Sorry, but the Marvel Comics version is a little too sophisticated for me.
Will O'Ban
NEW! .4K Writing Competition: A Season to Be Brief
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Will O'B
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Ah . . . the avant-garde. I admit when I constructed those two pieces they were done as a joke. Now, upon reflection, I really don't know about that anymore. Assuming that the earth was hit by the big one and blasted to smithereens, what would be left of the big blue marble and its assorted inhabitants? Why nothing of course. And how best to evoke the state of nothingness than with *nothing*. For the writer to say, "There was nothing," is in fact something, and this, in my mind, does not convey the proper feeling following "the big KA-POW."
Sorry, but the Marvel Comics version is a little too sophisticated for me.
Will O'Ban
Sorry, but the Marvel Comics version is a little too sophisticated for me.
Will O'Ban
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!
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Sunnywindo
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- Location: Earth
Okay, enough lurking.... 
Entry:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just A Minute
The clock read a minute ‘til midnight.
Gideon felt tired, empty. He pulled up off the floor where he’d knelt searching for answers, collapsing into the comforter on the couch, hoping sleep would overtake him before he thought too much.
Drifting, drifting... then dust filled his nostrils. Dust? He felt as though he were walking, compelled to even, but how could that be? A woman’s scream brought him to his senses with a jerk.
Before him lay a vast riverbed, the banks just shadows in the distance through a dirty orange haze. People, countless thousands it seemed, were streaming in the same direction he was. Chains... chains around their ankles, wrists or both; chains weighting necks, waists... even trailing through the dust behind. Ghastly wails rose from the crowd, interspersed with cursing and shouting.
Yet some had no chains. These paused to talk with those along the way, trying to give encouragement and comfort but they were unable to loosen the fetters of those around them. To his horror, Gideon had his own chains, binding hand and foot, icy metal cutting painfully into his flesh as he shuffled along.
For what seemed like hours he struggled in confusion through the choking wasteland, praying for relief. Why and how he had come to be there, he didn’t know, only that he had to keep moving forward.
An earsplitting howl of laughter pierced the air. A trim, well dressed man strolled downstream, mocking and tormenting those along his path. He almost passed Gideon, but suddenly he turned, pausing in consideration.
“You”, he purred. “Ah yes... I remember you. Gideon. I knew all your weaknesses before you even remember yourself. I know you reeeeally well.”
Gideon’s blood ran cold, his heart pounded in his ears as the man stepped closer. Frozen in place, he couldn’t see anything but those eyes; two dreadful, inky black pools which pierced his very core.
He was repulsed by the hot breath on his neck as the man leaned forward, hissing into his ear: “You know, you can take those things off anytime you want to.”
“But you won’t... you won’t!” he cackled loudly, reeling away into the dusty haze.
Gideon bolted awake... actually astonished to find himself back on his couch. Trembling, he flipped the comforter away from his face and checked the time.
The clock read a minute ‘til midnight.
Entry:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just A Minute
The clock read a minute ‘til midnight.
Gideon felt tired, empty. He pulled up off the floor where he’d knelt searching for answers, collapsing into the comforter on the couch, hoping sleep would overtake him before he thought too much.
Drifting, drifting... then dust filled his nostrils. Dust? He felt as though he were walking, compelled to even, but how could that be? A woman’s scream brought him to his senses with a jerk.
Before him lay a vast riverbed, the banks just shadows in the distance through a dirty orange haze. People, countless thousands it seemed, were streaming in the same direction he was. Chains... chains around their ankles, wrists or both; chains weighting necks, waists... even trailing through the dust behind. Ghastly wails rose from the crowd, interspersed with cursing and shouting.
Yet some had no chains. These paused to talk with those along the way, trying to give encouragement and comfort but they were unable to loosen the fetters of those around them. To his horror, Gideon had his own chains, binding hand and foot, icy metal cutting painfully into his flesh as he shuffled along.
For what seemed like hours he struggled in confusion through the choking wasteland, praying for relief. Why and how he had come to be there, he didn’t know, only that he had to keep moving forward.
An earsplitting howl of laughter pierced the air. A trim, well dressed man strolled downstream, mocking and tormenting those along his path. He almost passed Gideon, but suddenly he turned, pausing in consideration.
“You”, he purred. “Ah yes... I remember you. Gideon. I knew all your weaknesses before you even remember yourself. I know you reeeeally well.”
Gideon’s blood ran cold, his heart pounded in his ears as the man stepped closer. Frozen in place, he couldn’t see anything but those eyes; two dreadful, inky black pools which pierced his very core.
He was repulsed by the hot breath on his neck as the man leaned forward, hissing into his ear: “You know, you can take those things off anytime you want to.”
“But you won’t... you won’t!” he cackled loudly, reeling away into the dusty haze.
Gideon bolted awake... actually astonished to find himself back on his couch. Trembling, he flipped the comforter away from his face and checked the time.
The clock read a minute ‘til midnight.
'I wish it need not have happend in my time,' said Frodo.
'So do I,' said Gandalf, 'and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.'
-LOTR-
'So do I,' said Gandalf, 'and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.'
-LOTR-
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john swinton
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john swinton
- Posts: 82
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ok forget the 401 words, i have turned 2 into 1.
This story is a bid depressing and tears wellde up in my eyes when i wrote parts of it.
please note it is my birthday on the 29th.
anyway, here it is:
ENTRY
______________________________________________________
Leaving
The sun was setting as Eddie strode out of the school gates. The uneven road wasn’t busy, the busses had all left long ago, full of all the people Eddie hated. Eddie hated everyone. What no one knew was why he hated them. They had no idea why he continually stormed out of lessons, went into fits of rage and threw large objects at people. They had asked him why he did those things, what upset him. They had forced him to see a psychiatrist, but that didn’t work. They tried to punish him, give him detentions for everything. This just made it worse, for Eddie liked to be alone and away from the people he hated, loathed, despised.
As he walked, Eddie’s shadow lengthened in front of him. He wished for the millionth time that he could leave. He felt he needed to leave. What Eddie wanted to leave he was unsure of; his school, his town, his life.
Eddie often thought of suicide, it was drastic, but it would end everything. So far in is 15 years of life he had refrained from killing himself for one reason. The belief that one day he would be free. Free from the systems that tried to hold him, free from the people that tried to hurt him, free from the minds that tried to push him down. In 2 days he would be 15. Earlier in life, when he was still at the orphanage, he had resolved to top himself at 10. When his 10th birthday came and Eddie still hadn’t found what he needed, he couldn’t just kill himself. He had just been adopted and thought things would change. How wrong he was.
Eddie was turning into his street now, he shuffled past the place he first got stabbed, and he shuffled up to his gate. Putting a thin hand on the rusted latch he pressed it down and the iron gate squeaked open on ancient hinges.
Two days later, a man came home to find his adopted son lying on the floor with a bottle of pills in his hand.
What Eddie had looked for 15 years was love. That simple 4 lettered word that means so much to people. He had never received any, only giving it away until he was a hollow shell. Devoid of any good emotion, only filled with hatred, evil and anger.
This story is a bid depressing and tears wellde up in my eyes when i wrote parts of it.
please note it is my birthday on the 29th.
anyway, here it is:
ENTRY
______________________________________________________
Leaving
The sun was setting as Eddie strode out of the school gates. The uneven road wasn’t busy, the busses had all left long ago, full of all the people Eddie hated. Eddie hated everyone. What no one knew was why he hated them. They had no idea why he continually stormed out of lessons, went into fits of rage and threw large objects at people. They had asked him why he did those things, what upset him. They had forced him to see a psychiatrist, but that didn’t work. They tried to punish him, give him detentions for everything. This just made it worse, for Eddie liked to be alone and away from the people he hated, loathed, despised.
As he walked, Eddie’s shadow lengthened in front of him. He wished for the millionth time that he could leave. He felt he needed to leave. What Eddie wanted to leave he was unsure of; his school, his town, his life.
Eddie often thought of suicide, it was drastic, but it would end everything. So far in is 15 years of life he had refrained from killing himself for one reason. The belief that one day he would be free. Free from the systems that tried to hold him, free from the people that tried to hurt him, free from the minds that tried to push him down. In 2 days he would be 15. Earlier in life, when he was still at the orphanage, he had resolved to top himself at 10. When his 10th birthday came and Eddie still hadn’t found what he needed, he couldn’t just kill himself. He had just been adopted and thought things would change. How wrong he was.
Eddie was turning into his street now, he shuffled past the place he first got stabbed, and he shuffled up to his gate. Putting a thin hand on the rusted latch he pressed it down and the iron gate squeaked open on ancient hinges.
Two days later, a man came home to find his adopted son lying on the floor with a bottle of pills in his hand.
What Eddie had looked for 15 years was love. That simple 4 lettered word that means so much to people. He had never received any, only giving it away until he was a hollow shell. Devoid of any good emotion, only filled with hatred, evil and anger.
* # ~ WHISTLE TILL YOU DROP ~ # *
(or your lungs colapse!)
John
(or your lungs colapse!)
John
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Bloomfield
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waltcamp45
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Another entry to add to the pile. . . .
###
Dissolution
“Should we mention sex?”
“Or not,” she said. “I don’t care.”
“Neither do I, it’s just....” I was mumbling and sounding apologetic. Jesus, assert yourself, I thought. Nora was mostly responsible for this anyway.
“We need to be on the same page.”
She turned in her seat, looked at me squarely: “I don’t care.”
Nora stared, but I didn’t take my eyes off the road. Not letting her bully me into making eye contact and thereby acknowledging the gravity, the finality of her remark was a small moral victory.
“Whatever,” she huffed, turning away and looking out her window. “This is stupid ... pointless.”
“But this was your suggestion,” I shot back.
“Jesus, Daniel.”
Not that you’d know it, but Nora’s very articulate. And it comes naturally. Not so with me. As Nora has rightly pointed out—more than once and not always privately—my speech is affected. I too often use what she calls “five-dollar words,” words like affected. But sometimes those words are right on the money: affected aptly described our relationship.
We’d been dating for nearly two years ... and we’d bottomed out. Sometimes you reach a point where you know you won’t (and don’t want to) spend your lives together. Yet you feel duty bound to try to salvage the relationship.
Nora had suggested couples therapy, and driving to Dr. Miller’s office while discussing—or, not discussing—what aspects of our lives should be off limits, I realized her suggestion might have been as half-hearted as my agreement. Maybe all you can salvage is the situation, and maybe that’s enough.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I said, making a sudden, sharp right off 1st Avenue and heading down toward the waterfront. She sat silently.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Fine. If you want to give up, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”
“No, there’s not.”
Turning my head toward her slightly, I glimpsed a look of real tenderness—the first in a long while.
“Fine,” she said.
###
###
Dissolution
“Should we mention sex?”
“Or not,” she said. “I don’t care.”
“Neither do I, it’s just....” I was mumbling and sounding apologetic. Jesus, assert yourself, I thought. Nora was mostly responsible for this anyway.
“We need to be on the same page.”
She turned in her seat, looked at me squarely: “I don’t care.”
Nora stared, but I didn’t take my eyes off the road. Not letting her bully me into making eye contact and thereby acknowledging the gravity, the finality of her remark was a small moral victory.
“Whatever,” she huffed, turning away and looking out her window. “This is stupid ... pointless.”
“But this was your suggestion,” I shot back.
“Jesus, Daniel.”
Not that you’d know it, but Nora’s very articulate. And it comes naturally. Not so with me. As Nora has rightly pointed out—more than once and not always privately—my speech is affected. I too often use what she calls “five-dollar words,” words like affected. But sometimes those words are right on the money: affected aptly described our relationship.
We’d been dating for nearly two years ... and we’d bottomed out. Sometimes you reach a point where you know you won’t (and don’t want to) spend your lives together. Yet you feel duty bound to try to salvage the relationship.
Nora had suggested couples therapy, and driving to Dr. Miller’s office while discussing—or, not discussing—what aspects of our lives should be off limits, I realized her suggestion might have been as half-hearted as my agreement. Maybe all you can salvage is the situation, and maybe that’s enough.
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I said, making a sudden, sharp right off 1st Avenue and heading down toward the waterfront. She sat silently.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Fine. If you want to give up, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”
“No, there’s not.”
Turning my head toward her slightly, I glimpsed a look of real tenderness—the first in a long while.
“Fine,” she said.
###
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jakeG
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I'll delurk to post an entry. Not the clear, succinct prose of Will O'B, but it's what I do (many words, that is).
The Cracked 'ambudu
Joachin and Ilsa sat glumly regarding the shards spelling the end of life as they knew it. Were it dinner or a favored vase on the floor, they both would've been cheerfully rationalizing "at least it wasn't me!" But this was Great-grand's 'ambudu, and it would never sing again, unless as bits of a wind chime, or briefly, crackling in the stove.
Gramma stumped in, cane matching hard heels' raps. She just stared morosely, slumped, and more slowly stumped back down the hall.
Ilsa thought "Never again, she and Gramp, 'n Tante Mizzi, 'n Spinster Anna, playing the Reply, on Remembrance night." Joachin replied "Right. It won't be the same." She must've spoken aloud, or else her heavy thoughts were just obvious. No more the four oldsters driving the bass line at village dances. No more near-subsonic melody when the men marched off to militia drills.
Siiiiigh.
"What you twerps mopin' over now!?"
It was Gramp's normal cheery bellow, hearty throat at odds with rheumy eyes. Pointing, Ilsa trembled "It's busted, Gramp! 'Nuncle Roja dropped and broke it!"
Gozpadj the senior bent down to peer at the dozen-plus fragments, straightened as much as ever he did, and barked down the hall "Ro', get in here you bumble!"
The twins' 'nuncle edged into the room. "Yeah, da, it were me. I'm really sorr--"
"What fer, six-thumbs!?" Gramp roared amiably. "Thing's older'n me, 'course it's fragile!"
"Was fragile, Gramp", Joachin quietly spoke up. "It's done now."
"NAAH! Busted up, but so was I, in the war, 'n lookit me now!" The patiarch stood almost straight, and thumped his chest. And coughed, a little.
"Ilsey, weren't you 'n Joey wishin' to get in on the music, without me 'n Gram having to die off? Here's your chance, and that pack of jackal pups you run with!"
Hope peeked out of Ilsa's brown eyes. "What've Jiko and Ronna and Kay to do with it, Gramp? It's splinters!"
"Never mind. Just you go get the pack of 'em, 'n Ro, you run get your Mum's sewing box..."
The twins bolted.
-----------
Saturday night the village 'ambudu crew was nine instead of four. The brittle bamboo three-meter serpentine now was bound with cords, twisted tight by small, willing hands. Fiddle, flute, and reborn 'ambudu -- and Ilsa's left hand uncovering the remaining crack just so, providing Goulash Reel's g-sharp. Better'n before!
******************
An 'ambudu's an instrument I devised (on paper) for a geofiction game I play. Edgeblown mouthpiece like a digeridu, or fipple-mouthpiece like that of a tinwhistle. Six holes, also like a tinwhistle. Mouth-blown, mouth-inflated bag-blown, or bellows-inflated bag-blown. Not as wiggly as a serpent; maybe one zig and a zag. The holes are big enough to take whole hands to seal. Players -- typically three or four -- have to coordinate better than handbell ringers. Sub-contrabass kind of range, down to subsonic. My daughter immediately said “Oh, like the big thing the whole bunch of characters play in Grinch…” There’s nothing new under the sun…
JakeG
The Cracked 'ambudu
Joachin and Ilsa sat glumly regarding the shards spelling the end of life as they knew it. Were it dinner or a favored vase on the floor, they both would've been cheerfully rationalizing "at least it wasn't me!" But this was Great-grand's 'ambudu, and it would never sing again, unless as bits of a wind chime, or briefly, crackling in the stove.
Gramma stumped in, cane matching hard heels' raps. She just stared morosely, slumped, and more slowly stumped back down the hall.
Ilsa thought "Never again, she and Gramp, 'n Tante Mizzi, 'n Spinster Anna, playing the Reply, on Remembrance night." Joachin replied "Right. It won't be the same." She must've spoken aloud, or else her heavy thoughts were just obvious. No more the four oldsters driving the bass line at village dances. No more near-subsonic melody when the men marched off to militia drills.
Siiiiigh.
"What you twerps mopin' over now!?"
It was Gramp's normal cheery bellow, hearty throat at odds with rheumy eyes. Pointing, Ilsa trembled "It's busted, Gramp! 'Nuncle Roja dropped and broke it!"
Gozpadj the senior bent down to peer at the dozen-plus fragments, straightened as much as ever he did, and barked down the hall "Ro', get in here you bumble!"
The twins' 'nuncle edged into the room. "Yeah, da, it were me. I'm really sorr--"
"What fer, six-thumbs!?" Gramp roared amiably. "Thing's older'n me, 'course it's fragile!"
"Was fragile, Gramp", Joachin quietly spoke up. "It's done now."
"NAAH! Busted up, but so was I, in the war, 'n lookit me now!" The patiarch stood almost straight, and thumped his chest. And coughed, a little.
"Ilsey, weren't you 'n Joey wishin' to get in on the music, without me 'n Gram having to die off? Here's your chance, and that pack of jackal pups you run with!"
Hope peeked out of Ilsa's brown eyes. "What've Jiko and Ronna and Kay to do with it, Gramp? It's splinters!"
"Never mind. Just you go get the pack of 'em, 'n Ro, you run get your Mum's sewing box..."
The twins bolted.
-----------
Saturday night the village 'ambudu crew was nine instead of four. The brittle bamboo three-meter serpentine now was bound with cords, twisted tight by small, willing hands. Fiddle, flute, and reborn 'ambudu -- and Ilsa's left hand uncovering the remaining crack just so, providing Goulash Reel's g-sharp. Better'n before!
******************
An 'ambudu's an instrument I devised (on paper) for a geofiction game I play. Edgeblown mouthpiece like a digeridu, or fipple-mouthpiece like that of a tinwhistle. Six holes, also like a tinwhistle. Mouth-blown, mouth-inflated bag-blown, or bellows-inflated bag-blown. Not as wiggly as a serpent; maybe one zig and a zag. The holes are big enough to take whole hands to seal. Players -- typically three or four -- have to coordinate better than handbell ringers. Sub-contrabass kind of range, down to subsonic. My daughter immediately said “Oh, like the big thing the whole bunch of characters play in Grinch…” There’s nothing new under the sun
…JakeG
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FJohnSharp
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- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
I tried to write a story in under 100 words once for a contest. It didn't win. Here it is.
Ice Capade
(95 words)
He drives the Zamboni before school. Makes the ice clean, smooth.
She never notices.
He wrings his brain to think of a line.
She glides and spins and jumps so close, a million miles away.
He reads skating books, culling helpful information. He braves rejection once and asks about forms.
She passes him to talk to skater boys.
He listens. Hears them talk about school and music and pizza. He asks about school, music, pizza.
She needs a drink of water.
He waits on the Zamboni.
She falls nearby.
He asks about her.
She smiles.
(ends)
Ice Capade
(95 words)
He drives the Zamboni before school. Makes the ice clean, smooth.
She never notices.
He wrings his brain to think of a line.
She glides and spins and jumps so close, a million miles away.
He reads skating books, culling helpful information. He braves rejection once and asks about forms.
She passes him to talk to skater boys.
He listens. Hears them talk about school and music and pizza. He asks about school, music, pizza.
She needs a drink of water.
He waits on the Zamboni.
She falls nearby.
He asks about her.
She smiles.
(ends)
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
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Flyingcursor
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- Tell us something.: This is the first sentence. This is the second of the recommended sentences intended to thwart spam its. This is a third, bonus sentence!
- Location: Portsmouth, VA1, "the States"
True Story:
My wife's best friend and her husband recently returned from a 25th aniversary trip to Spain. They had a marvelous time, and told us about the quaint small towns with their narrow streets, the magnificent meals accompanied with dishes full of ripe olives, and the friendly people. They only had one problem. The husband got a small cold, and they had a hard time communicating with the Spanish pharmacist because they didn't know the Spanish word for "antihistamine". No words they tried broke through the language barrier.
"How did you finally communicate?", I asked.
"I kept pointing to my nose!" he replied.
"Gosh!", I said. "It's lucky you didn't have hemmoroids!"
My wife's best friend and her husband recently returned from a 25th aniversary trip to Spain. They had a marvelous time, and told us about the quaint small towns with their narrow streets, the magnificent meals accompanied with dishes full of ripe olives, and the friendly people. They only had one problem. The husband got a small cold, and they had a hard time communicating with the Spanish pharmacist because they didn't know the Spanish word for "antihistamine". No words they tried broke through the language barrier.
"How did you finally communicate?", I asked.
"I kept pointing to my nose!" he replied.
"Gosh!", I said. "It's lucky you didn't have hemmoroids!"
My entry of utter jibberish.
Four hundred words or less, not more! Not one more! Not four hundred and one, like the four hundred series of highways in Ontario, the 401, that have separated lanes going in each direction one way, each two by two, which totals four lanes becoming sixteen when in T.O. Toronto being the number one city in On-tar-ri-ari-i-o, with four hundred languages all spoken as one but not four hundred and one.
“Which of the four hundred do you speak?” “Let’s see we don’t speak that one, or that one, nor that one and not those, or this one!” “We speak one language but not any of those four hundred,” said the four Huns dreading that they wouldn’t be understood, standing over the bureau rat, who was wordless with awe at the Huns glaring at him!
Can you read these four hundred words, said the bureau rat, as the five Huns dreading the thought looked on pondering their next move, readying the bureau rat for being dead.
Five Huns read and won, killing one, so that there are only four Huns that read that one language more or less, while the other was dead. While reading for the hungry ones, one Hun, not four, hunted, painted red, ending up cooking smores for four hundred Huns while they snored no less!
Fore cried the Huns as one, not including the dead one, as four hundred Huns won a trip to wonderland that was Rome, not using the four hundred and one highway more or less, wondering why it wasn’t built yet, four hundred and one years and more in the future. Swords not words were used, with four Huns dreading the smores they ate last night, bent double screaming less is more!
Four hundred hungry Huns red with words and swords, swung each at the four hundred hung arians, while the Moors, four hundred dreadful worlds away more or less, didn’t know of the four Huns that danced the dreaded Hungarians red in the sun after eating four hundred smores, having a bowel attack rather than a vowel profusion when talking with the bureau rat, back many words ago, at the end of the four hundred AND ONE highway.
Four hundred words ago, four Huns read, with one dead, that more smores, are no less than having no smores at all, when heading home from Rome.
MarkB
Four hundred words or less, not more! Not one more! Not four hundred and one, like the four hundred series of highways in Ontario, the 401, that have separated lanes going in each direction one way, each two by two, which totals four lanes becoming sixteen when in T.O. Toronto being the number one city in On-tar-ri-ari-i-o, with four hundred languages all spoken as one but not four hundred and one.
“Which of the four hundred do you speak?” “Let’s see we don’t speak that one, or that one, nor that one and not those, or this one!” “We speak one language but not any of those four hundred,” said the four Huns dreading that they wouldn’t be understood, standing over the bureau rat, who was wordless with awe at the Huns glaring at him!
Can you read these four hundred words, said the bureau rat, as the five Huns dreading the thought looked on pondering their next move, readying the bureau rat for being dead.
Five Huns read and won, killing one, so that there are only four Huns that read that one language more or less, while the other was dead. While reading for the hungry ones, one Hun, not four, hunted, painted red, ending up cooking smores for four hundred Huns while they snored no less!
Fore cried the Huns as one, not including the dead one, as four hundred Huns won a trip to wonderland that was Rome, not using the four hundred and one highway more or less, wondering why it wasn’t built yet, four hundred and one years and more in the future. Swords not words were used, with four Huns dreading the smores they ate last night, bent double screaming less is more!
Four hundred hungry Huns red with words and swords, swung each at the four hundred hung arians, while the Moors, four hundred dreadful worlds away more or less, didn’t know of the four Huns that danced the dreaded Hungarians red in the sun after eating four hundred smores, having a bowel attack rather than a vowel profusion when talking with the bureau rat, back many words ago, at the end of the four hundred AND ONE highway.
Four hundred words ago, four Huns read, with one dead, that more smores, are no less than having no smores at all, when heading home from Rome.
MarkB
Everybody has a photographic memory. Some just don't have film.
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lyrick
- Posts: 188
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- Location: The U S and A
Truth is stranger than fiction. I wrote this before reading any of the other entries, only to discover that I wasn’t the only one with blueberries on the brain. This entry is a true story, slightly embellished. Blueberries rule.
Blueberry Pancakes
Yummy...blueberry pancakes. My dad set the plate of hot, steaming, blueberry pancakes on the table in front of me. This was a specialty he made twice a year. I hunched over and started eating with sheer pleasure. Blueberry pancakes swimming in maple syrup and butter. As my fork pressed down on the pancake, a mixture of syrup and butter oozed to the surface and shimmered iridescently.
I stared at the blueberries nestled in the pancake. Blue juice spread outward from each berry, making it look like a tiny blue planet haloed in a soft blue light, surrounded by the little pockmarks left by the popped bubbles that a properly cooked pancake will have on the surface. It was a miniature solar system, multiple blue planets floating in front of a mottled, golden-brown sun. I became lost, completely absorbed in the island universe floating on my plate. My mind expanded beyond the boundaries of our little kitchen.
The clatter of my brother's fork on the table jolted me out of this reverie, and I returned to the moment, my eyes lingering on the color of the blueberries. The blue was a natural blue, of course, unlike FD&C Blue #1, which would later be banned by the FDA for causing cancer in laboratory rats, and nothing like the currently popular FD&C Blue #43, or any of the artificial blue colorings in between #1 and #43. It was a real blue.
My mind was free of any thoughts, though, as it hadn't been filled yet with the useless trivia of the adult mind, and I simply enjoyed the blueness, and the stickiness, and the sweet, oily sensation as I bit into each piece of pancake, releasing the maple syrup and butter mixture into my mouth and the sweet aroma into my nose. It was a moment to be treasured.
A year later, on Easter Sunday, in a hot, muggy church full of hundreds of people dressed in their finest, I vomited blueberry pancakes all over the pew, triggering a sympathetic reaction in my brother, who vomited his blueberry pancakes on the floor. My embarrassed mother, head down, led us out of the church.
I never ate blueberry pancakes again. A beautiful piece of my childhood was lost forever.
Blueberry Pancakes
Yummy...blueberry pancakes. My dad set the plate of hot, steaming, blueberry pancakes on the table in front of me. This was a specialty he made twice a year. I hunched over and started eating with sheer pleasure. Blueberry pancakes swimming in maple syrup and butter. As my fork pressed down on the pancake, a mixture of syrup and butter oozed to the surface and shimmered iridescently.
I stared at the blueberries nestled in the pancake. Blue juice spread outward from each berry, making it look like a tiny blue planet haloed in a soft blue light, surrounded by the little pockmarks left by the popped bubbles that a properly cooked pancake will have on the surface. It was a miniature solar system, multiple blue planets floating in front of a mottled, golden-brown sun. I became lost, completely absorbed in the island universe floating on my plate. My mind expanded beyond the boundaries of our little kitchen.
The clatter of my brother's fork on the table jolted me out of this reverie, and I returned to the moment, my eyes lingering on the color of the blueberries. The blue was a natural blue, of course, unlike FD&C Blue #1, which would later be banned by the FDA for causing cancer in laboratory rats, and nothing like the currently popular FD&C Blue #43, or any of the artificial blue colorings in between #1 and #43. It was a real blue.
My mind was free of any thoughts, though, as it hadn't been filled yet with the useless trivia of the adult mind, and I simply enjoyed the blueness, and the stickiness, and the sweet, oily sensation as I bit into each piece of pancake, releasing the maple syrup and butter mixture into my mouth and the sweet aroma into my nose. It was a moment to be treasured.
A year later, on Easter Sunday, in a hot, muggy church full of hundreds of people dressed in their finest, I vomited blueberry pancakes all over the pew, triggering a sympathetic reaction in my brother, who vomited his blueberry pancakes on the floor. My embarrassed mother, head down, led us out of the church.
I never ate blueberry pancakes again. A beautiful piece of my childhood was lost forever.
Love...Serve...Remember
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Bloomfield
- Posts: 8225
- Joined: Mon Oct 15, 2001 6:00 pm
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- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
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Contest closed. Please don't go back and edit your entries.
Thank you all for contributiting and reading. I am amazed and delighted by the variety and quality of the entries. It will be a tough one to judge, and if I weren't so utterly arbitrary, bribable, and fickle I don't think I could sleep at nights.
I'll post a voting thread with the finalists soon.
Thank you all for contributiting and reading. I am amazed and delighted by the variety and quality of the entries. It will be a tough one to judge, and if I weren't so utterly arbitrary, bribable, and fickle I don't think I could sleep at nights.
I'll post a voting thread with the finalists soon.
/Bloomfield
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FJohnSharp
- Posts: 3050
- Joined: Thu May 30, 2002 6:00 pm
- antispam: No
- Please enter the next number in sequence: 8
- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
Let the bribes begin.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
