The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: height.
The gym was incredibly quiet this morning, but thankfully things picked up around lunch and stayed fairly busy until the end of the day. So I got some cleaning done first thing and people kept me busy after that.
Not a bad day, really.
Mine:
From way down here
They all appear so tall,
But that's because
You let them make you small.
Friday November 22nd, 2013
The exercise:
Using only four lines of prose, give me the layout of a place.
Inspired by Greg's comment on yesterday's post, as I hadn't realized I'd yet to give a proper description of my place of winter work.
We went up to Penticton today to run a few errands, including stocking up on meat and doing a bit of shopping. Kat brought home three new sweaters and I bought my first pair of shoes in... a while.
Back to work tomorrow. And where exactly is that, you ask? Well...
Mine:
As you enter the two-storey building through the glass doors that separate the indoors from the small parking lot outside, you find yourself confronted by another set of doors directly in front of you. Pass through these and you will be in Kobau Lanes, the 8 lane bowling alley where I spend my Tuesday nights and some of my working hours.
If, instead, you turn to your right after escaping the cold, you will face a long, straight staircase that will take you to Vengeance Fitness and a floor filled with cardio and weight machines, as well as the usual assortment of free weights. I can be found here (at least) every Saturday, either behind the counter or cleaning the equipment... pretending not to think about writing prompts.
Using only four lines of prose, give me the layout of a place.
Inspired by Greg's comment on yesterday's post, as I hadn't realized I'd yet to give a proper description of my place of winter work.
We went up to Penticton today to run a few errands, including stocking up on meat and doing a bit of shopping. Kat brought home three new sweaters and I bought my first pair of shoes in... a while.
Back to work tomorrow. And where exactly is that, you ask? Well...
Mine:
As you enter the two-storey building through the glass doors that separate the indoors from the small parking lot outside, you find yourself confronted by another set of doors directly in front of you. Pass through these and you will be in Kobau Lanes, the 8 lane bowling alley where I spend my Tuesday nights and some of my working hours.
If, instead, you turn to your right after escaping the cold, you will face a long, straight staircase that will take you to Vengeance Fitness and a floor filled with cardio and weight machines, as well as the usual assortment of free weights. I can be found here (at least) every Saturday, either behind the counter or cleaning the equipment... pretending not to think about writing prompts.
Thursday November 21st, 2013
The exercise:
Write about: the gazebo.
Work went well today, though I was vaguely annoyed that the gym got busy just as I was about to vacuum the stairs. I didn't really have any other cleaning that I wanted to get done at that point, so I had to stand around pretending to look busy for far longer than I cared for.
Oh well, it all got done in the end.
Mine:
The tea, resting in delicate cups atop an ornate table, was cold and untouched. In that way it was quite similar to the hearts of the two women seated across from each other, each determined to ignore the other in the most polite manner possible.
Rain clouds were mustering on the northern horizon, preparing their assault on the bright, warm afternoon the park was currently enjoying. Leaves in the trees surrounding the gazebo began to stir, rustling in nervous anticipation.
The two women remained as they were, silent and unyielding.
Friends and acquaintances passed by on their way to the safety of their vehicles, not bothering to stop to chat. They knew, with the parking lot so far away, that time was of the essence if they wished to remain dry.
They also recognized a situation they would be well-advised to avoid.
The women, of course, also wished to leave. They had no interest in getting stormed upon, or ruining their fine dresses. They would have happily returned home to warm blankets and roaring fires while the weather screamed and pounded against their windows.
But then, that would require that they actually say goodbye to each other.
Write about: the gazebo.
Work went well today, though I was vaguely annoyed that the gym got busy just as I was about to vacuum the stairs. I didn't really have any other cleaning that I wanted to get done at that point, so I had to stand around pretending to look busy for far longer than I cared for.
Oh well, it all got done in the end.
Mine:
The tea, resting in delicate cups atop an ornate table, was cold and untouched. In that way it was quite similar to the hearts of the two women seated across from each other, each determined to ignore the other in the most polite manner possible.
Rain clouds were mustering on the northern horizon, preparing their assault on the bright, warm afternoon the park was currently enjoying. Leaves in the trees surrounding the gazebo began to stir, rustling in nervous anticipation.
The two women remained as they were, silent and unyielding.
Friends and acquaintances passed by on their way to the safety of their vehicles, not bothering to stop to chat. They knew, with the parking lot so far away, that time was of the essence if they wished to remain dry.
They also recognized a situation they would be well-advised to avoid.
The women, of course, also wished to leave. They had no interest in getting stormed upon, or ruining their fine dresses. They would have happily returned home to warm blankets and roaring fires while the weather screamed and pounded against their windows.
But then, that would require that they actually say goodbye to each other.
Wednesday November 20th, 2013
The exercise:
Write about: the attic.
Made my last delivery of leeks of the year this afternoon, as the coffee shop in town we recently began supplying put in a big order for them. Quite pleased, both to have sold so many of them and to be done with them until next year.
We still have a few sugar pumpkins and a whole lot of potatoes to get rid of, but other than that we've done a pretty good job of selling what we grew. I know the restaurant will be wanting more potatoes, and the cafe sounded interested in them as well.
It turns out I'll be working before my Saturday shift after all, as I got a text this evening asking me to cover the 3 to 9 shift tomorrow night. 14 hours of work per week sounds about right to me for the winter, with a few shifts thrown in to help out with parties.
I'd say this job has worked out very well so far.
Mine:
The trap door leading to the attic of our new home had rusted shut some number of years before our purchase. We had wanted the inspector to go up there to have a look around, make sure there were no fire hazards or mold or rodents or bodies hidden away between the top floor and the roof.
The man, clearly to his great embarrassment, had been unable to force entry. He'd even called out a handyman to have a go at it but all they'd managed to accomplish was a bit of chipped paint and a couple of scratches on the hinges.
We'd been reluctant to sign the final contract without knowing what lurked in that space, but the seller had sworn on a stack of bibles that there was nothing up there, that the door was stuck because it hadn't been used since he'd cleared out his wife's possessions after her death. He promised that he'd left no item behind, not even a pen.
And the view from the back deck was out of this world. That might have had something to do with our decision to put pen to paper.
Now, though? Two weeks after moving in, one week after the noises began? Enough is enough. Me and this crowbar are finding a way in.
Failing that, there's always the stick of dynamite I found in the back corner of the garage...
Write about: the attic.
Made my last delivery of leeks of the year this afternoon, as the coffee shop in town we recently began supplying put in a big order for them. Quite pleased, both to have sold so many of them and to be done with them until next year.
We still have a few sugar pumpkins and a whole lot of potatoes to get rid of, but other than that we've done a pretty good job of selling what we grew. I know the restaurant will be wanting more potatoes, and the cafe sounded interested in them as well.
It turns out I'll be working before my Saturday shift after all, as I got a text this evening asking me to cover the 3 to 9 shift tomorrow night. 14 hours of work per week sounds about right to me for the winter, with a few shifts thrown in to help out with parties.
I'd say this job has worked out very well so far.
Mine:
The trap door leading to the attic of our new home had rusted shut some number of years before our purchase. We had wanted the inspector to go up there to have a look around, make sure there were no fire hazards or mold or rodents or bodies hidden away between the top floor and the roof.
The man, clearly to his great embarrassment, had been unable to force entry. He'd even called out a handyman to have a go at it but all they'd managed to accomplish was a bit of chipped paint and a couple of scratches on the hinges.
We'd been reluctant to sign the final contract without knowing what lurked in that space, but the seller had sworn on a stack of bibles that there was nothing up there, that the door was stuck because it hadn't been used since he'd cleared out his wife's possessions after her death. He promised that he'd left no item behind, not even a pen.
And the view from the back deck was out of this world. That might have had something to do with our decision to put pen to paper.
Now, though? Two weeks after moving in, one week after the noises began? Enough is enough. Me and this crowbar are finding a way in.
Failing that, there's always the stick of dynamite I found in the back corner of the garage...
Tuesday November 19th, 2013
The exercise:
Write two haiku about: fire.
Before tonight my worst three game total came on week two. That is still the case, but only because this evening's triple was one better.
Argh. (I had more to say about it than that, but I've managed to delete all the expletives)
In more positive news, I managed to finally sow our garden cover crops this afternoon, which was good since the weather is about to take a sharp turn toward winter. Well, that wind out there right now is suggesting that turn has already begun...
Mine:
A crackling dance
across a bone dry meadow,
no flower is spared.
* * *
Warming young faces
and tales taller than mountains,
the campfire burns.
Write two haiku about: fire.
Before tonight my worst three game total came on week two. That is still the case, but only because this evening's triple was one better.
Argh. (I had more to say about it than that, but I've managed to delete all the expletives)
In more positive news, I managed to finally sow our garden cover crops this afternoon, which was good since the weather is about to take a sharp turn toward winter. Well, that wind out there right now is suggesting that turn has already begun...
Mine:
A crackling dance
across a bone dry meadow,
no flower is spared.
* * *
Warming young faces
and tales taller than mountains,
the campfire burns.
Monday November 18th, 2013
The exercise:
Write about: insecurity.
Today? Today was pretty uneventful. So we'll just move on to tomorrow.
Mine:
Doubts, fears, worries?
Cover them up,
Cover them up.
Hide those tears.
Wear the mask,
Wear the mask.
You don't sweat,
You don't blink,
You don't ask.
You're too cool,
You're too calm,
You know what's up.
You're so thin,
Your sly grin,
That perfect skin.
Don't let them in,
Don't let her in,
Don't let love in.
Write about: insecurity.
Today? Today was pretty uneventful. So we'll just move on to tomorrow.
Mine:
Doubts, fears, worries?
Cover them up,
Cover them up.
Hide those tears.
Wear the mask,
Wear the mask.
You don't sweat,
You don't blink,
You don't ask.
You're too cool,
You're too calm,
You know what's up.
You're so thin,
Your sly grin,
That perfect skin.
Don't let them in,
Don't let her in,
Don't let love in.
Sunday November 17th, 2013
The exercise:
I would very much like for our writing today to prominently feature two colors. We each choose any two that we wish, and then we get to figure out how to incorporate them into our piece.
It is getting seriously cold overnight around here. Makes me want to linger in bed in the mornings.
Unfortunately Max has other ideas about that.
Mine:
The yellow sun is with us every day, without fail. It chases away the night as it rises above the eastern horizon, waking the world with its molten glow. We know it watches us closely, for we feel the fiery sting of its gaze upon our skin.
At the close of each day it can be faithfully found sinking into the western horizon, changing color as it loses its heat. Fading and fading until it is lost from view, gone to the unknowable place where it regains its strength, rekindles its fire.
All is dark then.
Until the white sun forces its way between distant stars to cast its pale eye upon us. Some nights that eye is wide open, lighting our way as we move through the woods hunting prey who are enemies of the yellow sun. Other nights the white sun observes our slumber with a squinting eye, as though it is in deep thought.
Or plotting mischief.
Then there are the nights when the white sun keeps its eye closed. These nights confound our elders, worry our women, scare the children. Why won't it look at us? Have we done something wrong? Is something foul set to befall us under the cover of darkness? Has the white moon grown bored of our antics, casting its gaze elsewhere?
It is most unsettling.
But perhaps most disturbing of all are the days on which the white sun, for no reason that we can discern, chooses to challenge the authority of the yellow sun...
I would very much like for our writing today to prominently feature two colors. We each choose any two that we wish, and then we get to figure out how to incorporate them into our piece.
It is getting seriously cold overnight around here. Makes me want to linger in bed in the mornings.
Unfortunately Max has other ideas about that.
Mine:
The yellow sun is with us every day, without fail. It chases away the night as it rises above the eastern horizon, waking the world with its molten glow. We know it watches us closely, for we feel the fiery sting of its gaze upon our skin.
At the close of each day it can be faithfully found sinking into the western horizon, changing color as it loses its heat. Fading and fading until it is lost from view, gone to the unknowable place where it regains its strength, rekindles its fire.
All is dark then.
Until the white sun forces its way between distant stars to cast its pale eye upon us. Some nights that eye is wide open, lighting our way as we move through the woods hunting prey who are enemies of the yellow sun. Other nights the white sun observes our slumber with a squinting eye, as though it is in deep thought.
Or plotting mischief.
Then there are the nights when the white sun keeps its eye closed. These nights confound our elders, worry our women, scare the children. Why won't it look at us? Have we done something wrong? Is something foul set to befall us under the cover of darkness? Has the white moon grown bored of our antics, casting its gaze elsewhere?
It is most unsettling.
But perhaps most disturbing of all are the days on which the white sun, for no reason that we can discern, chooses to challenge the authority of the yellow sun...
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