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| >> Book >> Fantasy >> ID #1109199 |   |
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I will come here often1 to add my latest ideas, and see if my story can take shape.A bit like my notebook, but I welcome comments. I may add the odd rambling diary entry about something I have seen and/or heard. I tend to go a bit George Mikes and/or P G Wodehouse at these times so take everything I write about "life" with a pinch af whimsical salt! Also here you will find ![Merit Badge in Journaling
[Click For More Info]
Congratulations for participating and completing the [Link To Item #1405205] . May this challenge inspires you to write on! -earl-](http://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Journaling-2180.gif) Footnotes |
| 3. The Trials of the Season | ID #680673 |
| Posted: 12-22-2009 @ 12:40 am EST Edited: 12-24-2009 @ 6:28 pm EST | |
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PROMPT #2: Complete the line with a story of any length or a poem ... "A reindeer just ate ___________ "A reindeer just ate my hat!" The petulant cry rose from the frosty courtyard to the warm kitchen, and the speaker followed close behind. "My hat!" he said again, holding up the tattered remains of a white tassel with a scrap of red material attached. He waved it accusingly in his wife's face, as if he suspected her of secretly cultivating a taste for red velvet in his reindeer. The woman, however, did not so much as look at the sorry remnants of her husband's headgear; instead she simply went on with her knitting, warming her feet against the fire grate and waiting for the kettle to boil. "Well?" said the man at last, exasperated at his wife's indifference to his plight. "Well, what, dear?" she answered, carefully counting her stitches as she prepared to start a new row. "What are you going to do about it?" he almost shouted. "I can't go out without a hat, tonight of all nights!" "I don't see why not," his wife countered. "It's not as if your ears will get cold, not with all that hair of yours." The man snorted with impatience. "It's not a matter of cold ears, you stupid woman! It's a matter of appearances. And contractual obligation," he added. The old woman made a sound that seemed to indicate that were it not wholly unladylike to do so, she would currently be the one snorting with impatience. "Appearances!" she scoffed. "No-one sees you, you daft old fool; not unless you're getting careless in your old age. So what does it matter about appearances? And as for your contractual obligations," and this time she came very close indeed to a decidedly un-genteel expression of disapproval, "They never paid you a penny. There is no contract, and there never was." "There was an understanding," retorted her husband, stiffly. "A gentlemen's agreement, which I'll have you know is every bit as binding as a written contract to men of business." He drew himself up with such dignity that he nearly put his back out. "Careful," his wife said. "You'll put your back out, strutting around like that." She laid aside her knitting and lifted the kettle from the fire. "Tea?" The old man gruntingly indicated that tea might be acceptable, but should in no way be allowed to divert the topic of conversation. His wife obliged, both with the tea and the talk. "You're not a man of business, though, are you? You're not a man of any sort. You are, my dear Claus, a quasi-mythical personification of an ancient pagan ritual beneath a thin modern veneer. So your 'gentlemen's agreement' isn't worth the paper it's written on. Consequently," here she paused to let her words sink in. "Consequently," she went on, with the air of a prosecuting council delivering a masterful summation, "It doesn't matter two hoots if your reindeer eat up your hat. They can make a meal of your boots, jacket and belt buckle for all I care." "My dear!" The old man almost fainted in the face of such blasphemy. "My hat, my suit, everything about me... it's a symbol of peace on earth and goodwill toward men. That outfit represents all that is good and kind and true in this world, all things bright and beautiful, all..." "Yes, yes, dear, I know. Don't get carried away, you'll bring on one of your turns," interrupted his wife, soothingly. "It's all very well to talk about peace on earth, but you'd be hard put to show me any." She took his arm and sat him down in his own chair by the fire; then she knelt beside him and laid her head in his lap, stroking the plushy velvet of his red trousers. "You're a fine, beautiful idea, my darling; but we both know it's a lie, all of it. A great, comfortable lie made by men who couldn't bear the truth. The truth may set men free, but freedom is a big, terrifying thing. So are truth, and wisdom, and all the real things of this world. Men long ago knew the true God, and they were afraid of Him. Afraid of His power, of His perfection. So they made us, puppets to stand in the place of God. We have no power beyond what men give us, and so we do not frighten them. But neither can we save them from themselves, from their fear and ignorance." The old woman's eyes filled with tears that soaked into the red trousers. "Only the true God has that sort of power, and they hide from Him behind us like a child hiding behind a teddy bear." Her husband rested a hand on her hair, and nodded, sadly. "It would be better for them if we did not exist," he said. "If we, and all those like us, would fade away and force men to see the glory of God. Perhaps, after all, it is a good thing that my hat was eaten. I think that I will not ride out tonight?" He had meant to make a bold statement, but it came out as a trembling question. Blinking away her tears, the old woman lifted her head and looked her husband in the face. "The choice is not yours to make," she said. "We have no power but that which is given to us by men. You will ride out tonight, you cannot help it. Any more than I could help making this." From behind the seat cushion of her own chair she drew her finished knitting. It was a bright red hat with a white tassel. Grimly, silently, the old man headed to the door. He pulled the hat onto his head, climbed into the sleigh and flicked the reins. As the reindeer climbed high into the night sky, he set his mouth in a thin, determined line. Surely he could do something? He had to try, at least. As he soared through the air above the slumbering rooftops, he opened his mouth to cry out, "Fear the true God and give him glory!" But instead, ringing out across the cold night sky he heard his own voice, booming, rich and jolly, "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!" |
| 2. On the first day of blogging... | ID #680645 |
| Posted: 12-21-2009 @ 7:12 pm EST Edited: 12-21-2009 @ 7:47 pm EST | |
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PROMPT #1: Familiarize yourself with the folk song, THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS and blog about it for us. It's an old favourite, the one we all know. Or sort of know. The one everyone will happily join in with as long as someone else starts it off. Honestly now, who can get past the verse with the 'five go-o-o-o-ld rings' without faltering? As the next verse approaches the mind start racing. Is it the lords a-leaping next, or the maids a-milking? Or perhaps the pipers piping?2 And don't swans come into it somewhere? Or is it geese? By which time, the whole communal sing-along has descended into embarrassed mumbling, and everyone wishes they'd stuck to "Ten Green Bottles" instead. It may be comforting to know that even the traditionalists can't agree on the exact order of the verses, with one website even putting a footnote on their version of the lyrics that said: "...the 'lords, ladies, pipers, drummers' are often switched around."3 So go ahead and sing the verses in any old order you please. Make up your own verses if you like4. As with all these songs for singing around the fire (camp or hearth) the most important thing is to have fun and get everyone to join in. And if people are reluctant to join the chorus just threaten to keep on singing until they give in and sing up. Oh and, just to put you out of your misery, here are the full twelve days of gifts listed in order (or at least an order). Take a deep breath now... Twelve lords a-leaping, Eleven ladies dancing, Ten pipers piping, Nine drummers drumming, Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying, Five gold rings, Four calling birds, Three French hens, Two turtle doves, And a partridge in a pear tree. Footnotes |
| 1. Blah, blah, blaugh... | ID #678594 |
| Posted: 12-3-2009 @ 7:47 pm EST | |
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...or The Pendulum Effect |
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