Saturday, April 4, 2009

MySixWriMo Day 4


Ah, the weekend, with all its writing opportunities, obstacles and distractions...

So far, I’ve grown two worthy 6’s. One has blossomed into a nice microfiction. The other has a promising bud. I'm even telling myself that if I exercise some restraint, I might be able to prune the extended metaphor disaster of Day 2 into something worthwhile.

Now to today’s prompts:

From Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides :

For today’s prompt, I want you to pick an animal; make that animal the title of your poem (in our case, 6); then, write a poem (6). You could be very general with your animal title (“Bees” or “Lion”) or specific (“Flipper” or “Lassie”). You could even be very silly with something like “Tony, the Tiger,” I guess (that tiger on the cereal box).

Or, if you prefer, here’s today’s selection from The Writer’s Book of Matches (Writer’s Digest Books):

“It’s always the quiet ones, you know?”

Instructions are as usual. Share if you wish. I’ll post mine in the comments later. Let me know if you’ve unearthed any diamonds. I’ve got ideas about what we can do with them…


Greta said...

Needs work, but I'll save that for May.

Hard and Soft

It’s always the quiet ones, you know? The ones with the lightning eyes and brooding scowls. The swaggering, angry ones with the chesty, boxer walks.

The marble statue ones who repel chitchat at the bar.

Oh, we fall for them, sliding instinctively, otters headfirst into the sea. Sinewy, gelatinous, we form ourselves around them, then later, mourn our lost shape.

Stephen said...

You're right about Saturdays, Greta. It's almost 7pm here, and I'm finally getting the chance to check out your blog. I'll work on this tonight. It may be tomorrow, though, before I can post it.

Jane Banning said...

Untitled (and unseemly, be forewarned)
It’s always the quiet ones, you know. It’s always after glasses of wine, hoisin-garlic glazed chicken, haricots verts in the lemon-caper reduction sauce and chocolate sour cream torte, all of it roils and coils inside of you as you stroll through the parking lot to his car. He’s wearing a flannel-soft cologne; you hope it will cling to your cheeks and sheets tomorrow morning, as the top note, and underneath it the warm base note, the leftover love tang. In the closeness of his car, his kisses taste like peach and persimmon. You lean in and entwine a hand with his, your nipples prick up and you swell with desire. You flail with one distracted hand for your Tums, but it’s far too late: the quiet, deadly one has escaped.

Greta said...

Jane... :D

Gastroenterologists Digest for this perhaps?

Need I say my husband loved this? I'm still laughing.

Jane Banning said...

Thanks! :-O
And I know those guys with the 'chesty, boxer walks'. Er, KNEW.
Wonderful writing, as usual.

Stephen said...

Jane, that was priceless.

Here's mine:


I stared through the glass and thought of bears, lions, monkeys… well, apes really. For Mollie, I had been all of them at one time or another, dressing up as she’d requested, acting like she wanted me to act, and being whatever animal she needed to fulfill some deep craving inside of her. Last night, she told me she could no longer pay for my services and afterwards we could never see each other agai—

“Are you with the bride or the groom?” A voice asked.

I turned around, caught the wondering gaze of a young usher, and then glanced back through the glass at the woman seated in the front row—Mollie's mother. I smiled, again thinking about bears, lions and apes, and then told the usher that yes, I was an old friend of the bride.

Greta said...

Naughty, but nice, Stephen! :)

Stephen said...

Personally, I thought it was a little rank, but I'm trying to broaden my scope with our 1-month exercise. ;)

By the way, I liked this day's entry. The prose was poetic, and the truth sad. However, nobody ever said that truth would always be happy.