Tag: WIP
Works In Progress. The “typing” part of Writing — and the most challenging.
An Ultimate Protest Sign
(Thanx and a tip o’ th’ Metaphoraging Hat to txt2pic.com‘s template toys (click for bigger).)
A Haiku For The SF Giants, After Seeing My First Giants Game Last Night
Tim Lincecum’s face Passionate with the sad news: Strike one. Two. Three. Next!
5 Thoughts: How To Preach A Sermon
1. Make ’em laugh with, but not at, you and your topic. But make ’em laugh first. 2. Remember that you’re a student too, no more learned (and perhaps embarrassingly less) than those listening to you. Your task is to…
A Great Line I’ll Have To Work In Somewhere
“IT WAS AT THIS POINT in the narrative when those skilled in the nuances of the oral tradition began chuckling with anticipation.”
Haiku: First Rain
6:30 a.m., And behind my coffee cup, Earth sips her new skies.
My Contribution to the Tongue Twister Effort
“CHICKEN KITCHEN.”
Prosatio Silban’s Table Tips: Place (A Literary Amuse-Bouche)
SOMEONE ONCE ASKED PROSATIO SILBAN his thoughts on “presentation;” i.e., how a dish should look when it leaves his kitchen. The Cook For Any Price thought for a moment before replying. “I suppose it depends on your notion of what…
Fists Against The Posts
One kept thinking there had to be another way of looking at it, of really seeing *I*T*, and kept lamenting that particular brand of consciousness so limited in terms of time, space and perception. Oh, to soar as a school…
Prosatio Silban and the Mayor of Ixtachet
EVERYONE WANTS TO BE THE Mayor of Ixtachet, at least until they become so — this Prosatio Silban discovered on a chance visit to the edge of the Azure Void which forms the southwest border of the Uulian Commonwell. Ixtachet…
From the Ashes
AS DETAILED ELSEWHERE, I DID some freelance work in the early 1990s for an eccentric Northern California non-profit called Obscure Research Labs. Well… when the phone rings at 3 a.m. and the familiar metallic voice offers an occasional work-from-home project…
Flash Fiction: Death Finishes His Drink
THE MAN WITH YESTERDAY’S EYES put down his glass. “Well, it’s 3 a.m.,” he sighed. “I guess those poor bastards aren’t going to terrify themselves.”