The exercise:
You've got four lines of prose. Write a scene that takes place: in the lunch room.
We now have steps leading up to our front porch. No actual, proper front porch yet, but we have steps! And the frame is in place, so hopefully we'll get some decking on it tomorrow - assuming we managed to connect the porch to the side deck without any unexpected issues appearing.
And then we'll just have to do the last bit of railing and we're done!
At which point I should probably share some pictures of all this work we've been doing.
Mine:
Look at those slackers, wandering off with their pathetic brown paper bags full of homemade crap. They'll probably spend the next hour blathering on about reality TV shows, celebrity gossip, and their precious little families.
Who has time for all of that nonsense?
My lunch room is my cubicle.
Thursday November 29th, 2012
The exercise:
Our word of the day: envy.
At 9:30 this morning Kat suggested we go to our local coffee shop for drinks (coffee for me, mocha for her). I said that sounds great.
At 11:30 this morning I suggested perhaps we should just go there for lunch.
It's amazing how much longer everything takes now.
Anyway, we still had a good time on our family outing. And at least we got there before dinner.
Mine:
She hears the talking but doesn't take it seriously. Just grown women acting childishly. Embarrassing, really, the type of behaviour that springs from envy. Or is it jealousy?
Not that it matters at all. The boys in the office still call. One man or another is always there to catch her should she fall. Let those hens peck about in the mud, let them crawl while she stands tall.
Sure, it's mean-spirited and hurtful what they say. But she won't let it ruin her day, all those silly games they play. She'll keep rising to new heights by doing things her way. They're just on the bottom rung, and that's where they'll stay.
It's so petty, those comments they make. I mean, honestly, for goodness' sake! Who really cares if her tits are fake?
Our word of the day: envy.
At 9:30 this morning Kat suggested we go to our local coffee shop for drinks (coffee for me, mocha for her). I said that sounds great.
At 11:30 this morning I suggested perhaps we should just go there for lunch.
It's amazing how much longer everything takes now.
Anyway, we still had a good time on our family outing. And at least we got there before dinner.
Mine:
She hears the talking but doesn't take it seriously. Just grown women acting childishly. Embarrassing, really, the type of behaviour that springs from envy. Or is it jealousy?
Not that it matters at all. The boys in the office still call. One man or another is always there to catch her should she fall. Let those hens peck about in the mud, let them crawl while she stands tall.
Sure, it's mean-spirited and hurtful what they say. But she won't let it ruin her day, all those silly games they play. She'll keep rising to new heights by doing things her way. They're just on the bottom rung, and that's where they'll stay.
It's so petty, those comments they make. I mean, honestly, for goodness' sake! Who really cares if her tits are fake?
Wednesday November 28th, 2012
The exercise:
Write about: the system.
Much better sleep last night. Still feeling tired. Can't figure out how three weeks have gone by already.
Took some things to the dump this afternoon. Actually, most of the load was our old front porch. Pretty satisfying chucking that into the wood pile.
Early indications suggest we're in for another long night.
Mine:
The posters went up overnight all over the kingdom, seemingly plastered across every surface the king's men could reach. My tiny, insignificant village was no exception: the front door of the barber shop, the windows of the grocer and pharmacy, and three on my bakery alone.
I stood studying those monstrosities as the sun crawled over the horizon. The message was clear, the king's motives less so. A census was being conducted, a grand tallying of all the king's loyal and adoring subjects. In order to construct a more detailed map of the kingdom's population in regards to age, sex, and location.
To better serve us, the posters boldly claimed.
Please.
We were being collected and entered into a system of the king's design, transformed from living, breathing humans to soulless, bloodless numbers. For conscription, most likely. Or perhaps some other, even less savory purpose.
Without bothering to look around to see who might be watching I reached out and ripped the posters down, one by one by one. I crumpled them up and tossed them in the dirt before locking my shop and heading home.
There was planning to be done.
Write about: the system.
Much better sleep last night. Still feeling tired. Can't figure out how three weeks have gone by already.
Took some things to the dump this afternoon. Actually, most of the load was our old front porch. Pretty satisfying chucking that into the wood pile.
Early indications suggest we're in for another long night.
Mine:
The posters went up overnight all over the kingdom, seemingly plastered across every surface the king's men could reach. My tiny, insignificant village was no exception: the front door of the barber shop, the windows of the grocer and pharmacy, and three on my bakery alone.
I stood studying those monstrosities as the sun crawled over the horizon. The message was clear, the king's motives less so. A census was being conducted, a grand tallying of all the king's loyal and adoring subjects. In order to construct a more detailed map of the kingdom's population in regards to age, sex, and location.
To better serve us, the posters boldly claimed.
Please.
We were being collected and entered into a system of the king's design, transformed from living, breathing humans to soulless, bloodless numbers. For conscription, most likely. Or perhaps some other, even less savory purpose.
Without bothering to look around to see who might be watching I reached out and ripped the posters down, one by one by one. I crumpled them up and tossed them in the dirt before locking my shop and heading home.
There was planning to be done.
Tuesday November 27th, 2012
The exercise:
Write two haiku about: touch.
Took Max in to the health office here in town to check his weight this afternoon. The scale confirmed what our eyes have been telling us: we've got a growing boy on our hands here.
After entering the world just about three weeks ago (... seriously?) at 7 pounds, 12 ounces, our little champ now tips the scales at 8 pounds, 4 ounces.
He is already a workout to lift up in the air. I suppose this will only get more difficult.
Mine:
His fingers trace the
place that brings his mind comfort:
kind notes from lost loves.
* * *
Lights out, tender kiss
full of promise up until
a tiny toe tap.
Write two haiku about: touch.
Took Max in to the health office here in town to check his weight this afternoon. The scale confirmed what our eyes have been telling us: we've got a growing boy on our hands here.
After entering the world just about three weeks ago (... seriously?) at 7 pounds, 12 ounces, our little champ now tips the scales at 8 pounds, 4 ounces.
He is already a workout to lift up in the air. I suppose this will only get more difficult.
Mine:
His fingers trace the
place that brings his mind comfort:
kind notes from lost loves.
* * *
Lights out, tender kiss
full of promise up until
a tiny toe tap.
Monday November 26th, 2012
The exercise:
I would like to hear about some: folklore.
Not the best sleep last night. It seemed like Max had a better day today though, so perhaps tonight will be more pleasant as well.
Fingers, they be crossed.
Mine:
My people have lived by Beltran's Code since the night all three moons hung in the sky, each a full, perfect circle. One white, one green, one red.
The elders declared a festival that evening, one whose name is now irretrievably lost. Many animals were sacrificed, much drink was consumed. A great bonfire was ignited, its flames reaching ever higher, as though they wished to warm the moons. Or perhaps consume them.
They say as midnight drew near young Beltran led the menfolk down to the lake. They carried no torches, as the heavens held aloft the only three lights needed to illuminate their rocky path.
Once the men reached the shore they stood in awed silence for many fogged breaths. There was no wind that night, allowing the calm waters to transform the three moons into six. That sight held powerful, ancient magic.
After some time had passed the men, at young Beltran's urgings, bathed themselves in the lake, leaving their swords and knives and bows on the beach. It was in this rare moment of vulnerability that young Beltran revealed his true, traitorous face.
The ambush was swift, bloody, and thorough. Our women were enslaved, our elders cast out to fend for themselves in the wilds. Only a handful survived to tell their sorry tale.
Thus, we now live by what we call Beltran's Code: Never allow your weapon to venture beyond your reach.
I would like to hear about some: folklore.
Not the best sleep last night. It seemed like Max had a better day today though, so perhaps tonight will be more pleasant as well.
Fingers, they be crossed.
Mine:
My people have lived by Beltran's Code since the night all three moons hung in the sky, each a full, perfect circle. One white, one green, one red.
The elders declared a festival that evening, one whose name is now irretrievably lost. Many animals were sacrificed, much drink was consumed. A great bonfire was ignited, its flames reaching ever higher, as though they wished to warm the moons. Or perhaps consume them.
They say as midnight drew near young Beltran led the menfolk down to the lake. They carried no torches, as the heavens held aloft the only three lights needed to illuminate their rocky path.
Once the men reached the shore they stood in awed silence for many fogged breaths. There was no wind that night, allowing the calm waters to transform the three moons into six. That sight held powerful, ancient magic.
After some time had passed the men, at young Beltran's urgings, bathed themselves in the lake, leaving their swords and knives and bows on the beach. It was in this rare moment of vulnerability that young Beltran revealed his true, traitorous face.
The ambush was swift, bloody, and thorough. Our women were enslaved, our elders cast out to fend for themselves in the wilds. Only a handful survived to tell their sorry tale.
Thus, we now live by what we call Beltran's Code: Never allow your weapon to venture beyond your reach.
Sunday November 25th, 2012
The exercise:
Write about: pollution.
Max slept through most of the night last night. I felt so ridiculously amazing when I woke up this morning. Another week's worth of that and I might feel human again!
The front porch has been demolished, but not yet replaced. I guess we'll be using the side door for the next little while.
Mine:
His entry to a room
Is oft met with despair,
For his nonstop blather
Will surely taint the air.
He sends my guests fleeing
With opinions most dull;
His round face inspires
Dreams of hammer to skull.
But I can do nothing
To stave off this brain loss;
I suffer in silence,
For this fool is my boss.
Write about: pollution.
Max slept through most of the night last night. I felt so ridiculously amazing when I woke up this morning. Another week's worth of that and I might feel human again!
The front porch has been demolished, but not yet replaced. I guess we'll be using the side door for the next little while.
Mine:
His entry to a room
Is oft met with despair,
For his nonstop blather
Will surely taint the air.
He sends my guests fleeing
With opinions most dull;
His round face inspires
Dreams of hammer to skull.
But I can do nothing
To stave off this brain loss;
I suffer in silence,
For this fool is my boss.
Saturday November 24th, 2012
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about something which has been: deprived.
I imagine it won't take much figuring on your end to determine the subject of my poem. Fingers, toes, and eyes crossed for a better night tonight.
Kat's dad (now generally referred to as Grandpa Jim) and I got back to work on the deck today. With the sun actually shining for once, we managed to get a reasonable amount done. The plan tomorrow is to focus on the front porch. After that's finished, we'll connect with the decking at the side of the house, toss up a railing, and... um... we might actually be done at that point.
Strange thought, that.
Mine:
The days pass by
In the blink of an eye,
And somehow I
Sleep not a wink, oh my.
Write a four line poem about something which has been: deprived.
I imagine it won't take much figuring on your end to determine the subject of my poem. Fingers, toes, and eyes crossed for a better night tonight.
Kat's dad (now generally referred to as Grandpa Jim) and I got back to work on the deck today. With the sun actually shining for once, we managed to get a reasonable amount done. The plan tomorrow is to focus on the front porch. After that's finished, we'll connect with the decking at the side of the house, toss up a railing, and... um... we might actually be done at that point.
Strange thought, that.
Mine:
The days pass by
In the blink of an eye,
And somehow I
Sleep not a wink, oh my.
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