Sleepy

The lamp is on - the tall one with the fuzzy lampshade. It's a bit redundant because the computer screen is so bright, but there's still something warm and friendly about it. Song for Paris is tugging at nameless emotions in my throat. I don't know if I'm happy or sad. Memories can be like that. Mostly, I'm fighting sleep. There might be a poem up my sleeve, and I'm not ready to wake up at Tomorrow yet.

If I were to sketch the day, what medium would I use? I might use crayons for the morning, which was a refreshing mix of quiet sun and icy wind and cranberry juice with a cheese bagel. Maybe pencil for the scribblings of a mid day essay - 2H for the planning and 3B for the thick font in my book. A watercolor wash for the vague disappointment of winding up far from where I wanted to go. Ballpoint pen for doodling in class and the tight ranks of words that glared up at me from the pages of the text.

But I would save charcoal for right now - for the soft dark which smudges the light so gently on cloudy nights. And I would press hard and make it crumble a bit on the paper, to make the dark so thick you could stick a song in it and the notes would kind of linger like the steam that curls off of hot coffee, which is probably way up there on the list of coziest things. And if I was careful, the whole thing might look a bit like the excellent day that God drew up for me.

Sky

Flying a kite:

       dreamfishing with a ribbony lure,

or imagination's periscope?

Dialogue

I love writing dialogue. It's fun to think about what someone would say in any given situation, and how their conversation partner(s) would respond. Response duration, dropped words, irony - the works. But even at the height of my creative ability, I don't think I could ever come up with a conversation as good as this one.

Ah, I had a unifying paragraph between the above and the next dialogue I'm going to share, but it suffered from a distinct lack of awesomeness. So we'll be skipping it and moving right along to the context. You should know that my eldest sibling is tough as nails. She's great, as far as sisters go, which is why the rest of us enjoy bugging her by outrageously overstating her ferocity and uh... forgetting to mention her good points. Thus:

Sister 1's Boyfriend: "Is she pretty competitive?"

Sister 2: "Well, she did bad at track and field because she was always trying to beat down the other kids."

James: "Yeah. No wonder they don't have javelin throw in track and field anymore. The principal was like, 'Unfortunately, we will not be having the javelin throw this year. Last year, a certain student managed to spear and injure several others."

Sister 1's Boyfriend laughs

Sister 2: "Now you can't injure people anymore!"

Sister 1: "Hey!"

Longish Pause

Sister 1: "...there's still shotput!"

A Smidgen of Story

I'm searching for inspiration right now. Sadly, I haven't been able to find it in my notebooks, my daily activities, or under the cushions on the couch. So while I continue this quest, I offer a smidgen of an old story I wrote.

Nobody could agree about the exact details, but everyone said she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The cook and the King were skeptical.

“She might be a sorceress, or she might not. Anyway, rumors often exaggerate. Even if she is incredibly beautiful, it’s what’s inside that counts.” the cook pointed out. The King nodded.

“I agree completely. Take this, for example. It looks like an ordinary pie. But when the filling explodes onto your taste buds, bursting into tasty Blueberry fireworks, staining the tongue with the tart taste of unabashed culinary excellence, and etching indelible pleasure into sweet memory, it is far more than an ordinary pie!” He wiped his mouth.

“That was poetic,” said the cook.

            However, the King and the cook were unable to stifle their curiosity. Eventually, they invited the lady to the castle. She was everything the stories said, and more. Both men fell head over heels in love with her. This had an unfortunate effect on their friendship.

             *            *            *

            “Jon! This is incredible! You’ve outdone yourself.” cried the Lady, nibbling a pastry delicately. She was dressed all in white and looked quite stunning. Jon smiled shyly. The King, who was sitting beside him, chewed on a piece of bread with alarming intensity. “Honestly, has the King never told you what a good cook you are?”  The King savagely gnawed another chunk off of his breadstick.

“I respect a man who can cook, and you have a rare talent! They must miss you in Torwick!” gushed the Lady.

The cook smiled at the praise. Then he cast a startled glance at the King, who was holding his lip. It was bleeding.

“Bi’ my lip” said the King, and left the room. 

                                                                        

                                                                              *            *            *

The day of the annual Harvest feast, which was held outdoors in the beautiful royal gardens, the King had his seneschal do all the announcing. While the seneschal was droning out the necessary formalities, he took his place at the head of the table beside Jon and the Lady. Noticing with annoyance that Jon was flirting in a disgusting manner, he cleared his throat and whispered,

“Cook – ah- Jon, I made another pie. Why don’t you try this one? It should be better than my first.” 

Jon and the Lady looked pained, but Jon was eager to make amends, and bravely took up a spoon. It was a large wooden ladle, too big for eating with, but it was the first thing that he grabbed. He poked clumsily at the pie. There was an interminable pause. The King began to sweat. It was poisoned. The ladle pierced the crust with a crunch. Jon winced. It was more than a little overdone. The filling was unrecognizable. He dug in, and the pie parted with an ominous schlup. Globs of glistening jelly fell from the spoon. He closed his eyes and slowly opened his mouth.

              “What, bit your lip again?” said the Lady to the King. Jon opened his eyes.             

              “Are you all right?” he asked. The King nodded weakly. Before Jon reluctantly returned his attention to the pie, the Lady spoke.

              “Jon, Your Majesty, I’m sorry to bring it up now, but I must. I’m afraid I’ve destroyed a friendship. I hope you can understand what I’m going to do.”

  Jon was concentrating on a wobbling spoonful of piecrust and jelly. The King twitched. Oblivious, the Lady continued.            

            “I think it really is time.” She got up and smoothed her dress.

            “Jon, you’d better watch too.” Jon looked up, his mouth full of pie. The King’s face was contorted into the oddest expression. The Lady looked solemnly at them, her beautiful brown eyes full of emotion. And then she vanished. Jon choked on his pie and the King made a strangled noise. The King sprang across the table and pounded Jon on the back. Jon was trying to say something but it was unrecognizable through the coughing and wheezing. Finally, he spit out the mouthful. The King seized the remaining pie and hurled it into the garden. Everyone at the feast was staring. Then the Lady reappeared. The King and the cook were speechless. 

             "I am the stag," she said. And she became the stag, just as the King had seen it the year before. The dumbfounded court gaped for a split second, and she was off in a blur of white. 

             "After her!" roared the King, and the whole court surged forward, knocking drinking goblets and cutlery in every direction, upending tables and shouting madly for horses and ropes. It was a glorious chase: they pursued her out of the gardens and into the countryside, up and down the wooded hills, through the brush along the river and into the woods again. The hounds bayed uproariously and the hunting horns trumpeted, and they very nearly caught her, but it is one thing to hunt a stag with weapons, and quite another to catch it with nets and ropes. Though the King and the cook turned the whole country upside down in their search, they never did catch the stag. Eventually, however, the lady's absence cured the king of his madness. It is said that the cook generously forgave the king, and they became friends a second time, on the condition that the king would never bake another pie. It is also said that every Harvest Feast after, the cook baked a special pie just for the king. And at every feast, it is remembered that the king always pronounced his first bite "bittersweet". 

The End

Daedalus

I thought I'd share a humorous comic that my friend discovered (Baartman, 2011). For those of you who know Greek myths, this will probably be hilarious :D (Just click on the comic to enlarge it)

Whoever created this, I take my hat off to you.