LJ Idol 2011; topic two.
Three little words
Three words. Only three? Sorry, that’s two. No, that was three just there. And that was more. And that was four.
I can pick three words. I can pick ‘down and out.’ I can pick ‘I love you.’ ‘Dark and stormy.’ ‘Watch and learn.’ ‘Shades of grey.’ ‘Once upon a time.’ Oops; nope, that was four. Try again. ‘Murmured and sighed.’ ‘Soaring and free.’ ‘Silent and watching.’ ‘Sobbed and shook.’ ‘Gritted her teeth.’ ‘Held her head.’
Those aren’t sentences; only snapshots. I want concepts. (See, there’s three there.) Try favourite words; words that sound good and ones that look good and ones that represent meaningful things. Like ‘beautiful’. Or ‘stars’. Scatter. Sprawl. Stretch. Murmur. Bright. Million. Night. Moon. Brisk. Wings. Feather. Sky. Expanse. Pressure. Lift. Flit. Red. Purple. Gold. Breathe. Globe. Balance. Faith. Magic. Jingle. Dart. Gloss. Shiny. Grin. Warmth. Thorough. Pesky. Wonder. Owl. Squishy. Smish.
Sorry, is that one not a real one? Do not-real ones count? Brillig. Mimsy. Sedatious. Tremoring. Groundable. Awesomesauce. Bromance. Frienemy. Wibble. Sniglet.
Three words aren’t enough. Please, may I have some more? Maybe thirty. I can do more things with thirty. I can write a song with thirty, a poem with thirty; I can describe a garden. A garden with a trellis of grapevines suspended between two low weathered timber poles, hanging thick and heavy on its wire fence and never quite blooming even when it’s time.
Thirty words to describe just a grapevine. Thirty isn’t enough for a whole garden. Three hundred? Is three hundred enough?
The grapevine hangs heavy on its wire frame, the timber poles holding it aloft weathered and brittle with age. It’s a vine in its later years, bushy and thick with growth but no longer bearing. Beside it is a younger vine hanging on large-squared mesh, slender, whip-thin and jaunty in comparison to its elder. Its tendrils hang over the path, ready and willing to slap in the face anyone who walks down it. The pavement is square-edged, stained and cracked and not at all meandering, turning the lawn into rectangles, leading past the gardens and empty aviaries. The lawn is thick and green, unmown for a while but not for so long that it’s a jungle; the piles of dog poo and the occasional unlucky bird can still be seen and overripe, sour peaches show up brightly in contrast.
The peach tree is low and twisted, its branch twigged and reaching-almost raking, as if clawing for a wayward, inattentive head. The aviary across the path, half mesh and half a thin, dented metal wall, looms and leaves the broken pavement an overgrown trap between them. Inside two dozen birds flutter-brown and white and spotted and darting too fast to see amongst their little holes inside dead branches and transplanted bushes. At the back fence is an empty garden bed-empty except for the soggy, decaying scraps left in an uncovered pit. Squeezed in the corner behind the old chicken shed is an orange tree and a collection of wire and metal debris. The tree is low, the leaves dark green; the pavement is pitted but unbroken, and the soil under the tree covered by a thin layer of poo, seeds and sharp metal bits. The side-fence can’t be seen beneath the gown of flowers and leaves grown over-
Three hundred words and I’m still missing the plum tree hanging over the fence from next door. I’m missing the stump of the apricot tree that almost never bore, and the narrow path framed with flower-vines that led down the side of the house, and the trellis over the driveway that dropped purple flowers on the concrete. Three hundred words aren’t enough.
Do the words I repeated count? Should I remove those words? The grapevine hangs heavy on its wire frame, timber poles holding it aloft weathered and brittle with age. A in later years, bushy thick growth but no longer bearing. Beside is younger hanging large-squared mesh, slender, whip-thin jaunty in comparison to elder. Tendrils over path, ready willing slap face anyone who walks down.
No. I need those words. Can I have more? No? Three hundred or less? Then I need the garden in fewer words.
The garden’s path divided it into three sets of rectangular lawn, green and marked with occasional scat. There was a stump beside the house, what was left of an apricot tree that never bore, and between the house and the fence was a narrow path strewn with leaves and so overgrown it took walking bent-backed simply to reach the padlocked gate no one ever used. Down the garden’s centre were two grapevines in a line; both were thriving, but one was old and fat, the other young with limber tendrils. On one side of the elder grapevine was the clothesline, rickety and taller on one side than the other; on the other was a peach tree that only bore sour fruit, a tree so twisted that it looked in pain. Beside the peach tree was one of two aviaries, the only one with birds in it, squeezed between the garage and the empty chook-shed and half hidden by the tree as if being guarded.
At the far fence was a garden bed empty aside from the table-scraps piled in their uncovered hole, but in the corner behind the chook-shed was an orange tree, out of sight and out of mind save when it bore too many oranges to keep. The plum tree from next door hung over the fence, with a habit of dropping plums on the garage roof; beside it was a tangled tree interwoven with the garage trellis, so thick with leaves and violet flowers that it blocked out the sun on the driveway.
Fewer words. Fewer words and I have a garden. Can I go fewer still? May I? Will I? Should I?
Hmm …
[Written for therealljidol, Topic Two, Week Two.]
Three words. Only three? Sorry, that’s two. No, that was three just there. And that was more. And that was four.
I can pick three words. I can pick ‘down and out.’ I can pick ‘I love you.’ ‘Dark and stormy.’ ‘Watch and learn.’ ‘Shades of grey.’ ‘Once upon a time.’ Oops; nope, that was four. Try again. ‘Murmured and sighed.’ ‘Soaring and free.’ ‘Silent and watching.’ ‘Sobbed and shook.’ ‘Gritted her teeth.’ ‘Held her head.’
Those aren’t sentences; only snapshots. I want concepts. (See, there’s three there.) Try favourite words; words that sound good and ones that look good and ones that represent meaningful things. Like ‘beautiful’. Or ‘stars’. Scatter. Sprawl. Stretch. Murmur. Bright. Million. Night. Moon. Brisk. Wings. Feather. Sky. Expanse. Pressure. Lift. Flit. Red. Purple. Gold. Breathe. Globe. Balance. Faith. Magic. Jingle. Dart. Gloss. Shiny. Grin. Warmth. Thorough. Pesky. Wonder. Owl. Squishy. Smish.
Sorry, is that one not a real one? Do not-real ones count? Brillig. Mimsy. Sedatious. Tremoring. Groundable. Awesomesauce. Bromance. Frienemy. Wibble. Sniglet.
Three words aren’t enough. Please, may I have some more? Maybe thirty. I can do more things with thirty. I can write a song with thirty, a poem with thirty; I can describe a garden. A garden with a trellis of grapevines suspended between two low weathered timber poles, hanging thick and heavy on its wire fence and never quite blooming even when it’s time.
Thirty words to describe just a grapevine. Thirty isn’t enough for a whole garden. Three hundred? Is three hundred enough?
The grapevine hangs heavy on its wire frame, the timber poles holding it aloft weathered and brittle with age. It’s a vine in its later years, bushy and thick with growth but no longer bearing. Beside it is a younger vine hanging on large-squared mesh, slender, whip-thin and jaunty in comparison to its elder. Its tendrils hang over the path, ready and willing to slap in the face anyone who walks down it. The pavement is square-edged, stained and cracked and not at all meandering, turning the lawn into rectangles, leading past the gardens and empty aviaries. The lawn is thick and green, unmown for a while but not for so long that it’s a jungle; the piles of dog poo and the occasional unlucky bird can still be seen and overripe, sour peaches show up brightly in contrast.
The peach tree is low and twisted, its branch twigged and reaching-almost raking, as if clawing for a wayward, inattentive head. The aviary across the path, half mesh and half a thin, dented metal wall, looms and leaves the broken pavement an overgrown trap between them. Inside two dozen birds flutter-brown and white and spotted and darting too fast to see amongst their little holes inside dead branches and transplanted bushes. At the back fence is an empty garden bed-empty except for the soggy, decaying scraps left in an uncovered pit. Squeezed in the corner behind the old chicken shed is an orange tree and a collection of wire and metal debris. The tree is low, the leaves dark green; the pavement is pitted but unbroken, and the soil under the tree covered by a thin layer of poo, seeds and sharp metal bits. The side-fence can’t be seen beneath the gown of flowers and leaves grown over-
Three hundred words and I’m still missing the plum tree hanging over the fence from next door. I’m missing the stump of the apricot tree that almost never bore, and the narrow path framed with flower-vines that led down the side of the house, and the trellis over the driveway that dropped purple flowers on the concrete. Three hundred words aren’t enough.
Do the words I repeated count? Should I remove those words? The grapevine hangs heavy on its wire frame, timber poles holding it aloft weathered and brittle with age. A in later years, bushy thick growth but no longer bearing. Beside is younger hanging large-squared mesh, slender, whip-thin jaunty in comparison to elder. Tendrils over path, ready willing slap face anyone who walks down.
No. I need those words. Can I have more? No? Three hundred or less? Then I need the garden in fewer words.
The garden’s path divided it into three sets of rectangular lawn, green and marked with occasional scat. There was a stump beside the house, what was left of an apricot tree that never bore, and between the house and the fence was a narrow path strewn with leaves and so overgrown it took walking bent-backed simply to reach the padlocked gate no one ever used. Down the garden’s centre were two grapevines in a line; both were thriving, but one was old and fat, the other young with limber tendrils. On one side of the elder grapevine was the clothesline, rickety and taller on one side than the other; on the other was a peach tree that only bore sour fruit, a tree so twisted that it looked in pain. Beside the peach tree was one of two aviaries, the only one with birds in it, squeezed between the garage and the empty chook-shed and half hidden by the tree as if being guarded.
At the far fence was a garden bed empty aside from the table-scraps piled in their uncovered hole, but in the corner behind the chook-shed was an orange tree, out of sight and out of mind save when it bore too many oranges to keep. The plum tree from next door hung over the fence, with a habit of dropping plums on the garage roof; beside it was a tangled tree interwoven with the garage trellis, so thick with leaves and violet flowers that it blocked out the sun on the driveway.
Fewer words. Fewer words and I have a garden. Can I go fewer still? May I? Will I? Should I?
Hmm …
[Written for therealljidol, Topic Two, Week Two.]