Writer's Workshop
Mama Kat's writer's workshop is on the up and up again and there were many interesting choices to choose from. Though there was one that really appealed to my sense of creativity and imagination...
Describe a favorite Winter memory.
Walking in late evening after a newly fallen snow. The atmosphere is both silent and still, it was probably the most peaceful feeling I've ever felt in my life. The power had gone out due to the heavy-ish snow and the only light was from the luminescent glow of the moon that sporadically peaked through the empty clouds in the sky.
I walked between pine trees to a shed in the backyard and sat in the snow with my back against a pile of firewood and listened. There was nothing. Not the rustling of branches in a slow wind, no scurrying of animals, or the chirping of birds. There was no traffic on the streets, no low roar of engines on the highway, no sound of people about their business.
I felt I was witnessing something holy. The quiet resignation of life to nature. A sleeping hiatus that swept over the entire town; such a sense of tranquility that was both inspiring and overpowering.
On a completely different note, my sister and I have lost our minds via a series of email conversations:
My Sister:
The squirrel set the alarm off breaking the tranquility of the cybersporic abomination the weebles had struggled so hard to keep under the sandwich wrapper.
Me:
It’s like eating cement that atrophied in the stomach of a Dyson Sphere after the show ‘House’ was canceled due to megalomaniacal lepers who fused with bleach detergent called to arms the forces of diabolic chicken-weasels that could only sing in alto ‘Carmina Burana’ while smearing molasses on some salt-flavored monkey wrenches that incessantly called for wax figurines of the Knights Templar in triplicate.
My Sister:
While I agree with the diplomatic diplodocus theorem on diverting the duodenum contents into the tube-like structure of the alfalfa sprouted intestines pre-empted by the docile dictionarium disciple, small, the matter regarding the salt-flavored monkey wrenches is abhorrently in error as the taste of monkey is more aptly comparable to the delightful cuisine deluxo of mashed taters with a hint of garlic butter.
Me:
Ah, but the resonating differential of the diplodocus theorem is really just a theory of like-produces-like which entirely depends on the non-entity of the like which completely predates the use of alfalfa sprouted intestines. If this differential remains in perpetual juju, then the monkey solution holds more water than a sponge in any of the finger lakes since finger lakes are nothing more than finger sandwiches used in creating the mass exploratory of pancake logic without the boysenberry sauce. So, if that remains the constant in the quadratic equation of inequality than the supposed ‘cuisine deluxo’ is really nothing more than a cuisine ‘simplistico’ made of fruits, nuts, berries, tiny rocks, string, carburetors, paper airplanes, and the occasional semi-quixotic monkey wrench.
Hossanah!
Describe a favorite Winter memory.
Walking in late evening after a newly fallen snow. The atmosphere is both silent and still, it was probably the most peaceful feeling I've ever felt in my life. The power had gone out due to the heavy-ish snow and the only light was from the luminescent glow of the moon that sporadically peaked through the empty clouds in the sky.
I walked between pine trees to a shed in the backyard and sat in the snow with my back against a pile of firewood and listened. There was nothing. Not the rustling of branches in a slow wind, no scurrying of animals, or the chirping of birds. There was no traffic on the streets, no low roar of engines on the highway, no sound of people about their business.
I felt I was witnessing something holy. The quiet resignation of life to nature. A sleeping hiatus that swept over the entire town; such a sense of tranquility that was both inspiring and overpowering.
On a completely different note, my sister and I have lost our minds via a series of email conversations:
My Sister:
The squirrel set the alarm off breaking the tranquility of the cybersporic abomination the weebles had struggled so hard to keep under the sandwich wrapper.
Me:
It’s like eating cement that atrophied in the stomach of a Dyson Sphere after the show ‘House’ was canceled due to megalomaniacal lepers who fused with bleach detergent called to arms the forces of diabolic chicken-weasels that could only sing in alto ‘Carmina Burana’ while smearing molasses on some salt-flavored monkey wrenches that incessantly called for wax figurines of the Knights Templar in triplicate.
My Sister:
While I agree with the diplomatic diplodocus theorem on diverting the duodenum contents into the tube-like structure of the alfalfa sprouted intestines pre-empted by the docile dictionarium disciple, small, the matter regarding the salt-flavored monkey wrenches is abhorrently in error as the taste of monkey is more aptly comparable to the delightful cuisine deluxo of mashed taters with a hint of garlic butter.
Me:
Ah, but the resonating differential of the diplodocus theorem is really just a theory of like-produces-like which entirely depends on the non-entity of the like which completely predates the use of alfalfa sprouted intestines. If this differential remains in perpetual juju, then the monkey solution holds more water than a sponge in any of the finger lakes since finger lakes are nothing more than finger sandwiches used in creating the mass exploratory of pancake logic without the boysenberry sauce. So, if that remains the constant in the quadratic equation of inequality than the supposed ‘cuisine deluxo’ is really nothing more than a cuisine ‘simplistico’ made of fruits, nuts, berries, tiny rocks, string, carburetors, paper airplanes, and the occasional semi-quixotic monkey wrench.
Hossanah!
by Ink and Stone at 8:48 AM
6 People Joined The Madness
