Keep it up!

Add Along will roll through the week! It has so much potential!
"Be your own voice." - Anonymous

Yelling Midgets

- I was riding my bike. Downhill? Yes. Too fast? Ummm, Plead 'The Fifth'. Anyway, it was too late to stop when she opened the mailbox. I mean, who knew that those blue mailboxes had swingy doors that open out? So she opens the door, gets behind it, and all I can think is that if I don't kill her, maybe I can get a date, and with a postal worker none-the-less. By the time rationality caught up enough to arrest and detain that thought, it was really too late to stop. So I did what any guy in my situation would do, I aimed the bike into the yard she was kneeled in front of, and bailed onto the grass. Hey, it seemed like a good idea.

- The problem with good ideas in 'too-late' situations is that they're rarely as good as they seem. The first indicator of this was the sprinkler head that was twisting it's imprint into my rib-cage. The second was a strangely slow moving blue Volvo. I swear it wasn't there when I put the bike on autopilot, but now, somehow, there it was. And my red, twenty-one speed mountain bike was making a bee-line for the driveway it occupied. I couldn't look...

-So I shut my eyes. (Blue.) It was shortly after I crashed that I began to feel the philosophical section of my psyche awaken and growl. Well, I thought, the mail slot is blue, the Volvo is blue, the sky...my knees are wobbling and knocking now. They soon will be blue. The postal worker noticed my spread eagle, contemplative position on the lawn. She let her eyes wander over me without appearing to be examining me at all. Maybe she noticed the azure socks I was wearing. Probably not. By this time my arms felt more comfortable under my head so I rested them there. My ankles were feeling stiff, so I crossed them. The neighbor's blue healer began to sniff at my socks. The postal worker walked away, her blue pants creased at the knees. Not that I could see her knees, she was walking away--I noticed this more clearly when she was kneeling and looking at me with her deep cobalt eyes, which weren't really looking at me at all. She was just rechecking the house number. Really. I feel I'm losing my point. The philosophy. So here it comes. The hill, six blue houses lined it. The bike, blue spangled handlebars (okay, so my sister pranked me and I haven't gotten around to defangling the sparklers). The mailbox, well, postal blue. Her eyes, ah yes, her eyes. They too. Mesmerizing. Tantalizing. But they weren't looking at me. Just philosophizing the house number, really. My socks, well said. The dog's collar, sapphire-studded, but I wasn't looking at the blue healer. I was for the duration gazing at the sky. Which needless to say, is the entire reason--not the girl, forget the girl--for my accident. And for my depth of thought. And perhaps for all of the meaning in my very, very, simple life.

-You thought I was done! Aha! But here is the most winsome part of all. It is the part when four of my comrades emerge from blue house # 5 and begin a straight-forward but reminiscent conversion of textile (movable, philosophical) grammarian terminology with me...

-The conversation went way over my head. Most of what they said was no more then gibberish. As they proceded through the conversation I stared at them blankly. These were not my friends. My friends never spoke this way. They were staring at me as I remained quiet during the entire conversation. After a moment of silence I shared with them my philosophical view of the color blue. And I pointed out all the blue items around. Now it was my friends who stared blankly. Then they revealed that the houses were in fact green and that my socks were mismatching shades of orange and maroon. I was about to ask them why I saw everything as blue when I remembered that I was colorblind.

-As my friends laughed at my realization, the door to the house whose lawn I had been occupying opened and out walked a fat bald midget with a pair of socks over his ears. He looked at me and then at my friends. Back to me and then at the red mountain bike sticking out of the side of his blue Volvo. His high pitched voice began screaming in French as the socks on his ears flopped up and down. My friends began laughing uncontrollably…

"Mind The Gap"

Ok here we are the moment youve all been waiting for. well mostly the moment eric has been waiting for. Karina has joined the group (Jane Eyre) . Give her a warm Q&T welcome.

The Conversion of Blue

- I was riding my bike. Downhill? Yes. Too fast? Ummm, Plead 'The Fifth'. Anyway, it was too late to stop when she opened the mailbox. I mean, who knew that those blue mailboxes had swingy doors that open out? So she opens the door, gets behind it, and all I can think is that if I don't kill her, maybe I can get a date, and with a postal worker none-the-less. By the time rationality caught up enough to arrest and detain that thought, it was really too late to stop. So I did what any guy in my situation would do, I aimed the bike into the yard she was kneeled in front of, and bailed onto the grass. Hey, it seemed like a good idea.

- The problem with good ideas in 'too-late' situations is that they're rarely as good as they seem. The first indicator of this was the sprinkler head that was twisting it's imprint into my rib-cage. The second was a strangely slow moving blue Volvo. I swear it wasn't there when I put the bike on autopilot, but now, somehow, there it was. And my red, twenty-one speed mountain bike was making a bee-line for the driveway it occupied. I couldn't look...

So I shut my eyes. (Blue.) It was shortly after I crashed that I began to feel the philosophical section of my psyche awaken and growl. Well, I thought, the mail slot is blue, the Volvo is blue, the sky...my knees are wobbinging and knocking now. They soon will be blue. The postal worker noticed my spread eagle, contemplative position on the lawn. She let her eyes wander over me without appearing to be examining me at all. Maybe she noticed the azure socks I was wearing. Probably not. By this time my arms felt more comfortable under my head so I rested them there. My ankles were feeling stiff, so I crossed them. The neighbor's blue healer began to sniff at my socks. The postal worker walked away, her blue pants creased at the knees. Not that I could see her knees, she was walking away--I noticed this more clearly when she was kneeling and looking at me with her deep cobalt eyes, which weren't really looking at me at all. She was just rechecking the house number. Really. I feel I'm losing my point. The philosophy. So here it comes. The hill, six blue houses lined it. The bike, blue spangled handlebars (okay, so my sister pranked me and I haven't gotten around to defanging the sparklers). The mailbox, well, postal blue. Her eyes, ah yes, her eyes. They too. Mesmerizing. Tantalizing. But they weren't looking at me. Just philosophizing the house number, really. My socks, well said. The dog's collar, sapphire-studded, but I wasn't looking at the blue healer. I was for the duration gazing at the sky. Which needless to say, is the entire reason--not the girl, forget the girl--for my accident. And for my depth of thought. And perhaps for all of the meaning in my very, very, simple life.
You thought I was done! Aha! But here is the most winsome part of all. It is the part when four of my comrades emerge from blue house # 5 and begin a straight-forward but reminiscent conversion of textile (movable, philosophical) grammarian terminology with me...

Add Along, Part 1: 'Too-late' Situations

- I was riding my bike. Downhill? Yes. Too fast? Ummm, Plead 'The Fifth'. Anyway, it was too late to stop when she opened the mailbox. I mean, who knew that those blue mailboxes had swingy doors that open out? So she opens the door, gets behind it, and all I can think is that if I don't kill her, maybe I can get a date, and with a postal worker none-the-less. By the time rationality caught up enough to arrest and detain that thought, it was really too late to stop. So I did what any guy in my situation would do, I aimed the bike into the yard she was kneeled in front of, and bailed onto the grass. Hey, it seemed like a good idea.

- The problem with good ideas in 'too-late' situations is that they're rarely as good as they seem. The first indicator of this was the sprinkler head that was twisting it's imprint into my rib-cage. The second was a strangely slow moving blue Volvo. I swear it wasn't there when I put the bike on autopilot, but now, somehow, there it was. And my red, twenty-one speed mountain bike was making a bee-line for the driveway it occupied. I couldn't look...

Number Eight, Just a bit late.

Some good ideas here, let's keep at this, remember you don't have to just post a project, you can post ideas, sites for writers, links to work by others, anything of interest to Quill & Think. This is a community, let's keep it up.

It looks like Todd's idea is moved, seconded, and a two thirds vote for this week.
----------
Project 8: Add along.

The rules are as follows:
- Not everyone gets around to posting each week, so it's first come first serve. If you're not going to get in this week and you know it, just comment here and we'll skip ya. Shoot, everyone just comment with IN or OUT and we'll know that way.
- You can post twice only if we get all the way through participating writers, and then it's going to be a free-for-all, you just can't post back to back (let someone else in, word-hog).
- As for the actual writing there's a two paragraph minimum and a four paragraph maximum. When you post be sure to include the entire story, including your part, in your post (that way readers get the gist up front without having to dig through several posts).
- Write up!

Good idea, Bad idea

Ok take this as a good idea or a bad one. For five days everyone write two lines per day. The lines can be a thought of the moment, a feeling, or even what ever it is that you are working one at that particular moment. One of the rules with this is that no names are mentioned, in other words no proper nouns. I did these a few years back and I wish I still had what I had written.

'Nother Idea

I like Todd's idea...it would be interesting to see what kind of story is created with so many contributors with so many different ideas.

Another idea...pick a piece of artwork and have everyone write something using it as the inspiration. Could be fiction, poetry, song, or someone's opinion of the art piece. It would be neat to see how many different works are created based on the same thing and how that can change how we see the work of art itself.

And another one rides the bus...

Everybody, everybody. Now class, PAY ATTENTION!

Welcome Julie, aka Silis (pronounced She-liss [right?]) to the ranks of Quill & Think.

Idea #1

I think it'd be fun to do a chain story although I think I've already mentioned this. It'd only work if we could all commit to an entry and then we'd choose the order of the entries. It'd be fun to see where the story goes between someone and someone else.

Well that sucked...

Thank You Todd!
The rest of us didn't do squat, and it seems to me that we're losing steam here
What ever are we going to do?
I have an idea!
----------
Project 7: Project Projection
(BTW, that rhymes, sorta.)

This weeks' project is to share ideas for projects, and for Quill & Think in general. Be creative, brainstorm, post anything that you think might be in the future for Q&T. Let's see where this thing can take us. Don't be afraid either, you just might have the idea that changes the world (or Q&T, which then lets us change the world, either way). Let's be a Quill & Think-Tank this week.

I live in Colorado

Colorado is like no place I've ever lived before. It is a beautiful state, made so by its terrain and its people. There are a great many things here worth seeing.

Once, a few months ago, I was coming home from hanging out with Micah. It had snowed a few days prior and the moon was full. In Golden, so near to the foothills, it looked like the mountains were glowing. It is still one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever witnessed.

Colorado is not like Utah. Utah is drab, boring, brown, and salty. Colorado has trees and grass to add color to it.

Did I mention the people? There are so many pretty people here that it is almost crazy. It is worth mentioning, of course, that I found one of them and am dating her. Regardless, there are a great many beautiful people here and she knows some of them. I've even MET some of them. I've never been around so many good-looking folk.

Of course, it's not all fun and games. Driving is quite a chore and that feeling is compounded by the hellish traffic that precedes you everywhere you go. On top of that, the streets have names (instead of the number/grid system of Salt Lake City) so I have to go by landmarks which means I get lost even more than usual.

The bars here are much more fun and the beer here has twice as much alcohol. There's something to do on every block and someone new to meet every time I turn around. I love Colorado. If you don't feel the same way, try living in Utah for 10 years.

Six weeks into O-Six

Project #6:
Ok boys and girl (if you're reading this Karina) This weeks project is to describe somewhere that you've lived. It can be a house, street, neighborhood, town or even describe the city you lived in. The point here is to be descriptive, so remember to show and not tell. - Go for it!

Gabe's Story Poem

I've chosen the song 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald', a true story turned into a classic ballad by Gordon Lightfoot. Click here for lyrics, a short history of the song, and even a brief audio clip. And now for my own poem...

The Big Thompson Flood.
- Gabe Thexton

On a clear summer day at the end of July,
Near Estes that town in the Rockies so high,
Folks had their fun and were headed for home,
They poured into Big Thompson Canyon,
A road that wound down through the valley to town,
Near the river with homes right beside it.

Clouds soon would gather a light rain would fall,
Most there would say they weren't worried at all,
Thunderheads rolled in about half past seven,
The weather service issued a warning,
The Olympics were on and many were home,
These folks that lived in the valley.

Around nine-o-clock came a warning more stern,
They said that the floods were a coming,
Four hours had passed nigh twelve inches fell,
The water out-bounded the river,
It tore through the canyon a twenty foot wall,
The Big Thompson had had it's disaster.

When up the sun came on the very next day,
Almost nothing was left in the canyon,
One hundred and forty four perished that day,
In the flood in the Big Thompson Canyon,
With ages from two up to ninety plus four,
I only hope that they all went to heaven.
----------
- Hope you liked it, I really like this, and though it's a first draft I think I'll go back and rework it and flesh it out (maybe for posting on the 30th anniversary coming this year)
- For more on the Big Thompson Flood (which is known in Christian circles for the lost lives of several Campus Crusaders) go here (it's really cool)
- Also check out the post on my blog regarding this one.
----------
Ideas for this weeks project welcome, call me and I won't post one. Cheers.

Giles' Submission: Ol' Topply's Tears

Tinfang Warble by J.R.R. Tolkien:

O the hoot! O the hoot!
How he trillups on his flute!
O the hoot of Tinfang Warble!

Dancing all alon,
Hopping on a stone,
Flitting like a fawn,
In the twilight on the lawn,
And his name is Tinfang Warble!

The first star has shown
And its lamp is blown
to a flame of flickering blue.
He pipes not to me,
He pipes not to thee,
He whistles to none of you.
His music is his own,
The tunes of Tinfang Warble!

------------------------------------------

Ol' Topply's Tears

Old dear Topply plays his fiddle quick as a sprite
While young sweat Brynly dances on his right
Gaily they sing of days gone by
While tears of great joy stream out of me eye

I sit and sip on pint glass o’ beer
Rememb’rin’ the love of a summer last year
She’d orn’ment herself in the lilies of spring
And dance in the center of mystic Faery rings

Topply now changes to a tune of despair
Sweat young Brynly unties her red hair
The fiddle it moans of a winter gone past
And a love and a loss of Topply’s Ol’ Lass

Her name was Faer Finola, her hair was bright as gold
But the heavens came and took her as the air grew still and cold
Nine months she’d been with child, nine months she’d swelled joy
For Topply and Finola thought they’d raise a grand ol’ boy

But as the snows start fallin’ on roofs of our small town
Finola’s pain came on her so the midwife laid her down
“Oh no the pain ain’t stoppin’,” cried the nurse with much alarm
Poor Topply ran in prayin’, but the birth had done its harm

Finola laid there cold in bed not a breath left in her breast
But Topply stemmed the flow of tears and held his baby to his chest
He looked down at the newborn child with curly lock o’ red
“I think I’ll call you Brynly, dear, from a book that I once read”

As I remembered Sweat Brynly’s tail, I rose up to my feet
“Ol’ Topply, here’s you good man,” and I swallowed my liquid peat
Ol’ Topply raised his hand to mine as I walk on toward the door
Brynly smiled her thanks to me, like her mother years before

Erik's story poem

Ok, so I know Gabe's read this... but it's probably been awhile... Robyn probably has too... but I immediately thought of this poem when I read the 'rules'

To An Athlete Dying Young - A. E. Housman

My version -

Where have you gone -

Years ago you knew where to go
Life was full of promise and possibilities
All it takes is a step in a different direction though
Now life's all about the small victories

You saw yourself making loads of money
Finished college with a great degree
You would have married your college honey
And despite success the best things came free

Instead you decided college wasn't for you
You thought working and living was a noble goal
Now it's college you wish you could drag your self to
You do your work but you always feel like you're in the hole

Maybe someday you'll finally go back
You'll learn different things and meet a sweetheart
All these years after taking so much flack
You'll learn again- the best things in life were always the free part.