Thursday June 7th, 2012

The exercise:

Let us see what comes from: the tombstone.

Woke up to sunshine, which was nice. It was raining again less than two hours later, which was less nice.

Currently seriously considering skipping the market this Saturday, as the weather has quite effectively pressed pause on our strawberries. Also, the crowds are always significantly smaller on rainy market days, which is what the forecast is currently calling for.

This has been a very poor start to June, but I'm hopeful that it will pick up soon.

Mine:

The two men moved slowly through the graveyard, the taller one leading the way while muttering constantly. Following close behind, the second man appeared to be trying to look in every direction at once.

"I don't see why they don't just put them all in alphabetical order," the tall one said after inspecting yet another tombstone.

"Ah, well," his partner said, "that's not really how these places work, exactly. It's more li-"

"Or, you know, maybe they could at least provide a bloody map!"

"Well, if we were to come during the day, while it's actually open to the public, I'm sure they'd be happy to provide one."

"Don't be a fool, Irving." The first man had stopped and turned to face the second. "We obviously would not be able to do what we need to do while there are watching eyes about."

"Yes, or course, Gerald. It's just th-"

"This is taking too much time," Gerald announced after consulting his watch. "We're going to have to split up."

"Ah, I don't think that's quite nec-"

"You go that way. Whistle twice if you find the tombstone, and I'll do the same. Good luck!"

This last was said over his shoulder as Gerald strode off in the direction opposite to the one he'd instructed Irving to take. His partner stood motionless for some time, flashlight held in a hand that was growing ever more tremulous. At length, after one last look around, he moved to follow his orders.

"If I hear or see anything that even remotely resembles a ghost," he told himself firmly, "that tyrant can find the damned tombstone on his own!"

Wednesday June 6th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about: the prospector.

It didn't rain very heavily today, so I did manage to get out to the garden this afternoon to do some weeding. As long as I focused on what I was doing and not what was left to be done, it was fairly enjoyable.

I'm currently reading The Sisters Brothers, which is what inspired today's prompt. Haven't reached the end yet, but I'm pretty sure it'll find itself on my Recommended Reading page once I get there.

Mine:

In a gold-crazed daze,

He forgets to eat.

With a bloodshot gaze,

He can't see his own feet.

His clothes worn and torn,

Loose teeth turning black,

He would be forlorn

If he saw what he lacked.

His claim has no fame,

No gold to be found;

But he'll play the game

Til he's placed in the ground.

Tuesday June 5th, 2012

The exercise:

Two Haiku Tuesday brings us: forgiveness.

Miserable weather outside produced progress on inside work today, both indoors and in the greenhouse. Hurray for us taking advantage of the rain to get stuff done that would otherwise be delayed by work in the garden, I suppose.

Finger still hurts, therefore typing is still awkward. It would appear I got it pretty good yesterday. And that the knife I used to cut it is darn sharp.

Mine:

I carry the weight

of your betrayal with me;

only I suffer.

*     *     *

This burden grows old,

my hourglass more empty;

let us opt for peace.

Monday June 4th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about: the tattoo.

Sliced open the end of my right ring finger while doing the dishes after lunch. Now trying to avoid using it while typing, as it hurts like hell even through the band-aid.

If we didn't have to harvest for our local orders this morning we probably wouldn't have seen the garden today. With the forecast calling for more rain the next two days, I can see things getting a little out of hand out there this week.

Not having much success thus far with the whole typing pain-free thing.

Mine:

He finishes his meal and sets his cutlery on his plate noiselessly before reaching for his water. The glass has not yet returned to its place on the table before the waitress reappears at his side.

"All done there?" she asks and he nods his confirmation. "How was everything?"

"Oh, excellent, thank you." He speaks the lie without effort, his face betraying nothing. Truthfully, he'd rather have eaten a stray dog. One that was still alive and had some fight left in it.

"Wonderful," she says as she collects his dishes. "Can I tempt you with some dessert to top things off?"

"Absolutely! I think I'll have a slice of your apple pie." It seems the least likely item on the menu to be butchered as badly as his main dish had been. "And a top up of my water when you have the chance would be great."

He'd kill for a cup of coffee, but he fears the version they serve here might have the same dark intentions toward him. As the waitress moves away he steals another look at the tattoo peeking out from under her shirt at the base of her neck. But the lighting is so poor that he finds himself still unsure.

A resigned moan escapes his lips after she disappears into the kitchen. He's not certain that this assignment will be worth the damage the food is unleashing upon his body; he can only hope that a positive ID won't require seconds of whatever concoction is about to appear before him.

Sunday June 3rd, 2012

The exercise:

Let's see what happens with: the exit.

Bit of a cloudy, dreary day. I did manage to get some good resting done though. The first set of deck stairs were begun, hopefully to be completed tomorrow night.

Weather permitting, all of a sudden. I'd like my sunshine back now, please and thank you.

Mine:

Although it obviously had not been thought all the way through, at least its location had been clearly marked. Large red letters, four signs pointing in its direction - including one on the ceiling - and black bootprints on the floorboards leading to it.

You could hardly miss the damned thing.

The problem was that it opened out directly into the dispensing area of a gas station. One that, it was loudly whispered, was always on the verge of being shuttered by the city for a laundry list of safety violations.

And seeing as anyone fleeing from the workshop through the emergency exit was very, very likely to be on fire, one might hope a better placement could be found.

Saturday June 2nd, 2012

The exercise:

A four line poem about: waste.

Pretty decent market this morning, with the sun making a surprise and very welcome appearance. Probably the nicest weather for a market so far this year.

Taking most of the day off tomorrow (ooh, what luxury), probably ending things off with adding stairs to the deck.

Mine:

So much potential

Just flushed straight down the drain,

All because he chose

To shoot toxins in his veins.

Friday June 1st, 2012

The exercise:

Four lines of prose about: customs.

Back to the market tomorrow morning. In other words, I should already be in bed.

Mine:

"These people have some danged strange customs," Hank told his wife as they prepared for bed in their cramped hotel room. "They spit at you when you try to ask a question, they yell at you just for walking down the sidewalk, and I swear that big fella was reaching for a knife when I ordered a beer in the bar downstairs!"

"That's one explanation, I suppose," Betty said, climbing into bed with a quiet groan. "But have you considered that maybe they just don't like you very much?"