June 16th, 2008
Today’s PROMPTuesday keeps it simple.
Read this poem (one of my favorites):
Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock
by Wallace Stevens
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
In red weather.
Meditate on it for a minute. Then write whatever comes to mind.
Here are PROMPTuesday’s rules:
- You must write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kicks in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
- Keep to 250 words or less.
- Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
- Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.
Write y’all. Let those red tigers escape.
Meanwhile, here’s a retrospective of PROMPTuesdays past.
And here’s the original post explaining the PROMPTuesday concept.
Finally, here’s my submission for the week:
She placed the fork next to the spoon, the way he liked it. She expected him home by 6 o’clock, and she wanted everything to be ready. Just a few more minutes. The platter of ham sat in the center of the table and scalloped potatoes warmed in the oven. He’d want them set out, with a big spoon ready to scoop them up in heaps onto his plate. She poured a glass of water for herself, a rare luxury, since he always liked to be served first, even before she took a sip. But he wasn’t here yet, and she could drink the whole thing and set the empty glass next to her place, no one the wiser.
She hesitated before taking a sip, then drank it all in one swallow. The timer dinged in the kitchen, and she sniffed the first faint smell of burned potato. It was time. She lurched into the kitchen, while her legs would still take her. She needed those potatoes on the table. The casserole dish sent its heat into the potholders and she hurried it to the table, relieved to set it down. She dug a ladle into its tufted center. Then she sat at her place, poured his water, and waited to die.