Hello . . . this is Joe. Welcome to A Daily Drabble. Please add 100 words of prose or poetry as a comment on any date you want and in any order you want. Please reply on the drabbles you like. I'll moderate the comments at night, and they'll appear the next day. This is for everyone!
Bitter wind rushes down from distant ridges of snow to attack the parapet where I stand. The sun is high in the sky somewhere, illuminating with pearlescence the tumbling layers of clouds below. I pull the tail of my chaperon out over my helm and wrap it tight around my neck. I need all the warmth I can get. Ancelin is due to relieve me soon, but I fear he will be late. The Festival of the Thrice Summoned Moon lasted for days, and the last I saw my brother, he was face down near a half-empty barrel of godale.
ReplyDeleteThe Marxist lost his ist, but replaced it with the very brief history of the pronoun they; and then he looked up the etymology of plural—some escarpment somewhere rural, but with the convenience of suburbia: like Napa or Sonoma—but origins made him angry so he closed that screen’s window and decided plums are nothing like prunes except when looking at a photo of snow in a book left on hay in a stable where it makes perfect sense to the mare named Molly and confuses the stallion nicknamed Coddle who the toddler calls Thomas after Jefferson and Aquinas.
ReplyDeleteI love that you used the word "escarpment." It is one of my favorite words.
Delete