Good advice.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Katie And Dive Do Blickling Hall - Pt.2
Come and join us as we promenade around the gardens of Blickling Hall.
This is the formal garden, filled with topiary and little hedge maze-lets in which to carry out secret dalliances.
One wonders what this little fellow has witnessed over the centuries; Henry the Eighth chasing (and catching) both Mary and Anne Boleyn, for starters.
The formal garden has a spiffy fountain in it. A good place to start our walk.
As we head out of the formal area toward the massive arboretum the garden gets less formal and more "English".
Peonies and wisteria. Yummy.
We kinda like it here.
Further out from the house we enter rhododendron country. A hundred acres of specimen trees underplanted with rhododendrons and azaleas. Late May is the perfect time to visit if you want to catch these guys in bloom.
Of course, wearing an appropriate colour is essential.
There are all manner of secret gardens and glades here, plus this chic little pavilion.
Somewhere nice and cool to sit while the sun bakes the lawns.
Out beyond the arboretum is the main park; miles of meadows and woods and the huge lake. We'll visit that another day; maybe in the autumn.
But for today, we've other places to visit so we'll wander back through the trees to the house.
And bid beautiful Blickling toodle-pip for now.
This is the formal garden, filled with topiary and little hedge maze-lets in which to carry out secret dalliances.
One wonders what this little fellow has witnessed over the centuries; Henry the Eighth chasing (and catching) both Mary and Anne Boleyn, for starters.
The formal garden has a spiffy fountain in it. A good place to start our walk.
As we head out of the formal area toward the massive arboretum the garden gets less formal and more "English".Peonies and wisteria. Yummy.
We kinda like it here.
Further out from the house we enter rhododendron country. A hundred acres of specimen trees underplanted with rhododendrons and azaleas. Late May is the perfect time to visit if you want to catch these guys in bloom.
Of course, wearing an appropriate colour is essential.
There are all manner of secret gardens and glades here, plus this chic little pavilion.
Somewhere nice and cool to sit while the sun bakes the lawns.Out beyond the arboretum is the main park; miles of meadows and woods and the huge lake. We'll visit that another day; maybe in the autumn.
But for today, we've other places to visit so we'll wander back through the trees to the house.
And bid beautiful Blickling toodle-pip for now.Friday, August 28, 2009
500 Words VII - This Week's Sentence
Okerly-dokerly … Tis time for this week's sentence.
Here are the rules of 500 Words:
Yadda yadda …
- Write 500 words - no more and no less - based on and including the sentence I will set each week.
Exactly 500 words … discipline is fun, people, especially for the man holding the cane which just so happens to be me.
- The given sentence should be included in the 500 words unless I specifically say otherwise (like the second week where it was extremely long so I gave you the option), though the title - if any - should not be counted.
- I'll set the sentence on a Friday to give you the weekend to think about it.
Stories should be posted ready for inclusion in the following Thursday's Story Post.
Latecomers will be added at the bottom of the post and you can at any time go back and write a story based on an earlier sentence should you feel inspired to do so, which will then be added to that week's post.
- I am the law. No arguing.
500 Words is brought to you by Robyn and Lynn.
Previous stories can be found by clicking on the 500 Words link at the bottom of this post and are a wonderful way of spending a coffee break.
So …
If you thought that last week's referring back to a book published in 1818 was taking things a bit far, brace yourselves.
This week's sentence is taken from Cicero and is a part of what has become known as his "An Attack On The Enemy Of Freedom."
This is a volume comprising Cicero's speeches of 43BC attacking Mark Antony after Cæsar's murder, for which he in turn was murdered and had his head and hands cut off (his most effective weapons against tyranny) and his tongue pulled out and spiked with a hairpin, which goes to show that the power of great oratory can really tick some people off.
Don't worry; I'm not going to make you write about Rome or even in Latin and I've chosen a sentence which should give your effulgent imaginations plenty of rein.
This week's sentence is from Cicero's Second Philippic Against Mark Antony.
Hic est:
"The household found these repulsive goings on completely unendurable."
I'll round up the results for next Thursday's Story Post and we can all enjoy them over coffee.
Have fun!
Here are the rules of 500 Words:
Yadda yadda …
- Write 500 words - no more and no less - based on and including the sentence I will set each week.
Exactly 500 words … discipline is fun, people, especially for the man holding the cane which just so happens to be me.
- The given sentence should be included in the 500 words unless I specifically say otherwise (like the second week where it was extremely long so I gave you the option), though the title - if any - should not be counted.
- I'll set the sentence on a Friday to give you the weekend to think about it.
Stories should be posted ready for inclusion in the following Thursday's Story Post.
Latecomers will be added at the bottom of the post and you can at any time go back and write a story based on an earlier sentence should you feel inspired to do so, which will then be added to that week's post.
- I am the law. No arguing.
500 Words is brought to you by Robyn and Lynn.
Previous stories can be found by clicking on the 500 Words link at the bottom of this post and are a wonderful way of spending a coffee break.
So …
If you thought that last week's referring back to a book published in 1818 was taking things a bit far, brace yourselves.
This week's sentence is taken from Cicero and is a part of what has become known as his "An Attack On The Enemy Of Freedom."
This is a volume comprising Cicero's speeches of 43BC attacking Mark Antony after Cæsar's murder, for which he in turn was murdered and had his head and hands cut off (his most effective weapons against tyranny) and his tongue pulled out and spiked with a hairpin, which goes to show that the power of great oratory can really tick some people off.
Don't worry; I'm not going to make you write about Rome or even in Latin and I've chosen a sentence which should give your effulgent imaginations plenty of rein.
This week's sentence is from Cicero's Second Philippic Against Mark Antony.
Hic est:
"The household found these repulsive goings on completely unendurable."
I'll round up the results for next Thursday's Story Post and we can all enjoy them over coffee.
Have fun!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
500 Words VI - Stories
Hoorah for you guys!
With this week's sentence I had expected all manner of superpowers to come flying around Blogville, but instead we have real writers showing off some impressively muscled imaginations.
Hokay: Week Six of 500 Words:
500 Words is brought to you by Robyn and Lynn who started all this and by Old Dive, their Official Sentence Setter and story-collator.
Write 500 words (no more or less), based around and including a sentence from literature that I will set each Friday.
Work to be handed in (posted) by the following Thursday, though latecomers will be added as and when …
This week's sentence, taken from Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" is:
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
We'll start this week with Kate, in honour of her playing catch-up and writing two stories in one week. The first (a real chiller) can be found back here with the James Joyce stories, and here is this week's:
Kate's "The Art Of Fear"
Hee hee. An object lesson to us all.
Pacy, paranoid and expertly building the tension to a wonderful last line.
I really don't want to walk down the street right now.
Next up:
Katherine's "Eye Of The Beholder"
Brr … Truly scary and horrific stuff from Katherine this week.
This reads like something from Solzhenitsyn. One Day in the Life of Katherine Denisovich, maybe.
It turned my latte into a frappucino.
Robyn's "Undiscovered Genius"
Woah, Nellie! Listen up, young Robyn: you may make a glorious champagne torte but Old Dive makes the creamiest risotto in Blogville and don't you forget it! Hee hee.
We're gonna have to have a risotto-off.
Until then, back to your story …
Oh, my; what a fabulous ending.
I defy anyone to read this story without heading straight for the kitchen.
That's what I did and I've now added a home-made Shaker Spice Cookie to my coffee (previously chilled so efficiently by Katherine).
Prudence's "When Push Comes To Shove"
Boy howdy; sexism and the glass ceiling get kicked to pieces by the fury of Prudence this week, and a good thing, too!
But what a way out of it!
A fantastic finale that had me gasping and then giggling and then applauding.
Sigh … I know "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" is not the best advice but in this case it is making me grin and grin, even more after re-reading it.
You've just got to love (and be slightly scared by) the imagination running rampant around Blogville.
Last up this week (apart from any latecomers):
Dive's "The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive"
as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley"
A luurve story, no less, in the turgid and overblown style of the good Ms. S.
Next week's sentence will be posted tomorrow.
Actually I have no idea what it will be yet so I'd best finish my coffee and cookie and head for the bookshelves …
With this week's sentence I had expected all manner of superpowers to come flying around Blogville, but instead we have real writers showing off some impressively muscled imaginations.
Hokay: Week Six of 500 Words:
500 Words is brought to you by Robyn and Lynn who started all this and by Old Dive, their Official Sentence Setter and story-collator.
Write 500 words (no more or less), based around and including a sentence from literature that I will set each Friday.
Work to be handed in (posted) by the following Thursday, though latecomers will be added as and when …
This week's sentence, taken from Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" is:
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
We'll start this week with Kate, in honour of her playing catch-up and writing two stories in one week. The first (a real chiller) can be found back here with the James Joyce stories, and here is this week's:
Kate's "The Art Of Fear"
Hee hee. An object lesson to us all.
Pacy, paranoid and expertly building the tension to a wonderful last line.
I really don't want to walk down the street right now.
Next up:
Katherine's "Eye Of The Beholder"
Brr … Truly scary and horrific stuff from Katherine this week.
This reads like something from Solzhenitsyn. One Day in the Life of Katherine Denisovich, maybe.
It turned my latte into a frappucino.
Robyn's "Undiscovered Genius"
Woah, Nellie! Listen up, young Robyn: you may make a glorious champagne torte but Old Dive makes the creamiest risotto in Blogville and don't you forget it! Hee hee.
We're gonna have to have a risotto-off.
Until then, back to your story …
Oh, my; what a fabulous ending.
I defy anyone to read this story without heading straight for the kitchen.
That's what I did and I've now added a home-made Shaker Spice Cookie to my coffee (previously chilled so efficiently by Katherine).
Prudence's "When Push Comes To Shove"
Boy howdy; sexism and the glass ceiling get kicked to pieces by the fury of Prudence this week, and a good thing, too!
But what a way out of it!
A fantastic finale that had me gasping and then giggling and then applauding.
Sigh … I know "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" is not the best advice but in this case it is making me grin and grin, even more after re-reading it.
You've just got to love (and be slightly scared by) the imagination running rampant around Blogville.
Last up this week (apart from any latecomers):
Dive's "The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive"
as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley"
A luurve story, no less, in the turgid and overblown style of the good Ms. S.
Next week's sentence will be posted tomorrow.
Actually I have no idea what it will be yet so I'd best finish my coffee and cookie and head for the bookshelves …
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Katie And Dive Do Blickling Hall - Pt.1
So anyhoo … There I was, dreaming away …
Yup … In the dream I was living with Katie in a pretty little rose-covered cottage, deep in the heart of Norfolk.
And of course I had big wood … er
Hokay Time to wake up.Here we are approaching Blickling Hall.
Blickling Hall was built (or rather remodelled from an older house) by Anne Boleyn's dad as a lure to persuade Henry the Eighth to pop round for tea and take a look at his lovely daughters.
This is where Henry Tudor and Mary Boleyn courted and disported in the 1520s, during his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, though as soon as Anne was old enough the dirty monarch dumped Mary and traded her in for her younger sister.
And now Katie wants it : "This is my house!"Looks like I'm getting stuck with the housework. Hey ho.
Welcome to my humble abode, peasants.
Blickling Hall is currently the home of the National Trust and regrettably, we are not allowed to take photos inside, though that just gives you the excuse to go see it for yourself.It's worth it; believe me.
Once you've marvelled at the inside (I WANT that library), there's a pretty spiffy park and gardens to wander around. The park is free and open all year; I'll often drive up here for a wander around the lake on a weekend (and a pint at the lovely pub).
But what's good enough for Anne Boleyn is good enough for Katie (other than the sleeping with royalty and getting beheaded bit).This is Anne Boleyn's croquet lawn and the sign says:
"Please feel free to use the croquet set".
This one's for Cynthia, who is a pretty hot croquet player back in California.Come on over and we'll challenge you to a match here at "Katie's House".
I'm rubbish at croquet but it's a nice place to spend a lazy afternoon, getting slaughtered by Katie.
Merciless!
To the victor, the spoils. A nice sit down by the lake.
Next time we'll take a look around the gardens.Care to join us?
Monday, August 24, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
500 Words VI - No Peeking!
Hokay …
A quick reminder that some more stories have come in so check back here to enjoy some lovely coffee-time reading.
In the meantime I am posting my story for this week earlier than usual to tie in with Katie's post for today (don't look at it yet; I'll put a link at the bottom of this one).
Totally coincidentally we posted the same photo, which is kinda sweet, but as my story relates to it I thought I'd better tell it today.
If you've not already written your story and don't want to read mine yet, please look away now.
If you couldn't care less, read on.
This week's sentence is taken from Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" and is:
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
Apologies for the bloated verbosity but I have discovered a love of pastiche and Mary Shelley is a ripe seam to mine.
Dear reader, I present for your edification (in the pompous style of Victor Frankenstein):
The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive"
as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley
I dedicate this confession to my inamorata Katie, for it was she who located the fateful artefact in question, she who presented it to me, and it is she - in addition to your good selves, the remainder of humanity - who must live with the consequences of my subsequent actions.
Pray allow me the opportunity of this brief testimony, notwithstanding my fear perforce that you will never see it in your hearts to forgive me for what I have done.
Suffice that the inopportune happenstance of such a marvellous machine falling within the orbit of my influence is a misfortune the world shall rue for long ages to come.
And yet …
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
The sheer enormity of responsibility it implied staggered the mind and I reeled, dizzy with shock, yet the thing lay within my grasp; it only remained for me to stretch out my hand and direct its power howsoever I willed.
I touched it.
How could I not?
I defy any among you to state on oath that you would have acted to the contrary.
The metal was warm from the sun and the moment my fingertip brushed it a sudden shock of realisation thrilled through me; the certain knowledge that this gift could be used once and once only, and that its effect would rely solely upon my own conscious choice.
That choice was laid bare before me, and what a dreadful doom lay in the choosing.
Should I - Could I? - endeavour to save humankind from itself?
For such a machine surely had this dream within its gift: in a single stroke to bring about an end to war, to hatred, to bigotry and persecution, to inequality and injustice.
Yet doubt gnawed at my fragile ego …
Were I to direct such awesome power for the good of the world would its effect consequently become so diluted as to not benefit me directly?
My parched, greedy soul screamed to keep this monstrous and wonderful discovery a furtive secret, perverting its power for the sole gratification of my own desire.
Yet if I did so, would that not equate by omission to using the thing for Evil?
I quailed before the very magnitude of my dilemma.
Again, if I prevaricated, might - in the meantime - another then discover the thing and take such opportunity to use it for their own purposes, depriving both the world - and more pertinently myself - of the glories of its beneficence?
Mea culpa.
I am but a man and as such am driven by greed and lust.
I am weak.
The temptation to reserve this gift unto myself overmastered my too feeble resistance; the choice was made.
Humankind must therefore suffer still the Purgatory of a loveless, conflicted world while I covet this gift and the wonder it brings.
I pushed the button …
Katie sent me the photo the other lunchtime and it just seemed to fit with the silliness of writing in period pastiche.
Here's her post for today.
Apologies again to the world for choosing personal happiness over universal luurve (my alternative title for this story was: "Dive Saves The World From Hippies").
I'll round up the rest of your stories as they're posted and corral 'em all for a review post next Thursday as usual.
The Marvellous Machine
A quick reminder that some more stories have come in so check back here to enjoy some lovely coffee-time reading.
In the meantime I am posting my story for this week earlier than usual to tie in with Katie's post for today (don't look at it yet; I'll put a link at the bottom of this one).
Totally coincidentally we posted the same photo, which is kinda sweet, but as my story relates to it I thought I'd better tell it today.
If you've not already written your story and don't want to read mine yet, please look away now.
If you couldn't care less, read on.
This week's sentence is taken from Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein" and is:
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
Apologies for the bloated verbosity but I have discovered a love of pastiche and Mary Shelley is a ripe seam to mine.
Dear reader, I present for your edification (in the pompous style of Victor Frankenstein):
The Deathbed Confession Of The Monster "Dive"
as witnessed and transcribed by Ms. Mary Shelley
I dedicate this confession to my inamorata Katie, for it was she who located the fateful artefact in question, she who presented it to me, and it is she - in addition to your good selves, the remainder of humanity - who must live with the consequences of my subsequent actions.
Pray allow me the opportunity of this brief testimony, notwithstanding my fear perforce that you will never see it in your hearts to forgive me for what I have done.
Suffice that the inopportune happenstance of such a marvellous machine falling within the orbit of my influence is a misfortune the world shall rue for long ages to come.
And yet …
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
The sheer enormity of responsibility it implied staggered the mind and I reeled, dizzy with shock, yet the thing lay within my grasp; it only remained for me to stretch out my hand and direct its power howsoever I willed.
I touched it.
How could I not?
I defy any among you to state on oath that you would have acted to the contrary.
The metal was warm from the sun and the moment my fingertip brushed it a sudden shock of realisation thrilled through me; the certain knowledge that this gift could be used once and once only, and that its effect would rely solely upon my own conscious choice.
That choice was laid bare before me, and what a dreadful doom lay in the choosing.
Should I - Could I? - endeavour to save humankind from itself?
For such a machine surely had this dream within its gift: in a single stroke to bring about an end to war, to hatred, to bigotry and persecution, to inequality and injustice.
Yet doubt gnawed at my fragile ego …
Were I to direct such awesome power for the good of the world would its effect consequently become so diluted as to not benefit me directly?
My parched, greedy soul screamed to keep this monstrous and wonderful discovery a furtive secret, perverting its power for the sole gratification of my own desire.
Yet if I did so, would that not equate by omission to using the thing for Evil?
I quailed before the very magnitude of my dilemma.
Again, if I prevaricated, might - in the meantime - another then discover the thing and take such opportunity to use it for their own purposes, depriving both the world - and more pertinently myself - of the glories of its beneficence?
Mea culpa.
I am but a man and as such am driven by greed and lust.
I am weak.
The temptation to reserve this gift unto myself overmastered my too feeble resistance; the choice was made.
Humankind must therefore suffer still the Purgatory of a loveless, conflicted world while I covet this gift and the wonder it brings.
I pushed the button …
Katie sent me the photo the other lunchtime and it just seemed to fit with the silliness of writing in period pastiche.
Here's her post for today.
Apologies again to the world for choosing personal happiness over universal luurve (my alternative title for this story was: "Dive Saves The World From Hippies").
I'll round up the rest of your stories as they're posted and corral 'em all for a review post next Thursday as usual.
The Marvellous Machine500 Words - VI: The Sentence
Well, you moaned about last week's sentence and I promised an easier one this week.
I'm such a soft touch (ha).
Here you go then.
500 words please, excluding the title, including and based upon this sentence, taken from Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein":
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
That's got to be the simplest one yet.
Grab your pens and enjoy!
I've already got mine sketched out.
I'm such a soft touch (ha).
Here you go then.
500 words please, excluding the title, including and based upon this sentence, taken from Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein":
"When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it".
That's got to be the simplest one yet.
Grab your pens and enjoy!
I've already got mine sketched out.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Buy Stuff
Yay! Immi's got a new album out on Monday.
Listen to it (yes, all of it) here, then go buy it.
Then dance around like me.
Get your own player here and spread the word
Listen to it (yes, all of it) here, then go buy it.
Then dance around like me.
Get your own player here and spread the word
500 Words V - Stories
A bit of a tough sentence last week it seems.
So far only two of you have handed in your homework (and one of those is me).
This week's was from James Joyce's "Ulysses":
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
Next week's sentence shall be a lot easier.
Latecomers will be welcome, so if you have a story, do post it.
Here are the Joyce stories so far:
Katherine's "Untitled"
Chuckles aplenty as Messrs Bloom and Oberdimer vie for your sympathy and I must confess after a second reading mine lies with Mr.O.
Some wonderfully "English" dialogue in this one, too. Hey ho … er.
Dive's "The Luck Of The Irish"
A tricky bastard, that luck.
Tune in tomorrow for a much easier sentence.
Ah, here comes Robyn, just sneaking in before the deadline.
Robyn's "The Luckless Mister Bloom"
Poor old Bloom. None of us seems to have given him anything to be cheerful about. Though at least Robyn offers him the prospect of a vacation of sorts.
And oily coffee …
And a dentist joke (yay).
And also sprinting home just in time is our Prudence.
Prudence's "The Comeuppance"
At last Mister Bloom gets some luck, and what a glorious piece of luck it is! Woohoo!
I shan't spoil it for you but there is some delicious detail in Pru's devious tale and a wonderful ending.
I'm still grinning.
Excellent stuff!
Here's Lulu, too!
Lulu's "Artie"
Oh yikes! Here's a version of Bloom I really want to punch in the head.
Lulu writes as brilliantly as ever, but instead of making me laugh stuff out my nose like last week, this week she hits the social realism and tragedy button. Hard!
A familiar character from a previous story makes an appearance and suddenly our opinion of him changes significantly.
I won't spoil it by saying any more.
Yay for Kate playing catch-up and bringing us at last to a decent haul of stories from the sentence you all moaned about.
Kate's "Untitled"
Wowee! A truly awesome piece of writing which drew me in and made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
Kate: that was chilling!
Aaron scares the crap out of me in a very Stephen King (back when he was good) way.
Great stuff!
So far only two of you have handed in your homework (and one of those is me).
This week's was from James Joyce's "Ulysses":
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
Next week's sentence shall be a lot easier.
Latecomers will be welcome, so if you have a story, do post it.
Here are the Joyce stories so far:
Katherine's "Untitled"
Chuckles aplenty as Messrs Bloom and Oberdimer vie for your sympathy and I must confess after a second reading mine lies with Mr.O.
Some wonderfully "English" dialogue in this one, too. Hey ho … er.
Dive's "The Luck Of The Irish"
A tricky bastard, that luck.
Tune in tomorrow for a much easier sentence.
Ah, here comes Robyn, just sneaking in before the deadline.
Robyn's "The Luckless Mister Bloom"
Poor old Bloom. None of us seems to have given him anything to be cheerful about. Though at least Robyn offers him the prospect of a vacation of sorts.
And oily coffee …
And a dentist joke (yay).
And also sprinting home just in time is our Prudence.
Prudence's "The Comeuppance"
At last Mister Bloom gets some luck, and what a glorious piece of luck it is! Woohoo!
I shan't spoil it for you but there is some delicious detail in Pru's devious tale and a wonderful ending.
I'm still grinning.
Excellent stuff!
Here's Lulu, too!
Lulu's "Artie"
Oh yikes! Here's a version of Bloom I really want to punch in the head.
Lulu writes as brilliantly as ever, but instead of making me laugh stuff out my nose like last week, this week she hits the social realism and tragedy button. Hard!
A familiar character from a previous story makes an appearance and suddenly our opinion of him changes significantly.
I won't spoil it by saying any more.
Yay for Kate playing catch-up and bringing us at last to a decent haul of stories from the sentence you all moaned about.
Kate's "Untitled"
Wowee! A truly awesome piece of writing which drew me in and made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
Kate: that was chilling!
Aaron scares the crap out of me in a very Stephen King (back when he was good) way.
Great stuff!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
500 Words - V - My Attempt
I'm having to fight my way through a real shitstorm of problems at work today so I don't have the time to visit Blogville, though I'll be sure and harvest everyone's 500 Words stories tomorrow morning.
Here's mine, for what it's worth.
The sentence - if you remember - was from James Joyce's "Ulysses" and was:
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
Next week's sentence will be a lot easier; I promise.
I have a doozy lined up!
Anyhoo … Here's my story:
The Luck Of The Irish
"As a dodo, Mister Bloom … as a veritable dodo. A very unlucky turn of events."
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
"Aye, so they do, Mister Bloom, so they do, but good or bad; there's the rub."
Bloom nodded, warily.
"She's a fickle mistress to be sure."
He waited for his companion to continue, contriving at the same time to glance with feigned nonchalance at the liner waiting beyond the Eblana; the liner bound for New York and new life.
The steward by the boarding ramp was checking his watch.
"Now take as an example our recently departed acquaintance Master Dædalus. Some might say that before she frowned so unmercifully, Lady Luck had cast her smiling countenance upon him."
"How so, Inspector?"
"It seems that, just prior to his untimely and tragic demise at the hand of person or persons unknown Master Dædalus had come into possession of what might be described as a very considerable fortune … a fortune that it appears has … disappeared.”
Bloom swallowed hard. Finding the Inspector waiting on the dock was shock enough, but now …
"Master Dædalus lies in the mortuary with his throat slit. His run of luck has, it seems run out.
Of course some folk contrive to make their own luck, do they not, Mister Bloom?”
He paused.
“Now that's a pretty heavy pair of suitcases you're toting. Would you be, by any chance, heading for that ocean liner? And would these cases be stuffed with Mister Dædalus' missing money?
I think you should hand me your ticket and boarding pass, Mister Bloom. It's a different voyage you'll be making today."
The jig was up.
Or was it?
Reluctantly Bloom fished out his documents and handed them over.
At the same time he let the blade drop from his sleeve into his palm.
One stab was all he needed.
Yes, Inspector - he thought – Some people make their own luck …
Before he could act, however, out from the shadow of the Custom House stepped a uniformed policeman. The Inspector turned to him.
"Constable, would you be so kind as to place Mister Bloom under arrest."
Bloom panicked. He took a step backwards, and a second, then turned and fled for his life, the constable in hot pursuit.
The Inspector looked down at the heavy cases.
He looked at the boarding pass and ticket in his hand.
He paused for a moment’s contemplation, turning his face up to the rain.
It was always raining in Cork.
Aye, Mister Bloom, you have to make your own luck.
A purser checked his papers at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Welcome aboard the Titanic, Mister Bloom."
Here's mine, for what it's worth.
The sentence - if you remember - was from James Joyce's "Ulysses" and was:
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
Next week's sentence will be a lot easier; I promise.
I have a doozy lined up!
Anyhoo … Here's my story:
The Luck Of The Irish
"As a dodo, Mister Bloom … as a veritable dodo. A very unlucky turn of events."
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
"Aye, so they do, Mister Bloom, so they do, but good or bad; there's the rub."
Bloom nodded, warily.
"She's a fickle mistress to be sure."
He waited for his companion to continue, contriving at the same time to glance with feigned nonchalance at the liner waiting beyond the Eblana; the liner bound for New York and new life.
The steward by the boarding ramp was checking his watch.
"Now take as an example our recently departed acquaintance Master Dædalus. Some might say that before she frowned so unmercifully, Lady Luck had cast her smiling countenance upon him."
"How so, Inspector?"
"It seems that, just prior to his untimely and tragic demise at the hand of person or persons unknown Master Dædalus had come into possession of what might be described as a very considerable fortune … a fortune that it appears has … disappeared.”
Bloom swallowed hard. Finding the Inspector waiting on the dock was shock enough, but now …
"Master Dædalus lies in the mortuary with his throat slit. His run of luck has, it seems run out.
Of course some folk contrive to make their own luck, do they not, Mister Bloom?”
He paused.
“Now that's a pretty heavy pair of suitcases you're toting. Would you be, by any chance, heading for that ocean liner? And would these cases be stuffed with Mister Dædalus' missing money?
I think you should hand me your ticket and boarding pass, Mister Bloom. It's a different voyage you'll be making today."
The jig was up.
Or was it?
Reluctantly Bloom fished out his documents and handed them over.
At the same time he let the blade drop from his sleeve into his palm.
One stab was all he needed.
Yes, Inspector - he thought – Some people make their own luck …
Before he could act, however, out from the shadow of the Custom House stepped a uniformed policeman. The Inspector turned to him.
"Constable, would you be so kind as to place Mister Bloom under arrest."
Bloom panicked. He took a step backwards, and a second, then turned and fled for his life, the constable in hot pursuit.
The Inspector looked down at the heavy cases.
He looked at the boarding pass and ticket in his hand.
He paused for a moment’s contemplation, turning his face up to the rain.
It was always raining in Cork.
Aye, Mister Bloom, you have to make your own luck.
A purser checked his papers at the top of the boarding ramp.
"Welcome aboard the Titanic, Mister Bloom."
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Yay, Culture!
Yay!
It's time for the Norwich Festival of Cultures, 2009.
Last year's was terrific and this year's even better. It's held in the grounds of Norwich Mind's headquarters and organised brilliantly by our very own Joy.
Just a quick overview this year as I'm stinkingly busy.
The food was wonderful! Lots of nationalities all cooking up a storm. I ate myself silly as usual, determinedly trying only things I'd never eaten before and lots of things that I never knew existed.
Particular hoorahs to the Polish and Mexican cooks!
The flamenco guitar players were brilliant and the dancers stunning.
Such beautiful costumes and astonishing dance steps. Woah!
Here's Joy with Norwich's Mayor.
One of these two gives a damn about her looks.
Can you guess which one?
Talking of looks, there were lots of beautiful weemen (as usual) and some amazing dresses.
All sorts of free events were there for our enjoyment, from various massages (Egyptian, Indian head massage, shiatsu, foot massage, et al) to … er … belly dancing workshops.
The sun came out and the crowd had a great time.
Huge thanks once again to Joy for all the work (and stress) she put into the event, and to Thom for being her rock.
It's time for the Norwich Festival of Cultures, 2009.
Last year's was terrific and this year's even better. It's held in the grounds of Norwich Mind's headquarters and organised brilliantly by our very own Joy.
Just a quick overview this year as I'm stinkingly busy.
The food was wonderful! Lots of nationalities all cooking up a storm. I ate myself silly as usual, determinedly trying only things I'd never eaten before and lots of things that I never knew existed.Particular hoorahs to the Polish and Mexican cooks!
The flamenco guitar players were brilliant and the dancers stunning.
Such beautiful costumes and astonishing dance steps. Woah!
Here's Joy with Norwich's Mayor.One of these two gives a damn about her looks.
Can you guess which one?
Talking of looks, there were lots of beautiful weemen (as usual) and some amazing dresses.
All sorts of free events were there for our enjoyment, from various massages (Egyptian, Indian head massage, shiatsu, foot massage, et al) to … er … belly dancing workshops.
The sun came out and the crowd had a great time.
Huge thanks once again to Joy for all the work (and stress) she put into the event, and to Thom for being her rock.Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
500 Words - V - The Sentence
Hokay. Time for this week's 500 Words Sentence.
Skip the next part if you already know the rules.
The Rules:
- Write 500 words - no more and no less - based on and including the sentence I will set each week.
Exactly 500 words … discipline is fun, people.
- The given sentence should be included in the 500 words unless I specifically say otherwise (like the second week where it was extremely long so I gave you the option), though the title - if any - should not be counted.
- I'll set the sentence on a Friday to give you the weekend to think about it.
Stories should be posted ready for inclusion in the following Thursday's Story Post.
Latecomers will be added at the bottom of the post and you can at any time go back and write a story based on an earlier sentence should you feel inspired to do so, which will then be added to that week's post.
- I am the law. No arguing.
500 Words is brought to you by Robyn and Lynn. They were gracious enough to appoint me Official (Officious?) Sentence Setter due to my megalomaniac tendencies and my love of spanking (try not to hand your work in late).
Previous stories can be found here and are a wonderful way of spending a coffee break:
Week I - From Robyn and Lynn's random books;
Week II - From Nabokov's Lolita;
Week III - From Paul Auster's City Of Glass;
Week IV - From Mario Vargas Llosa's Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter.
Those are the rules; those are the stories so far.
Here we go with this week's sentence, which is taken from James Joyce's "Ulysses" and is:
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
It's another long one at sixty words, but should be included in your word count, leaving you with a mere four-hundred and forty words to write.
Sharpen your pencils and have fun!
Skip the next part if you already know the rules.
The Rules:
- Write 500 words - no more and no less - based on and including the sentence I will set each week.
Exactly 500 words … discipline is fun, people.
- The given sentence should be included in the 500 words unless I specifically say otherwise (like the second week where it was extremely long so I gave you the option), though the title - if any - should not be counted.
- I'll set the sentence on a Friday to give you the weekend to think about it.
Stories should be posted ready for inclusion in the following Thursday's Story Post.
Latecomers will be added at the bottom of the post and you can at any time go back and write a story based on an earlier sentence should you feel inspired to do so, which will then be added to that week's post.
- I am the law. No arguing.
500 Words is brought to you by Robyn and Lynn. They were gracious enough to appoint me Official (Officious?) Sentence Setter due to my megalomaniac tendencies and my love of spanking (try not to hand your work in late).
Previous stories can be found here and are a wonderful way of spending a coffee break:
Week I - From Robyn and Lynn's random books;
Week II - From Nabokov's Lolita;
Week III - From Paul Auster's City Of Glass;
Week IV - From Mario Vargas Llosa's Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter.
Those are the rules; those are the stories so far.
Here we go with this week's sentence, which is taken from James Joyce's "Ulysses" and is:
At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr. Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:
"Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say."
It's another long one at sixty words, but should be included in your word count, leaving you with a mere four-hundred and forty words to write.
Sharpen your pencils and have fun!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
500 Words IV - The Stories
Searing tragedy and hilarious comedy (and excellent writing of course); this week's sentence brought out the extremes in you.
Lulu in particular incorporated the sentence in such a manner that I can only ascribe to genius.
I shall post next week's sentence tomorrow, but this week's - from Mario Vargas Llosa's "Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter" - was:
"But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards."
Should anyone wish to join in, feel free. I'll add links and reviews at the bottom of this post as latecomers turn up (Robyn and Lynn, whose idea this little writing exercise was, are both standing in the corner this week as they are late with their homework. Indeed young Lynn will have to see me after class as we are still expecting two stories from her).
First up, here is my own take on the sentence:
Señor Marroquin And The Gift Of Flight
But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards.
Accidents should by their very nature be instructive, but the wisdom gleaned from such events is rarely revealed in a flash and will often only emerge after a long and bitter struggle with the subject's consciousness.
Lucho, however, had learned his first lesson fast; in that blissful eternity - actually only a few short seconds - between discovering that he was flying and discovering that he was no longer flying.
Regrettably he was unable to put this instructive lesson into immediate effect, which was a pity, as acting on it would certainly have prevented the second accident and in consequence, its consequences.
The lesson Lucho learned that morning was one that perhaps he should have already known.
And it is this:
Collision with fast-moving and heavy objects should be avoided if at all possible.
It was not that Lucho had stepped off the kerb without looking, indeed he had looked and had seen the bus approaching. His mind, however, had other things on it right then and had simply filed the information at the bottom of the pile, meaning to look at it later.
The impact had been oblique, providing passengers on board the bus with the startling vision of a middle-aged man flying in a graceful arc right over the perimeter fence of the adjacent fairground.
On another day, Lucho may have welcomed the opportunity to get in free but on this occasion he was understandably distracted.
One cannot truthfully ascribe much prescience to the porcine mind and so we should not apportion blame to the pride of the county, the famous Diving Pig as it shuffled forward and dropped from the high board just as Lucho flew over the fairground fence and hit the side of the pool with such force as to rupture it and drench the surrounding crowd with the ensuing tsunami.
Landing as he did, full on his back on the wet blue plastic of the pool's base Lucho had just enough time to register the approach of three hundred and fifty pounds of squealing panic before the pig hit him in the face.
Learning that he was dead came as a great surprise to Lucho.
Learning that there is an afterlife even more so.
The most unforgettable and startling discovery of that morning, however, was the revelation that this - and only this - precise set of circumstances (which perhaps explains the scarcity of such apparitions) is how Angels are made.
Lucho Abril Marroquin stared aghast at the wreckage of his body, now inextricably mingled with the burst carcass of the once famous Diving Pig.
He glanced at the crowd: some screaming, some laughing, all drenched.
He gazed awestruck at his magnificent wings and flapped them experimentally.
There was a faint whiff of bacon.
I had originally called this instructional tale “Pigs Might Fly” but felt that gave away a leetle too much, both of the plot and of my own complicated relationship with things spiritual.
Hey ho.
And here, in no particular order, are your own excellent stories:
Neetzy's "Lucho's Lament"
Hoorah for Neetzy for setting her story in Peru, just as the original sentence had been.
This starts so beautifully and lulls us into a false sense of security before the inevitability of disaster carried in the opening sentence changes everything and everybody forever in one horrifying moment.
I so wanted this to end happily as Neetzy drew me effortlessly into Lucho's little world.
Skilfully written and heartbreaking.
Katherine's Untitled Story
An excruciatingly funny misadventure set in the kind of office we've all experienced and featuring the kind of people we all know and some of us have to work with.
I couldn't help but think of Amanda and Dan in my own office when I read this.
Bonus points (lots) for a description of God that had me rolling in the aisles.
Lulu's "Lucky"
Lola and Lulu are back. Yay!
This time their adventure fetaures one of those great first lines that grabs you and makes you want to read on.
Ew!
And it gets ickier … and funnier.
What a great take on the name Lucho Abril Marroquin, too.
Best of all, though, is the way Lulu includes the Sentence. Pure genius!
What an awesome punchline. It had my imagination going to places no imagination should have to go … and laughing myself silly for ages.
Our Robyn gets her story in just before the deadline.
Well done!
Robyn's "Lucho Makes A Friend"
A complete change from our tragedy and comedy; Robyn comes up with a delightful love story … or at least what we hope will be the start of one.
This one had me smiling right from the start, and also made me fancy tea and muffins in the park.
Lovely.
Aha! Here comes another latecomer, but believe me, this one is well worth the wait:
Prudence's The Torcedores
I've given Prudence full marks plus a gold star for this story.
It is simply awesome and she has been so incredibly clever in weaving her Lucho's story into that of someone else's.
I shall not be so gauche as to give away her secret; you simply must go read this one for yourselves and try to figure it out, but in her last paragraph I had to stop and go "Woah, Nellie! That is so fucking clever, Pru!"
Then I read it through again and it was even better the second time.
Extra marks for some sweet alliteration, too (you know I'm a sucker for that stuff).
Awesome!
Lulu in particular incorporated the sentence in such a manner that I can only ascribe to genius.
I shall post next week's sentence tomorrow, but this week's - from Mario Vargas Llosa's "Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter" - was:
"But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards."
Should anyone wish to join in, feel free. I'll add links and reviews at the bottom of this post as latecomers turn up (Robyn and Lynn, whose idea this little writing exercise was, are both standing in the corner this week as they are late with their homework. Indeed young Lynn will have to see me after class as we are still expecting two stories from her).
First up, here is my own take on the sentence:
Señor Marroquin And The Gift Of Flight
But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards.
Accidents should by their very nature be instructive, but the wisdom gleaned from such events is rarely revealed in a flash and will often only emerge after a long and bitter struggle with the subject's consciousness.
Lucho, however, had learned his first lesson fast; in that blissful eternity - actually only a few short seconds - between discovering that he was flying and discovering that he was no longer flying.
Regrettably he was unable to put this instructive lesson into immediate effect, which was a pity, as acting on it would certainly have prevented the second accident and in consequence, its consequences.
The lesson Lucho learned that morning was one that perhaps he should have already known.
And it is this:
Collision with fast-moving and heavy objects should be avoided if at all possible.
It was not that Lucho had stepped off the kerb without looking, indeed he had looked and had seen the bus approaching. His mind, however, had other things on it right then and had simply filed the information at the bottom of the pile, meaning to look at it later.
The impact had been oblique, providing passengers on board the bus with the startling vision of a middle-aged man flying in a graceful arc right over the perimeter fence of the adjacent fairground.
On another day, Lucho may have welcomed the opportunity to get in free but on this occasion he was understandably distracted.
One cannot truthfully ascribe much prescience to the porcine mind and so we should not apportion blame to the pride of the county, the famous Diving Pig as it shuffled forward and dropped from the high board just as Lucho flew over the fairground fence and hit the side of the pool with such force as to rupture it and drench the surrounding crowd with the ensuing tsunami.
Landing as he did, full on his back on the wet blue plastic of the pool's base Lucho had just enough time to register the approach of three hundred and fifty pounds of squealing panic before the pig hit him in the face.
Learning that he was dead came as a great surprise to Lucho.
Learning that there is an afterlife even more so.
The most unforgettable and startling discovery of that morning, however, was the revelation that this - and only this - precise set of circumstances (which perhaps explains the scarcity of such apparitions) is how Angels are made.
Lucho Abril Marroquin stared aghast at the wreckage of his body, now inextricably mingled with the burst carcass of the once famous Diving Pig.
He glanced at the crowd: some screaming, some laughing, all drenched.
He gazed awestruck at his magnificent wings and flapped them experimentally.
There was a faint whiff of bacon.
I had originally called this instructional tale “Pigs Might Fly” but felt that gave away a leetle too much, both of the plot and of my own complicated relationship with things spiritual.
Hey ho.
And here, in no particular order, are your own excellent stories:
Neetzy's "Lucho's Lament"
Hoorah for Neetzy for setting her story in Peru, just as the original sentence had been.
This starts so beautifully and lulls us into a false sense of security before the inevitability of disaster carried in the opening sentence changes everything and everybody forever in one horrifying moment.
I so wanted this to end happily as Neetzy drew me effortlessly into Lucho's little world.
Skilfully written and heartbreaking.
Katherine's Untitled Story
An excruciatingly funny misadventure set in the kind of office we've all experienced and featuring the kind of people we all know and some of us have to work with.
I couldn't help but think of Amanda and Dan in my own office when I read this.
Bonus points (lots) for a description of God that had me rolling in the aisles.
Lulu's "Lucky"
Lola and Lulu are back. Yay!
This time their adventure fetaures one of those great first lines that grabs you and makes you want to read on.
Ew!
And it gets ickier … and funnier.
What a great take on the name Lucho Abril Marroquin, too.
Best of all, though, is the way Lulu includes the Sentence. Pure genius!
What an awesome punchline. It had my imagination going to places no imagination should have to go … and laughing myself silly for ages.
Our Robyn gets her story in just before the deadline.
Well done!
Robyn's "Lucho Makes A Friend"
A complete change from our tragedy and comedy; Robyn comes up with a delightful love story … or at least what we hope will be the start of one.
This one had me smiling right from the start, and also made me fancy tea and muffins in the park.
Lovely.
Aha! Here comes another latecomer, but believe me, this one is well worth the wait:
Prudence's The Torcedores
I've given Prudence full marks plus a gold star for this story.
It is simply awesome and she has been so incredibly clever in weaving her Lucho's story into that of someone else's.
I shall not be so gauche as to give away her secret; you simply must go read this one for yourselves and try to figure it out, but in her last paragraph I had to stop and go "Woah, Nellie! That is so fucking clever, Pru!"
Then I read it through again and it was even better the second time.
Extra marks for some sweet alliteration, too (you know I'm a sucker for that stuff).
Awesome!
Monday, August 10, 2009
Saturday, August 08, 2009
More Noise
Yesterday I spent my third blog birthday with those old reprobates the Four Heads.
Well three of them anyway, as John's on holiday Down Under.
So it was Old Dive standing in for him at Tia and Andy's wedding reception.
The weather was perfect (actually it was about three hundred degrees hotter than Hell and as humid as a sauna, but the sun shone all day) and the whole day was completely wonderful.
Except of course the band. Hee hee.
You've seen us rehearsing this one, now witness the fact that rehearsing songs makes no difference whatsoever to these guys.
Well three of them anyway, as John's on holiday Down Under.
So it was Old Dive standing in for him at Tia and Andy's wedding reception.
The weather was perfect (actually it was about three hundred degrees hotter than Hell and as humid as a sauna, but the sun shone all day) and the whole day was completely wonderful.
Except of course the band. Hee hee.
You've seen us rehearsing this one, now witness the fact that rehearsing songs makes no difference whatsoever to these guys.
Friday, August 07, 2009
500 Words - IV - Happy Birthday To Me
Well whoop-de-doo.
Today, Small Glass Planet is three years old.
1,008 posts and counting.
Never mind that most of them are drivel.
And hey, tomorrow is Robyn's third Blog Birthday too!
Sheesh! We're getting old.
So anyhoo … It is time for the Official Sentence Setter to give you this week's 500 Words assignment.
I'll collect 'em all up ready for next Thursday so you have plenty of time.
The sentence this week is taken from Mario Vargas Llosa's hilariously oddball romance "Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter".
It is forty words long and should be included in the word count, which leaves you a mere four-hundred and sixty of your own words to come up with.
Simplissimo!
The sentence is:
"But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards."
Hmm … Not so ambiguous as last week.
There is a definite path this one has to take, which should exercise your minds nicely.
I shall expect the unexpected and hopefully not be disappointed.
Right … Get writing!
Today, Small Glass Planet is three years old.
1,008 posts and counting.
Never mind that most of them are drivel.
And hey, tomorrow is Robyn's third Blog Birthday too!
Sheesh! We're getting old.
So anyhoo … It is time for the Official Sentence Setter to give you this week's 500 Words assignment.
I'll collect 'em all up ready for next Thursday so you have plenty of time.
The sentence this week is taken from Mario Vargas Llosa's hilariously oddball romance "Aunt Julia And The Scriptwriter".
It is forty words long and should be included in the word count, which leaves you a mere four-hundred and sixty of your own words to come up with.
Simplissimo!
The sentence is:
"But with the passage of the years Lucho Abril Marroquin was to tell himself that of all the instructive experiences of that morning the most unforgettable had not been either the first or the second accident but what happened afterwards."
Hmm … Not so ambiguous as last week.
There is a definite path this one has to take, which should exercise your minds nicely.
I shall expect the unexpected and hopefully not be disappointed.
Right … Get writing!
Thursday, August 06, 2009
500 Words - III - The Stories
Another amazing response. Woohoo for you!
A huge thank you to everyone who took part this week.
I have posted links to all of the stories below and - as last week - any latecomers' links shall be added as they come in.
Take your time with these stories.
They deserve it.
If you don't have time right now or don't particularly fancy wallowing in a wonderful story-fest, simply take one a day with your coffee breaks, read them slowly as if you're doing it out loud, then have a think and read them again to get the full effect.
It's well worth it. We have some fabulous stories this week!
You all know the rules: take the sentence I have chosen (from a well-known book) and use it as the basis for a 500 word story.
Include the sentence in your word count and please be exact - that's part of the fun.
This week's sentence was taken from Paul Auster's "City Of Glass", from his marvellous "The New York Trilogy", and it was:
"Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him."
That produced a splendid set of short stories from you, of wildly variegated subject matter, all displaying your usual remarkably high standard of creative writing skills.
Here they are, in no particular order:
Prudence: The Stranger
A real heartbreaker of a love story. Just go read it and hope that it wasn't based on personal experience.
Katherine: Untitled
Melville's original Bartleby makes an appearance here in a wry and cleverly worded tale (hey, it's Katherine; what do you expect?) of two men, two rooms (each as horrible as the other), vinyl green seats (with rivets) and a splendid last line.
Delicious.
Robyn: Murphy Takes the Train
A tale of two brothers (one of whom it appears has freckles on his bottom): the eponymous and responsible Murphy and the reckless and irresponsible Bartleby; involving brotherly love, family ties and some bits about trains that made the seven-hour-a-day commuter in me shudder.
Lulu: Preference
One for the bookish among us (and we know who we are); a wonderfully concise slice of the life of little Davey and the awful but perfectly named Juice.
Great ending, too. It had me grinning like a fool.
Kate Isis: Untitled
The scary thoughts of a man who has escaped from a nightmare, on his revisiting the scene.
Kate knows the darkness of such places and the people who work in them and this one made me shiver with horror at what might have happened in the past.
For any who might not know, our Kate has a kind of Queen of the Aussie Dead thing going on and her investigations into and revelations of one of Australia's lost outlaw heroes is soon to become a book, so yay! I can't wait to read it and I'll keep you informed of its progress.
Neetzy: Business At Bartleby's
I won't give away anything here, but Neetzy sure can build the tension when she wants to.
Sheesh! This one had me by the balls, and what a great ending.
That's all I'm going to say other than awarding a gold star for believable vernacular dialogue.
Dive: The Job
Same old same old from the man who has no idea how to write dialogue and so simply doesn't.
More misery; too short sentences clashing with too long sentences, gratuitous abuse of alliteration (way too much of that as always) and a token pun in Latin that - to my great pride - Kate Isis informs me Google credits to me alone.
Special thanks to Ms.M for the nice Auster comment on my story.
So well done, class; the grumpy headmaster is smiling.
Next week's sentence shall be posted tomorrow, on my Third Blog Birthday.
You're all invited, of course.
A huge thank you to everyone who took part this week.
I have posted links to all of the stories below and - as last week - any latecomers' links shall be added as they come in.
Take your time with these stories.
They deserve it.
If you don't have time right now or don't particularly fancy wallowing in a wonderful story-fest, simply take one a day with your coffee breaks, read them slowly as if you're doing it out loud, then have a think and read them again to get the full effect.
It's well worth it. We have some fabulous stories this week!
You all know the rules: take the sentence I have chosen (from a well-known book) and use it as the basis for a 500 word story.
Include the sentence in your word count and please be exact - that's part of the fun.
This week's sentence was taken from Paul Auster's "City Of Glass", from his marvellous "The New York Trilogy", and it was:
"Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him."
That produced a splendid set of short stories from you, of wildly variegated subject matter, all displaying your usual remarkably high standard of creative writing skills.
Here they are, in no particular order:
Prudence: The Stranger
A real heartbreaker of a love story. Just go read it and hope that it wasn't based on personal experience.
Katherine: Untitled
Melville's original Bartleby makes an appearance here in a wry and cleverly worded tale (hey, it's Katherine; what do you expect?) of two men, two rooms (each as horrible as the other), vinyl green seats (with rivets) and a splendid last line.
Delicious.
Robyn: Murphy Takes the Train
A tale of two brothers (one of whom it appears has freckles on his bottom): the eponymous and responsible Murphy and the reckless and irresponsible Bartleby; involving brotherly love, family ties and some bits about trains that made the seven-hour-a-day commuter in me shudder.
Lulu: Preference
One for the bookish among us (and we know who we are); a wonderfully concise slice of the life of little Davey and the awful but perfectly named Juice.
Great ending, too. It had me grinning like a fool.
Kate Isis: Untitled
The scary thoughts of a man who has escaped from a nightmare, on his revisiting the scene.
Kate knows the darkness of such places and the people who work in them and this one made me shiver with horror at what might have happened in the past.
For any who might not know, our Kate has a kind of Queen of the Aussie Dead thing going on and her investigations into and revelations of one of Australia's lost outlaw heroes is soon to become a book, so yay! I can't wait to read it and I'll keep you informed of its progress.
Neetzy: Business At Bartleby's
I won't give away anything here, but Neetzy sure can build the tension when she wants to.
Sheesh! This one had me by the balls, and what a great ending.
That's all I'm going to say other than awarding a gold star for believable vernacular dialogue.
Dive: The Job
Same old same old from the man who has no idea how to write dialogue and so simply doesn't.
More misery; too short sentences clashing with too long sentences, gratuitous abuse of alliteration (way too much of that as always) and a token pun in Latin that - to my great pride - Kate Isis informs me Google credits to me alone.
Special thanks to Ms.M for the nice Auster comment on my story.
So well done, class; the grumpy headmaster is smiling.
Next week's sentence shall be posted tomorrow, on my Third Blog Birthday.
You're all invited, of course.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
500 Words - III: The Job
Here's my story for the Bartleby sentence.
I'll collect everyone's together and post links tomorrow.
The Job
Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him.
The wall.
Always the same.
It stared him down.
Browbeat him.
The early morning sun burned the bricks a violent orange that hurt his eyes but it was not the squinting brilliance that he found intimidating.
It was the purity.
The very blankness.
The effrontery of it all.
It was Bartleby …
For blocks all around, every surface within reach of an outstretched arm was a scribbled tangle of graffiti. Layer after layer of tags and murals and adolescent brag and bluster festooned and swagged across wall and window, shutter and trashcan.
Yet no paint touched Bartleby's wall.
Ever.
The bright bricks briefly dazzled him; a malevolent, blazing tabula rubra. He shaded his eyes against their glare.
The wall was around fifty feet long and went up three storeys. Bartleby's window sat just off centre on the middle floor; a stark, black hole into nothingness.
He couldn't see in.
There were no other windows.
There was no door; at least not out front.
He stood across the street and waited as he always waited in what had once been the doorway of a laundry but was now - like so much else here - utterly derelict; trashed, tagged, beaten and left for dead.
He looked at the payphone.
The only undamaged payphone for ten blocks; it stood at one end of Bartleby's pristine wall.
He waited.
He never had to wait long. Somebody would be behind the window watching him; maybe even Bartleby himself, though somehow he doubted that.
The phone would ring three times and he would leave, returning home to find in his mailbox the familiar A4 manila envelope containing a quantity of cash and Bartleby's enigmatic instructions.
The payphone rang.
He left.
He never walked straight back to his apartment but invariably varied his route in a determined attempt at discontinuity.
Some days he would stop for latte and a bagel; others he would browse the bookstores or linger at the library; maybe buy some groceries.
Today he walked to the nearest Metro station and caught a train to the park.
At this hour there were still empty benches. He sat in the shade of a plane tree, waited for a hefty jogger to pound past and opened his attaché case.
Trying not to think of what would be waiting for him at the apartment he read a couple of chapters of Auster's New York Trilogy.
He liked these stories. He liked to lose himself in the characters' Odyssean wanderings; the repetitive interactions between strangers; the vaguely mysterious yet ultimately futile assignments that ruled their lives.
Much like his own …
The envelope was there in his mailbox.
Back in the apartment he closed the blind against the sun and poured himself a stiff scotch, then sat with the envelope on his lap and reached for his letter-opener.
Taking out the single sheet of paper he began to read.
I'll collect everyone's together and post links tomorrow.
The Job
Then, suddenly, with great clarity and precision, he saw Bartleby's window and the blank brick wall before him.
The wall.
Always the same.
It stared him down.
Browbeat him.
The early morning sun burned the bricks a violent orange that hurt his eyes but it was not the squinting brilliance that he found intimidating.
It was the purity.
The very blankness.
The effrontery of it all.
It was Bartleby …
For blocks all around, every surface within reach of an outstretched arm was a scribbled tangle of graffiti. Layer after layer of tags and murals and adolescent brag and bluster festooned and swagged across wall and window, shutter and trashcan.
Yet no paint touched Bartleby's wall.
Ever.
The bright bricks briefly dazzled him; a malevolent, blazing tabula rubra. He shaded his eyes against their glare.
The wall was around fifty feet long and went up three storeys. Bartleby's window sat just off centre on the middle floor; a stark, black hole into nothingness.
He couldn't see in.
There were no other windows.
There was no door; at least not out front.
He stood across the street and waited as he always waited in what had once been the doorway of a laundry but was now - like so much else here - utterly derelict; trashed, tagged, beaten and left for dead.
He looked at the payphone.
The only undamaged payphone for ten blocks; it stood at one end of Bartleby's pristine wall.
He waited.
He never had to wait long. Somebody would be behind the window watching him; maybe even Bartleby himself, though somehow he doubted that.
The phone would ring three times and he would leave, returning home to find in his mailbox the familiar A4 manila envelope containing a quantity of cash and Bartleby's enigmatic instructions.
The payphone rang.
He left.
He never walked straight back to his apartment but invariably varied his route in a determined attempt at discontinuity.
Some days he would stop for latte and a bagel; others he would browse the bookstores or linger at the library; maybe buy some groceries.
Today he walked to the nearest Metro station and caught a train to the park.
At this hour there were still empty benches. He sat in the shade of a plane tree, waited for a hefty jogger to pound past and opened his attaché case.
Trying not to think of what would be waiting for him at the apartment he read a couple of chapters of Auster's New York Trilogy.
He liked these stories. He liked to lose himself in the characters' Odyssean wanderings; the repetitive interactions between strangers; the vaguely mysterious yet ultimately futile assignments that ruled their lives.
Much like his own …
The envelope was there in his mailbox.
Back in the apartment he closed the blind against the sun and poured himself a stiff scotch, then sat with the envelope on his lap and reached for his letter-opener.
Taking out the single sheet of paper he began to read.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Growing Old Disgracefully
Off to see Phil's new band tonight.
In the meantime, here's the last of the ludicrous rehearsal videos of me playing with Tony's band of very elderly reprobates. Boys grow old but we never grow up.
The only good bit is when it cuts off before the end as my camera ran out of memory. Yay!
I make no excuse for its utter awfulness; in fact I rather revel in it.
In the meantime, here's the last of the ludicrous rehearsal videos of me playing with Tony's band of very elderly reprobates. Boys grow old but we never grow up.
The only good bit is when it cuts off before the end as my camera ran out of memory. Yay!
I make no excuse for its utter awfulness; in fact I rather revel in it.
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