A return to the 100-word epic form:
The authors of Beowulf would have been aghast at the new form–so short. I mean Beowuf is 3182 lines long, give or take a few, as misrememberings often plagued Anglo-Saxon proponents of the then fledgling genre.
After last week’s exhausting 1,000 word composition and short biography (yes, writing more words is harder, but only proportionally!)
(graciously published by Flash Fiction Magazine)
…there’s this: Cinnamon–the spice of the literary minded.
Some of you may remember my seemingly unsuccessful attemps at growing cinnamon. But now, there is hope, in the form of new growth–and lustrous red leaves at that. What have I learned about growing cinnamon? Cinnamon likes it hot and dry. It is a mistake to overwater the plant in cooler weather–I know, I lost several plants this way. If you are a blogger from Sri Lanka you are probably laughing quietly to yourself (I say ‘you’ because I have it on good authority that there is only one blogger from Sri Lanka).
Of course I have a long way to go before I can harvest cinnamon quills! I read somewhere (probably inscribed on on the back of some pamphelet on the many virtues of communism) that the leaves will impart a cinnamon taste to one’s tea.
Then there’s the story of my Bolivian garcinia (a kissing cousin of the mangosteen). More on this later. And more compositions, perhaps. Thankfully my biography is already written and can be recycled. The three R’s of waste management are, incidentally, reuse, recycle, and redo–how did that get in there?
If you were tempted to listen to the author, who is presently warming his hands by the fire, gazing out of a hoarfrosted window, you would be inclined to pay attention to the two readers in the story–the shabbily clad stranger trapped within the bounds of the fiction and you, the reader of said fiction, comfortably ensconced in your favorite chair, face illumed by the pale, fault-effacing light of your computing device.
“Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.”
William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair: A Novel without a Hero
Suzanne Pleshette was afraid of birds, so she married Bob ‘Hartley’ (nee Newhart), a psychologist specializing in big-screen ornithophobia. In contrast, A. H. loved birds, particularly blonde ones. You just can’t write this stuff–or not that easily. Truth is stranger than fiction, but not if I have anything to say about it.