She was a dancer from Brooklyn- poised, heart-faced, and graced with long legs. She performed in competitions and shows and won ribbon after medal after trophy.
“She’ll make it big,” the critics raved.
“She’s already big,” the crowd roared.
Then the dancer from Brooklyn retired in seclusion, preferring quieter things.
While this one wasn’t as good, I’d say it’s more a “story” than a “moment”, so that’s improvement, eh? For the 50-word story challenge found here. The prompt was “grace”.
Billy was simply furious. As a pro cowboy, said man ought to sit upon big animals and do tricks. I will not purify any stalls again, as long as I am living, Billy thought angrily. I am so sick of bull poop. I did not sign up for this gross insanity. Unsurprisingly, a particular cowboy quit his job.
Rules copy-pasted off the original post:
1) Write a whole paragraph ( a paragraph sounds easy right?) without any word containing the letter “e” (still easy for ya?)
2) By reading this you are already signed up.
3) Challenge at least five bloggers to do the challenge. They must do it within 24 hours or it is considered as failure.
4) If you fail or pass, suffer in the Page of Lame.
5) If you win, wallow in the Page of Fame.
And it seems I won! *does a mini-dance in the Page of Fame simply because I can* This challenge was surprisingly hard! Gosh, I don’t know what I’d do without the letter “e”… Although I’m going to be a rebel here and not follow rule #3. Simply put, if you are reading this, you are already tagged. 🙂
I was trapped in a labyrinth, and the memories crawling behind me forced me into an intersection. The left and right hallways were dimly lit, yet unsure. There was also the option to go straight, but the path declined into darkness. The mind was a difficult place to escape from.
Oh whoop-de-doo, look who wrote a moment instead of a story! At least I’m improving… I hope. One of (many to come) 50-word stories.
“These ice sculptures are surprisingly not that boring.”
“Mhmm,” I said, scanning the area. The lot behind the city art hall had been strung with Christmas lights. People milled around in winter jackets to admire the handiwork of the sculptors. But no sign of-
Something socked me in the shoulder. I turned around to find Fred frowning up at me.
“What was that for?”
Fred sighed. “Dude, you haven’t been paying attention… to anything.”
“Have I?” I mumbled, glancing over the lot again, my eyes widening as my sight locked upon twin braids and a purple beanie.
Fred followed my gaze. “Anya’s here?”
“Come on,” I beckoned, then broke into a sprint in her direction.
Fred chased after me. “No wonder you’ve been so absentminded!” A loud groan could be heard. “Now why did I have to be best friends with a romantic?”
Word count: 144. For this week’s Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer.
Delphine always wanted to pilot her father’s plane and when he forgot his keys on her tenth birthday, she knew that taking off would be easy.
Everything was already in order: the gears, the locks, the control board. Not that Delphine needed it be set before she started; the girl had seen her father fly innumerable times, and she could recite the position of each switch and pedal with her eyes closed. But it was nice, she supposed, that the plane was prepared to take off before she even entered it. Because as her father rummaged their small home for his car keys, Delphine would take the Marshall Jane for a short spin and come back down before Pops even noticed anything awry.
As she swooped in the air, enjoying the unique closeness to the sky and the sun and world above, the newly ten-year-old remembered something she ought to have considered before she even began. Taking off would be easy. Landing, on the other hand, was a completely different story.
Word count: 145. For Monday’s Finish-the-Story. I had some trouble with the given sentence start, but I think I managed through. Ah, Delphine. Maybe her father pre-set the plane to teach her a lesson… who knows.
the top is for yesterday (kurt called me “dumb”)
below is the skate park where i was left out
lies from my sister comprise the stack under
‘neath those are too many cruel moments to count
i stack up my problems one by two by three
it wells in my gut as it climbs to my throat
a fearful foundation a tower is built
like a stack of pancakes but not quite as sweet
For this week’s Poetry 101 Rehab: “stack“. I guess instead of “bottling up your feelings”, the speaker is “stacking up his or her problems”.
gently guide the mind
in quiet places of blue
escape the mad world
(Gently guide the mind in quiet places of blue.
In quiet places of blue, escape the mad world.)
Weekly haiku for guide and mad~