It seems incorrect to wish anyone a happy memorial day. I mean considering what the day is all about and all, but as a day most consider both a holiday and a first day of summer, hope you have a good one.
I skipped Friday’s entry for a number of reasons. There was a big reason involved within all the small ones.
I was considering what I wished to write about on Friday morning, early. I felt whimsical and took a venture on Bing. I asked Bing to show me some writing tips, thinking I would accept anything as a challenge and do one of those tips.
Bing gave me many choices to chose from – from the seventh grade down to somewhere. That wouldn’t do. So, I limited the search to writing tips for adults. Which wasn’t all that much better. It was depressing, really, to consider what I was reading as adult level writing.
I did persevere however. Well, maybe.
I continued until I got to the Reader Digest page of hints. And I almost gave up on the idea completely, until I got to this:
You return home from work to find a Dear John letter on your kitchen table. Oddly enough, it’s from one of your favorite pieces of furniture. What does the letter say? Read more
The prompt (I suppose that is what adult writing tips are called, prompts) immediately grabbed my attention and threw me back years and years to a German store in Stuttgart.
I’d entered the store not looking for anything specific, just shopping, I think it was, when I saw a chair. The chair was exactly the chair I’d been shopping for. But it wasn’t. That’s a bit difficult to relate. The chair appealed to me.
I slipped off my lamb skin overcoat and tried that chair, pushing away a match in color and style foot stool, and sat in that chair. It welcomed me. It fit every where.. The arms were perfect. The height of the seat allowed my thighs to rest perfectly on the joints. It was an excellent back rest and head rest and I wanted that chair and I told it so.
While I was putting on my coat again, gave that chair my reluctant farewell and left.
Then I read the writing prompt again, and discovered the prompt was a Dear John letter FROM the chair to me.
And opened the letter and found that the chair could not reciprocate my desires, as regretful as the chair might be, because it had a greater thing for the foot stool and waited for a buyer that wanted both.
Having read the Dear John letter I’m sure the chair and the foot stool are rags and pieces of rubbish plastic in a land fill in the socially progressive new Germany and having been torn asunder by time and hard usage of stinky feet and probably children and dog dirt, not of my life style and proclivities.
Still, writing prompts of this type should be prohibited. The memories and dreams are painful, really.
From the reaches,