Weekly Writing Challenge: A Pinch of You.
How does the old saying go — girls are “sugar and spice and everything nice,” and boys are “snips and snails and puppy dog tails”?
Aside from not knowing what a “snip” is, I don’t buy it; we’re much more complex than lollipops and unicorns and toy trucks and frogs. This week, we want a window into the complexity that is you. We want your best recipes.
We don’t mean we want your best recipe for fried chicken (although we’ll take that, too — a good fried chicken recipe is always handy). We want the recipe for all the bits and pieces and quirks and foibles and loves that make you you.
So here is the recipe that is me:
1 cup sarcasm
2 cups book worm
2 cups humor
1 cup stubbornness
1/2 cup sweetness
3 heaping tbsp Bon Jovi addiction
1/2 cup 80’s Hair Bands
3 heaping tbsp Supernatural addiction
2 heaping tbsp Doctor Who addiction
2 cups good old-fashioned religion
1 bottle spiced rum (captain only please)
1 tsp hypochondria
Dash of romance
Dash of Mystery
Combine all ingredients in a window nook with a bottle of sweet white wine and leave alone to simmer. Do not disturb. You will know when it is ready. May be served alone or with others. Does not perform well in aggressive social situations. Keep out of night clubs.
Each detail is like the stroke of a brush on blank canvas, filling in detail and completing the picture in the reader’s mind.Your challenge this week is to practice your powers of observation. Take any person, place, or event, and write three paragraphs describing your subject in great detail.
via Writing Challenge: the Devil is in the Details.
The yellow glow from the fireflies flickered in and out in the late August heat, the sunlight fading into dusk. In the front yard of an old southern mansion, under an old weeping willow, a small boy sat pushing a red truck around him in a circle. His mother hadn’t yet called him in for dinner, so outside he stayed, pushing his red truck.
The fading light of the afternoon sun shone on his auburn hair, picking up the faintest flecks of gold. The humidity of the Louisiana summer seemed to have no visible effect on him. His white shirt was clean and pressed, his black pants seemed not to bother him, despite the oppressive heat. His feet were bare, the only sign that he was aware of the weather.
On a path near the old southern mansion a woman stood, staring at the young boy with his red truck. She saw the boy clearly, though she did not see any shoes sitting in the soft, green, manicured lawn. She listened and did not hear any noise coming from the boy. It was beginning to get dark so she decided to remind the boy that his mother probably wanted him inside for dinner. Her heart froze in her chest when she approached the boy and he simply vanished in front of her eyes.