Write365

From the writebrain workbook: Use all these words that were coined by the bard: Arch-villain, madcap, gallantry, trippingly, pageantry. Start with “He laid his right hand on the spear…”

and gripped it hard. He didn’t really want to use it, especially on his best friend, William. Unfortunately, in the last few weeks, his friend, whom he had grown up with as a youth, had become his arch-villain. Yes, undoubtedly there was a woman involved. Why did love and friendship always have to be at odds, and why did best friends always have to fall in love with the same woman?

Waiting on the sidelines was the lovely Gabrielle, her honor in question, for William had made comments about her that were, of course, untrue. Comments about kisses in dark hallways and maybe even more unmentionable acts that men with gallantry didn’t even dare think about, much less say aloud. Would George really kill his best friend for the honor of the woman he loved? He hoped this would end up as some madcap comedy, all misunderstandings. But no! That was not to be. William held his father’s sword, trippingly I might add. Man, he looked hot on his black steed, his long silky black hair blowing in the breeze. George thought how handsome William looked and took a sly look at Gabrielle to see if she noticed.

Yes, she looked rather flushed. Now it was imperative that this pageantry ended in nothing less than William’s death! He dug his spurs into his (of course) white horse, he was the good guy after all. He raised his spear, about to hurl it into William’s manly chest, encased in armor. Then, from the corner his eye, he saw a figure running toward him. His horse reared and he fell backwards as William did as well. The lovely Gabrielle, the loose fabric of her gown flapping in the breeze, ran up to him and shouted “George, no! George, it’s you I love!”

William, torn apart by this declaration, did not do what was expected of him, which was to immediately sever his body in two with his own weapon. He simply hung his head and let events play out. George lept off his horse to embrace the raven haired beauty. She did not look once at William. IN fact, nobody looked at William as he very delicately stole away. Dont’ worry, he was fine. He set up camp in the next town over, no worse for wear, and enjoyed Gabrielle’s company every Thurday night (George’s poker night). For, after all, William was the one she truly loved, but she knew that the heroine never ends up with the sexy man on the black steed. Not in a Shakespeare play anyway.

Wrote this for my writing class. It was an exercise where you wrote something and then jumbled it all up, and then had to edit it down so it made sense again. This is about the best meal of my life:

A hanger steak in a chili lime glaze
moist and buttery
succulent and exploding with flavor.
A bottle of German Riesling
that complemented but didn’t overwhelm.
Chocolate, dark and rich,
sweet and perfect,
melting in my mouth.
Delicately rounded, tempting
orange pound cake.
Buttery and savory.
Orange and chocolate
A match made in heaven.

(from Writebrain workbook): “You are a matador from Spain, visiting Los Angeles. You are smitten by an off-duty waitress whom you met at a bar. Let the story unfold. Start with “Where I come from, women…”

Where I come from, women don’t expect other women to be matadors. It’s a masculine profession and one that is closely guarded by the males, but I suceeded anyway. I can play the testosterone game better than most men, and I look better doing it. Most Americans don’t know much about Spanish culture, so I didnt’ expect anyone to recognize me in Los Angeles. Fine by me, I prefer to travel incognito as I get enough publicity in my native country. In fact, I’m hardly ever left alone. So rather than go to the glitzy bar in the hotel that my agent booked me in, I took a taxi a few miles down the road, where the people looked real and the sidewalks were cracked. I told the driver to drop me off at his favorite hangout and he pulled up at the Dirty Duck. We had become friendly on the ride over, talking Spanish to each other and joking about the weirdness of LA. He was coming off duty, so he came in with me. His name was Ernesto.

I blinked twice as he opened the door into what looked like a black cave. As my eyes adjusted, I realized it wasn’t that dark, it just looked that way in contrast to the glaring sunlight outside. We sat at the first two stools at the bar and Ernesto ordered a Budweiser. “Budweiser, eh” I laughed, “you really are an American.” He sneered at me, trying to intimidate me. I laughed and ordered a real drink, a martini, straight up with a twist. I learned from my years of studying in Madrid that bars like this were great for the people, but you didn’t want to get too fancy in your orders. Vodka, vermouth and a lemon twist shouldn’t challenge these gringos too much.

Ernesto was talking to an amigo on the stool on the other side of them. I followed their gaze to a table in the back wehre the most beautiful woman I have ever seen sat, nervously swirling a straw in her margarita. She was obviously aware of the leering coming from the bar and not comfortable with it. These clumsy hombres would be no match for me. I picked up my martini and sauntered over to the lovely creature.