The exercise:
Write about something: fancy.
I'd just like to say that yesterday was an example of how much better my writing is when I get it done during the day, rather than at night when I'm fighting off sleep. And that it tends to be better when I actually write it out first, like with a pen and paper, instead of just typing it up.
I should probably apologize now, as today's writing features neither of those things. Winging it as usual with sleep knocking on the side of my head, demanding to be let in.
Kat and I went up to Penticton today for a midwife appointment. Up until now we'd been seeing them every five weeks but we'll be switching to every three weeks until we hit the final stages, which features appointments every week.
The start of April is fast approaching.
Mine:
"What is that?"
"What is what?"
"... are you being serious right now?"
"I honestly don't know what you're talking about!"
"What is that... monstrosity you're wearing?"
"This? That's harsh, dude."
"Just answer the question already!"
"You said to wear my fanciest suit! This is my fancy suit!"
"That cannot possibly be true."
"Well, it is."
"That is not fancy. That is something my Aunt Gertrude would pick to reupholster her couch with."
"Then she must be a very fancy la-"
"She's not."
Wednesday January 13th, 2016
The exercise:
Write about something that is: disjointed.
I found an ad online yesterday for one of the shops in town needing temporary inventory help. It didn't specify what temporary meant so I dropped by this morning to find out.
And now I'm working this weekend, doing a Saturday shift that starts at 2:30 and runs until late (probably 10) and then back again on Sunday morning to finish things off (I'm under the impression that it will go until noon but I suppose that depends on how quickly things are going).
It's not much, but it is certainly better than nothing. Just a bit of work to help tide me over until I find something full-time.
Mine:
I walk up the three steps to my front porch, fishing my keys out of my jacket pocket. Rain continues to pour from the sky, an icy November shower. The cold metal stings my fingers as I quickly unlock my door and step inside.
Yelling, coming from the kitchen. It's a fight. A bad one. Glass shatters on the floor.
Shaking my head sprays rainwater around my entranceway. I peel off my coat and set it on its hook, leaving it to drip a puddle onto the floorboards. Kicking off my boots, I head to my bedroom to get changed.
Someone is pounding on the bathroom door. A muffled voice responds from within. She's locked herself in and is refusing to come out. The fist on the door grows more insistent.
I leave my clothes in a soggy heap. Shivering, I grab jogging pants, a wool sweater, and thick socks out of the laundry basket. I'm pretty sure they're clean. The kitchen is calling with an invitation to put a kettle on for tea and I answer it.
The front door slams.
"Mom?"
Silence reigns supreme once more. It is not a happy quiet. It is lonely. It is angry. A drawer in the living room is yanked open.
Standing at the counter I look down to find an open bottle of whiskey in my hand. I don't remember picking it up. Didn't I lock that cabinet? There's no taste of it in my mouth at least. That's something.
A single shot comes from the living room, echoing around the house. Something clatters to the floor, followed by a muffled thump. Like a sack of books being dropped, maybe from shoulder height. Silence returns, this time to stay.
The bottle is half empty now. This has to stop. I can't go on like this. I need help. I... take another drink.
Write about something that is: disjointed.
I found an ad online yesterday for one of the shops in town needing temporary inventory help. It didn't specify what temporary meant so I dropped by this morning to find out.
And now I'm working this weekend, doing a Saturday shift that starts at 2:30 and runs until late (probably 10) and then back again on Sunday morning to finish things off (I'm under the impression that it will go until noon but I suppose that depends on how quickly things are going).
It's not much, but it is certainly better than nothing. Just a bit of work to help tide me over until I find something full-time.
Mine:
I walk up the three steps to my front porch, fishing my keys out of my jacket pocket. Rain continues to pour from the sky, an icy November shower. The cold metal stings my fingers as I quickly unlock my door and step inside.
Yelling, coming from the kitchen. It's a fight. A bad one. Glass shatters on the floor.
Shaking my head sprays rainwater around my entranceway. I peel off my coat and set it on its hook, leaving it to drip a puddle onto the floorboards. Kicking off my boots, I head to my bedroom to get changed.
Someone is pounding on the bathroom door. A muffled voice responds from within. She's locked herself in and is refusing to come out. The fist on the door grows more insistent.
I leave my clothes in a soggy heap. Shivering, I grab jogging pants, a wool sweater, and thick socks out of the laundry basket. I'm pretty sure they're clean. The kitchen is calling with an invitation to put a kettle on for tea and I answer it.
The front door slams.
"Mom?"
Silence reigns supreme once more. It is not a happy quiet. It is lonely. It is angry. A drawer in the living room is yanked open.
Standing at the counter I look down to find an open bottle of whiskey in my hand. I don't remember picking it up. Didn't I lock that cabinet? There's no taste of it in my mouth at least. That's something.
A single shot comes from the living room, echoing around the house. Something clatters to the floor, followed by a muffled thump. Like a sack of books being dropped, maybe from shoulder height. Silence returns, this time to stay.
The bottle is half empty now. This has to stop. I can't go on like this. I need help. I... take another drink.
Tuesday January 12th, 2016
The exercise:
Write two haiku about: soccer.
Continuing on from yesterday's prompt inspiration.
This morning while Max was in daycare I borrowed the truck and brought a big load of firewood down to the house. Hopefully that'll last us for a while. Long enough for the snow to melt and the wheelbarrow to become a viable option again?
Probably not, but that would be nice.
Mine:
Soccer? What are you
on about? You bloody Yanks!
It is called football.
* * *
The black and white sphere
travels in strange patterns. "Dad,
don't they want to score?"
Write two haiku about: soccer.
Continuing on from yesterday's prompt inspiration.
This morning while Max was in daycare I borrowed the truck and brought a big load of firewood down to the house. Hopefully that'll last us for a while. Long enough for the snow to melt and the wheelbarrow to become a viable option again?
Probably not, but that would be nice.
Mine:
Soccer? What are you
on about? You bloody Yanks!
It is called football.
* * *
The black and white sphere
travels in strange patterns. "Dad,
don't they want to score?"
Monday January 11th, 2016
The exercise:
Write about: the coach.
We've signed Max up for soccer class, which runs Monday afternoons at the community centre gym. I'll be taking him for as long as it goes, as long as I continue my search for a job. It's for 3 to 5 year olds, so pretty basic stuff - dribbling, kicking, that sort of thing. At least that's how it started; we'll see what future weeks have in store for us.
Max enjoyed it but wanted me pretty close. I'm hoping he'll get more comfortable soon and I can just leave the coach to his work while I watch from the stands.
Speaking of the coach, Max was doing a pretty impressive impression of him after we got back home. Which, obviously, involved him telling me what to do. I got a video of part of it on my phone that I suspect I'll be sharing pretty soon.
Mine:
I dial the number from memory and eye my surroundings while I wait for an answer. I don't like what I see.
It's dark in here, but there's enough light to see the water pooling on the floor. I'm not sure where the nearest toilet is but I'm pretty sure I'd find it if I traced the leak back to its source. I'd tried calling four different plumbers but they'd all hung up as soon as I'd given them the address.
The desk situation is precarious at best. I'd say the left end is a good inch lower than the right and all but one of the drawers are stuck closed. That's probably a good thing. At any rate, I haven't tried too hard to get them open.
My call goes to voice mail just as the furnace in the next room roars to life like a drunken, misplaced lion. I can barely hear the recorded message but I don't need to. I know it by heart at this point.
"Hi Curtis," I say after the beep as I head for the door. I force myself to resist the temptation to drop a match in my wake. "I think we're done, buddy. Thanks for nothing and I hope you rot in hell."
It's a fresh start for me. Now I'm in need of a new job and a new life coach.
Write about: the coach.
We've signed Max up for soccer class, which runs Monday afternoons at the community centre gym. I'll be taking him for as long as it goes, as long as I continue my search for a job. It's for 3 to 5 year olds, so pretty basic stuff - dribbling, kicking, that sort of thing. At least that's how it started; we'll see what future weeks have in store for us.
Max enjoyed it but wanted me pretty close. I'm hoping he'll get more comfortable soon and I can just leave the coach to his work while I watch from the stands.
Speaking of the coach, Max was doing a pretty impressive impression of him after we got back home. Which, obviously, involved him telling me what to do. I got a video of part of it on my phone that I suspect I'll be sharing pretty soon.
Mine:
I dial the number from memory and eye my surroundings while I wait for an answer. I don't like what I see.
It's dark in here, but there's enough light to see the water pooling on the floor. I'm not sure where the nearest toilet is but I'm pretty sure I'd find it if I traced the leak back to its source. I'd tried calling four different plumbers but they'd all hung up as soon as I'd given them the address.
The desk situation is precarious at best. I'd say the left end is a good inch lower than the right and all but one of the drawers are stuck closed. That's probably a good thing. At any rate, I haven't tried too hard to get them open.
My call goes to voice mail just as the furnace in the next room roars to life like a drunken, misplaced lion. I can barely hear the recorded message but I don't need to. I know it by heart at this point.
"Hi Curtis," I say after the beep as I head for the door. I force myself to resist the temptation to drop a match in my wake. "I think we're done, buddy. Thanks for nothing and I hope you rot in hell."
It's a fresh start for me. Now I'm in need of a new job and a new life coach.
Sunday January 10th, 2016
The exercise:
Daily Writing Practice's yearlong prompt tradition began in 2013 when I introduced you to Mejaran.
It continued in 2014 when Greg brought us to Vancouver Irrealis.
2015 saw me invite you to visit The Colony.
It's 2016 and the tradition must continue. So, for only the second time in this blog's 7.5 year history, the words below are not Mine. They are Morganna's.
Without further ado, I'll allow her to introduce us to the House of Mercy.
Morganna's:
Julie sat at the tiny table in the tiny apartment kitchen and held the knife to her wrist. She admired the silvery blade gleaming against her skin. She imagined slicing downward, watching the warm, red blood well out until she passed out and died. She pressed down. The apartment door opened and her roommate came in.
"Julie!" screamed her roommate, Anne. Anne ran into the kitchen, grabbed the knife from Julie, and stared at her, panting. "That's it! That's the second time this week. I'm checking you into the mental hospital."
Julie stared at her dully. Things were changing.
Anne ran into Julie's bedroom and grabbed an overnight bag. She quickly threw a week's worth of clothing in, along with Julie's toothbrush. She zipped it closed and ran back to the kitchen. She grabbed her friend's arm.
"Come on. You're getting in the car." Julie did not resist as Anne led her out of the apartment and into her car.
When they reached House of Mercy Psychiatric Hospital on the other side of town Julie nodded at everything Anne said, signed when told to sign, and was soon bundled off to a room for an extended stay.
Anne hesitated at the front desk. "She will be all right, won't she?" she asked the front desk clerk.
The clerk looked up. "Of course she will, honey. Now, we'll give you a call in a few weeks when she's ready to go home. Until then, you don't need to worry about a thing. We'll take good care of your friend."
Anne nodded and went out to her car, glancing behind her as she went. She knew this was the right thing to do, but somehow something didn't feel right.
The next morning, Julie woke up in a bright, white hospital room with sunlight pouring in. She smiled and stretched before she remembered what she was doing there. Before she could worry about the wreck of her plans, the door opened. A breakfast tray came through the opening, carried by a giant lizard in a white coat. "Here's your breakfast, sweetie," croaked the lizard.
Julie gasped. "You're a lizard! I can't eat breakfast brought by a giant lizard."
The lizard glared at her. "I'm not a lizard! Now eat your breakfast."
Daily Writing Practice's yearlong prompt tradition began in 2013 when I introduced you to Mejaran.
It continued in 2014 when Greg brought us to Vancouver Irrealis.
2015 saw me invite you to visit The Colony.
It's 2016 and the tradition must continue. So, for only the second time in this blog's 7.5 year history, the words below are not Mine. They are Morganna's.
Without further ado, I'll allow her to introduce us to the House of Mercy.
Morganna's:
Julie sat at the tiny table in the tiny apartment kitchen and held the knife to her wrist. She admired the silvery blade gleaming against her skin. She imagined slicing downward, watching the warm, red blood well out until she passed out and died. She pressed down. The apartment door opened and her roommate came in.
"Julie!" screamed her roommate, Anne. Anne ran into the kitchen, grabbed the knife from Julie, and stared at her, panting. "That's it! That's the second time this week. I'm checking you into the mental hospital."
Julie stared at her dully. Things were changing.
Anne ran into Julie's bedroom and grabbed an overnight bag. She quickly threw a week's worth of clothing in, along with Julie's toothbrush. She zipped it closed and ran back to the kitchen. She grabbed her friend's arm.
"Come on. You're getting in the car." Julie did not resist as Anne led her out of the apartment and into her car.
When they reached House of Mercy Psychiatric Hospital on the other side of town Julie nodded at everything Anne said, signed when told to sign, and was soon bundled off to a room for an extended stay.
Anne hesitated at the front desk. "She will be all right, won't she?" she asked the front desk clerk.
The clerk looked up. "Of course she will, honey. Now, we'll give you a call in a few weeks when she's ready to go home. Until then, you don't need to worry about a thing. We'll take good care of your friend."
Anne nodded and went out to her car, glancing behind her as she went. She knew this was the right thing to do, but somehow something didn't feel right.
The next morning, Julie woke up in a bright, white hospital room with sunlight pouring in. She smiled and stretched before she remembered what she was doing there. Before she could worry about the wreck of her plans, the door opened. A breakfast tray came through the opening, carried by a giant lizard in a white coat. "Here's your breakfast, sweetie," croaked the lizard.
Julie gasped. "You're a lizard! I can't eat breakfast brought by a giant lizard."
The lizard glared at her. "I'm not a lizard! Now eat your breakfast."
Saturday January 9th, 2016
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: roommates.
Because we recently started watching New Girl online. That's pretty much it for inspiration today.
The snow continues to slowly melt. All the roads other than our little cul-de-sac are clear now, so it's just a matter of getting out of our driveway and up a slight hill to the stop sign before it's clear sailing.
It may surprise some of you to discover how much of a challenge that can actually be.
Reminder: yearlong prompt, the 2016 version, begins tomorrow.
Hint: I wrote the first opening, Greg took care of the second, I did the third. Seems like we might be due for someone else to start us off, hmm?
Mine:
He's wearing my socks
Because all of his were dirty.
Now he's with my mom
And getting really flirty...
Write a four line poem about: roommates.
Because we recently started watching New Girl online. That's pretty much it for inspiration today.
The snow continues to slowly melt. All the roads other than our little cul-de-sac are clear now, so it's just a matter of getting out of our driveway and up a slight hill to the stop sign before it's clear sailing.
It may surprise some of you to discover how much of a challenge that can actually be.
Reminder: yearlong prompt, the 2016 version, begins tomorrow.
Hint: I wrote the first opening, Greg took care of the second, I did the third. Seems like we might be due for someone else to start us off, hmm?
Mine:
He's wearing my socks
Because all of his were dirty.
Now he's with my mom
And getting really flirty...
Friday January 8th, 2016
The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: the alchemist.
Max usually spends Wednesday and Friday afternoons with Kat's parents. He loves it up there and never wants to come home. Usually when I open the front door to welcome him home and to thank Kat's dad for bringing him back, Max refuses to come inside and tries to walk away.
Not today though. He actually came home an hour early. Because he missed us? Hah.
Kat had told him after lunch that she was going to be making (gluten and dairy-free) chocolate chip cookies while he was out. Apparently he decided around 4 o'clock that the cookies were probably done, so he needed to come home to eat one.
His arrival kind of screwed over my late afternoon plans but it was funny enough that I didn't really mind.
Mine:
I never liked going into my father's laboratory. It's not that it was dark or scary or even unclean. The smell that always lingered in there, permanently attached to all the equipment and benches and the walls... I just couldn't stand it.
It would be many years after his death before I finally realized that what had bothered me was the stench of failure.
Write four lines of prose about: the alchemist.
Max usually spends Wednesday and Friday afternoons with Kat's parents. He loves it up there and never wants to come home. Usually when I open the front door to welcome him home and to thank Kat's dad for bringing him back, Max refuses to come inside and tries to walk away.
Not today though. He actually came home an hour early. Because he missed us? Hah.
Kat had told him after lunch that she was going to be making (gluten and dairy-free) chocolate chip cookies while he was out. Apparently he decided around 4 o'clock that the cookies were probably done, so he needed to come home to eat one.
His arrival kind of screwed over my late afternoon plans but it was funny enough that I didn't really mind.
Mine:
I never liked going into my father's laboratory. It's not that it was dark or scary or even unclean. The smell that always lingered in there, permanently attached to all the equipment and benches and the walls... I just couldn't stand it.
It would be many years after his death before I finally realized that what had bothered me was the stench of failure.
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