Friday, January 17, 2014

Calico Sky 2.0

Here's my 100 word offering on this grey winter morning:


The sky was calico with its longing for rain. A haze of stillborn clouds loitered like an unfaithful lover, all bright autumn colors and empty promises as I kicked my feet through crackles of mummified leaves and dunes of thirsty dust. 

Between scarred ash and cypress, the whir of cicadas rose and fell.

Hands drawn into too-long sleeves, I didn’t drink in the late September air, or taste the smoke of early-season fires spilling from chimney tops. Instead, I choked on the stale tobacco and minty aftershave asleep in his scarf. 

Parched, my eyes waited for the rain.


10 comments:

  1. The sky was calico with its longing for rain. It’s the only way to describe it. At four p.m. black thunderous clouds flew across the greyness. A tangerine lightbeam occasionally streaked overhead. Tornado perhaps?

    I must find shelter. They couldn’t be far behind. The weather would not only slow me down but them as well. I hurl my gear into the truck’s bed, canvas crashes against metal, but neatness is not a priority. I climb into the cab, grip the wheel and slam my foot on the gas. Creating distance between us is my primary goal. From the case on the passenger seat I clutch my insurance. A Glock

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    1. Hahahah! You really threw me with that last word!!

      Beautiful writing, with a sharp twist ;) Excellent job, Sue!

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    2. Hah! The glock was very nice :)

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    3. Nice! I see I'm not the only one with dark responses--it's the prompt's fault, that's my story and I'm sticking with it :D

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  2. Thank you
    I used the "last word" technique from class. Worked hard to get it last

    Now take the capta off this damn thing

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  3. oh you did - good - I'm still not with it today

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    1. Yeah, I hate capeta's... 9/10 I won't comment on someone's blog if they have it turned on.

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  4. Okay! Here's my darkish offering (on blog with creepy pic: http://guilie-castillo-oriard.blogspot.com/2014/01/calico-skies.html):

    The weather has transformed, and I with it. No more Caribbean sunshine, no more tropical heat, no more happy days. The sky has turned the color of mud, darker--almost black--chunks where the loaded clouds bulge. My edges are dark, too, with anger and hate.

    On an island where rain comes in warm five-minute bucketfuls, where the blue bowl of the sky never fades to more than slate, this is the storm of the century. The millennium. The Christian era. The storm of all time, past and future.

    And yet the rain doesn't come. The wind, which never stops in these Windward Islands, is still. The rain and the wind are waiting--for me? Or am I waiting for them? The set of knives lies on the counter, gleaming; bars of polished violence at rest. I finger the edge of a wide blade. It's sharp. It's ready.

    I'm ready, too.

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    1. Oh, this is so darkly awesome!

      Beautiful writing as usual Guilie!

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