five

Poor Chelydra, he has to choose among all the wonderful entries here.

Here is my final contribution. 433 divided by an approximation of Pi, yields 137.8 as an approximation -- hence, my word count. And the story is circular, too, per the instruction.
____

The long afternoon’s wave of heat passed without much consequence.

Scales would have measured his death like iron in a petering fire. A dandelion -- yellow head, no raspberry -- had sprouted beside the tomb. A raven pecks at the tombstone, the nourishment she seeks known only to her. The bird would lose her beak, but she stopped and crooned. Would that her sound could be decipher--

No wolf, this lovely raven did not kiss and tell! She pulled a wing across her face and shielded a smile behind dark feathers.

Then she flew. What majesty -- any bird in flight!

On any day, but one a month, the dark silhouette would cross a moonlit sky above the treetops and circle back to settle a top the church steeple and wait until the bells and she sounded the coming of morning.

five

Marg, that poem was excellent!

five

No. 73 -- indeed, beautiful.

five

Ack ... need to correct some verb tenses on the last one.
____

The long afternoon’s wave of heat passed without much consequence.

Scales would have measured his death like iron in a petering fire. A dandelion -- yellow head, no raspberry -- had sprouted beside the tomb. A raven pecks at the tombstone, the nourishment she seeks known only to her. The bird would lose her beak, but she stopped and crooned. Would that her sound could be decipher--

No wolf, this lovely raven does not kiss and tell! She pulls a wing across her face and shields a smile behind dark feathers.

Then she flies. What majesty -- any bird in flight!

On any day, but one a month, the dark silhouette would cross a moonlit sky above the treetops and circle back to settle a top the church steeple and wait until the bells and she sounded the coming of morning.

midnightpoet

Love the latest submissions by Marg and Five. Ya'll are on fire and it is so effing awesome!

five

Well, I thought it was the last one. This one is! It's 216 and 3/5ths (which I hope will be allowed. Technically, its 3/5 plus 6/10 plus 12/20ths (because I started doing Chelyrda's Fibonocci challenge -- first half at 267.8 words -- but realized I was not up to writing the pair that would have to be 433 words. Since I had the partial words, I went with 214 plus 2 3/5 for 216 and 3/5. If you count the contracted words as only partial words, I have no idea what it is Anyhow: here it is... (and for all I know, I have probably left out a word).
________

“I’m not hap--” Happy. Lisa didn’t need to hear. He went on: “You’re imposs--” Impossible. The words after that were familiar noise. There would be no groom to kiss.

She fell against the wall and banged her head, giving into a wave of sadness. Another man. Another attempt to commit. Another reminder not to try.

Did he finally leave? She did not feel his absence. Funny, that. Fun--

Now, here was her best friend helping: “You want to believe,” Jack said. “You’re a wolf as the sun sets. Hungry. You see raspberries. You hear treetops moving on a moonlit evening. You rush in, but, fruit spoils. I’m an anti-institut--”

“Enough.” He would be married at the altar by a priest, exchange rings and murmur I-do. He was no anti-institutionalist, even if he wanted to eschewed convention. He would have a tomb (no reduction by fire), and mass, when he died. He would face St. Peter’s scales.

“There’s someone for you.” Then he smirked, like a raven. “Grab your irons. After I beat you, we’ll drink until you can’t think.”

Smacking balls into oblivion was relaxing. She traded wall for him. She had forgotten how solid he felt.

“I’ll shut up anyone who asks about him,” Jack said.

“My loyal Doberman.”

chelydra

I really need to get back to my self-imposed policy of not commenting on (qualified) entries.

The deadline situation is this:

Ladyhwin spent a long, long time on a double-length entry which I disqualified for the most arbitrary and probably unexpected of reasons—a reason unrelated to literary merit, moral scruples, or any technicalities or rules. She was a very good sport about it, indicated a burning desire to compose a fresh entry (in another genre) in whatever time was left, and then got anxious about how much time that might be. Since I was so unreasonable about rejecting her first entry before I even read it, it seems only fair that the final deadline should be extended to the last possible moment of Bastille Day (today), so she doesn't have to submit a rush job. It also seems only fair that everyone else has the same extension.

The final deadline is noon Greenwich Mean Time on Sunday 15 July (tomorrow). That's 1 pm local London (daylight) time. That's as close as I can get to midnight all along the International Date Line, which zig-zags around a lot on its way from pole to pole (and therefore is just presenting it's midnight in some places). If somebody is having internet connection problems or a nervous breakdown that delays a submission by another half-hour or so, I might let it sneak in, if I'm in a good mood.

I explained earlier that it would take dynamite to topple my premature decision about who should win and why. I also indicated, a little later, that I thought I detected an acrid whiff of nitroglycerine in the pre-dawn London fog. I had the presence of mind, however, to refrain from saying whether it was accompanied by any faint scent of bluebells, slaughterhouses, platypus venom, or whatever else might indicate its origin(s). I will also refrain from saying whether any of the aforementioned olfactory halicinations are seeming more or less vivid, now that more entries have arrived.

But the advice in a previous note applies more than ever: if you find you still have an urge to send something (else) in before noon GMT, be sure to recite the manta dynamite... dynamite... dynamite.... as you write it. You can see what's been submitted already, so you don't need me to tell you it will have to be utterly mind-blowing.

five

My tenses are still off. One last correction...

The long afternoon’s wave of heat passed without much consequence.

Scales would have measured his death like iron in a petering fire. A dandelion -- yellow head, no raspberry -- had sprouted beside the tomb. A raven pecks at the tombstone, the nourishment she seeks known only to her. The bird would lose her beak, but she stops and croons. Would that her sound could be decipher--

No wolf, this lovely raven does not kiss and tell! She pulls a wing across her face and shields a smile behind dark feathers.

Then she flies. What majesty -- any bird in flight!

On any day, but one a month, the dark silhouette would cross a moonlit sky above the treetops and circle back to settle a top the church steeple and wait until the bells and she sounded the coming of morning.

ladyhwin

chelydra - you're doing an awesome job of hosting this edition of TW, and I've seen TW evolve over the last few years. Kudos!

I'm not having much success with getting another submission written... if I write two pieces that together add up to 433 words, do they have to be related pieces?

chelydra

The word 'presenting' was supposed to be 'pretending' in the middle of my previous comment, and those olfactory things were supposed to be 'hallucinations' of course.



A note to Stillthinkingaboutanameorwhateveryournameis,

If you're reading this and still have a little time left, I'd urge you to quickly compose another entry and send it in. You (only you, no one else) can even get a further extension if you ask for it before the deadline. This is because I've realized I am as unable to judge your entry as I was ladyhwin's, although for a very different reason. I was exactly your age when I met the girl you describe, and the last time I tried to look her up, it was in a graveyard (I found lots of her in-laws but not her). I thought I might be able to judge this objectively, or maybe subjectively, or maybe find some other way if there is one, but I can't even look at it after that first reading. Others described a reaction not unlike mine, so your skill was obviously a factor, possibly even the only factor, in making it happen, but I still can't see how to judge fairly what you did. I considered not disclosing my reason, but what the hell — the wordlist owed something to Edgar Allen Poe, so it makes sense that Poeish themes in life as well as art should have come up. If you don't have time for a fresh entry, you've at least already won the Annabelle Lee Memorial Prize for Short Fiction, which will be formally presented with the other award(s) when I make up my mind, which will be Sunday night or Monday morning if I'm given an extension.


five,

I tried forever to get the judge's attention. He just puffed on his cigar, not saying hello, replying or even looking at me as I tried to explain my request on your behalf, and then muttered something unprintable as he shoved past me on his way to lunch or golf or the Freemasons' Bastille commemoration. For all I know, he may have been taking it all in and pondering it. It might not matter though, since your subsequent entries certainly qualify and seem adequate at first glance.


marg,

I suppose I should congratulate you on this evidence of a detemination to reform, get rehabilitated, become a responsible member of ThinkDraw society, etc., etc., but let's not be jumping the gun, seeing as how it's not yet time to celebrate the one-day anniversary of your newfound sobriety. We will tomorrow, though, if all goes well between now and then. Keep coming back, you're worth it, etc., etc. (It takes one to know one, though, so I don't want to sound too self-righteous. What's that saying about seeing ourselves as others see us? I just saw the reviews of The Goose in Wood Green on the beerintheevening web site — the only pub where I feel I totally fit in, and the only one I ever go to in recent years — so I guess I'm as much as anyone the clientele the reviewers describe.)

I guess that covers everything. Pardons the many typos that always get past me.

chelydra

Ladyhwin, do what whatever you want Just concoct some entertaining explaination about how you followed some real or imaginary rule. Cheers.

five

One more tweek and the first one is 216.5

Moonlit, the treetops were calmer and the air thicker than expected.



Love tolerates. Graceful letters etched in hard stone remember, behind the church and among the tombs. 



“The dead sleep with their eyes open; the living snore,” Dad once said. “It’s a beautiful noise. I plug my ears and happily choke on goose-down.”



Caw. 



Hush, Crow. 



Isabella traced wood grain with her eyes. She lost it under white flowers. The scale was wrong. One rose would be good. Red, not white. Bright, bright red. These white flowers spread out like a blanket and hid the box.



She turned over Dad’s hand and traced the flesh, digging harder with her nails as she slid her finger. He recoiled.



“Go in peace, my ang-” 



Later, Isabella chewed the last raspberry thirty-two times -- she counted. She saw iron in Dad’s eyes, or, imagined it. He slumped. Once a wolf, now a sheep. Errant juice slid the wrong way down her throat. She gasped and opened wide to suck. He smacked her on the back, hard, punishing her. She spat. She had done nothing wrong. Not a sheep; a ram.



Caw. Damned bird. 



Isabella cried. She waved her arms, then squeezed her fingers into tight fists and shook them madly. Dad held her close and kissed her head.

marius

Wonders never cease! Haven’t been to TD much lately and look what I find upon return! Great fun to see so many familiar names and the familiar great writing too!


221 words (sorry Chelydra but the deadline is today, I just found out and it’s time to meet friends for a dinner. Anyway, I did follow some of the rules - “moo” is one-half of moonlit.)



Keep Playing


“Oh Mommy, don’t stop. I LIKE those songs.”

Such a peculiar child. Most people don't enjoy hearing scales and arpeggios but my Artemis has never been like most people.

“Keep playing!” he bellows.

I wave to Art out the open window. He smiles and blows a raspberry kiss. It really is raspberry; he’s apparently doing the blood thing again in his graveyard.

That’s another curiosity, the graveyard. When Wolf died (not many woolly worms will survive being coddled via the iron grip of a four year old) it wasn’t enough to have one grave. Artemis built a virtual tomb for the moth that would never be. Then we had to find dead ants, spiders, anything, and bury them so Wolf wouldn’t be lonely.

Art is hanging on the window, begging to come in that way instead of the door.

“Last night I was in the treetops, Mommy. I was so high I caught some moo….moon … some moonlight. I just buried it. See!”

Emmy calls from across the street. “Hey, Art, c’mon over.” He flies. So has time since I heard the screeching brakes and felt the sounds that followed.


Last night I found a dead crow. “Keep playing,” it said. So, I buried the bird in the old graveyard and that’s when I saw a moonbeam in the freshly-turned soil.

chelydra

five, old buddy,
i was gonna say relax, have a beer or something, unwind after all this rule-following stress, especially when i saw that what had struck as a weaker entry that the previous one had evolved into its equal at least (for the record, note that I didn't reveal whether I thought the previous one was any good, or just less bad). But THEN (ominous drum-thud, maybe a tuba-growl from the ThinkWrite Lonelyhearts Orchestra) it happened. ...as egregious as the notorious Marg, but she, at least, has been overt (smug, even) about her archarchist predilections.... Did you REALLY think I wouldn't notice "a top the church steeple."????????? What excuse will it be this time... Oh, I get it, you were bending the conventions of grammar and punctuation, some kinda poetic license thing, and what you're saying is "a top, the church steeple" like it's a funny-looking steeple resembling a toy top, right? (Just trying to head you off at the pass there, a joke, don't try it.)

Tell ya what... if "atop" turns out to be the correct word count, you're in and we'll say it was an innocent mistake, and just pretend the space isn't there. But if it's "a top" that yields the right total, you got about 14 hours to get it sorted out, young lady, innocent mistake or not.

five

LOL; for the record, spell/grammar check on my word processing software rejects atop, but not a top.

But to assuage you, here is 137.8 words with atop as a one word.

The long afternoon’s wave of heat passed without much consequence.

Scales would have measured his death like iron in a petering fire. A dandelion -- yellow head, no raspberry -- had sprouted beside the tomb. A raven pecks at the tombstone, the nourishment she seeks known only to her. The bird would lose her beak, but she stopped and crooned. Would that her sound could be decipher--

No wolf, this lovely raven did not kiss and tell! She pulled a wing across her face and shielded a smile behind dark feathers.

Then she flew. What majesty -- any bird in flight!

On any day, but one a month, the dark silhouette would cross a moonlit sky above the treetops and circle back to settle atop the church steeple and wait until the stalwart bells and she sounded the coming of morning.

five

Of course, now I lost all verb tense corrections, having cut and paste from an earlier post to make the atop adjustment...

The long afternoon’s wave of heat passed without much consequence.

Scales would have measured his death like iron in a petering fire. A dandelion -- yellow head, no raspberry -- had sprouted beside the tomb. A raven pecks at the tombstone, the nourishment she seeks known only to her. The bird would lose her beak, but she stops and croons. Would that her sound could be decipher--

No wolf, this lovely raven does not kiss and tell! She pulls a wing across her face and shields a smile behind dark feathers.

Then she flies. What majesty -- any bird in flight!

On any day, but one a month, the dark silhouette would cross a moonlit sky above the treetops and circle back to settle atop the church steeple and wait until the stalwart bells and she sounded the coming of morning.

five

Marius, very effective.

chelydra

Sorry, five, I wrote the preceding before I realized you'd set in yet ANOTHER revision of the other one! Good Lord! Go have that beer, take a walk in some fresh air, and just make up and send us whatever excuse you want after you've had a break. You've suffered enough!

chelydra

Oops, I sent that last one in too late! Yet more sufferings ensued even as I wrote it.

Here's a quote my niece has been spreading around:

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
― Ernest Hemingway


Just curious, five, ignore me if I'm prying, but were you raised on stories of martyred saints or something?

five

:) Don't worry about me. I have spent far less time than you might think on these. It's a good break from organizing and adding up receipts (the top of my to do list today)