Tagged: foreign lands

Varnishing My Study

During October we will be sharing passages that we’ve written independently from the same prompt.

  • varnishing my study
  • like calling a leg a “limb”
  • each kill a man
  • a stuffed owl
  • I am still on a merry-go-round

Kent’s Take

Even after completing my hazing ritual and varnishing my study, I am still on a merry-go-round of ennui, riding a stuffed owl of disenfranchisement, pondering why we must each kill a man with a harmonica to gain entry into this occult club, puzzling over whether it means the harmonica is to be the weapon or if the victim must have it on him (I covered both bases, just to play it safe), and vexed by habits of linguistic imprecision (like calling a leg a “limb”) in a world where language is already so rife with ambiguity and clouded meanings.

One sentence = Bonus Points!

Jen’s Take

by jenJohannes Van Der Oppenstüffel, the reclusive Dutch billionaire, was sponsoring a competition to choose his next bodyguard. The first task he assigned the hopefuls was to scour the grounds of his immense estate in search of a stuffed owl. Once that was accomplished, he told those who remained, “You will each travel to a foreign city and you will each kill a man named either Karl or Geoffrey. When the task is completed, you will call me with the details. And when I say ‘details’ I mean I want you to be specific. Nothing like calling a leg a ‘limb’ will be allowed.”

Five hours later the first call came.

“I am still on a merry-go-round in the Tivoli park in Copenhagen” came the rough voice, “but Karl is dead, his head crushed by a cotton candy machine.”

“Excellent,” replied Johannes. “Return to Amsterdam immediately to take up your duties. You will begin by varnishing my study. If you know what I mean.”

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Guillermo Whispered

  • surprisingly good British
  • had transformed the fox
  • across the blue waves
  • as always in ritual
  • the tickle of his mustache
  • it’s the city of victims now

Guillermo whispered in my ear, “It’s the city of victims now,” in a surprisingly good British accent. The tickle of his mustache awakened those shuddering desires that once before had transformed the fox into a tiger.

He spoke in gloom, of a distant perished land across the blue waves. But as always in ritual, the weight of feeling is kept askew and doesn’t become a burden.

He touched my shoulder and left me to shudder alone.

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Lord Bolliet’s Alcoholic Haze

  • by jena still-damp, raw-boned gelding
  • had not seen any “girls” at the house
  • in London or Kent he could have obtained
  • French breeding — but
  • Lord Bolliet’s alcoholic haze

Lord Bolliet’s alcoholic haze made it difficult for him to disguise his aristocratic French breeding — but his very life depended on it this dangerous evening. The revolutionaries were on the hunt tonight. In London or Kent he could have obtained forged travel papers, but here in Canterbury he had no allies, no one to turn to in his time of desperation. All the ale he’d imbibed made him feel like a still-damp, raw-boned gelding on the way to the glue factory. Bolliet shook his head, not for the first time, and returned to his solitary vigil. He hoped to find a safe place to hide for a few days and  had set his sights upon the rundown inn across the lane. So far he had not seen any “girls” at the house, but did not fully trust his ale-sozzled faculties and, so, determined to crouch in the hedgerow a while longer.

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