Let’s see what muse-phlegm this thing coughs up tonight:
“What vehicle did you sit in? Write a story or memory that takes place at a drive-in movie theater.”
“Did you study? Write about a time when you were taking some type of test.”
“How long until it broke? Write about a toy you didn’t play with properly.”
“What would it be made out of? Write about a monument you wished you could build to honor someone you know or knew.”
“Why didn’t you want to believe them? Even if you don’t believe in fortune telling, write about a fictional (or true) experience where you visit someone who knows something about your future.”
Cripes. This one didn’t make me cringe too much.
Oh. And to finish up the last one for my friend Fred: blah blah blah. She got cold feet.
Sr. Antonio de Silva snugged the theodolite into it’s wooden case. Pocketed the key. And stood. The sudden movement dropped his blood pressure shivering him to an unsteady balance between consciousness and unconcious. The moment the blackness thinned and he could see the tripod, he snatched out an arm to steady himself.
The project plan neatly curled in a tube at his feet and his whole weak body told him he’d not live to see this monstrosity fly. His brain and his heart—not the organ in his chest—rebuked his frame with a question: who could take up the chore if he passed? De Silva went to sleep with this question and chewed on it over breakfast when he rose.
Before I write a third four line graph I’m gonna cut off here.