Project 313 – Post No. 155

So, I’ve not written much lately. I’ve not been moved to write, but I got all these new subscribers, and they probably have no idea I (used to) write fiction.

They come here for the photos and deep philosophical discussions. I kid; most come here because they’re looking for subscribers to their own blog or because they’re trying to sell something.
But, one or two are “real” subscribers; they’re here without trying to sell me anything. They don’t even have blogs, so I can’t very well assume they’re here for ulterior motives . . . perhaps they just clicked on the wrong box and subscribed without realizing their name is now linked to mine our fates intertwined for eternity.

Yes, I say unto them, I used to write. Often, I’d respond to writing prompts. These days, few people do decent writing prompts. If I had any talent in that regard, I’d come up with my own prompts.


Here’s an example of me in 2012 responding to a prompt titled . . .

Stopping For Breakfast

© 2012 E. J. D’Alise
(Note: edited from the original)

Scott had just tied his bed-roll behind the saddle when he heard them. His hand drifted to rest on the handle of his Colt as he looked toward the approaching wagon.

His annoyance would never show on his wooden features, but he thought about the coffee that had just finished brewing and the grits that were sitting there, waiting for his rumbling stomach to come a’calling.

A woman was driving the oxen, while two children walked beside the wagon, not fully appreciating the life-and-death way of the prairie.

“Howdy,” her voice was strong, confident, “the name is Marcie. These here are Mary and James.”

“Howdy,” Scott replied as he glanced at the kids climbing onto the wagon. He offered no other encouragement toward conversation.

“We got us a problem,” the woman stood, and he could see her gunbelt sported a holster with a pearl-handled Colt. “You’re camping on my land, and I don’t recall being asked for permission. I’ll be taking the coffee and grits as payment.” Marcie spit over the side of the wagon and looked back at the tall stranger still standing behind the horse.

She registered the slight movement of his shoulder as he started his draw. Her own gun fired twice before Scott’s gun cleared his holster; one bullet for each eye.

Moments later Marcie and the kids were ladling out the grits in equal portions. As she sipped on the coffee, she tasted the grits. “Men!” she thought, “They can’t cook worth a darn!”

~0~0~0~

You can see why I’ve not sold many stories; violence. Violence and food. It’s just not a good combination.
Perhaps I should include something about a cat; cats are pretty popular on the InterWeb . . . but most people would object to the idea of cooking and eating a cat for breakfast.

And now, the photo:

Project 313 155

More classic cars details. I’ll be doing a few more of these before I get bored and move on to something else.

And here once again the subtle humor of Joe Martin through Willy’s voice . . .

I like the casual tone of her conversation, as if she was trying to make sense of the situation she finds herself in.

It’s a bit how I sometimes feel about the politicians currently in charge . . . are we sure we voted them into office? The more I think about it, the less sense it makes . . . I can’t believe we would do such a thing.
It makes as much sense as . . . Echoes Of Dots Stretching Into Lines and Changing Colors.

Echoes Of Dots Stretching Into Lines and Changing Colors

And . . . that’s it
Some of these posts will likely be longer as the mood hits me, but most will be thus; short, uninteresting, bland, and relentless.
You can read about Project 313 HERE.

That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.

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