Monday, June 11, 2012
Timed Writing: 6/9/2012
Time: 10 minutes
Prompt: "... flatulence withered the flowers..."
Source: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez
John and I sat in the bleachers surrounding the football field, along with a couple thousand of our fellow townsfolk. We, like all of those around us, were eating hotdogs and potato chips, drinking soda, and watching the sky.
We'd all seen the big city landings on TV already. We knew what to expect -- the bulbous capsule dangling by sinewy cables from a swarm of engine pods, the legs that would extend from the belly of the craft, and the puckered hatch on its underside, through which the visitors would squeeze. We'd watched it a dozen times already.
We'd even seen still images from the first landing -- the infamous one in the Luxembourg gardens -- so we knew better than to welcome the visitors with bouquets and garlands. That first time the ship's sphincter hatch relaxed to release the suited aliens in a cloud of their own atmosphere, the flatulence had withered the flowers. It had nearly overwhelmed several of the nearest observers too. So we were staying well back from the center of the field, despite our enthusiasm and excitement.
(about my timed writing exercises)
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