Happy Monday, dear readers! I hope everyone had a great weekend!
As another week gets underway, I’ve got an announcement to make! I’ve moved to a brand new blog! I just felt it was the right thing to do and the right time to do it. You’ll still find the same types of posts as before (but now in a new and pretty cool place-if I may say so myself!) plus more of my writing.
Here is the new address:
http://thewordpirate.blogspot.com/
I hope you’ll join me!! (Pretty please…)
Valerie
A length of antique satin, snipped from the bolt, is fastened in slithering folds around fiberglass-pins gliding easily into visions of my genius.
Fake flesh, pricked.
“OUCH!”
This mannequin is much too realistic.
Ah, apparel design classes. Those poor mannequins suffered many brutish attempts on my part to make lengths of fabric do my bidding. I hope mannequins have forgiving natures.
The weekend challenge This weekend we want you to give us 33 words (exactly) that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia. When looking for a good page to link to in order to help describe the device, we stumbled upon our very own Apoplectic Apostrophes' post on literary devices. Check it out if you need help remembering how onomatopoeia work.
Picture source.
Her voice. Still the sweetest music I’ve heard in more than 17 years. She’s holding an open catalog, pointing to an item on the page. “I saw this, and thought of you!” Her words buzz with excitement, as I take the catalog and see for myself what she’s found. The Thinker’s Thesaurus. “It looks like a cool book!” she offers. “I bet it would be helpful to have when you are writing.” Of course I agree. Of course I buy the book. I don’t even read the reviews. They don’t matter. I buy the book because every time I look at it I’ll be reminded of what an incredible daughter I have.
As if I needed reminding.
And yet, if I had to try to quantify my love for this child, would every blossom on every tree that ever bloomed, is blooming, and will bloom be an adequate expression of the immeasurable?
Page 312 has some really great suggestions.
This piece was inspired by the lovely photo prompt this week over at Write on Edge.
I won’t deny that sometimes I have the sense of humor of a five year old. I thought this “Hose Water” water bottle was extremely funny, both for the way it gently pokes fun at more expensive bottled water, and the fact that when I was a kid, and a thirsty kid at that, refreshment was as close the nearest outdoor spigot.
The best thing about this bottle is that part of the proceeds go towards helping provide clean water to families in India, where the lack of clean water is nothing to joke about.
I found my bottle here:
http://www.modcloth.com/shop/kitchen-gadgets/h2omg-bottle-in-outdoor.
Like a glass of water tipped into the ocean vanishes, our youthful shoulders touch only for a moment.
A masquerade of closeness.
The golden hour light illuminates my smile, while the hurt of your indifference hides in the shadows, just beyond the edges of the frame.
A lifetime in black and white, spent chasing after your affection, comes down to this:
We are blood.
And nothing more.
This piece of fiction is inspired by this week’s prompt at Trifecta.
1
a (1) : the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body (2) : a comparable fluid of an invertebrate
b : a fluid resembling blood
2
: the shedding of blood; also : the taking of life
Remember:
This week's word is blood.
Photo sourced from the internet.
Edith felt like singing. It was good to be home, she rejoiced. Safe in the bosom of her tiny apartment. After the events of the evening, it simply wasn’t possible to overstate the relief she felt at being back in familiar surroundings.
Ethyl’s invitation of a week ago, asking Edith to attend a party she was hosting in honor of Olive, the bride-to-be, sounded exactly like Edith’s cup of tea. A recipe exchange, from the description of it, featuring a dish called beef cake. Edith enjoyed recipe exchanges, and considered herself to be something of an expert in the kitchen. She would take along her metal recipe box, she decided, with plenty of blank recipe cards in case some of the other girls forgot to bring their own.
As the party got underway, though, it became apparent to Edith that she alone had come prepared to discuss ingredients and cooking tips. Furthermore, when Edith cleared her throat and practically shouted above the din of living room conversation to inquire whether beef cake should be filed under Main Dishes or Desserts, she hadn’t expected everyone to find her question so uproariously funny. Thankfully, for red-faced Edith, hoots and whistles trumped laughter as the spotlight shifted away from her and onto the newest arrival-a young man dressed in a modest piece of fur and beating wildly on his chest. And what a chest! Inexplicably, Edith realized she was growling.
Yes, it was good to be home, and a batch of butterscotch brownies would be just the ticket for blotting out all disquieting memories of the party. Besides, Roscoe liked butterscotch brownies. Dear, steady, dependable Roscoe-promising Edith a secure future with his full-time job as a revolving closet salesman. She really should thank her lucky stars…
As she reached for her recipe box, her mind began to wander-leopard clad thoughts wrapping themselves in tantalizing visions of Tarzan. So masculine. So wild and untamed. And so unlike Roscoe. She felt guilty, but she couldn’t help herself-and her fingers, poised over the neat bundles of categorized recipes, ignored Cookies and found the blank cards instead.
Beef Cake. She just might need to expand her repertoire.
Please go here to read this week’s fun prompt!
Once upon a time, I lived with Helen, my grandmother. She liked to tell stories, especially when we were gathered around the dining room table-her recollections of the past seeming to follow most often on the heels of coffee and cake, or a nice ham. After she passed away, I was lucky to inherit not her dining room table, but her desk, where she’d often sat, writing letters or paying bills. I like to think her spirit still resides in that desk, the ancient worn surfaces of wood and brass guiding my thoughts as I write my own stories.
On my laptop…
I think my grandma would approve.
I’m linking up with my friend Melissa, today-writing about the place where I write.
