The exercise:
Write about something or someone that is: pounding.
No fog today, sadly. It was, however, very nice out. Particularly this afternoon, which I decided to take advantage of by taking Max to the park for the first time in a long time.
Heading across the border tomorrow morning to pick up a whole bunch of packages. Some Christmas presents, a few things for Max. I've honestly lost track of everything, which just means I'll need to take some time before I leave the house to figure it all out. Easier border crossings and all that good stuff.
And on Tuesday I'm working with our photographer friend on the product shots. Looking forward to both getting it and learning how it's done.
Mine:
I grow weary of this seemingly constant battering. All day and all night, for as long as I can remember. Which, I suppose, isn't saying much.
With all this abuse I could very well be brain damaged by now.
Relief. A break. That's what is needed. Even a brief respite would be invaluable.
But no. If it is not one thing, it's another. Maniacal drops of rain. Frantic footsteps. Even the occasional bouts of hail. It is... unending.
It is no easy work, being the streets of this city.
Saturday December 13th, 2014
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about something that is: suffocating.
The fog here was pretty incredible today. Stuck around for the entire morning, finally began retreating across the lake in the afternoon, and came right back across after the sun set behind the mountains.
I was happy to have the time to take a few pictures. This one, of our street, was taken around noon:
I took this one from the east side of the lake just as the fog was starting to come back our way:
And this was one of several I took from the lookout on Anarchist Mountain, while I was trying to remember where exactly Osoyoos was supposed to be:
I'm kinda hoping for more of the same tomorrow, as there were a few photos I just missed due to the fog moving so fast. Plus I don't have anywhere I need to be, so I won't have to deal with driving in it.
Mine:
I see it approaching
And think there's still time;
But now I'm surrounded
With nothing to climb
Write a four line poem about something that is: suffocating.
The fog here was pretty incredible today. Stuck around for the entire morning, finally began retreating across the lake in the afternoon, and came right back across after the sun set behind the mountains.
I was happy to have the time to take a few pictures. This one, of our street, was taken around noon:
I took this one from the east side of the lake just as the fog was starting to come back our way:
And this was one of several I took from the lookout on Anarchist Mountain, while I was trying to remember where exactly Osoyoos was supposed to be:
I'm kinda hoping for more of the same tomorrow, as there were a few photos I just missed due to the fog moving so fast. Plus I don't have anywhere I need to be, so I won't have to deal with driving in it.
Mine:
I see it approaching
And think there's still time;
But now I'm surrounded
With nothing to climb
Friday December 12th, 2014
The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: the method in the madness.
I forget where I left off with that whole website product photo shoot business. I feel like I haven't mentioned it since, so I'm just going to run with that. You know, instead of actually looking back on the blog to see what I did or didn't say.
Anyway. I consulted with my photographer friend about the job, sent a quote to the vendor with what I figured I'd do the job for (with fingers crossed it would seem reasonable), and he accepted. We've had trouble figuring out a time to meet in order to hammer out the details and for me to get the products I'll be shooting, but that finally happened this evening in Penticton.
I now have a very good idea of what he'd like, no idea how to do it, and a tentative deadline of next Saturday to get it done by. Wheeeeee...
I also, thankfully, have sent an email to my friend to see if he's got some free time in the next week to help me out with this. Hopefully he does. Otherwise I'll just have to figure it out on my own.
Wheeeeeee...
Mine:
"Twelve... Fourteen... Thirty-seven... Eighty-two... these house numbers make absolutely no sense!"
"Sure they do."
"And how do you figure that, genius?"
"You just have to account for the invisible houses in between all the ones we can see."
Write four lines of prose about: the method in the madness.
I forget where I left off with that whole website product photo shoot business. I feel like I haven't mentioned it since, so I'm just going to run with that. You know, instead of actually looking back on the blog to see what I did or didn't say.
Anyway. I consulted with my photographer friend about the job, sent a quote to the vendor with what I figured I'd do the job for (with fingers crossed it would seem reasonable), and he accepted. We've had trouble figuring out a time to meet in order to hammer out the details and for me to get the products I'll be shooting, but that finally happened this evening in Penticton.
I now have a very good idea of what he'd like, no idea how to do it, and a tentative deadline of next Saturday to get it done by. Wheeeeee...
I also, thankfully, have sent an email to my friend to see if he's got some free time in the next week to help me out with this. Hopefully he does. Otherwise I'll just have to figure it out on my own.
Wheeeeeee...
Mine:
"Twelve... Fourteen... Thirty-seven... Eighty-two... these house numbers make absolutely no sense!"
"Sure they do."
"And how do you figure that, genius?"
"You just have to account for the invisible houses in between all the ones we can see."
Thursday December 11th, 2014
The exercise:
Write about: rushing.
I had Max with me in town this morning before going to gym time at the community center. By the end there were 13 other kids there (not including the twin boys who slept in their stroller the whole time) but Max didn't seem bothered by all the hubbub.
At one point he was bouncing a ball back and forth with one of the girls who seemed to be around his age. He was having a great time but eventually she ran off to see her mother.
"That one all done," Max observed.
So it appeared.
She did come back a little while later for a couple more passes. Then they both got distracted by other things.
It was pretty entertaining.
Mine:
"I don't get it," Brad whined. He was never the fastest kid in school on a good day. This was not one of his better days.
"You're unbelievable," I muttered with a shake of my head. "Even Dmitri understood that joke. Right comrade?"
"You are nyet my comrade," he rumbled without looking up from his Russian to English dictionary.
"Dude's been in the country less than a month and already he has a better grasp of our language than you do," I said. "How many times were you dropped on your head before your first birthday?"
"Shut up, man. I got a better mark on yesterday's quiz, remember? So you're full of it."
"It was multiple choice," I reminded him. "You just got lucky. Give it another week and he'll be crushing you on those stupid quizzes."
"Enough talking," Dmitri said, putting his books away and standing up. "We will be late for class."
"Man, what's your hurry?" I asked, a big grin on my face. "You're always -"
"Nyet." Suddenly a finger was slowly wagging back and forth in front of my nose. "Nyet make that joke."
"What joke?" Brad asked.
"You make that joke, Dmitri break your nose." He held my gaze until I nodded my understanding. Or agreement. Whatever it was. Then he turned to Brad. "You laugh at that joke, Dmitri break your fingers."
"Dude, I don't even... okay, okay! You got it, comrade!"
"You are nyet my comrade."
We started walking to class then in a silence I found distinctly uncomfortable. Whenever I stole a glance at Dmitri I found him staring straight ahead, unblinking. I made the mistake of not looking at Brad, so I couldn't see what happened next coming.
We were only a few feet from Mr. Brown's chemistry lab when Brad started laughing hysterically.
"Oh man!" he wheezed, bracing himself against a nearby locker with one hand. "Now I get it! He's always in a hurry bec-"
His words were transformed into a howl of pain as Dmitri carried through on his promise without uttering a word.
Write about: rushing.
I had Max with me in town this morning before going to gym time at the community center. By the end there were 13 other kids there (not including the twin boys who slept in their stroller the whole time) but Max didn't seem bothered by all the hubbub.
At one point he was bouncing a ball back and forth with one of the girls who seemed to be around his age. He was having a great time but eventually she ran off to see her mother.
"That one all done," Max observed.
So it appeared.
She did come back a little while later for a couple more passes. Then they both got distracted by other things.
It was pretty entertaining.
Mine:
"I don't get it," Brad whined. He was never the fastest kid in school on a good day. This was not one of his better days.
"You're unbelievable," I muttered with a shake of my head. "Even Dmitri understood that joke. Right comrade?"
"You are nyet my comrade," he rumbled without looking up from his Russian to English dictionary.
"Dude's been in the country less than a month and already he has a better grasp of our language than you do," I said. "How many times were you dropped on your head before your first birthday?"
"Shut up, man. I got a better mark on yesterday's quiz, remember? So you're full of it."
"It was multiple choice," I reminded him. "You just got lucky. Give it another week and he'll be crushing you on those stupid quizzes."
"Enough talking," Dmitri said, putting his books away and standing up. "We will be late for class."
"Man, what's your hurry?" I asked, a big grin on my face. "You're always -"
"Nyet." Suddenly a finger was slowly wagging back and forth in front of my nose. "Nyet make that joke."
"What joke?" Brad asked.
"You make that joke, Dmitri break your nose." He held my gaze until I nodded my understanding. Or agreement. Whatever it was. Then he turned to Brad. "You laugh at that joke, Dmitri break your fingers."
"Dude, I don't even... okay, okay! You got it, comrade!"
"You are nyet my comrade."
We started walking to class then in a silence I found distinctly uncomfortable. Whenever I stole a glance at Dmitri I found him staring straight ahead, unblinking. I made the mistake of not looking at Brad, so I couldn't see what happened next coming.
We were only a few feet from Mr. Brown's chemistry lab when Brad started laughing hysterically.
"Oh man!" he wheezed, bracing himself against a nearby locker with one hand. "Now I get it! He's always in a hurry bec-"
His words were transformed into a howl of pain as Dmitri carried through on his promise without uttering a word.
Wednesday December 10th, 2014
The exercise:
Write about: the message in a bottle.
Feels weird writing about something other than secret agent shenanigans. I suppose leaving mine open to possible continuations means that I don't necessarily have to leave my character behind. We'll see if or when he returns.
There is a Christmas tree up at Kat's parents place but it hasn't been put up yet. I'm pretty sure Max is going to lose his mind once it's put in place.
And then lose it all over again when it's time to decorate it.
Mine:
Kelsey was a lonely child.
Her parents both toiled at jobs that occupied more of their time than she considered to be reasonable. A lawyer for a mother, a surgeon for a father. It left few opportunities for family bonding.
Their work did at least pay for a very beautiful house, on a very large property. Her friends would have loved exploring all the hallways and rooms and fancy staircases. In the summer they would have played endlessly on the rolling green lawn, picked flowers from the gardens.
If she'd had any friends, that is.
There was a small pond at the rear of the estate that Kelsey liked to visit almost every day. At first she just sat in the grass and read her books. Later, she practiced singing songs she heard on the radio. She had a lovely voice, and no one to tell her so.
One day, for no reason she could explain, she brought an empty bottle to the pond's edge. She placed a folded piece of paper inside, with only the words Is anyone out there? written on it, and tossed it into the water. She stood there watching it bob up and down for almost an hour, then returned to the house.
The next day she fished the bottle out of the pond using the pool cleaner's net. She checked inside, found her letter and her words, put it back in the bottle, and lobbed it back in again. She repeated this process every day for nearly a year.
Then came a rainy, misty morning in November. Kelsey made her way to the water's edge once more, her rubber boots making squelching sounds as each step escaped the mud. She retrieved the bottle, checked the note as usual. Same words as every time before. Except the handwriting was not hers.
Kelsey was a frightened child.
Write about: the message in a bottle.
Feels weird writing about something other than secret agent shenanigans. I suppose leaving mine open to possible continuations means that I don't necessarily have to leave my character behind. We'll see if or when he returns.
There is a Christmas tree up at Kat's parents place but it hasn't been put up yet. I'm pretty sure Max is going to lose his mind once it's put in place.
And then lose it all over again when it's time to decorate it.
Mine:
Kelsey was a lonely child.
Her parents both toiled at jobs that occupied more of their time than she considered to be reasonable. A lawyer for a mother, a surgeon for a father. It left few opportunities for family bonding.
Their work did at least pay for a very beautiful house, on a very large property. Her friends would have loved exploring all the hallways and rooms and fancy staircases. In the summer they would have played endlessly on the rolling green lawn, picked flowers from the gardens.
If she'd had any friends, that is.
There was a small pond at the rear of the estate that Kelsey liked to visit almost every day. At first she just sat in the grass and read her books. Later, she practiced singing songs she heard on the radio. She had a lovely voice, and no one to tell her so.
One day, for no reason she could explain, she brought an empty bottle to the pond's edge. She placed a folded piece of paper inside, with only the words Is anyone out there? written on it, and tossed it into the water. She stood there watching it bob up and down for almost an hour, then returned to the house.
The next day she fished the bottle out of the pond using the pool cleaner's net. She checked inside, found her letter and her words, put it back in the bottle, and lobbed it back in again. She repeated this process every day for nearly a year.
Then came a rainy, misty morning in November. Kelsey made her way to the water's edge once more, her rubber boots making squelching sounds as each step escaped the mud. She retrieved the bottle, checked the note as usual. Same words as every time before. Except the handwriting was not hers.
Kelsey was a frightened child.
Tuesday December 9th, 2014
The exercise:
Write two haiku about: the epilogue.
They don't have to be related to Secret Agent theme week... but I'd be impressed if you managed to work with this prompt otherwise. Consider that a challenge, if you wish.
That was a fun week for me, and I hope you enjoyed it as well. We return to our usual prompt style tomorrow.
Mine:
An offer is made:
Wealth beyond his wildest dreams.
Offer accepted.
* * *
One mission ends, the
next must now begin; Pine has
become the target.
Write two haiku about: the epilogue.
They don't have to be related to Secret Agent theme week... but I'd be impressed if you managed to work with this prompt otherwise. Consider that a challenge, if you wish.
That was a fun week for me, and I hope you enjoyed it as well. We return to our usual prompt style tomorrow.
Mine:
An offer is made:
Wealth beyond his wildest dreams.
Offer accepted.
* * *
One mission ends, the
next must now begin; Pine has
become the target.
Monday December 8th, 2014
The exercise:
The seventh and (mostly) final day of Secret Agent theme week arrives wanting to know the status of your mission - accomplished or failed?
I say mostly because I'm going to use tomorrow as an epilogue day, for those of us unable to wrap things up in the allotted time. Or to tie up any loose ends, that sort of thing.
Christmas is approaching... rather quickly all of a sudden.
Mine:
Agent Pine has always considered himself to be a good man. Reliable, trustworthy, loyal. Perhaps to a fault on that last one. He has always done what his employer has asked of him, whether he personally agreed with the assignment or not. On many of those missions he had suffered greatly.
Now, as he strolls along the crowded sidewalk, ignoring the screaming police cars that everyone else seems unable to watch while also continuing to walk, he is not so certain. His jacket has been traded for a homeless man's tattered trench coat. He walks barefoot, having left his polished black dress shoes without accepting anything in return (the bum's shoes had been too small). Underneath the coat he holds his slacks up with both hands. The cable in his belt had afforded him a twelve storey head start on the guards but had to be abandoned in his haste.
He had not tried to trade pants with the vagrant. There was little time to spare. Also, Agent Pine had his limits.
Those limits are being tested even as he makes his way in the general direction of the safe house. His mind is not yet made up as to whether or not he will actually return there. Questions await his arrival and he is not ready to greet them with his usual candor.
Was the mission successful? Well, that depends on how you look at that sort of thing...
It would be noticed.
And that could only lead to even more questions.
He needs time to think. To answer questions of his own. About his present and his future. He needs room to breathe without anyone breathing down his neck.
He needs time to consider Rose Desmarais' very, very generous offer.
The seventh and (mostly) final day of Secret Agent theme week arrives wanting to know the status of your mission - accomplished or failed?
I say mostly because I'm going to use tomorrow as an epilogue day, for those of us unable to wrap things up in the allotted time. Or to tie up any loose ends, that sort of thing.
Christmas is approaching... rather quickly all of a sudden.
Mine:
Agent Pine has always considered himself to be a good man. Reliable, trustworthy, loyal. Perhaps to a fault on that last one. He has always done what his employer has asked of him, whether he personally agreed with the assignment or not. On many of those missions he had suffered greatly.
Now, as he strolls along the crowded sidewalk, ignoring the screaming police cars that everyone else seems unable to watch while also continuing to walk, he is not so certain. His jacket has been traded for a homeless man's tattered trench coat. He walks barefoot, having left his polished black dress shoes without accepting anything in return (the bum's shoes had been too small). Underneath the coat he holds his slacks up with both hands. The cable in his belt had afforded him a twelve storey head start on the guards but had to be abandoned in his haste.
He had not tried to trade pants with the vagrant. There was little time to spare. Also, Agent Pine had his limits.
Those limits are being tested even as he makes his way in the general direction of the safe house. His mind is not yet made up as to whether or not he will actually return there. Questions await his arrival and he is not ready to greet them with his usual candor.
Was the mission successful? Well, that depends on how you look at that sort of thing...
It would be noticed.
And that could only lead to even more questions.
He needs time to think. To answer questions of his own. About his present and his future. He needs room to breathe without anyone breathing down his neck.
He needs time to consider Rose Desmarais' very, very generous offer.
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