My attempt to follow Hemingway's flash fiction structure. Here goes...
Missing: 17 year old Sarah Adams. Last seen on Saturday night with 21 year old Timothy Jones.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Creative Writing Revision
Poetry and I still aren't buddies, but I'm trying to improve. I posted the original a few months ago, but here it is: http://pourleschats.blogspot.com/2010/09/creative-writing-post-3.html
Evacuation
The TV show vanished with a bang,
A bottle of purple nail polish slipped out of my hand
As a split-second flash of lightening put the sun to shame.
My bare feet pounded the hardwood floor in search of the front yard.
Black, fluffy ash already rained in the streets,
The bitter smell of smoke overtook the dry desert air.
We might have hours, we might have only minutes.
We ran to the car and peeled out the of the garage
We turned right back; the flames were already climbing the hill.
Spectators clogged the streets.
Helicopters dumped water from the nearby lake,
Yet fire retardant turned the neighborhood a vibrant orange.
My parents grabbed the pets while I snatched the photo albums.
Cars were full of belongings, but nobody wanted to leave.
Garden houses were the only weapons.
The fire leaped the roads, like a lion chasing its prey.
News crews bolted through the yards.
I jumped in the backseat with a handful of clothes and a meowing cat.
The orange glow on the black hills grew smaller in the rear view mirror.
And the night stood still until finally
The sunrise became the only orange glow.
Evacuation
The TV show vanished with a bang,
A bottle of purple nail polish slipped out of my hand
As a split-second flash of lightening put the sun to shame.
My bare feet pounded the hardwood floor in search of the front yard.
Black, fluffy ash already rained in the streets,
The bitter smell of smoke overtook the dry desert air.
We might have hours, we might have only minutes.
We ran to the car and peeled out the of the garage
We turned right back; the flames were already climbing the hill.
Spectators clogged the streets.
Helicopters dumped water from the nearby lake,
Yet fire retardant turned the neighborhood a vibrant orange.
My parents grabbed the pets while I snatched the photo albums.
Cars were full of belongings, but nobody wanted to leave.
Garden houses were the only weapons.
The fire leaped the roads, like a lion chasing its prey.
News crews bolted through the yards.
I jumped in the backseat with a handful of clothes and a meowing cat.
The orange glow on the black hills grew smaller in the rear view mirror.
And the night stood still until finally
The sunrise became the only orange glow.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Creative Writing Post #8
#6-list poem of a place
Ohio
It's summer, and the corn is knee high by the fourth of July
while the Amish children are running barefoot through the fields.
It's fall, and the trees are on fire with dying leaves
while everyone dons their scarlet & grey apparel.
It's winter and three feet of snow is gently falling from heaven
while the heaviest coat still leaves you wishing for dairy bars & humid days at Lake Erie.
It's spring and the sleepy grass stretches its blades above the melting snow
while the inevitable road construction delays traffic again.
Ohio
It's summer, and the corn is knee high by the fourth of July
while the Amish children are running barefoot through the fields.
It's fall, and the trees are on fire with dying leaves
while everyone dons their scarlet & grey apparel.
It's winter and three feet of snow is gently falling from heaven
while the heaviest coat still leaves you wishing for dairy bars & humid days at Lake Erie.
It's spring and the sleepy grass stretches its blades above the melting snow
while the inevitable road construction delays traffic again.
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