Google AdSense throwing some hurtful words this morning about http://ashcompanion.blogspot.com
Rude.
XFEDI
ActivityPub#Writing
Public posts with this hashtag.
please he belittles
his vital vittles (victuals)
he mews and fiddles
#MrButtersTheCat
#Haiku #Poetry #Writing #WritingCommunity #PoetryCommunity
#MastoPrompt
#Victuals
#Vittles
@stevencudahy
No #writing done yesterday but I do think i have fuel and flavor for the next chapter
The new guy didn't know. He was young, and there was still some spark left in him, which made it hard, but it had to be.
Truce. That's the one rule behind the train station everyone tells you about. The badly insulated wall of the boiler room keeps the cold bearable, and the roof is tight enough to keep you dry, so we huddle up and endure each other, and get drunk, and sometimes forget who we are and laugh.
The other rule, the one that is only whispered about, the one that is arguably more important, is: No one gets on the midnight train. When you ask why you get looks or shrugs but nothing else, maybe you learn its nickname: the fright train. We're a clever bunch like that.
And then there's the unspoken rule. The rule you learn by shutting up and watching long enough. Someone has to get on the midnight train. Sometimes. When we get too friendly, when we share our food and booze with someone new, you chip in. You offer a snack or some weed, and let us do the talking.
#wss366 #fright #tootfic #smallstories #horror #writing #microfiction
Paul Robert, born OTD in 1910, is best known for his large "Dictionnaire alphabétique et analogique de la langue française" https://cromwell-intl.com/travel/france/detectives/?s=mb #travel #France #writing
Bob's Pages of Travel, Linux, Cybersecurity, and MoreLes Flics — Detectives in French Fiction and LifeThe French people are avid readers of American detective fiction. But the concept of a private investigator originated in France. Then Poe wrote of the French investigator Auguste Dupin, and detective literature was born.
Review: The Winter's Tale, Chicago Shakespeare Theater
https://www.talkinbroadway.com/page/regional/chicago/ch938.html
The Fruit of a Dream
I woke up at about 1 AM this morning with this story fully formed in my head. I have cleaned it up a bit but it is essentially what I scrawled in my notebook before falling back asleep.
The Hoop
The sun still hadn’t crested the horizon when the old man wheeled his hoop into town, casting a long shadow in front of him. The few people who were up and about only half noticed his arrival, as if it were a passing thought, a memory just out of reach, but she did. She went straight up to him and fell in alongside him, matching his lethargic pace.
The old man didn’t say a word, but she knew to reach out and put her hand on the hoop, helping to roll it along through the dusty street. It was soft to the touch, like the arm of a well-upholstered easy chair. It felt like home.
Together, they rolled it up the street, their motions synchronized, natural and easy, as if they had been doing it forever. They passed the fountain in the town square, and she let herself become one with the hoop’s movement, as she knew he wanted her to.
As they exited the square, her hand stopped leaving the hoop. Somehow, it followed the rotation up to its peak, a foot above her head, and then down to the ground at her feet without her having to bend or exert any force whatsoever. It was the most natural thing in the world when her arm followed suit, conforming to the curve of the hoop, slowly rolling towards the edge of town.
As they passed the last few houses, her whole body rolled with the hoop, her head rising to the top, over, down to the earth, back up, and down once more.
Finally, there was only the old man and his hoop, silently rolling out of town.
#dream #shortFiction #writing