Sometimes I think a meteor could strike the earth and wipe out mankind with the exception of my mother’s Bridge club — Roz, Bea, Bette, Rhoda, and Jackie — five Jewish octogenarians who continue to gather for lunch and Bridge on Mondays as they have for over fifty years. When I set out to learn about the women behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, and most of all the ragged path that led me back to my mother.The Well of Loneliness Sits in My Chair
Hi and a Ho kiddies. While Mama Betsy is gone, we shall play. First, gather ye ‘round; we’re going to have some fun, fun, fun.
Okay: You’re a writer, I’m a writer. It’s five in the morning, your neighborhood is asleep except for the guy whose having an affair with the lady down the block and the kids huffing under the magnolia tree and Old Man Needer who has been walking in his sleep since Leno went off the air and he keeps waiting for the national anthem and those planes flying in the air and flags flying…..before the 24/7 became a plague on humanity. You sit, turn on your computer (if you have a typewriter I admire you; if you are actually writing with a pen or pencil I love you). You write this sentence and you shuffle for another cup of coffee. You’re back. You read and reread your sentence and you continue. . .
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then . . .
Finish the sentence in twenty words or less and name your book. This is a test. Did you think things would be easy with Betsy gone? But this should be fun; this is a practice for the early morning to get the words flowing, the synapses popping.
Filed under: Writing, You Go Girl |
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. He was on the roof of the house, pulling wet leaves out of the gutters. He slipped. It had rained. The shingles were wet. He thought for a second he could grab the ladder, but of course the ladder wasn’t stationed to anything. All of it fell, the bucket, the industrial sponge he held, and him, a flannel arc across the grey afternoon, and then SMASH. The dog started barking at his body on the driveway. His wife, in the kitchen, feeding the goldfish, stopped. His kids were at soccer, at the school, and they kept playing.
Moving Day
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. One morning he lifted up his bungalow and moved it to Saskatchewan. Drifted down the Transcanada Highway at twenty-five kilometers an hour. An erratic.
He was a busy man; he loved his wife and his dogs and kids. But at dusk their thorny voices snagged at the edges of his mind. He curled inward, imagining them stiff and cold, beached on the scythe of gray sand below. Silent.
Semicolon after mind, maybe? Or would that be one too many?
Word counts are a bitch. F for Averil.
I think I’d call it DOLPHINS.
Oh, and I write with a pen.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dog, his kids. Then one day he stopped on his way home from work at his local Walmart. He saw a video game being played on one of those little boxes they have for customers to get a preview of the actual game. He stood their waiting for the kid using it to get bored and walk away. His hands gripped the controller and he became mesmerized by the game. He had to have the game for his own…to play in his own home…available whenever he wanted to play it. He couldn’t help it…he bought it and went home. When he got to the house nd entered it his wife and kids said “Hi” but he just walked past them as if they were invisible. The dog barked “hello” but he didn’t even hear him. He continued walking to the family room. He locked the door and put the game into the X-Box and started the game with a chuckle and a big smile. As far as they know he’s still in there.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then he loved his brother’s wife and dogs and kids, too.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then the asthmatic came through the French doors with a crowbar and a box of matches.
THE CHOIRMASTER’S WIFE and THE GIRL WITH HER NAME IN THE TITLE.
and now.
THEN AND NOW.
Like.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then his whole world opened up when he fell like an old gay oak tree for the single bachelor next door.
What Came after the Fall: The Glenn Beck Biography.
(sorry. i’m feeling a bit political tonight–i did however keep it at EXACTLY 20 words..that’s worth something, right??)
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dog, his kids. Then the house next door finally sold and the Al-Hassans moved in.
The Jihadist Next Door: a Novel
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then his mind began to itch for something big, so he tied his hands to writing, thinking it a cinch.
Why Are They Staring at Me Like That? A novel of love and wringing wrists.
Thanks! That was fun. And me and my pen love you too. Man, that’s so easy to say with a keyboard.
He was a busy man;loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then, his new glasses arrived. Wrong house, again.
I’d call it “And You Are?”
Love. Lots and lots of love for this novella.
Finally, we’re getting Facebook-ish here. I second that love.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then he retired and he wasn’t busy any longer and he saw just how much he hated his wife, his dogs, his kids.
(boy, I better book another session this week.)
Title: American Beauty with Dogs and Kids
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dog, his kids. Then, when all were asleep, he plugged in his electric guitar, put on headphones, began to play and drifted away.
“I Know You, You Know Me”
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then he thought that the problem was that
there is an impossibility which depends on criterias we assigned to ourselves, inherited from laws of
social conventions. We should change roles more often, dress up in drag, find more sexual partners.
Genras, fidelity, marriage, such a dangerous farce. Morality has some good days left… Humanity’s still
willingly accepting its share of mutilations with astonishing devotion; We keep making the same mistakes with such pathetic vigor; Each generation reproduces in its own way a schema (that of identity and recognition) however destined to fail.
It’s a good thing that we serve, behind closed bedroom doors, slightly more imaginative gods.
Wow…great stuff. Take a deep breath, listen to this and let’s begin again…
Someone roll me a joint, and then I’ll just put this video on a loop and try to forget the three rejections in this morning’s email.
try writing a story in 20 words after the joint! that would be fun.
The problem is, after a joint it would be more like 220 words.
Or a bunch of crumbs on the keyboard.
Holy crap I’m six again. Green Tambourine is up next.
Pictures of Darien
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then one day the housekeeper went up to the attic. The Richardsons would testify later they heard the scream at around 11am.
She had seen the portrait.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. This didn’t change, though in Bali his love expanded to include the salty nautilus, tricks of gravity, the trident-pull.
Dear Athena, My Only Son
Beautiful
Aww, thanks!
Yes.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then he saw her in the paper. HUGE TYPEWRITER REALLY WORKS. So huge that its keys must be operated with the feet. And there she was, wearing a little sequined suit, heels and pale hose, operating the typewriter with her feet …
Um 20 words? I fail …
Lol. Great minds…
🙂 I forgot to title mine. Maybe “Strike.” I don’t know. “About to Strike” seems sleazy …
“I’d Tap That” ?
Okay I am so done …
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then he met the woman on the giant typewriter. Life changed. He began to yell at his wife; kick the dog.
I’ll title it, He Wasn’t Rich Enough.
Ha ha I love it. That image is so captivating!
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then something snapped. He left without a word. He traded it all for solitary days and a Rand McNally.
Let’s call it I’m Done.
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dogs, his kids. Then /went for a latte; bought a ticket to Sumatra; spending his life studying rare puffins; reading Voyage of The Beagle.
That is one hell of a post over at Blog of Days, Lyn. Wow.
Thanks, Deb!
I like your beginning….it was what I had in mind, how he changes….continue!
He was a busy man; loved his wife, his dog, his kids. Then he learned his wife was Mormon, his dog was allergic to kids, and his kids were allergic to Mormons. He now lives a simpler life in a southern Texas nudist colony and goes trout fishing. His family visits him regularly.
The Trout Fisherman
The typewriter clipping rules.