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Down streets turned ashen in the early light, he wandered, wisps of fog curling and skittering around his ankles. Around him were dimly lit windows, each with a hunched figure bent over a table, scribbling or typing furiously.
His own hands bore blank sheets of paper.
He stared about. It wasn’t so much, he thought. Only four hundred, at the most seven hundred and fifty. Why was it so hard for him, always so hard? Some could write a tale about, say, that piece of filth in the gutter and make it work somehow. They knew how to engage the crowd, and the subject wasn’t important to them.
But he needed something more, and something that hadn’t been already written and rewritten, full of scraped holes like an old palimpsest. He cast his eyes to the remote hills, untouched by sun and as gray as his heart felt. Somewhere in the remote streets, a horse whickered. None of it was of any use. He would have to give it up this time.
His shoulders fell, and he turned, and there it was. A tattered poster, somehow catching more light than its surroundings. A woman in a red dress, dashing through a field. Something might have been pursuing her. What expression was that, on her haunting face?
He recalled that one café, the scent of jonquils on the breeze, the laugh that made his heart pause… There had to be some angle there he could use. He sat on the curb, spread his papers on his knees, and the vision poured out of him, scrawled roughly across the pages. He ignored the cold, the sharp hard stones beneath him, his hunger and thirst, as he lost himself in the flow of precious words.
He breezed through the beginning, the words spilling onto the paper as if already contained in his pen, but now the work began in earnest, and all his skill was needed to shape the emerging paragraphs to contain his intent. He left one difficult phrase behind and moved on. There was too much inside him, fighting to be recorded and preserved, and the beautiful thoughts were often the most fleeting, like dream fragments reluctant to be remembered or caught.
But he was fully captured by it now, and would not be stopped. He felt the crescendo approaching and started weaving his themes back together, finding a beautiful simile that captured the expression of that woman’s face on the poster. As the sun rose over the hills and the fog rose in lazy feline curls and the buildings were outlined in orange fire, he rushed against time, and finally he felt it all closing under his hands. That one metaphor was perfect, and he could feel the punch of the final line.
He drew a sharp breath, shivered, and stood on weak legs. There was just time to post it if he hurried.
As he ran, he read the crumpled pages, then shuddered in dismay.
He’d done it. His tale deserved a medal.
But sadly, he had a picture’s worth.
His own hands bore blank sheets of paper.
He stared about. It wasn’t so much, he thought. Only four hundred, at the most seven hundred and fifty. Why was it so hard for him, always so hard? Some could write a tale about, say, that piece of filth in the gutter and make it work somehow. They knew how to engage the crowd, and the subject wasn’t important to them.
But he needed something more, and something that hadn’t been already written and rewritten, full of scraped holes like an old palimpsest. He cast his eyes to the remote hills, untouched by sun and as gray as his heart felt. Somewhere in the remote streets, a horse whickered. None of it was of any use. He would have to give it up this time.
His shoulders fell, and he turned, and there it was. A tattered poster, somehow catching more light than its surroundings. A woman in a red dress, dashing through a field. Something might have been pursuing her. What expression was that, on her haunting face?
He recalled that one café, the scent of jonquils on the breeze, the laugh that made his heart pause… There had to be some angle there he could use. He sat on the curb, spread his papers on his knees, and the vision poured out of him, scrawled roughly across the pages. He ignored the cold, the sharp hard stones beneath him, his hunger and thirst, as he lost himself in the flow of precious words.
He breezed through the beginning, the words spilling onto the paper as if already contained in his pen, but now the work began in earnest, and all his skill was needed to shape the emerging paragraphs to contain his intent. He left one difficult phrase behind and moved on. There was too much inside him, fighting to be recorded and preserved, and the beautiful thoughts were often the most fleeting, like dream fragments reluctant to be remembered or caught.
But he was fully captured by it now, and would not be stopped. He felt the crescendo approaching and started weaving his themes back together, finding a beautiful simile that captured the expression of that woman’s face on the poster. As the sun rose over the hills and the fog rose in lazy feline curls and the buildings were outlined in orange fire, he rushed against time, and finally he felt it all closing under his hands. That one metaphor was perfect, and he could feel the punch of the final line.
He drew a sharp breath, shivered, and stood on weak legs. There was just time to post it if he hurried.
As he ran, he read the crumpled pages, then shuddered in dismay.
He’d done it. His tale deserved a medal.
But sadly, he had a picture’s worth.
>>Whitbane
That's such a great idea.The problem (apart from the obvious) is that single entries break the site's finals calculations and you win nothing. Check the art round results in the last She-Ra round to see what I mean. (It may also be that no one voted, so no medal got awarded.) (Retracted; it's been fixed. Thanks, Roger!)
That's such a great idea.
Hmmmm:
This Saturday is looking to be three-and-a-half bears for me, but I'll see if I can get something together.
Mike
This Saturday is looking to be three-and-a-half bears for me, but I'll see if I can get something together.
Mike
So many 'OTs' within the suggested prompts. And I don't think it has to do with Occupational Therapy.
>>libertydude
I still hope Ot wins one of these days. For one thing, that’d justifiably put it to rest forever. But I think there’d be some delicious madness to be had from it as well.
I still hope Ot wins one of these days. For one thing, that’d justifiably put it to rest forever. But I think there’d be some delicious madness to be had from it as well.
Just finished editing and submitting mine. Not entirely satisfied with the end result, but hopefully I can learn from this experience.
Everything is on fire! Metaphorically, that is. And I forgot this was happening. No luck this time…
A bit late, but here’s the proem for this round:
“Grave Misgivings. My City Was Gone!”
“Liminal. Zeroth World Problems.”
“Inconceivable! How Dare You?”
“A Taste of Monotony? No Such Thing as an Unimportant Day.”
“Whatever… the least popular prompt is Ot.”
“I Can’t Believe Ot!”
“Definition of Me: A Picture’s Worth.”
“Do not Go Gentle into That Good Night Of Mice and Men; It Could Be Heaven or It Could Be Hell.”
“Don’t Let Go. Ot Err is Human.”
“Farewell.”
“Grave Misgivings. My City Was Gone!”
“Liminal. Zeroth World Problems.”
“Inconceivable! How Dare You?”
“A Taste of Monotony? No Such Thing as an Unimportant Day.”
“Whatever… the least popular prompt is Ot.”
“I Can’t Believe Ot!”
“Definition of Me: A Picture’s Worth.”
“Do not Go Gentle into That Good Night Of Mice and Men; It Could Be Heaven or It Could Be Hell.”
“Don’t Let Go. Ot Err is Human.”
“Farewell.”
>>MLPmatthewl419
Controversy is measured by standard deviation of scores. Since there are only two entries and scoring is based on relative ranking, their standard deviations can only be identical. :P
Controversy is measured by standard deviation of scores. Since there are only two entries and scoring is based on relative ranking, their standard deviations can only be identical. :P