The exercise:
Write two haiku about: the mouse.
Kat's come down with a cold of the energy sapping variety, which meant she wasn't up for taking Max to swimming lessons this afternoon.
Which meant he wasn't interested in going to swimming lessons.
Sigh. Maybe next week.
I feel like I'm fighting something off as well, but I plan on not allowing it to get the better of me through sheer stubbornness. Can't see any potential issues with that.
Mine:
He tiptoes around
the library, looking for
safety in a book
* * *
Strolling through his parks
on two legs - how is this not
a nightmare for kids?
Monday January 30th, 2017
The exercise:
I think it's about time we return to the Continuation Prompt. So pick up the story from where the previous writer left it and carry it forward (or sideways or backward, I suppose) for a while.
Kat had an online class this afternoon, so I took both of the boys to soccer class. Miles and I sat in the stands while Max did his thing on the gym floor with the rest of the kids. He did really great on his own, while Miles cheered him on. When he wasn't playing with one of the other soccer player's younger sibling.
Fingers crossed swimming lessons go equally well tomorrow.
Mine:
Timothy looked up from the textbook he was studying behind the counter of the coffee shop and was surprised to see that the sun was preparing to rise above the horizon. He slipped a napkin between the pages to mark his place before shutting it, then grabbed the shop keys from beside the till. He was glad that there were no layabouts to kick out this time as he locked the front door.
He lingered at the door, watching the neighbouring shops shut up for the day and the stragglers in the streets heading for home. Everyone looked so exhausted. Not for the first time, and likely not the last, Timothy wondered if it was all worth it.
Leaving his textbook untouched, he moved to the rear of the shop and began cleaning up the kitchen. After putting the dried plates in their designated cupboards he decided to double check that the back door was locked. It was something he had become in the habit of doing after the unsettling incident with the outsider the previous week. Sure, the door had been safely locked, and the man had arrived much later in the day, but Timothy was not interested in taking any chances. Not any more.
Finding comfort in the bolted door, he returned to his closing duties. But it wasn't long before he was interrupted by a knock on the back door. It was heavy and insistent and it filled him with fear.
"Who is it?" he finally managed.
"Open the damned door, Timothy!" Celeste, the owner of the shop, shouted. "I need coffee."
"What happened to your key?" Timothy asked, pausing with his fingers inches from the lock. Something told him to make sure before allowing anyone entry to his sanctuary. He knew it was likely just fear speaking, but he listened anyway.
"Dropped it, got pickpocketed, left it at home... who knows?" Celeste said, obviously growing annoyed at the delay. "Who can say anything for sure anymore? This is Gardenvale, after all."
I think it's about time we return to the Continuation Prompt. So pick up the story from where the previous writer left it and carry it forward (or sideways or backward, I suppose) for a while.
Kat had an online class this afternoon, so I took both of the boys to soccer class. Miles and I sat in the stands while Max did his thing on the gym floor with the rest of the kids. He did really great on his own, while Miles cheered him on. When he wasn't playing with one of the other soccer player's younger sibling.
Fingers crossed swimming lessons go equally well tomorrow.
Mine:
Timothy looked up from the textbook he was studying behind the counter of the coffee shop and was surprised to see that the sun was preparing to rise above the horizon. He slipped a napkin between the pages to mark his place before shutting it, then grabbed the shop keys from beside the till. He was glad that there were no layabouts to kick out this time as he locked the front door.
He lingered at the door, watching the neighbouring shops shut up for the day and the stragglers in the streets heading for home. Everyone looked so exhausted. Not for the first time, and likely not the last, Timothy wondered if it was all worth it.
Leaving his textbook untouched, he moved to the rear of the shop and began cleaning up the kitchen. After putting the dried plates in their designated cupboards he decided to double check that the back door was locked. It was something he had become in the habit of doing after the unsettling incident with the outsider the previous week. Sure, the door had been safely locked, and the man had arrived much later in the day, but Timothy was not interested in taking any chances. Not any more.
Finding comfort in the bolted door, he returned to his closing duties. But it wasn't long before he was interrupted by a knock on the back door. It was heavy and insistent and it filled him with fear.
"Who is it?" he finally managed.
"Open the damned door, Timothy!" Celeste, the owner of the shop, shouted. "I need coffee."
"What happened to your key?" Timothy asked, pausing with his fingers inches from the lock. Something told him to make sure before allowing anyone entry to his sanctuary. He knew it was likely just fear speaking, but he listened anyway.
"Dropped it, got pickpocketed, left it at home... who knows?" Celeste said, obviously growing annoyed at the delay. "Who can say anything for sure anymore? This is Gardenvale, after all."
Sunday January 29th, 2017
The exercise:
Write about: the park ranger.
Had a family walk at Haynes Point this morning, which Max always loves. I wish we could get him out there every day. At least now that the weather is gradually warming up we'll be able to do it more often.
Split and hauled firewood this afternoon. Felt good to get the (non child related) exercise and hopefully we're stocked up to last us a little while.
We have almost reached the end of January. It always seems like a tough month to get through in these parts. Not that February is all that much better, but it is one more calendar flip closer to spring.
Mine:
The carcass had still been warm when he had reached it and it hadn't taken long to spot the trail of fresh blood leading away to the south. They must have heard him coming, which made for rushed, messy work.
Good, he'd thought with a grim smile. That would make tracking the bastards even easier.
Once he caught up with them a decision would have to be made. The gun slung over his shoulder was loaded and well used, perhaps more than was strictly necessary for his post. But he needed to do something to pass the time, and as a result he was a very, very good shot.
Would he need it today though? These were desperate times, and black market prices were skyrocketing. The poachers could be grizzled veterans of the trade or baby-faced first timers, driven to drastic measures by the loss of a job or even an unexpected medical bill.
Regardless of which category those he pursued belonged in, the taste of the coppery air on his tongue as he moved quickly through the woods was all the reminder he needed to know that they deserved to be brought to justice.
He just hoped that it would not be directly at his hands. Unless it proved to be extremely obvious that this was not their first poach.
In which case.... well. Practice does make perfect, as they say.
Write about: the park ranger.
Had a family walk at Haynes Point this morning, which Max always loves. I wish we could get him out there every day. At least now that the weather is gradually warming up we'll be able to do it more often.
Split and hauled firewood this afternoon. Felt good to get the (non child related) exercise and hopefully we're stocked up to last us a little while.
We have almost reached the end of January. It always seems like a tough month to get through in these parts. Not that February is all that much better, but it is one more calendar flip closer to spring.
Mine:
The carcass had still been warm when he had reached it and it hadn't taken long to spot the trail of fresh blood leading away to the south. They must have heard him coming, which made for rushed, messy work.
Good, he'd thought with a grim smile. That would make tracking the bastards even easier.
Once he caught up with them a decision would have to be made. The gun slung over his shoulder was loaded and well used, perhaps more than was strictly necessary for his post. But he needed to do something to pass the time, and as a result he was a very, very good shot.
Would he need it today though? These were desperate times, and black market prices were skyrocketing. The poachers could be grizzled veterans of the trade or baby-faced first timers, driven to drastic measures by the loss of a job or even an unexpected medical bill.
Regardless of which category those he pursued belonged in, the taste of the coppery air on his tongue as he moved quickly through the woods was all the reminder he needed to know that they deserved to be brought to justice.
He just hoped that it would not be directly at his hands. Unless it proved to be extremely obvious that this was not their first poach.
In which case.... well. Practice does make perfect, as they say.
Saturday January 28th, 2017
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: the treasure hunter.
Bakery was busy off and on today, but one of those on times was rather lengthy and intense. I think I had to use the machine to slice 13 loaves of bread between 5 customers in the course of 10 minutes or less. Definitely had trouble keeping the shelves stocked before and after that stretch.
By closing I'd sold all the loaves and all but one cinnamon bun, one baguette, one ciabatta loaf, and three epis. I think people were making a point to stock up to cover the week and a half we'll be closed - especially those who only come in on the weekend, as they're two weeks away from seeing us again.
Looking forward to having some time with my family tomorrow. Hopefully the weather cooperates and allows us to get some time outdoors.
Mine:
There is very nearly nothing
That will keep him safe at home;
The wide world is always calling
With its long lost catacombs
Write a four line poem about: the treasure hunter.
Bakery was busy off and on today, but one of those on times was rather lengthy and intense. I think I had to use the machine to slice 13 loaves of bread between 5 customers in the course of 10 minutes or less. Definitely had trouble keeping the shelves stocked before and after that stretch.
By closing I'd sold all the loaves and all but one cinnamon bun, one baguette, one ciabatta loaf, and three epis. I think people were making a point to stock up to cover the week and a half we'll be closed - especially those who only come in on the weekend, as they're two weeks away from seeing us again.
Looking forward to having some time with my family tomorrow. Hopefully the weather cooperates and allows us to get some time outdoors.
Mine:
There is very nearly nothing
That will keep him safe at home;
The wide world is always calling
With its long lost catacombs
Friday January 27th, 2017
The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: the ghost town.
Got things moving again with my writing this morning. It's all in the approach sometimes. Now that I've got a method to my madness, I'm hoping to start making serious progress in the coming weeks.
Back at the bakery tomorrow, before they're closing for a week so that Sean and Shannon can move from their current house into a new place. Once the bakery opens up again (Feb 8th) I'll be taking over front counter duties Wednesday to Saturday, as Emma will be departing from her Wednesday to Friday shifts.
Looking forward to the extra income, but I'll still be keeping an eye out for something a little more secure and with higher pay.
While also still working away at this writing stuff, of course.
Mine:
The leafless trees lining Main Street still rustle with memories of a long-past autumn when the north wind passes through town. But even the wind knows better than to linger here, so the echoing sound never lasts for long.
Not that anyone is ever around to hear it. Just me and some old friends, and we shall keep watch over our hometown for all of eternity.
Write four lines of prose about: the ghost town.
Got things moving again with my writing this morning. It's all in the approach sometimes. Now that I've got a method to my madness, I'm hoping to start making serious progress in the coming weeks.
Back at the bakery tomorrow, before they're closing for a week so that Sean and Shannon can move from their current house into a new place. Once the bakery opens up again (Feb 8th) I'll be taking over front counter duties Wednesday to Saturday, as Emma will be departing from her Wednesday to Friday shifts.
Looking forward to the extra income, but I'll still be keeping an eye out for something a little more secure and with higher pay.
While also still working away at this writing stuff, of course.
Mine:
The leafless trees lining Main Street still rustle with memories of a long-past autumn when the north wind passes through town. But even the wind knows better than to linger here, so the echoing sound never lasts for long.
Not that anyone is ever around to hear it. Just me and some old friends, and we shall keep watch over our hometown for all of eternity.
Thursday January 26th, 2017
The exercise:
Write about: mayhem.
Took the boys to gym time at the community centre this morning. It was Miles' first time, and Max and I hadn't been there... in a very long time. It was a good chance for Max to run around and let off some steam for over an hour, and Miles seemed to enjoy it as well.
Fun side note: it's called Parent and Tot time, but my brain insists on calling it Toddler and Tot time. So I generally just refer to it as gym time.
Hit a few stumbling blocks with my writing project this afternoon, but I think I've figured out a way around them already. Shall see how that works out tomorrow.
Mine:
Surrounded by rage personified, by the chaos of vengeance without direction, by the unraveling threads of kindness, politeness, civility, and sound judgment, I sit and I watch. And, perhaps because I am so still, not a soul takes notice of me.
I would like to take some pictures, perhaps record a video or two, but I suspect that such actions would draw attention. And I would not be at all surprised if it drew protest. Violent protest, obviously.
So I remain still, allowing my eyes to take in and record as much as they can in this swirling sea of humanity's wickedness unleashed. I note with some interest that no weapons are being put to use - other than fists and feet, of course. I suppose the knives and guns and homemade bombs of all shapes and sizes and sorts will come later.
I think I shall be long gone by then.
My gaze flicks toward my coffee, somehow still upright and unspilled on the table before me. I would very much like to take a sip before it goes entirely cold. I think it would increase my enjoyment of all this nonsense.
It might also be the last coffee this shop ever brews for anyone. So maybe I should preserve it instead?
Anyway. I should be keeping watch on the mob. It really would be for the best if I can take advantage of the very first opportunity to get out of here. So let's focus on that, shall we?
Yes, let's.
Write about: mayhem.
Took the boys to gym time at the community centre this morning. It was Miles' first time, and Max and I hadn't been there... in a very long time. It was a good chance for Max to run around and let off some steam for over an hour, and Miles seemed to enjoy it as well.
Fun side note: it's called Parent and Tot time, but my brain insists on calling it Toddler and Tot time. So I generally just refer to it as gym time.
Hit a few stumbling blocks with my writing project this afternoon, but I think I've figured out a way around them already. Shall see how that works out tomorrow.
Mine:
Surrounded by rage personified, by the chaos of vengeance without direction, by the unraveling threads of kindness, politeness, civility, and sound judgment, I sit and I watch. And, perhaps because I am so still, not a soul takes notice of me.
I would like to take some pictures, perhaps record a video or two, but I suspect that such actions would draw attention. And I would not be at all surprised if it drew protest. Violent protest, obviously.
So I remain still, allowing my eyes to take in and record as much as they can in this swirling sea of humanity's wickedness unleashed. I note with some interest that no weapons are being put to use - other than fists and feet, of course. I suppose the knives and guns and homemade bombs of all shapes and sizes and sorts will come later.
I think I shall be long gone by then.
My gaze flicks toward my coffee, somehow still upright and unspilled on the table before me. I would very much like to take a sip before it goes entirely cold. I think it would increase my enjoyment of all this nonsense.
It might also be the last coffee this shop ever brews for anyone. So maybe I should preserve it instead?
Anyway. I should be keeping watch on the mob. It really would be for the best if I can take advantage of the very first opportunity to get out of here. So let's focus on that, shall we?
Yes, let's.
Wednesday January 25th, 2017
The exercise:
Write about something that is: out of focus.
Between helping Kat and the boys get out the door for music class, doing laundry, and getting firewood, this morning slipped past pretty quickly.
This afternoon I took a drive up to Penticton to stock up on groceries, which went as smoothly as could have been expected. Hopefully we've got enough meat in the freezer to get us most of the way through February.
Didn't have much time to work on my writing project but it still occupied a lot of mental space. I'll share more details once things get a little further along. For now I'll just say that my creative focus is on that, which makes coming up with prompts for the blog a little harder than usual.
I'm sure I'll manage though.
I always do.
Mine:
As I stand up (why was I sitting down?) the world tilts and blurs, and my stomach lurches in response. I shake my head to try to clear the cobwebs and immediately wish that I hadn't. Where did this headache come from?
I close my eyes and try to breathe my way through this disorientation. The cold air hurts my throat (cold?) but I stick with it. My heart rate begins to settle into a more normal rhythm. I open my eyes to test my vision and... I'm sitting down again.
"Wha... ugh." It is an effort to not vomit. Thinking of the torture that would cause my already aching throat helps. I blink a few times. It doesn't help.
Everything is out of focus, like a photograph taken by an addict trying to quit cold turkey. The bright sunshine is not helping, nor is the contrast of the shadows lurking in menacing clusters around the edges of this... clearing?
Are those trees encircling me? They must be, but they don't look like anything I've seen before. Back home we just have pines and fruit trees and... back home. I'm not home. Clearly.
So where am I?
Write about something that is: out of focus.
Between helping Kat and the boys get out the door for music class, doing laundry, and getting firewood, this morning slipped past pretty quickly.
This afternoon I took a drive up to Penticton to stock up on groceries, which went as smoothly as could have been expected. Hopefully we've got enough meat in the freezer to get us most of the way through February.
Didn't have much time to work on my writing project but it still occupied a lot of mental space. I'll share more details once things get a little further along. For now I'll just say that my creative focus is on that, which makes coming up with prompts for the blog a little harder than usual.
I'm sure I'll manage though.
I always do.
Mine:
As I stand up (why was I sitting down?) the world tilts and blurs, and my stomach lurches in response. I shake my head to try to clear the cobwebs and immediately wish that I hadn't. Where did this headache come from?
I close my eyes and try to breathe my way through this disorientation. The cold air hurts my throat (cold?) but I stick with it. My heart rate begins to settle into a more normal rhythm. I open my eyes to test my vision and... I'm sitting down again.
"Wha... ugh." It is an effort to not vomit. Thinking of the torture that would cause my already aching throat helps. I blink a few times. It doesn't help.
Everything is out of focus, like a photograph taken by an addict trying to quit cold turkey. The bright sunshine is not helping, nor is the contrast of the shadows lurking in menacing clusters around the edges of this... clearing?
Are those trees encircling me? They must be, but they don't look like anything I've seen before. Back home we just have pines and fruit trees and... back home. I'm not home. Clearly.
So where am I?
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