Have you ever thought of writing the same story in a hundred different ways? Sounds crazy?
This is exactly what Raymond Queneau did in his Exercises in Style, back in 1947. He tells a simple, unremarkable story (more like flash fiction) 99 times, trying out different styles, from ode to mathematical depictions.
Photo by Marco Arment
Exercise in Style
As soon as I laid my hands on this book, I was charmed: by the idea itself, by the 99 possible ways Queneau found, and finally by his skillfulness in doing so. He deservedly holds the title of virtuoso.
Among the hundred of styles he used, he included:
- Onomatopoeia
- Anagrams
- Retrograde
- Blurb
- Philosophic
- Hellenisms
- Auditory
- Free Verse
- Homophonic
- Reported Speech
- Sonnet
- Gastronomical
1 – 20, 21 – 40, 41 – 60, 61 – 80.
As an ingenious concept, it is an irreplaceable resource for any writer, journalist, editor, teacher, serving as a guide to various literary forms.
99 Different Ways to Practice
Also, what an incredible way to practice your craft! Let me give you an example of how to put this technique to use.
Here are three different versions of my own story.
ORIGINAL
The small girl was alone and crying. She seemed scared and lost. It was late afternoon, the break of evening. I almost missed her altogether, swimming deep in my thoughts. After realizing that she’s not accompanied by an adult, I carefully approached and asked: “Where do you live honey?” Her crying was disabling any answer, but she lifted her small arm and pointed the tiny fingers to the left. A dozen steps away, she ran to her house and I could hear her mother’s exclamations of relief and excitement. By the time the girl had turned away to thank the ‘nice stranger’, I was already on my initial route to town.
DOUBLE ENTRY
The small and tiny girl was alone and by herself, crying and weeping. She was frightened and worried and misplaced and lost. I almost missed and passed her altogether and completely, involved and dug into my thoughts and ideas. Seeing and confirming that she, the girl, is without parental and guardian care, I slowly and cautiously moved toward and came near and inquired and asked where she lives and stays. The girl’s leaking and weeping prevented and made it hard to get to an answer, though she raised and picked up her small and little extremities and fingers to one side and to the left. About ten and dozen steps further, the girl began and started running to her house and place to live and it was possible and easy to hear and make out the mother’s cries and sighs of exhilaration and joy. When the small and tiny girl managed and finally lifted and turned herself to pay gratitude and appreciation to the ‘the stranger and man who saved and brought her home’, I was already back to my previous and initial plans of walking and reaching town.
TELEGRAPHIC
SMALL GIRL ALONE STOP QUESTION AND GESTURING AN ANSWER IN BETWEEN CRYING STOP WALKING BACK TO GIRL’S HOUSE STOP SHE RUNS AWAY TO HER HOUSE STOP MOTHER RELIEVED AND HAPPY STOP GIRL TURNED TO PAY HER THANKS TO THE STRANGER WHO WAS ALREADY GONE STOP SIGNATURE LEVITHIAN
PRACTICE
Choose two different styles you would like to use to rewrite the original story above. Alternatively, write your own story, keeping in mind that the tale needs to be flexible enough for a later rephrase.
Feel free to experiment as much as you like. When you're finished, share your practice in the comments.
And be sure to comment on a few other pieces, as well.
Original Story: (just wrote)Heading down the narrow stairway, I gripped the wooden
handle. It wasn’t much more than a long wooden dowel and rocked loosely after
each step. But sixteen years in the same house and I hadn’t fallen yet.
The light bulb jingled back and forth after I pulled the
string and I’m pretty sure it burned the surrounding cobwebs. I lifted open the
old wooden trunk and found Mother’s blanket, the one from Mexico with the Aztec
designs and frills on the end. But beneath it lay a box I’d never seen before,
a shoe box with a faded Art Deco design. I set the blanket beside my feet and
opened up the box. It contained photos from Mother’s old life, the one she had
before Dad. It seems silly now, but I’d never thought about it before. After
all, I’d never lived without her, but she’d lived a whole life without me.
Prognostication:
Heading down the narrow stairway, you will grip the wooden
handle. It’s only a long wooden dowel that rocks loosely after each step. But in
the past sixteen years of your life, you haven’t fallen yet.
You will pull the string for the light and watch a few
cobwebs sizzle as the bulb bounces back and forth. Open the old wooden trunk,
the one with Mother’s blanket, and pull it out. You know the one: the frilly
ends and Aztec designs. It’s from Mexico.
But underneath it you’ll see a box you’ve never seen before.
It’s from a time before you, one where department stores decorated simple shoe
boxes with fancy Art Deco designs. But it’s faded.
You’ll set the blanket to your feet to further examine the
box. Inside are pictures from your mother’s life, the one she had before dad.
The one she had before you. Sixteen years old and you’d never considered it,
but you’d never considered a world without her. So how does it feel to, for the
first time, realize that she had a whole life without you?
Logical Analysis (actually, not sure what this one was, but tried anyway)
Stairway.
Dark.
Familiar place. Yet it feels different.
Wobbly handle.
Cobwebs.
It’s home, but it’s not
safe. Harbingers of things to come.
Conflict: Mother needs
a blanket.
Blanket is in the wooden
chest.
Solution: I open the
chest and take the blanket. That’s all I need. But that’s not all that’s there.
New conflict: What is
in the Art Deco box?
What is Art Deco?
Reminiscent of old
times. Sears and Roebuck, Tiffany’s. Faded design.
This box is old and
therefore its contents are old, too.
Solution: Open shoe box
and discover contents.
Conflict: Contents are photographs
of Mother’s old husband, other children.
Conflict: I realize
that I am not Mother’s only family. Me and Dad and Sissy are not the only ones
Mother has had to care about.
Conflict: I’m not my
mother’s life.
Conflict: Too many
conflicts to count. Story will never be resolved.
Solution: Realizing
that story will not be resolved. At least one problem is solved.
I just wanted to add that I started this exercise assuming it would be kind of silly, and it was absolutely brilliant! The second story is basically the same as the first, but that slight twist on tense and perspective make it completely different. I can’t thank you enough for this post! Can’t wait to see more from you in the future.
Also, as a side note, I had to go to books.google.com and search the book find the table of contents, and even then I only had a limited view of the book. Does Queneau ever make explicit what the exercises are, or are you supposed to figure it out? I couldn’t really make heads or tails of his chapter on “Logical Analysis”, but tried my best anyway. I’m definitely adding this to my Amazon wishlist (using your link, no less!)
I loved your “Logical Analysis” version. Precise and short can often have a better effect than long and carefully crafted sentences. And the end gives a funny touch to the otherwise sad tale.
As for the book, Queneau doesn’t give any explanation: only changes the tale to 99 different versions, thus showing in practice what he wants to convey. Of course, it’s easy to gather his point when you see and compare the various techniques.
Happy to hear this helped and I’m sure you’ll enjoy the book.
That was fun to read Bronson. You gave to very different versions. Well done.
Your Logical Analysis was AMAZING! All those conflicts… so powerful! “Solution: I open the chest and take the blanket. That’s all I need. But that’s not all that’s there.” Loved it. I am going to have to attempt that style some time. Very interesting.
Also, thanks for the tip about going to books.google for the preview. That helped in figuring out what the styles were about when I did mine.
Thanks for the kind words.
Also, Google Book is great, especially if you want to quote a line you remember from a book. Just search the part you remember and voila!
This stuff really works doesn’t it! Your logical analysis not only gives another perspective on the story but fleshes out many details not present in the original. Your post causes me to take this more seriously.
Wow, this is fascinating, the way you’ve broken the story down by these three different versions.
Welcome, Sophie
What a cool idea. I am going to practice this right away (really)!
Mike
Thanks Mike. Looking forward to reading your practice, of course if you’re willing to share.
I *love* this idea – so much fun! Thanks and welcome, Sophie, excited to work on this!!!
Thanks Zoe. Glad you like it.
I’m not sure if these are in different styles. I enjoyed this exercise though. I’m glad you’re with us Sophie.
1) It was dusk and I was missing his arm around my waist. I could hear Jason’s voice in my mind exclaiming about the bats taking flight as darkness approached. They were in search of moths and other insects for dinner. He loved bats. He loved everything in nature. I wasn’t sure now why I had broken up with him. I thought I wanted to be free but life wasn’t nearly as enchanting when there was no one to share it with.
I was so involved in my memories that I almost missed seeing a little girl in a blue dress with a ruffled skirt standing by the picnic table. She watched solemnly as I approached.
“Where do you live honey?” I asked.
She put the thumb of one hand in her mouth and with the other hand gestured toward an apartment complex across the street.
The lights in the apartments were on illuminating windows behind which I imagined scenes of pleasant domesticity, of families enjoying the evenings together.
A woman came out of one apartment and the girl ran toward her holding out her arms. “I sorry I run away,” she said as her tearful mother embraced her.
“Thank you, thank you,” the woman yelled to me.
I threw my hand up in response. I was already walking toward my car, where I’d left my phone. I was hoping to see Jason’s number under the list of recent calls or maybe to even have a voice mail from him.
2)It’s early evening I’m walking in the park thinking of how to break my engagement to Justin. I have enough problems in my life without putting up with his silly demanding crap.
I almost trip over a little girl in a dirty red coat.
She’s crying, the nasty little thing, and looking toward the apartments on the other side of the road.
“Where do you live honey?” I ask trying to not sound irritated by her intrusion into my already screwed up day.
She points to an apartment house across the street.
I see a woman though the curtain-less window of one of the apartments. She’s running from room to room pulling open doors and shoving furniture around like an enraged gorilla. What an idiot.
She comes outside and yells, “Where in the hell are you Lucy?”. She’s so loud that people on the sidewalk stop and stare.
“I know what you did and I’m going to punish you,” she hollers. She tromps across the street but she toward the park but she doesn’t see us yet. The child grabs my leg. She stinks like she’s peed in her pants. I shake her off of my leg and drag her by her wrist toward her mother.
I’ve had enough for one day. But I still have to call Justin. I walk away holding my phone and pushing Justin’s number. I don’t want marriage and I certainly don’t want children. I hope he doesn’t say like he did last time, “It’s just PMS honey. Call me when you feel better. I love you.” That last stupid conversation with Justin is going through my mind when I hear the child shrieking and hear the woman say “I’m going to get the belt”.
I like that by switching tones and tense the story became something else. It’s a totally new story, but considering the different voice for the narrator, the progression is perfectly logical. Great job!
Thank you Bronson. It was fun to do.
I couldn’t recognize my story Mariaanne. Well done with pushing the story further and introducing new details around the central plot. I especially like the second one with the mad mother, picturing the belt in her hands while shooting crazy sparkles from the eyes.
Thank you so much Sophie
That was a very interesting read… wild, how a tiny shift in the opening can so dramatically shape the end. Good job.
Thanks Alisha. I think I kind of misunderstood the directions, simple as they were, oh well, I”m getting old. Thanks for your kind comments anyway. I loved the ones you did.
Wow. I agree with Alisha – I love the changes in character that make each story so different. Great details, Mariaaane, in both. You clutched my heart in the last line, the whole scene was so vivid and real, almost painfully so.
Thank you Zoe. I want to write “I love to create pain” in a kind of joking way but I think I had better couch it in this sentence. I did really like it when you said that. I hate writing the parts where children or animals get hurt. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s just words on a piece of paper.
When we successfully deliver pain and suffering in our writing, it brings the emotions out as a reader, because we can all relate and we’re all vulnerable. Keep bringing it on!
I love this, Sophie – so true. Marianne, I think a true credit to a writer is when the reader feels with or for a character; when the world created becomes bigger than the one a reader is sitting in right there. And you did just that.
My word Marianne. These are so different and so good. Your posts get better every time.
Thanks Marla
Tonya sits in the hallway, strumming her guitar while she waits for Paul to pick her up. She has her head bent low to the instrument as she sits cross-legged on the school’s tightly woven brown and beige carpeting. She’s trying to pick out the tune to “Let it be” by the Beatles. She hums softly, slowly, stuttering as she searches the strings for the sound to match her pitch. The door at the end of the hall opens. Tonya stiffens slightly. He’s watching her again. She feels his gaze as it works its way up her body. She cocks her head in an attempt to show more of her profile, her neck, her cheek. She bites her lip in mock concentration and lets his stare fill her gut with butterflies. She has to remind herself to breath as she watches him approach in her periphery.
Onomatopoeia: (THIS ONE WAS FUN!)
Tonya sits, creaking knees. Elbows snap and crack as she strums—plink, plink, plunking her way though Let It Be. The song was scratched, scribed, scribbled by the Beatles and now played and strummed, and hummed, clumsy hum hum haaarummming by Tonya.
She stiffens, snaps to attention. Shhhhh, she stills… listening, looking. A blink (swwwink)… eyes opening and closing. Her breath… hushed (whoosh, hiss, whoosh, hiss). Her heart a steady tarump, tarump, tarump.
Down the hall (Creeeeeek. Slap. Click. Slam.) the door opens and shuts. And the clunk, the telling clunk, clunk, clunk, of boots…. HIS boots—big and heavy…strong. Man boots, heavier than Paul’s pitter patter pitter patter sneakers. They near (thud, clunk, thud, clunk). The creeeek of leather. The swwwap of thick sturdy soles, closer and closer.
Her heart once a tarump, now a thud and a thud, and finally a rush thudthudthudthudthudthud. Stomach, gut, alive, a wooosh and a whirl and a thwap thwap thwap of wings
beating against organs, crash, crash crashing into gut, throat, heart as he
nears, clunk, clunk, clunking every closer.
She has to remind herself to breath (pant, puff, pant, puff). The suck, suck, sucking of air into lung, out nose (humph) and in again. The thud thud thudding of boots.
Distinguo: (This one was not easy…)
I sit in a hallway (not to be confused with a mall way), strumming my guitar (ney, not smoking a cigar) while I wait for Paul (not a Saint per se, but a saintly man none-the-less). I sit, legs crossed (not in apple sauce but carpet) playing Let It Be (and never not once slaying a bumble bee).
The door opens (not swore upons) and a man (not a pram or a can or even a Paul) walks towards me (not wards me a story). He eyes my length (not shy’s in strength). I bite my lip (ney smite ite smit) a ruse of an act (not to be confused with a rouge sack) as he moves closer (not as leaves smolder).
The onomatopoeia one blew me away.
“Her heart once a tarump, now a thud and a thud, and finally a rush thudthudthudthudthudthud.”
Brilliant. And I bet if it weren’t for this exercise, no one would have ever that could work.
Thanks again, Sophie!
Thank you, thank you. It was fun trying to makes the sounds tell the story.
I am so curious what all the styles are he used. I’m going to need to purchase that book as well.
It’s so much fun and I’m glad you took the time to try it out. I’m having fun playing with the styles at home.
Wow, Alisha, this was simply amazing. I agree with Bronson about the onomatopoeia – it rocks. Glad to hear it was fun as well. And the distinguo works just great, and I can imagine the effort. Great work!
Thank you for the challenge… excellent mind yoga. I keep thinking about the zoological. I’m going to attempt that one next. =)
My Zoological: =)
Lonely, lovely dove as white as snow with the voice of a lark and feathers dark as the nightingale’s song preens alone. Peck peck peck little dove, as if in feast—a feast fit for four and twenty blackbirds. Preen and peck little dove for the forest is vast and you are alone and if a tree should fall only one white dove would know its crack. Only she is too busy singing to hear—her song of the Mother of the Goose and she… merely a gosling herself.
A fox, sly and slim—with a coat as slick and smooth as a jackal is cruel—lays beady black eyes on the dove. One by one the crickets chirp, one by one the warblers warble and one fox creeps silent as a mouse though the underbrush. Hickory, dickory, doc, thinks the fox.
Only don’t count your eggs before they hatch, for the dove has heard the tree fall, she has sensed the crack. The dove turns to stone, chest puffed, feathers all a ruffle. A buzzzzzzz, busy as a bee swarms like caged bats from within the depths of the dove’s lovely gullet. The fox, more panther than fox, more cat than k9, licks chops and waits…. now only a strikes length away.
This one is great toO! The fox … more feline that K9… You ought to submit this one.
Alisha, this is just wow.
I love all of them, but the genius in this makes it my favourite!
Oh my gosh. This is beautiful!
This is so cool
Thank you everyone. This was by far the biggest stretch from anything I’ve ever done and It’s the one I was the most excited to try.. so there you have it. I want to try all 99!!
That was great Alisha! Both the second and third were really amazing. Distinguo what a weirdly interesting take on this. I really enjoyed reading them
Thanks! That distinguo was so odd.. I just had to give it a whirl.
This was wonderful Alisah. I lvoed the onomatopeia one. I must go look up “distingo” though and most of the other terms that Sophy used. An education in itself!
Thank you thank you!! I went to books.google.com for a preview (as Bronson suggested). There you can read some bits and pieces of the book. Very helpful when attempting this exercise.
Taken from Sophie’s original
REPORTED SPEECH
You said that she had been alone and tearful, had seemed scared and lost. That if it hadn’t been that point in the late afternoon, just before the evening broke, you would have missed her altogether. You told me later that is was me you had been thinking of. After you had realized her isolation, I think you said that you had gone up to her, and had asked her where she lived. You told me that she hadn’t been able to give you an answer through the stifling tears, but had managed to get a gesture across. She lived right there, didn’t she? She hadn’t been lost at all. You had gone by the time anyone could thank you.
ANAGRAMS
The mall’s girl was Leona. Crying over a lost, sacred, non-fat latte, just a break, it was evening. I missed her most of all, though dependant wings together, I realized that she’s fatter. I approached fully, and daunted to carress a tall, live dowry with honey. Able cherry washing, but felt the mall’s marr atop the nitty figs the tortoise left. Zoned her steep way, a saint roused in a cold heart, the summation of her relaxed enticing mall. Time by the thunder girl wanted starry racing, but it was all nitty and red, on a tour, in my town.
Ha! That Anagram was impressive, chaotic and wonderful. Loved the reported speech.. “You told me later that is was me you had been thinking of.” good stuff. What an interesting exercise.
Oh, your anagram is so interesting and complex. I had to compare it with the original and follow through. And the reported speech sounds very poetic; you’ve made my story so much better.
I love the anagram one. I could never think of all that in such a short amount of time. Wow.
ORIGINAL:
The boy sat in the middle of the concrete path next to his capsized bicycle, holding his ankle, his face twisted in apparent pain. I coasted up, put my feet on the ground and asked, “Are you all right?” — uneasy that no one else was around. “Noooo,” he answered dolefully, clutching the ankle. I reached to my hip, flipped the lid of my cellphone holster and to my chagrin found it empty — I’d left the house without my phone. “Well, I forgot my phone, so I can’t call –”
He tilted his head toward a bend in the trail fifty yards away: “My mom and my sister are here” — and I looked up and saw that a woman on foot and a girl on a bicycle had just appeared from around the curve. Relief descended. “Oh. Okay.” Pushing off again, I rode slowly toward the approaching duo and asked the woman, “Are you his mother?” She had a guarded expression and merely nodded. I said, “I think he hurt his ankle.” Suddenly her face opened up and she smiled: “He’s prone to drama. Thank you.”
“Yes Ma’am.” I continued my ride reflecting on the discomfiture of a lone adult male in a public place.
CROSS-EXAMINATION:
D.A.: So, Mister Fisher, you often ride your bicycle in the park in question.
JOHN: Yes, three or four times a week.
D.A.: And on the day in question, did you see a young boy in distress?
JOHN: I did.
D.A.: Are you sure you didn’t CAUSE that distress? Sure you didn’t knock him off his bike just for the fun of it? Or for a yet more sinister motive?
JOHN: That’s preposterous.
D.A.: Oh, is it? Didn’t the young man say to you, “Get lost, perv-o!”?
JOHN: He said no such thing.
D.A.: And to try and save face, you made a show of intending to call for help, pretending you’d lost your phone?
JOHN: [Slow, measured breathing, attempting to compose self]
D.A.: . . . and when the boy’s mother and sister came to his rescue you put on your sincere, just-trying-to-help face, to try and cover up your attempted —
JOHN: Mister, I don’t know what your —
THE COURT: I have had enough. Mr. Prosecutor, you will stop brow-beating the witness this instant. What has gotten into you?
BLURB:
TRIAL OF LOCAL STREET-PERSON CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING ENTERS ITS THIRD DAY, TONIGHT ON NEWS 8 AT TEN.
Hilarious John, and the discrepancy between the two is probably how many people see situations that are brought to trial.
Right on. Thanks!
I enjoyed this; the cross-examination shifting the story further in other directions. Great stuff John!
Thank you Sophie — and from others’ posts I’ve come to realize more what a versatile and useful tool this is. Thanks!
POEM
Trembling, weeping,Huddled alone,Her tearful eyesLonging for home.Carefully, quietly,Approaching alone,I calmly ask,”Child, where is your home?”Wordlessly, tearfully,Scared and alone,She lifts her fingers,Pointing toward home.Quickly, quickly,She runs alone.Mother’s arms wide,Waiting at home.Silently, happily,I continue aloneAhead into townToward my own home.
OLD ENGLISH (or something like that)
And I heard a child weeping, and being over-burdened with my own cares, I nearly passed her by. But I belheld that she knew not which way to turn, and was unguided. And taking great care I approached her, and inquired of her where she lived. And she could not speak for her weeping, but lifted a tiny hand in gesture to the left. And it seemed that the light of recognition fell upon her, and she began to run. And I beheld not twelve steps away her mother hastening to welcome the child home, and they embraced in joy and relief. And the child turned away to express her thanks. But I was already on my way again.
Wow! Great job!! Loved the poem. I read it a few times and then I read it to my husband. He too enjoyed it. Your Old English was fabulous as well! “And I beheld not twelve steps away her mother hastening to welcome the child home.” (great line). It’s been fun to see so many people try such varying styles.
Thank you! Ha ha, I’m not sure about the Old English…. 🙂 It was fun to try at least!
Both of these are great. I particularly like the poem. I wish that formatting would work in Discus but I could follow it anyway.
Thanks! Yeah the formatting kind of ticked me off but hopefully it didn’t cause any problems.
Yeah, I agree with the others, the poem was nicely done.
Thank you!
Wonderful practice. The poem is so gentle and kind. Thanks Sarah!
Thanks! I’m looking forward to reading more of your posts. 🙂
Good job, Sophie. I’m reminded of my writing teacher, Kate de Goldi saying once, ‘If you’re story is not working, then go back and write it in a different tense, from another perspective.”
Thanks Yvette! I like your teacher’s saying. It does make a difference.
AD From Local Paper
LOOKING for a slim sexy blond lady. A lady that likes guns,
no smoker or drinker. Lady between 25-30.
Christian a must. Hey Girl’s can you bait a hook, cause I’m quite a
catch. (479)555-5555.
Story From Ad
Don’t let the screen door hit ya where the good Lord split
ya. That’s what I said to Belle when I
saw her with her bags packed, standing in the front room of our trailer all
puffed up from crying. Me and her, we go
way back. I’ve seen this act before, and I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to say sorry, sorry, sorry, for
whatever made her mad, and every little thing makes her mad. I almost did, too. My heart was going
flippity flop and my neck got all tight and my stomach clenched up like it does
and I felt sick, thinking she was going to walk out on me.
Then I said to myself, Hold your horses, Galen. What’s the worst thing that could happen if
Belle flies the coop? 1. I could watch the History Channel all I
wanted. 2. My mama could come visit
whenever she liked. 3. I could dip my hook in the water and see if I could get
a filly who wasn’t so high strung.
Well, when I told Belle to go ahead and leave, it just about
did her in. She dried up real quick, and
she squinted her dark eyes real mean, and she walked to the coffee table and
she grabbed the big remote with the giant buttons and she threw it straight
through the picture window. And then she
by Gawd left.
That night I ate Kentucky Fried Chicken straight from the
bucket. I watched a show about the Civil
War, and then I watched Pawn Stars, and then I fell dead away right there on
the divan. And the next morning I
brought in all my rifles that Belle had made me move to the shed and I put ‘em
in the gun safe that I moved from the back room right up front next to the deer
antlers she made me take down and stuff in a Tupperware kind of a box.
That was two weeks ago.
I cleaned out her closet on Sunday, and I found enough empty bottles of
Wild Turkey to fill up a well house. So,
she’d been drinking while I worked, and that made my head itch, I was so
mad. So I threw out her Elvis lighter
and her Miss Clairol hair color – dark auburn – and I found a stack of envelopes from the
government, where she’d been getting the Food Stamps she told me she’d stopped
applying for, and I turned one over, and I wrote down what my dream girl would
be like.
Here’s what I said:
LOOKING for a slim sexy blond lady. A lady that likes guns,
no smoker or drinker. Lady between 25-30.
Christian a must. Hey Girl’s can you bait a hook, cause I’m quite a
catch. (479)555-5555.
And now I’m sitting by the phone, but the only calls I got
so far are from Belle, who’s staying over at the Dew Drop Inn, about to have a
conniption because she saw my ad in the Examiner. And she’s cussing a blue blaze like she does
when she’s got a belly full of stump juice, which my new baby-faced girlfriend
will never do, since I have specified a young non-drinking Christian. And she’s saying that I’m implying she’s fat
with the line about “slim sexy” when she is in fact only big boned like all the
Beatty women are, and if I think I’m a catch she’s got a jackalope she’d like
to show me.
Which makes me miss her something awful, but this time I’m
sticking to my guns, I surely am, because right about now some slim sexy
gun-toting blond tee-totaler is eyeing my ad and she’s thinking how the good
Lord put it under her nose for a reason and she’s about to call me, I know she
is, and when she does I’ll be in pure-T heaven.
This made me laugh right out loud! It’s great comedy and would make a great sub-plot to that series “Justified” about the womanizing young southern Marshal. Great!
Thank you John. I cut the ad out of our local paper a few weeks ago because it was so funny.
There you go again Marla. That voice!
Thank you!
Marla, thank you for putting a smile on my face in the early morning. So funny and the voice is just straight on.
Brilliant, Marla! Missed seeing your work. I’m resisting my urge to gush because that’s what your work makes me do!!
Thanks Zoe! I’ve been super busy. I’ve missed you too!
I love it particularly the part where he eats the chicken right out of the bucket and watches Pawn Stars. I think he really is a pretty cultured guy at least it’s not professional wrestling. That Belle just doens’t know what she’s lost come to think of it. Antlers in the tupperware wow!
Ha! You’re funny Marianne!
SO AMUSING!! Fabulous read while I wait for my kids to get home. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you!
Welcome Sophie, and great idea Sophie. Here’s a quick practice from me –
6 worder like Magic suggested –
Al-Hashemi who led death squads, running.
1st person –
How can this be happening to me, Al-Hashemi, once the number 2 man! My death squads are being hunted down. Theyr’e sending their squads for me now. I need to find a way out of here. That border crossing, the one that’s unguarded…
BBC Report
And now the latest from our Baghdad Office, xxx Al-Hashimi, the country’s vice-president, is now on the run after being charged with ordering the assassination by xxxx, by his death squads, purportedly the most vicious in the country.
The 6 word practice is ingenious. It’s quite hard to put everything in just few words, but it’s definitely worth it.
Great post, Sophie! So excited to be on the team with you!
Katie
Thanks Katie! I share the excitement.
PASSIVE VOICE
The pavement is sat on by the writhing girl. It’s being splashed wet with her tears as her hands are wrung in distraction. She’s asked by me what’s wrong but only sopping words come out of her mouth that I can’t understand. Finally the house down the road is what she points towards, trembling – because of the wind or her emotion, I do not know. The pavement echoes with the sound of her feet pattering towards the house. Her mothers arms are what she lands in with a thud and around they turn to thank me. But gone is what I am.
RAINBOW POEM
Politician under the yellow sun,
quiet fellow when fed,
hears the violet sobs of the tiny queen
turned urchin, orange dress stained
with tears and cake crumbs.
After questions thrown at her from beneath
the jade cap, she points one true finger
to the cottage where red tulips bloom.
He sees her through the slates.
Indigo love breaks his gait,
girl gallops through tulips to her mothers arms.
Please stay, they say.
No, the man says, sly smile,
walking into the dusk.
Zoe, this is beautiful. “But gone is what I am” – such an emotional ending. The rainbow poem is flowing too.
Nice! I like both of them… typically passive voice irritates me but not how you did it. It was beautiful! I was wondering what the Rainbow style was… that one was so creative and fun to read. Love this line: “hears the violet sobs of the tiny queen
turned urchin.” Fabulous!
Thanks Alisha! I really did love creating that rainbow poem – here’s the link. http://voices.yahoo.com/a-guide-writing-rainbow-poetry-214862.html?cat=7
i love both of these. The one is passive voice seems like a poem too. The question thrown from beneath the jade cap is probably my favorite line. I like violet sobs of the tiny queen too. Great writing.
thanks Marianne! This was such a fun exercise, and I think that’s pivotal – the more fun you have, the better you create… it’s what I’ve been lacking recently, so it’s been a great prompt.
There is an entire story in “the cottage where the red tulips grow.” How wonderful.
I wanted to write a vignette preview story, please tell me what was wrong, good, or maybe could be better! This is my first time sharing my work……….
Romance Love
Not all romance comes easily. Love is never defined or used
properly, but in this case both appeared. As I sit typing a business letter at
the public library, I have glanced such stunning lips and eyes that are
reflecting back on me. Despite the emotions I feel inside, the tension
between us is unforgettable. Here I am typing away without noticing him
leaving. I complete my business letter and head to my car. He is outside the
library waiting for me. I smile and begin to walk over. With knowing that
romance is not that easy, I’ve rolled into it, rapidly.