Writing Holiday Sans Internet

I’ve just come home today from a so called writing holiday, that is, a week of wonderful writing with peachy people. So I’ve been writing a lot, both by doing some small exercises and by working on something longer. If any of you want to (figuratively) kick yourselves into productivity, I can highly recommend it 🙂

However, I did not have access to the internet, so you have not been able to see my productivity. I’ll upload two texts, one for Wednesday and one for Friday, as soon as I’m done with this.

A Frame

(Credit: LIFE)

(Credit: LIFE)

Don’t you feel cold?

Will words warm you?

Will they flesh you out, give you substance?

I’ve heard it’s not a good idea to depend too much on others to define oneself,

But I understand that it must be tough just being a frame,

Waiting for someone to put in their picture.

These are my parents, and this is my childhood sweetheart whom I never saw again after the third grade.

Du you like my picture?

This is the cat I found, but was not allowed to keep.

And this is the old lady who lived next door and always waved at me, when I went to school.

Sometimes I pretended she was my grandmother.

Sometimes I pretended she was a witch and her wave was a curse.

Does this make you more you?

More me?

Does this make you more someone?

Who are you?

I’ve Never Written …

I don't see it yet. I hope I'm getting close.

I don’t see it yet. I hope I’m getting close.

In search of inspiration, I considered today some stories that I’ve not written.

I’ve never written a story about Bill Gates and how he is an evil mastermind taking over the world.

I’ve never written a story with a protagonist thinking he’s an apple.

I’ve never written a story about the stain on my trousers and how it came from a substance very much like tooth paste dropping through a worm hole and leeching on to my trousers just as I was crossing the road.

I’ve never written a story about a Norwegian, fifty year old, male ballet dancer who has retired to become a shoemaker in Iceland, but who is constantly visited by the ghost of H. P. Lovecraft.

I thought I would never write any of those stories, but now in a small way I have.




‘The biggest downside of time travel,’ he told the small mammal, ‘is the utter hopelessness if you get stuck sometime. Because you know that if anyone ever makes sense of your notes and decides to save you, they could have saved you within a week of your getting stuck. When I say a week, I mean of course from your own perspective. The perspective of the person who is stuck.’ He scratched his beard. ‘It’s been 23 days.’

A heavy thumping approached and the mammal squeaked and ran down a hole.

‘Of course it could be that they want to teach me a lesson and will not rescue me until day 24. Also, being eaten would probably be painful.’ With a sigh, he ran to live another day.

Chewing Gum

PinK, wHy So pINk??

Pink. (Photo credit: sometimes rains in JUN)

My eyelid has developed a tic. I rest my head on my hand in an attempt to stop it and flash a forced smile across the table at Felicia. She continues her monologue with accompanying noisy, sticky chews on her chewing gum. I eat a chip and as the salt spreads through my mouth and my foot taps the floor silently, I recall the conversation I had with my cousin earlier.

‘It’ll be fun,’ she said, ‘just show her around town,’ she said, ‘you’ve been single for rather long,’ she said.

A lump of pink between Felicia’s teeth. Also, she asked me to be nice. I take a deep breath.

‘Felicia’s been through a lot,’ she told me and I really do not want to make it any worse for her. There is a particularly wet chew from Felicia.

‘Just spit it out, for Christ’s sake!’


English: A swan afloat

A swan afloat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Swans have been grotesquely overused as a symbol of elegance and beauty. It puzzles me. Although they are pretty at a distance their cries of alarm are very unpleasant and the swan that lies at my feet, its neck in the shape of a ‘Z’ as drawn by a young child, looks dishevelled at best.

English: Dead swan near Ballyskeagh A dead swa...

Dead swan. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A to Z Challenge Completed!

AtoZchallengeWednesday I published a Z-text so I’m done with my own version of the A to Z challenge. Woop woop woop! (\/)(:,,,:)(\/)

This means I’ll be going back to stories inspired by the 100-challenge, pictures, overheard dialogues or anything else that might spark a good idea. But I won’t go back to regular writing empty-handed.

This A to Z challenge has forced me to use new words and sometimes old words in new ways. I highly recommend that all you writers out there try it. Perhaps not from A to Z, but at least from A to G. It’s a great vocabulary expander. For example, I now know that an umbra can also mean an uninvited guest brought along by an invited guest and vademecum can be used about any token a person always carries with her.

Have you found any good writing exercises recently?

An Umbra

English: Man riding giraffe unicycle

Man riding giraffe unicycle (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


The entertainment was all urchins on unicycles and useless university students uttering ugly ulcerous speeches as unimportant as the ullage of the flower vases.

But then our host’s uncle arrived at the party with an umbra and that our host took umbrage at.

Very much so in fact.

It made him unable to repress the urge of mentioning the unusual voluminousness of the uninvited guest’s “udder”. That was the word he used.

The ursine uncle did not let the utterance go unanswered and unconcerned with the consequences hinted that his nephew’s exam results might be undeserved.

An uppercut from the nephew was the result and a most undignified struggle ensued.

When the nephew proved the underdog and fell unconscious, the uncle was ushered from the room.

The big bosomed umbra stayed until dawn.

The Terrible Terrace

English: Panthera tigris sumatran subspecies. ...

English: Panthera tigris sumatran subspecies. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Their terrace is touched with the taint of their terrible taste. Tacky terracotta tigers tread between tiny tepees in the tulip boxes. These are tightly packed on the edge of the toffee coloured tiles which should only be found in toilets from twenty to thirty years ago and then only because people did not know better at the time.

Their thousand times enlarged game of tiddly-wink might tickle the fancy a trifle, but it would hardly tease forth tears if the terrace in its totality was terminated.

I’ve tried to tell them tons of times, but apparently to add to their lack of tact, they have trashed their telephone, and I don’t do telegraphs which seems to be the only other type of telecommunication they receive.

It seems that I just have to try to make my trees grow taller, before I am tempted to tear it all to shreds or worse tip off a tabloid.

Flash Fiction Flight

Grandpa's Fiddle

Fiddle (Photo credit: Emily OS)

‘Flimflam and fiddlesticks!’ he finds the phrase fantastic and flings it forth at least fifty times for each fortnight.

‘Fie!’ she says, ‘it’s true.’

‘Is that a fact?’


‘For real?’


‘For real,’ he whispers.


Flabbergasted he fumbles with his fiddle and his faculties frantically fly to a place they where they feel safer, the frieze.

‘You forget yourself,’ she slaps his cheeks, ‘we must flee.’

He wakes from his fear induced astonishment and fidgets with his collar for five seconds. Then his fright becomes fully fledged panic and, fiddle under the arm, he begins his faltering run for freedom.


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