Well, my 'bad' cholesterol was a little high, but my 'good' cholesterol was so high that it more than made up for it. My doctor was actually rather impressed, as apparently it's more typical for men to have lower 'good' levels.

Anyway, the overall message was to keep doing what I'm doing, which is always nice to hear.

Mine:

These were not the results I had been searching for. Looking at the documents and equipment for the tenth time this hour, I cannot fathom where things went wrong.

The phone on my desk begins to ring and I let it. Distraction is not a luxury I can afford right now. Not when there should be a bottle of bluish-green liquid sitting in front of me, but instead there's... this.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Michelle asks. That's her name. She's been quite adamant on that point.

"No," I reply without looking up, "not until I figure out how I created you."

Wednesday March 28th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about: the carpenter.

Canucks won again tonight. With five games to go in the regular season they're guaranteed one of the top two playoff seeds in the Western Conference. First is within reach, but it'll take St. Louis losing a few games to happen.

Either way, I'm looking forward to the start of the playoffs.

Mine:

Carl surveyed the proposed work site, his teeth clenched around the stem of his wooden pipe. He'd carved it himself years ago and it was badly in need of replacement. But there were too many memories in those teeth marks for him to let it go.

"So what do you think?" his partner Mitch asked, rubbing his hands together to ward off the early morning chill.

"I don't care for it," Carl said, his eyes narrowing. "But we need the money."

"And this would keep us busy for years," Mitch added.

"Yeah, assuming we survive to see it finished."

The two men turned their gazes upward in unison, each picturing the finished product. Carl dropped his head first.

"If we do this," he said after a lengthy silence, "you get the top half."

**  Inspired by this  **

Tuesday March 27th, 2012

The exercise:

Write two haiku about: the week that was.

They can be about your Movie Week story, if you wrote one, or about any event(s) that occurred during the previous seven days. Or, if you can manage it, you can even just continue on with your story.

My first one is about the guilt I felt being the only one who knew what prompts were coming. Though, I must admit, there was only a little bit of guilt and a fair amount of evil-mastermind-ness.

Though on that note I must add: job well done, my puppets. Er, presponders. Which, obviously, is short for prompt responders.

Yes, obviously.

Mine:

Knowing what's to come,

I'm feeling like I have an

unfair advantage.

*     *     *

A ghost seeks justice

while traveling a path paved

with good intentions.

Monday March 26th, 2012

The exercise:

We bring Movie Week to its conclusion with: Confessions.

Of course you're welcome to continue on with your story as long as you like, or as long as you need to, but the movie title prompts end today. For now, at least.

Had a bit of a resting day today, which was much needed. Back to work tomorrow though.

Mine:

By the time the detective reappears in the morning the tension in the cell is nearly visible. He calls the redhead out first and I follow them down the hall to a cramped interview room.

"Have you -" the detective begins, but the man cuts him off in a raspy, dry voice.

"I did it! It was me, okay? Just make it stop, please!"

Triumph floods through me like a shot of whiskey, warming my soul. The promise of rest and peace are mine at last. I'm surprised to find no lingering rage within me but don't dwell on the absence for long.

I choose not to stay to hear the grisly details of my murder. They're not important now and, quite frankly, I'd rather spend eternity in blissful ignorance of those particular hows and whys. 

As I pass by their cell I see a second detective drag the dark-haired suspect to another interview room. Again I follow, but this time I try to tell the policeman not to bother, that the culprit has been uncovered.

They enter the room and guilt seeps into me at the sight of the sleep deprived suspect. I want to apologize, to explain that I had no choice but to harass these innocents so that the lone sinner would be caught.

"Anything new to say this morning?" the detective asks as I turn to leave.

"It was me," the man whispers, freezing me in place. "I killed that woman. I'm so sorry. Just, please, make the voices stop..."

Sunday March 25th, 2012

The exercise:

Movie Week reaches its penultimate day with: From Dusk Till Dawn.

Third and final greenhouse bench completed this afternoon. I shall have to get some pictures to share with you. Not that they're super pretty or anything like that, but they were a lot of work and they'll do the job we need them to do.

Mine:

Outside the light is fading, an expectant hush descends on the city. Night creatures come to life, call to each other in familiar tones from rooftops and trees, slink along alleyways.

Inside four men sit with their thoughts, some more comfortably than others. The blond can hardly hold still, his fingers twitching as though they held an invisible saxophone. The redhead and brunette are as active as statues, barely breathing. The man with raven hair, more a boy really, is nearly hyperventilating.

A detective appears at the door, tells them they'll be kept overnight, leaves. So. They are my captive audience until sunrise. Time to get to work.

I move from man to man, alternating between whispers and shouts, calm, pleading, and hysterical. Ghost lips against living ears, so close that I feel infected by their stench. But I keep at it, repeating the same words over and over and over again.

"My name is Angie McKay. If you killed me and do not confess, I will haunt you for the rest of your days."