This week, I’m going to write every other day. Here are the prompts I’ve assigned myself for every other day this week. These are desperate writing (and reading) times for me. I haven’t finished reading a book in over a month. Ridiculous. And my writing has been pretty scant. This makes me unhappy, and I won’t have that.
These are listicles in three images (objects) each. One for every other day this week. In some there are animals. I love animals. They are not objects. But mostly these images are places or things.
Monday (today)
A pink tulle gown, a little black cat, Camille Saint Saens’ The Bacchanale.
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Edit –
Tuesday – Done, but skipped Wednesday
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Thursday
A green Adirondack chair, Agatha Christie’s The Pale Horse, and a red velvet cake.
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Saturday
A street named Northrup. This is a nonfiction street in Portland Oregon, but I’ll be writing about a fictional Northrup street in Saturday’s tale. An envelope containing only sprigs of rosemary, and an orange tabby cat.
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Monday (next week)
A pink sapphire bracelet found buried under a pink rosebush in Dixmont Mansion’s perennial garden, Perry Mason, the Bichon Frise who digs up said pink sapphire bracelet. The dog, Perry Mason being named after the brilliant fictional defense attorney, Perry Mason. And Agatha Christie’s mystery novel, Dumb Witness.
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Wednesday (also, next week)
A blue silk bowtie with red polka dots, a pair of tasseled black loafers, size eleven, a gray tabby cat.
These are images, pictures in words, that make me happy, and that I sometimes use to work my imagination or for writing prompts. Either that or I just enjoy thinking about them during quiet moments.
Sweet mallard ducklings, pink peonies, Josephine Tey’s A Shilling For Candles, and a tourmaline bracelet.
Red dahlias, a ruby necklace, a strawberry finch, and Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile.
Purple coneflower, a just fledged nuthatch, Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, and a pearl necklace.
Anthony Horowitz’s Magpie Murders, a murder of crows, red roses and a black onyx pendant.
A copper bowl of fir cones, Rex Stout’s The Doorbell Rang, a pair of lovely goldfinches, and a pair of cognac sapphire earrings.
A raucous bluejay, or two, a barberry bush in autumn, Dorothy L. Sayer’s The Busman’s Honeymoon, and a little silver dolphin charm.
Italo Calvino’s Baron in the Trees, orange zinnias, two little dark eyed juncos searching for seeds, and a vintage seventies mood ring.
A celadon vase of pink hyacinth, a blush of robins, Guy de Maupassant’s The Necklace, and an emerald necklace.
Monday morning, there’s a jaguar on my patio. She feasts on a doe. But jaguars don’t live here. Deer, though, do. It’s a blue sky day, but it snows, lightly. I brew my morning coffee, toast two slices of rye, and she stops eating; watches me, makes no move for the sliding glass doors. She lounges. I spread blackberry jam on my toast. I eat. I drink two cups. She still watches me. She’s wary.
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I sit on my living room couch. Red velvet. Maybe I should invite her in. There’s plenty of room for her to rest. She sleeps on the other end of the patio from where she ate. The deer’s bones are licked clean. Not a scrap of meat remains. She was meticulous. No wonder she naps. I scroll twitter, news sites. I’m in a down mood. I watch her. She knows I watch and opens one eye. She closes it again. She’s still, but I’m antsy. What to do? I fidget, can’t stop watching her.
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It’s afternoon. I went out for a few groceries around noon. When I came home she was gone. Two hours have passed. Still, she’s gone. I wonder if she’ll come back. Then I wonder if she was really there. The deer’s bones are also gone. I fold some clean laundry in my bedroom. I hope she comes back, I think. I mean, if she was ever there in the first place. Did it really snow? It’s June, and this is New Jersey.
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I’m back on my couch. I long for a smoke, but I’m trying to quit. I only have two cigarettes left. I hid them on myself. So silly. I pick up my book. I’m reading Lee Child. The Hard Way. Nonstop action. I used to think I’d like to marry someone like him. But he’d make a terrible husband. Always on the road. He’d never call. I’ve never been married. You can probably tell. I’m thirty seven, happy by myself. Or at least I’m happy most of the time.
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I can’t get into this book. I keep looking up to see if the big cat has come back. I’m tempted to name her if she does. But she doesn’t belong to me, even if she comes back to stay. She belongs to no one. And this is the kind of jungle she isn’t used to. She might be homesick. I would be. I pick up my copy of Heart of Darkness, Conrad. Maybe it’ll be better. Sorry, Lee.
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It’s Monday, still, 8:15 pm. I’m on vacation, and have a date, but I cancel. Darrell is a good guy; a lot of fun, but I’m not in the mood. I say I’m not feeling well, but he knows that’s code for, I want to stay home and read with a couple of gin and tonics. Really, I’m waiting to see if Athena comes back. I haven’t named her, exactly. I just need to call her something besides The Cat. She likely won’t come back anyway.
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I finish my book, and I’m in bed by 10:30. It was snowing this morning, but now I need the air conditioner. It’s 83F outside, but oh so humid. I sleep soundly, and when I wake up, I go out to my living room, and she’s out there. On my patio with another deer. This one’s a little bigger. She’s about half done, and I can tell she’ll save none for later. She’ll eat her fill, then I’ll invite her in. What does one offer a jaguar? A place to relax and be herself?
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I make myself a bacon and cheese omelet, sourdough toast, and I drink three cups of coffee. I feel like celebrating. I don’t worry that I might be hallucinating. Maybe I’ll call Darrell and invite him over. I did tell him I was thinking about adopting a cat.
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But when I finish my breakfast, I look out and see that she’s gone, and so, I see, are her leftovers. Maybe she went back to her real home, though she would have been welcome here. I’ve a feeling she won’t come back this time. I got to live kind of a fairy tale for a day or so though.
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Around 3 in the afternoon, I get a call from my friend, Alicia, who lives three blocks away. She says, Diane, guess what I saw in my backyard this morning?! You’ll never believe it!
And I say, oh Alicia, I might just believe you. **
But the stuff’s already cheap it makes Lucinda scoff
So Holly drowns her sorrows at Ripley’s Bar
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Kitty Raleigh watches from a picture window
Alas she’s more fascinated by a really big crow
Crow tries to steal a costume sapphire ring
He’s coveting bracelets earrings a lot of bling
Crow only absconds with a red satin bow
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Friday it’s ninety degrees in the shade
But Lucinda thinks of all the cash she’s made
Irene purchases her old suede chair
Lucinda will buy a new leather one for her lair
She mistakenly sells her bracelet of real jade
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Barry buys Lu’s rickety used grill
He’ll fix it up grill chicken and chill
Lucinda lets little Charlie sell lemonade
He stays in the shade of the little spruce glade
Everything is cash so no one gets a bill
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Kitty Raleigh’s bored with watching and takes a nap
Lucinda sells Cyril’s new baseball cap
When everything’s sold husband drives up
He says lovely Lu I’ll take you out for supp
In the car they listen to some garage sale rap
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Epilogue..
It turns out that Lu made a profit of $1606.57. She decided not to hold the sale a second day. Cyril bought ten new books; five used, five new. They brought some leftover steak home for Raleigh. Cyril looked for his new baseball cap and couldn’t find it…
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This is my lovely kitty, Snickers. Raleigh from the story is a Maine Coon 😺
Why can’t Kristen write? Why can’t she finish a book?
The words have either escaped her, or they are well hidden. Punctuation, the same.
Monday morning, some adverbs were rinsed down the drain when she scraped leftover egg yolk from her plate. They were adverbs, but still. Used sparingly in a story, they work well.
On Wednesday, a half a dozen adjectives were lost in a sock. Where did they go? Down the black hole in the dryer with who knows how many other socks and adjectives. No more detective with the tanned body; the muscular biceps, the firm gluteous maximus. He was her favorite character in a short story she’d started. And shy Suzette lost her lover.
And the cozy mystery she started to read on Saturday. She couldn’t finish it. All the descriptions of the desserts made her drool. And there went all the commas in her story. Saliva all over her pillow. (She was reading in bed.) Really, there were too many commas anyway, but that’s beside the point, right?
Kristen started reading an historical novel Thursday morning with her coffee and Danish. But, she became uncomfortable in the main character’s corset. (Kristen’s imagination is extreme. She really places herself in the story.) Now she knows when she writes her own novel, to set it in a different time. Maybe in the late 1960s? Mini skirts are very freeing, and all those vivid designs and colors. (If they don’t get lost also.)
That same Thursday, in the afternoon, she changed from her orange stilettos to her much more comfy red sneakers. When she took off the heels, the two semicolons, (one in each shoe,) jumped out and high tailed it down the hall, and hopped into her ficas tree. She can’t find them in the foliage. She never knew semicolons wear camo.
Kristen’s two favorite character names, Sylvia and Mortimer rebelled. Not enough love scenes for them in her novella. Secondary characters, Stephanie and Dillon get way more. How is that fair? What’s up with that? They absconded to the garden somewhere. Are they in the lupine? Maybe in the azaleas? Kristen’s too lazy to look. She’ll just have to come up with other names. Perhaps Gertrude and Gavin. Or could Gs be missing in action too? They only want roles in sci-fi?
Friday, Kristen put out a casting call for a sexy plumber type, (what that is, exactly, she’s not sure. She doesn’t want to be sexist.) All she asks is that they don’t show their cracks when they bend over to look under the sink. Alas, no one showed up. Her imagination was bereft. Maybe the hopefuls heard she had cabbage, beet, and broccoli salad for lunch?
One of Kristen’s favorite words is eviscerate. She found it in her chocolate stash on Tuesday. But what should she eviscerate in her poem? It’s a love sonnet. What is eviscerated in a love poem? That’s just a depressing thought.
There are many reasons why Kristen is unable to find the words, for either reading or writing. Or are they merely excuses? Likely the latter.
Maybe the words are in a little cabin on the coast, or a little motel in the sticks? Maybe she just needs to rent a room. Somewhere quiet, out of the way. Maybe take her vintage typewriter that’s missing three letters. Well, they’re not missing, just worn off, faded. Maybe that’s a little progress? Just faded, not gone? Kristen’s hopeful.
There’s a little motel named Bates in a town called Waterville down the coast a piece. Bates. This must mean something. She’ll lock the bathroom door when she takes a shower. Maybe put a chair under the knob. Kristen rents room 5 for two days and nights. Fifty dollars a night. Cash only. According to the receptionist, the room is decorated in burnt umber and avocado green. She thinks maybe this atmosphere will spur her imagination. She’ll set her story in 1975. She’ll wear her polyester blouse, bell bottom jeans, part her hair in the middle. And she won’t forget two packs of Marlboros and a lot of Boone’s Farm Wild Irish Rose. Do they still make Wild Irish Rose? If not, some cheap whisky. She’ll rent a Gran Torino if she can find one, or a 70s VW Beetle. Wish Kristen luck!
This is contented Snickers. She doesn’t care about finding words. She as zen as they come. 🙂
Rebellious Hazelnuts 