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Blogging Sounds for 3WW

Published August 29, 2012 by Ms. Nine

Weekly Writing Challenge from The Daily Post at WordPress.com : blog sounds

 

3WW prompt: free, affair, expectation

Free from twitter beeps

An affair with the keyboard

Tap tap tap tap

Hummmm of  a hard drive

Scratching muse

An expectation

Anticipation of a post

Like dinner hot on the table

Open House for 3WW

Published August 22, 2012 by Ms. Nine

3WW prompts: amuse, excite, sincere

The voices in the hall expanded like air in a balloon.

“Bonjour, everyone, bonjour,” she announced to the parents and students waiting by her door.  “My name is Madame Jolivette.  I look forward to meeting each of you. Come in.  Make yourselves at home.”

Madame’s arms gestured a sincere invitation as pupils and parents filed through the doorway.  Faded posters of La Tour Eiffel, La Seine, and L’Arc de Triomphe paired with charts of conjugated verbs wallpapered the room.  She sighed.  This may be my last Open House. When I retire I’ll go to Paris and stroll along L’Avenue des Champs-Élysées…

A chubby boy wearing a collared shirt eyed the pastries on a sideboard.  Madame raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.  Ah, croissants and éclairs never fail to excite them.

Parents and students mingled, munched French pastries, and chatted.  Madame overheard.

“They say French is a dying language,” a father said.

“Not true.  All international treaties are written in French,” piped another parent.

“Used to be. They’re written in English nowadays,” another argued.

“Why would the board approve this course, then?”

Mme. Jolivette interrupted, “I’m sure the answer will amuse you…Let me tell you a story…”

Thanks for stopping by!

Kindling and Pinky Blood for 3WW

Published July 25, 2012 by Ms. Nine

3WW: hazard, cut, endangered

All you need to chop kindling is scrap wood, a hatchet, and a hard surface.  I have done it many times without endangering anyone.  Except once…

“Mom, m…m…ake a fire,” Thelma said through chattering teeth.

The stove, with its burned out coals, was as useless as an empty whisky bottle.

“Yeah, it’s freakin’ cold!” Sandy said, her breath forming icy clouds that hung over her head like speech balloons in a bad cartoon.

Freakin’?  I ignored her remark with a staccato of orders. “Marie, get some kindling. Sandy, feed the dog. Thelma, open the Spaghetti Os.”

They scattered like mercury beads in a broken thermometer.  I was about to take off my coat when I heard Marie yell, “Mom! The kindling box is empty!”  This was an informative yell, not a panic yell.  Mothers know the difference.

“I’ll chop some!”

“No! I wanna do it!”

“No, Mom! Let me!”

Unfortunately, the hatchet in any one of their hands could become a weapon of opportunity, a hazard; they’d threatened to kill each other once too often.

“Thanks, kids. But I’d better do it. It’s too cold out,” I said, going out the door.

The first pieces cut in four short whacks.  Just a few more…and… I saw blood dripping on the ground. At first, I was confused. Where was the blood coming from? I looked up at the sky. Was it raining blood? Is the wood bleeding? My God! It’s me. My blood. My pinky!

“Mom! What happened?” Sandy asked, watching me run to the sink.

“Just a cut,” I said.

“Let me see.” She bobbed her head around my body as I tried to hide my stumpy and bloody pinky.

She performed a quick medical assessment. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll fix it. We’ll sew that piece right back on. Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It must be outside.”

By now, the rest of the children were hovering. “Go and find it for me,” I said, shooing them away like flies on rotten meat.

Sandy returned with the ax, the tip of my finger still clinging to the blade. “Just stick it back on and hold it,” she instructed. “I’ll get some tape.”

“Tape? That’s not gonna work.  Mom, let me sew it.  I’ll get the needle and thread,” said Marie.

“Let me see what it needs first,” I told them.  But they had already scattered to search for medical supplies.  My hands shook as I took the tip off the blade.  Phew! I’m okay, I told myself. It’s just a little slice. It slipped from my fingers and swirled down the drain.

“Here.  I found some tape. Should we sew it first? I can do it. Thelma, hold the tape. Give me the needle and ….Mom? What happened?”

“It’s gone. Washed down the drain.”

Sandy’s shoulders dropped.  Marie and Thelma started crying.  I removed the blood-soaked rag and peeked at my pinky.  It was half an inch shorter.  I collapsed.

My husband came home to crying children, a cold house, and a bloody kitchen.   After absorbing the shocking tableau, he bandaged my finger properly and made dinner.  Without a word, he went outside and chopped a three-year supply of kindling.

The ax is still hidden away.  So is that tender slice of ego that slid down the drain with the tip of my pinky…

Thanks for stopping by!

Published July 13, 2012 by Ms. Nine

I once scolded myself for using a plot generator and never thought about sharing the guilt. But after reading this post by Maggie Cammiss, I thought, hey, why not?
Try it for hoots.

Maggie Cammiss

Finding myself with ten minutes to spare and faced with a blank page the other day, I started plotting. The outline of the new novel and its overarching narrative has been established, but the story needs a subplot to allow me to explore the characters’ personalities more deeply and examine their motivations.

I idly searched ‘plot ideas’ on Google and was rewarded with a plethora of plot generator sites. Blimey. A better way to waste my precious few moment of writing time I have yet to find. It’s fascinating; a bit like watching an accident on television: you want to stop, but you can’t look away.

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Prompt: Everything Went Black

Published July 12, 2012 by Ms. Nine

From http://wordsformwindows.com/

There were twelve of us at the dinner table when my sister and I washed dishes.  I was never in a hurry to finish the chore because of the evening entertainment just outside the kitchen window.  The main character, a blazing ball of hot orange, bowed for the final curtain call.   Exiting stage right, it hung back a little sharing the limelight with its supporting cast, the streaks of brilliant colors.  These streaks would blend and bend like ribbon candy.    I held my applause, gripping the last plate, entranced.  Next, I’d drain and refill the sink to wash the pots and pans.  Like an automaton, I’d scrub them, my attention fixed on those colors.  They were different every night.  One night the reds would dominate with a stage presence so profound that cold stones wept and glimmered with tears.   On other nights, the yellows and pinks prevailed.  Their dainty and wispy wings would flutter a final good-bye.  Sometimes all the bands would orchestrate together in a medley so compelling that it I would genuflect.   Nothing compared to those sunsets until everything went black.

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