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Welcome to Cavalcade of Words.  This week, we will be adding a new writing exercise to the rotation.

Congratulations writing The Geogre's favorite 100 Word entry based on the theme of gluttons.  Note:  The Geogre has written critiques of each entry.  If you wrote an entry, and are interested, I will forward his critique directly to you through the messaging system.

The "winning" entry from me below the fold, along with the rules for the new writing exercise.  Note:  entries can be submitted until noon on Thursday.

First, here is my 100-Word submission on the theme of gluttons:

I need more.

But what about the men and women who can’t find a job?

I need more.

Children are starving; surely that matters.

I need more.

People are dying because they don’t have proper health insurance.

I need more.

Folks are losing their homes, for God’s sake.

I need more.

The middle class is disappearing before our eyes.

I need more.

Our planet will exterminate us if we don’t change.

I need more.

Endless war is distorting everything.

I need more.

You already have nearly everything.

None of that matters.  You don’t matter.


Because I need more.

Now, on to the next writing exercise:

A Sense of Place:

You can use any writing style (poetry, essay, story, etc.)  You are in a particular place.  Describe the place using your senses; that is all of your senses excluding sight.  You could be at home, in a forest, in the middle of a demonstration, in an imaginary place; no limitations.  No limitation on length either.

I am excited about this exercise; I think it will trigger great writing.  Please submit an entry and tell your friends.

Good writing.

Wed Jun 15, 2011 at 7:04 AM PT: Deadline for entries extended to Friday at noon.

Originally posted to Readers and Book Lovers on Tue Jun 14, 2011 at 05:00 AM PDT.

Also republished by Progressive Friends of the Library Newsletter.

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Comment Preferences

  •  How many words? (2+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:
    Limelite, mungley

    Is the new one for 100 words? Exactly 100 words? Any other parameters?

    So many questions...

    curious portal - to a world of paintings, lyric-poems, art writing, and graphic and web design

    by asterkitty on Tue Jun 14, 2011 at 08:41:45 AM PDT

  •  ACK! Put Me in a Deprivation Tank (2+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:
    aravir, mungley

    why don'tcha?

    Readers & Book Lovers Pull up a chair! You're never too old to be a Meta Groupie

    by Limelite on Tue Jun 14, 2011 at 09:37:09 AM PDT

  •  Here goes. (3+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:
    Jaxpagan, aravir, Dragon5616

    A wind picks up from the direction of the stage. I never know if it's coincidence, or if the band creates its own weather.
    After three days and nights of beer and wine and dust and dirt and trampled hay, my right nostril clears hoping to breathe some clean air.
    Patchouli and dirt. My sinuses are dry; is that blood? The sun eased off at half time. Standing on  y toes it doesn't smell so much like stagnant hippie up here.

    "Terrapin" is ending. Or it won't end. It never ends, it just stops being played. "Do dah doo, do dah doo do dah doo doot doo. doo doo doo doo doot doot doooo". Bob lays on the whammy bar, while Jerry walks back up the neck to do it all again. Mickey and Bill are breaking up the rhythm. The train sound is gone.

    My feet are coated in... stuff. A ridge of the 'blanket' runs under my left foot. My right has found a smooth-ish dry patch between dirt clods and some shoes. Ankles.. ok, calves... tired. back.... needs stretching.  head... still buzzed.

    There's cheering, Phil is gone. I guess Bob is gone. Keyboards stop. More cheers. There goes Brent. No more Jerry.

    Gotta open my eyes and sit down for Drumz.

    6/14/87 Ventura.

    Being ignorant is not so much a shame, as being unwilling to learn. - Poor Richard's Almanac 1755 The government exists to protect us from the thugs who got rich ripping off our ancestors. - Mungley 2011

    by mungley on Tue Jun 14, 2011 at 12:39:49 PM PDT

  •  Mine (2+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:
    aravir, Dragon5616

    The wind washes over you, slightly chill. You can hear it whistle and moan from being shaped, pinched, twisted by the structure as it flows through. You can hear the sounds of the wind from all sides, but none close. The space around you sounds open.
    You and the wind are alone. There are no other sounds, near or far.
    Under your bare feet, you feel the cold, hard metal plate. There’s a diamond pattern in it, pressing itself into your soles. This places stinks of grease and metal, a mechanical smell.
    Then there is a new sound – metal moving. It screeches defiantly, then calms into the smooth drone of machinery. The plate you’re standing on trembles, thumps, then begins a slow tilt, downward. You lean back to keep your balance.
    Five degrees. Ten. How high are you? You don’t know.
    You stretch your hands around you awkwardly, trying not to move your feet or lose your balance. You feel nothing. Is it really open? Is there an edge? Where?
    Fifteen degrees.
    With a shudder that almost dislodges you, everything stops. You feel the fading vibration through your feet as you crouch down, sit, lean back on one hand to steady yourself. The last sounds of the machine echo off into the distance, and there is only the wind again.
    Tentatively, you crawl backward, moving up the tilted floor. Your hands reach ahead for an edge – or for anything that isn’t air or this one metal plate. You inch your way up the slope for maybe ten minutes before they find a smooth edge. You grope the air above it for a rail, anything, but there is nothing. Finding the edge again, you work your way around to the left, one hand following the edge, the other testing the floor in front of you has you move to the side. You stop about ninety degrees from the apex. You don’t dare go any further without your eyes.
    The platform is circular, at least from that quarter of it, and featureless except for the simple pattern in the metal. You move slowly back to the apex, hanging onto the edge in case the platform moves again, and you wait.

    "The problem with Internet quotations is that many are not genuine." - Abraham Lincoln

    by Jaxpagan on Tue Jun 14, 2011 at 03:21:44 PM PDT

  •  Inspired by spring, the need to move a pile of (4+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:
    Dragon5616, Jaxpagan, bwren, aravir

    dirt into the garden and a goat's presentation of her multiplication skills. . .

    And a profound desire to procrastinate.

        Warm. Rumbly. The darkness presses up on all sides, a comforting barrier to what is to come. Pain and suffering will come. There is no need to hurry towards it.
        An indistinct odor permeates, not a pleasant odor but nor is it disturbing. A quiet, slumbering odor. A scent of death past but not yet to the power of rebirth. A reminder that this rest is not forever, but for now, it is the scent of waiting.
        The neighbors pass, rumbling as they press aside the darkness. The silent passing of moisture expanding to fill the spaces. The darkness sips, the warmth increases with humidity.
        A tick and time begins. A hunger grows. A hunger for flavors yet tasted. The darkness becomes oppressive, an opponent to struggle against.
        So it begins.
        The darkness fades away.

    I am much too liberal to be a Democrat.

    by WiseFerret on Wed Jun 15, 2011 at 11:17:37 AM PDT

  •  places (1+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:

    It’s almost like the time you got drunk with your ex-girlfriend Becky and her brother and laid in the shallow end of the bath-water warm pool, waiting for another whim to direct what you did next. Only this time, the fluid is thick and syrupy and sticks in your ears like it has elbows. The buzzing in your head is similar too, but the pleasant blush of the best synthetic alcohol that two weeks allowance, less a hefty bribe, could buy has been replaced by a painful effervescent fizzing.

    Memories are hazy and jumbled, but they say that’s normal. You can picture your mother’s face and hear the way she used to wake you up for school, but the words are all about thrust vectors and proper frequency modulation for directing drones out past fifty kilometers. Sadly, the smells are of the here and now and the cozy amniotic gel reeks of a powerful cocktail of tailored pheromones, modified enzymes, nano-assemblers and the unmistakable aroma of unwashed human.

    Neural Reintegration. It’s a big word and it slams home with a nauseating lurch. It means that your poor abused grey matter is actually some brand new, albeit still abused, stuff; lab grown, certified Grade A choice, and jam packed with a bolus of data that was beamed in on a double-handful of quantum entanglement states and growth promoting hormones. Hell, that also means your body is brand new and your old one is probably floating a few clicks off some asteroid, frozen, curled up in to a ball, and serving as a reminder to the next poor sap that mining in space is still more art than science.

    Still, you’re alive and as soon as the tank drains you’ll be back out there pulling ore till you can buy off your contract.  

  •  Place, sans vision. (1+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:

    It's hot as he lies there, sweat running in occasional rivulets under his arms and down his face and neck. The darkness is absolute. The cicadas and tree frogs form a curtain of sound so dense he thinks he could run his hand over it. But there's a change coming. He can smell the approaching storm, the metallic taste of rain drifting in his nostrils and settling on his tongue.

    Dressed only in his boxer shorts, he shifts on the hard cot and feels the sleeping bag, damp with sweat beneath him, cling to his bare skin as he turns slightly onto his right side. The wind begin to rise, rustling the leaves like petticoats in a reel. The canvas ripples with a gentle flap, and his skin welcomes the breeze through the netted windows and door like an addict. Thunder mumbles a complaint in the distance. The sound of the leaves becomes more frantic with the next gust and the rain feels closer. Another clap of thunder sounds, still miles away but more distinct. The curtain of insect sound is gone.

    He rolls off the cot, careful where he places his feet to avoid stepping on his sons, who are sleeping peacefully on the air mattress. He fumbles in the dark, untying the netting and reaching through to knot the cloth window flaps by feel. He shifts to the door, unzips the mosquito netting, ties bows in the outer flap tabs, and then carefully zzzziiiiiiips the solid inner flap from the top down. He snaps the corners and sits back down on the damp cot.

    The wind is really up now. He can hear the ropes begin to sing. The trees have become an unceasing cacophony, and the tent begins to snap and pop like a sail, but the ropes and stakes and flaps hold fast. The air is cooler; the perspiration on his skin is drying. The rain begins, sounding like popcorn at first but quickly evolving into a steady drumbeat and finally into a deafening roar.

    He lies down on the cot as if pressed there against his will by the sheer force of decibels. He closes his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. Suddenly, a nerve-rending CRACK-BOOM shatters the night. He flinches and his eyes fly open, but not in time to see the lightning. He realizes the hair on his arms and on the back of his neck are at static attention.

    The boys are awake.

    "Wha' was 'at?" asks the younger one in a sleep-drugged voice, barely audible above the roar of the rain.

    "Whaddya think, genius? It's a thunderstorm," proclaims his older brother, instantly sarcastic.

    "It's OK," he says clearly but soothingly. "We're all buttoned up and we ditched around the tent. It'll blow through in a few minutes. Go back to sleep."

    The older boy sighs and rolls over. His brother pulls his feet up toward his chest.

    All three of them lie silently, listening as the storm rages past.

    Thunder booms again, but beyond them now. The rain downshifts from mind-numbing noise to a watery, musical flow and larger drops fall from the trees to the roof of the tent like punctuation marks. The leaves begin to chatter as the wind dies and the rain pummels them.

    Minutes pass. The thunder continues its relentless march away. The rain gentles to a halt with just the drips as a reminder. As the wind dies, the air begins to morph back into a tangible wet heat. The boys' breathing is sleep-regular once more, one of them snoring softly.

    He rises again, feeling with his feet and finding his way with his fingertips to reopen the main flaps and the window flaps and secure the nettings. But there's no breeze now, just a pervasive, damp, organic scent that mixes with the canvas to pique memories from his own childhood.

    He lies back down on the cot. He hears the songs of the cicadas and the tree frogs pulsing in the night again. The drips are only occasional now, spattering on the wet leaves or popping on the canvas. He feels a film of sweat begin to coat his skin as he closes his eyes in the blackness and tries to sleep.

    "Those are my principles, and if you don't like them...well, I have others." --Groucho Marx

    by Dragon5616 on Wed Jun 15, 2011 at 01:01:53 PM PDT

  •  Non eligible entry: Haiku on Nauvoo Illinois (1+ / 0-)
    Recommended by:

    Gentle breezes
    Barely move the air
    Heavy with warm moisture
    Even at this time of night
    River ripples lap quietly
    Frogs proudly proclaim their existence
    A soft splash signals a catfish snacking
    On mosquitoes who dance keening hunting blood
    River barges rumble moving down the river
    Distant tinny harmonica music wafts over
    Huarache sandals rasp upon the gravelled road
    Twitters of laughter from the women guides' house
    Songs of faith rise above bonfire's crackle
    Whir and splash of a river pebble
    Launched from a homemade leather sling
    Hollers from the baseball field
    As a local kid scores
    The bug zapper snaps
    The stars' sweet song
    Heard only
    in my

    Ancora Impara--Michelangelo

    by aravir on Thu Jun 16, 2011 at 08:38:15 AM PDT

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