Writing Prompt: Next to Last

This writing prompt is from Lisa Romeo.  She promised a summer of prompts, so I'm pretty sure I know what this one means. Like everything else in my summer, this is coming to an end. I didn't do as well as I had hoped keeping up with the prompts, but I've saved all her emails and will probably go back and work on some of them, posting them as if I had done them on the day she sent them. Or is that cheating? In any case, thank you, Lisa, for the inspirational summer.

Penultimate — it's one of my favorite words. When I first heard it, I thought it meant that the event or thing in questions was even more ultimate than the ultimate. Penultimate is  such an elegant word, so luxurious in the mouth, that it had to mean something great. It was somewhat of a letdown to discover that it meant "next to last" or not quite ultimate. That really took the shine off of the word for me for a while.

But I've come back to it. At first, it was probably due to the smugness that wordies like me feel when we know the true meaning and usage of a word that many people use incorrectly. I've often heard penultimate used the way I imagined it as a child. Every time I hear or read the misuse, I take out my mental Sharpie pen and correct it. There's such satisfaction in being right. It turns a pet peeve into a gleeful moment of triumph.

But the real attraction of the word is that there is something hopeful about being the penultimate. It means there's still one more chance after this one to get it right; one more opportunity to enjoy something wonderful. Penultimate may not be the "ultimate", but it also isn't the final, the last, the end.

Geez, I'm a geek. Who else takes so much joy in parsing words? If you do, come sit next to me. Leave and comment and we'll discuss. Thanks again, Lisa

Writing Prompt: The River

This writing prompt is from Lisa Romeo. I have never before posted a picture on the SFD blog, but this prompt led me straight to this photo from our recent trip out west.

This summer, we traveled together for nearly weeks — six of us in an eight-year-old minivan with a Sears car-top carrier. Between Chicago and Seattle, we encountered countless bodies of water, from the Great Lakes to the Pacific Ocean. We learned about dams and hydro electric power, and the how engineers and conservationists are revising and rethinking how damming our rivers impacts our environment. 

We crossed the mighty Mississippi early on, at LaCrosse, WI. It was only then that we felt like the trip had really started. Wide and meandering on that border between Wisconsin and Minnesota, the Mississippi was a sleeping giant, lazing along in the heat of the northern summer. It split and reconnected around fingerlike islands, bent at an elbow and slipped passed the I-90 bridge, oblivious of the oily mess it would meet at its delta.

When you start with the Mississippi, how can other rivers compare? I discovered that rivers don't compete. They're content with their own personalities. Creeks and brooks, rivers and streams, mere trickles and pushy waterfalls — we saw them all — and each was thoroughly engaged, a study in movement, some walking, some skipping, some running, but all inexorably going forward to some unknown destination. 

The power of water is can been seen in even slightest trickle. Flowing water both shapes and is shaped by the land formations and obstacles in path. While we watch, we see only the later, how a protruding rock forces the water up, around and over it, changing the shape, color and sound of the water when they meet. We don't see that the water is simultaneously sculpting the rock, smoothing it, scraping and carrying it's minerals downstream. It will take months or years or decades before the human eye can see the water's impact on the rock, but the water's influence over the rock is more permanent and significant than the rock's power over the water.

Many of the rivers we met were suffering the heat of summer.  Wide banks seemed like big-brother hand-me-downs to creeks that had retreated from their edges during weeks of 100+ degree days. 

The true power of moving water could be seen best in the rivers that weren't — or at least weren't any more. The magnificent coulees carved by long-dead ancient rivers bore the scars and patterns of gushing waters that have escaped the bonds of human memory. This dry river bed, this river of rocks and mountain detritus stood probably 25 or 30 feet wide, a lasting memorial carved like a sculptor's self-portrait; a still, unmoving replica of a once-formidable force.

I think this passage meanders more haphazardly than any of the rivers we saw, but hey, it's just a SFD, right?

Writing Prompt: Cake or Pie?

This writing prompt, from Lisa Romeo, just begs to become a Two Kinds of People post. For this SFD, I'm just going to list the things I want to touch on in my post and see where it takes me.

There are two kinds of people in the world: cake people and pie people.

Not a big fan of cake. Cake is too dry, except truly decadent cakes like those molten chocolate things. 

Cupcakes are a pain in the ass to make. Tell the story about the little boys eating the tops off of all those cupcakes. Molly's black-bottom pies and how the recipe calls for frosting, which seems redundant. 

Then there was the time when Al Segretti inadvertently made my favorite pie for dessert on my birthday for the progressive dinner.
Cindy Fey's pie from last year. What a treat. Not many people will bake for mere acquaintances.

Making pie with Amy up at Michigan Tech. It was my first effort and a complete disaster. Pie is tricky, even though there are only a few ingredients. The dough is sensitive to ambient conditions and overworking it can make it tough. Also mention baking pies with Grandma. Cindy and I used to get the trimmings to make tarts, but we usually just made a mess. Interesting that some people who like to cook don't like to bake, and vice versa.

Pie song from "Michael".
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So, this was interesting. Writing my thoughts down just as they came without molding or shaping them. Oddly, it did not feel freeing to write this way. I think part of the fun for me of writing Two Kinds of People post is shaping all these random, barely-connected ideas into a cohesive whole. Here's a pun for you: I like kneading the randomness into a workable shape. Which is what I'm going to do right now. See the finished product over at Two Kinds of People. I'll leave it cooling on the window sill.

Writing Prompt: Infected

Today's writing prompt, from Lisa Romeo, reminds me of a game we used to play in college that involved the use of creative insults. We were big into Shakespeare back then, and our everyday vernacular began to sound quite flat in comparison. It's one thing to call someone an asshole — anyone can do that, but it doesn't even compare to one of the Bard's famous insults, like this one from King Lear:

"Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood."

So, this is where today's writing prompt is taking me — to insults. Probably not quite what Lisa had intended.

Wound
Infected wound
Infected, foul-smelling wound
Infected, foul-smelling wound on a corpse
Infected, foul-smelling wound on a rotting corpse
Infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse of your soul
Oozing, infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse of your soul
Oozing, infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse that had been the soul of mankind.
You are an oozing, infected, foul-smelling wound on the rotting corpse that was once the soul of mankind. You represent the final stages of decomposition, the seething remnants of our former glory, the pathetic ruins of our great potential scuttled by corporate greed and human arrogance.

Red
Flaming red
Infected, flaming red 
Infected, flaming red mound
Infected, flaming red mound of pus
Infected, flaming red mound of pus-filled boils
May you be infected by a flaming red mound of pus-filled boils
May you be infected by a flaming red mound of pus-filled boils that render you hideous to those you wish to impress.

Maggot
Infested with maggots
Filthy, infested with maggots
Filthy bottom feeder, infested with maggots
Filthy, bottom-feeding parasite, infested with maggots
Useless, filthy bottom-feeding parasite, infested with maggots
Useless, filthy bottom-feeding parasite, infested with disease-spreading maggots
You are nothing but a useless, filthy, bottom-feeding parasite, infested with disease spreading maggots, and I will use every tool, every weapon at my disposal to rid the world of your plague.

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So much more fun than simply calling someone an asshole. Cathartic, really. Feel free to give my little stream of consciousness game a try in the comments below.

Writing Prompt: Putting Out Fires

Today's writing prompt is courtesy of Lisa Romeo's Summer Writing Prompt Program. You can get free prompts from Lisa, too. Here we go — 10 minutes on putting out fires.

It seems all I do these days is put out fires. There's no time for planning, thoughtful contemplation, cool assessment of the situation. I just aim the fire extinguisher at that flare up, blast the hose on this flame, and spread the chemical foam on those dangerous crash and burn fires.

The little flare ups are caused by my two youngest boys, who are a combustible combination these days. Prior to adolescence, they were best friends. Now that can't seem to be in the same room together for more than five minutes without igniting a simple bicker into a big blowup. 

The visible flames come from our robbing-Peter-to-pay-Paul financial strategy. We haven't intentionally increased our spending, but our income has been cut (like everyone else's), our healthcare expenses keep rising, and every time I turn around, there's a new bill burning to be paid. Just when we get one fire under control, a new hot spot shows bursts into flames. 

The slow, undousable burn stems from my inability to stop time (or at least slow it down a bit). Children are heading off to college, step children are getting married, little boys are turning into big boys, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. This particularly deadly fire is complicated by my tendency to burn the candle at both ends, leaving me vulnerable to the shifting winds of middle-age mood swings that provide endless fuel for this fire.

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10 minutes. I know. I know. I took this poor metaphor and squeezed it's guts out. But, that's what shitty first drafts are for.

Writing Prompt: Bolt

Lisa Romeo has once again offered to send daily writing prompts to your (and my) inbox, so I'm picking up the SFD blog again. Ten minutes is all it takes, because that's all I'll allow. Go.

Bolt out the door. Bolt down the block, around the corner, into Cassie's backyard. The hammock is empty, swinging slightly in the breeze. No Cassie.

Bolt down the alley, through the hole in the chain link at the end and climb the fire escape up to the roof of Sully's Garage. There's a pretty good view of the neighborhood from up there. Sully's working on that heap of his in bay #1. I can't see him from up here, but I can hear the clank, clank of his tools and then him swearing as he finds yet another problem. It's like a mechanic's symphony down there:

Clank, clank "Shit"
Clank, clank "Fucking piece of junk"
Clank, clank "Got it"
Clank, clank "Dammitalltohell"

He should dump that car.

Like I should dump Cassie. Every time I turn around there's drama and more drama. Back to business. Vince and Capo are on their boards at the skate park. I look for Cassie and the yapfest she calls a dog. No pink leashes to be seen.

Bolt back down the fire escape, jumping the last 10 feet when the ladder sticks. Bolt down Jackson into Murphy's Drugs. I check the aisles. There she is, holding yappy under her arm and staring at a little box. Like she senses me standing there, she looks up and turns the home pregnancy test toward me.

I bolt.

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10 minutes. Don't know why this teenager popped into my head with the prompt, but all I could see was a skittish, wiry kid in black jeans and a white t-shirt looking for his on-again, off-again girlfriend. Strange what pops into your head with a writing prompt.

Day #22: Money, Money, Money

Today I am writing on my laptop from the discomfort of my mother-in-laws hospital room (she'll be fine). It's been a long day and I'm tired. And hungry. But neither exhaustion nor starvation nor dry contacts shall keep this writer from her appointed writing prompt, once again courtesy of Lisa Romeo.

Prompt: Money, Money, Money

Ka-ching. That is the exact sound I heard when my 8-year-old bumped his face while going UP the playground slide and broke his front tooth exactly in half. You might have expected me to hear a thump or his cry, but all I heard was the sound of how much it's going to cost me to have that tooth fixed. He couldn't have done this last summer when he still had baby-teeth up front. No. He had to break off his brand new shiny white permanent tooth -- the one right in front.

I heard ka-ching again last Friday when his older brother accidentally threw away his retainer. We were eating at one of those disgusting all you can eat buffet places (his birthday choice). Apparently, he wrapped the damn retainer in a napkin and the waitress cleared it with the dishes on one of the 23 or so trips he took to the buffet. That boy can eat! 

We pawed through six bags of disgusting garbage before finally waving the white flag and giving up. Called the orthodontist the next day. Now he needs another impression taken and a new retainer. Do you hear that sound? It's the sound of my tiny little bank account leaking like a sieve.

Ka-ching went back tire of the mini-van as it blew running over our the remnants of the of the set design workshop my daughter and her theater groupies had erected behind the garage. I backed out over nails and whatnot left on the drive and that was that for my tire. It was only six months old and still had a lot of miles left in it.

This is the story of my life. Money bleeding from every pore. Money escaping through every door. I'd call in a specialist to stop the hemorrhaging, but I'm out of money.

Time: 10 minutes

Time to check out. Good night, folks.