This and That
Sep. 22nd, 2015 06:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nightdog_barksHave not been sleeping well, so omg so blah. :-P
The![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sick_wilson folks are sponsoring a three-sentence story challenge, which people should read because there are some great entries!
Wilson rests his head in his hands, trying to ignore the other residents of the tiny holding cell, trying to ignore the fact that his wife hates him enough to divorce him, trying to ignore the other fact that he doesn't know anyone here in New Orleans who might come to bail him out, trying to ignore the very real fact that even if someone does bail him out, he might not have a job to go back to.
Shit, he thinks, just as a drunk in the cell starts shouting about Jesus' spaceship and the noise ramps up, shit, I should end it now.
"Hey," a voice says, and Wilson looks up -- looks up to see a tall guy standing there outside the bars, a tall guy chomping on an unlit cigar, eyes so blue they make Wilson think of the sky and not of the grave -- "Hey," the tall guy says, "I'm House. Come on."
So. I think it could be expanded a bit beyond those three lines, so we'll see. :-)
Also, here is a poem from the July 20th issue of The New Yorker that I really liked -- I Have a Time Machine, by Brenda Shaughnessy.
The
sick_wilson folks are sponsoring a three-sentence story challenge, which people should read because there are some great entries! Wilson rests his head in his hands, trying to ignore the other residents of the tiny holding cell, trying to ignore the fact that his wife hates him enough to divorce him, trying to ignore the other fact that he doesn't know anyone here in New Orleans who might come to bail him out, trying to ignore the very real fact that even if someone does bail him out, he might not have a job to go back to.
Shit, he thinks, just as a drunk in the cell starts shouting about Jesus' spaceship and the noise ramps up, shit, I should end it now.
"Hey," a voice says, and Wilson looks up -- looks up to see a tall guy standing there outside the bars, a tall guy chomping on an unlit cigar, eyes so blue they make Wilson think of the sky and not of the grave -- "Hey," the tall guy says, "I'm House. Come on."
So. I think it could be expanded a bit beyond those three lines, so we'll see. :-)
Also, here is a poem from the July 20th issue of The New Yorker that I really liked -- I Have a Time Machine, by Brenda Shaughnessy.
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Date: 2015-09-22 11:32 pm (UTC)Tonight I find out if there's enough interest in our community for a community garden. Wish me luck.