Write for 5: Week Five

Both these images are from CC0 – Creative Commons Zero. Public Domain.

Hi Kids,

Thanks for dropping by. Again. How was your week? Decent enough, I hope.

I’ve been meaning to ask you what type of photos you might find it easier to write to, so if you have any suggestions about that, you know where the “Leave a rely” box is. Look down. Way down.

Your suggestions could be along the lines of: “I like faces more than scenes,” or “I can’t write about white people,” or “Sexier, dammit”  or “Is that a man purse? That better not be a man purse!” or “I hate kids. No kids!” Things like that.

If you have a friend who writes (or just has a good imagination) and you’d like to share this with them, that would be great. You don’t have to think of yourself as a “writer” to do this.

Guidelines

If you’ve participated before, you know the routine.  If not, here are the guidelines.

  • ·         I post a photo (or two) here at 8am on Saturday morning.
  • ·         You look at the photo(s) above this blog post.
  • ·         You take as much time as you need up to Sunday at 11pm the deadline.
  • ·         When you’re ready to write, set the timer for five minutes.
  •           When you’re done, post your results in the “Leave a Reply” box below.

Come back to the blog on Monday to see which piece of writing  I chose to give this week’s book and print to.

If you want to read something about where the imagination occurs in the brain. Try this article in Science in 2013.

I look forward to reading whatever our grey matter in all its wonder and weirdness conjures up this week.  Go!

PS: If you felt like leaving a comment on someone else’s piece, I’m sure they’d like that.

8 thoughts on “Write for 5: Week Five

  1. The children were safely back! Margaret thought she had lost them in the crowd, but they had only dived down a side street for a moment to snatch up hats and whistles from the street vendor. She sat on the porch, silent, her head in her hands while her charges cavorted amidst the carnival crowd. Margareda loved them, but today she couldn’t bear their shenanigans, their wild excitement,their inordinate demands on her patience. She took the two aside, the girl more docile than her brother, sat them down hard on the bench and warned them to be good little tigers and lions. The girl obediently blew her whistle, the boy acted the clown as usual. Margareda vowed she would quit next week when their parents returned from their cruise.

  2. Why did I loan the bag to Alphonse for his photo shoot? He is off somewhere, on a dirt road, taking pictures of my bag for a client. What I should have told him was that there was a birthday present in that bag. The party is going on right now, and I can only stall for so long. Maybe a costume jewelry ring is not a good idea for a little girl. It wasn’t my idea, nor was it my idea to put it in a vintage makeup kit bag. The birthday girl … why can’t I remember her name, they all sound alike anyway … is not going to appreciate how cool that bag is. Maybe it should stay in the dirt road, and let somebody run over it with a tractor. Which does not solve the problem of this birthday party. Maybe if they blow on those party favors long enough they won’t notice.

    • Serious faux pas for sure. Can’t show up at a kids’ birthday party without a present. Someone taking a photo of that vintage bag for a photo shoot is definitely not a thought I would had had. Thanks for contributing Chamblee54.

  3. Trigger warning: This may evoke difficult emotion in some people.

    Just a purse on the ground. Sitting there. Nothing to do with us. Lean in. Look closer. Pick it up. Is that what happens? Has happened. A thousand or more times. Is it that many? When someone stumbles across it. ID. There any ID. Along the riverbank. In the ditch. Just off the highway. On that gravel path in the evergreens. Those four letters. MMIW. Missing and Murdered Women. You have to live in BC or Canada to know what that means. Aboriginal women. Missing. All across the country. Highway of Tears. Up North. Invisible places. Invisible faces. I always stumble when I see those four letters together: MMIW. Missing in Action. That’s the first thing that comes to mind, like war, and then I have to slow down and ask myself to sound it out, grasping for each word like relatives grasp at the memory of their faces. Note: W. Women. Missing. Murdered. And yet, when they came upon something, anything, a purse. Such serenity. Such anonymity. Just there in the grass. Pick it up. Peak inside. Driver’s licence. Lipstick. A comb. Credit card. Cash. Cash all gone. Who took it? An art project perhaps? Thousands and thousands of purses. Ai WeiWei-like. Purses collected and spread all across the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery. Something different in each one of them. Nothing like this purse. This beautiful leather purse. Sitting serenely in the grass. Minding its own business. Maybe like they were. When they went. Missing.

      • Serious material with some good riffs – Ai WeiWei, yes, but so sad – there are so many women. Thanks for getting my attention – we can’t forget them.

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