June 7th, 2012

footprint in the sand

Here By Glimpses Known

It has been ages since I did a glimpse post, and I was on my way to bed before I remembered that I had vowed to resume the custom here on my blog on Wednesdays.

This is a true glimpse of something bigger to come.

In the meantime, can anyone guess what is on the other side of this gate?


If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.  ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
art: thé

Gather round the fire for a frightful tale to hear

...or at least I imagine there could be a frightful tale attached to the place I'm about to share, and share now I must, for frigg is being a very impatient, pushy pea to learn where yesterday's gate leads.

Turn the knob and push. Pay no mind to the squealing hinges. Their noise is not foreshadowing. Or is it?

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Anyone have any suppositions to make about who might be buried here and why in such a fashion? (I don't have a clue.) Please share if your fancy has been tickled.

What I listened to while posting:
Joe Pug: Hymn 101
Joe Purdy: Why You
The White Buffalo: Oh Darling, What Have I Done?
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: Beat the Devil's Tattoo
writing: plot problem

A meme for the pesky pea

Gakked from barbarienne atfrigg's persistent insistence:

The rules:

1. Go to page 77 (or 7th) of your current ms
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written. No cheating.

Pg 77 of The Bitter River, in all its roughness:

After the boys were particularly rowdy in class, the Persian tutor made them write a report of why they had been acting up and how they might comport themselves differently in the future given the same set of circumstances. My father wrote a strictly accurate account of the morning, but Ahmed’s copy, like his speech, was peppered with falsehoods. Five times the tutor made him rewrite the account, threatening him with a lashing for each fib, but Ahmed could not relate only the facts.

In a fit of rage, he wrote in French, to the same effect. More lies, more lashes. However, when my father jokingly said that the Persian tutor’s English was poor and he would surely not be able to catch any errors in Ahmed’s telling, a curious thing happened. Ahmed was able to tell the truth. He burst into tears, and it took my father all of a day to understand that he was happy and not upset.