Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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Category: Storytelling
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I like the idea of many, many fingers flying over keyboards, typing 4,000 word daily reminders of why the practice matters. There is reassurance to be had when the neighbor says, "I stay up all night because of this damned story in my head. Sugar has become some fearsome fuel." The tale sits between the…
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It's hard to beat back ancient traditions with a stick, rattan or ashplant. We hear, we speak, we mimic, we carve our mark anywhere we can. Leave it by the roadside for someone to pick up for a song. We needn't worry about literature past its pull date, either. It gets repurposed into delicious Scatological…
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Come back to your kitchen table where the window looks out over barrel cactus and car parts. Find the lost legal pad and tie it to your wrist. Don't forget it was you who walked away from our unfinished conversation. We were just coming to the part about being creative-on-demand. I'm still waiting for the…
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"The point is to help. That's it. To help each other walk through the valley of mishap with one's head held high." Claire paused to tear a hunk off the baguette before handing it back to Bernadette. "Everything else complicates the one job you've been sent here to do." Bernadette plucked tufts of white bread…
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The shade of blue, especially for January, struck Henry as unusual. It was too bright and cheery, so Henry decided it was an omen. He was despondent over the disappearance of his charge, a misfortune that hadn't befallen his kind since before the Guild was established. Henry had some explaining to do. He knew the…
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Famous, shame us; easily hated, hotly debated: What is more useful, a brother or an umbrella? Meditate on the umbrella for a minute…we leave them on buses. They walk off toward the train. Leave us standing in the rain. Don't we miss them then? When all is not right. When all has come and gone,…
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Cecilia hadn't equated writing with craft; creating art in large-small, quick-slow key strokes. She'd never given any thought to whether or not a novelist was an artist. Cecilia liked her stories ripe and spicy, with only a word or two needing to be looked up in the dictionary. She figured some just wanted to see…
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Cold nights lend themselves to long, involved dreams which leave one worn out in the morning. Perhaps the sluggishness is due to tugging at the comforter, and kicking loose the well-tucked sheet, and tossing when a turn was intended. And high above it all, Ella sings clear and true, taking care to tread lightly atop…
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It was always the way with Margot. She'd leave notes on desks, or envelopes in letterboxes, with tiny bits of wisdom and warnings to keep us in check. The last message Margot sent me was typed on the back of a grocery list. She needed many things on that particular shopping day. But the typewritten words…
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Margaret was tired of running. At first, she ran headlong into adventure and romance. It was what she dreamed of, after all. But then the promised price was due to be paid. She didn't care what happened to some extended relation five generations to come. She'd be long gone, after having a life filled with…
Semi-Daily Scribbles 