The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: hanging on.
So Max isn't quite clear of this yet, it appears. He had some rather nasty vomiting this afternoon that had us pretty concerned. But, as usual with him, he bounced right back within a few minutes and has been remarkably chipper ever since.
Not sure how much more of this I can take.
Heading back to the market tomorrow with a ridiculous amount of nectarines. We'll see how much of it we end up bringing home.
Mine:
It knows it is not welcome here. It knows there are those who would do absolutely anything - yes, even that - in order to banish it from their presence for all eternity. It knows the pain and anguish it is causing.
And yet still it refuses to leave... still it hangs on.
3 comments:
It sounds like Max is less worried about it than you and Kat are! Don't worry, when you get to your third child and they're vomiting, you'll be looking over and going, "Not black, no blood, nothing wriggling in it... man up, kid, it's only the bubonic plague! Whose turn is it to clean up?"
Heh, short and sweet today! And I think we can all see what your piece derives from!
Hanging on
"There's a man out here, hanging on to the windowsill by his fingertips!"
"Just push his off, Mavis."
"Derek!"
"He's a tax inspector, Mavis...."
First his mind went. Then his legs. His heart and lungs were next. Until all that was left was a breath, and his soul.
Greg - third? Fat chance :P
That seems like a reasonable response to having a tax inspector hanging off your windowsill.
David - lovely sentiment here.
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