The Riddle of Snow Mountain_The Lunch Date_Sophocles, Sleet, and Serendipity_the writer's design
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The Riddle of Snow Mountain
It is summer in old Tanzania. And while people in their neighboring cities and towns are headed for the beaches the natives of Tanzania converge to Snow Mountain to witness a son's, a nephew's, a cousin's, a neighbor's, friend's or an enemy's Coming of Age or Rite of Passage.On the eve of the initiation, candidates should have been registered duly with the screening committee. The candidates should at least be twelve years old on the eve of the actual Rite or exactly thirteen years old at the stroke of midnight the following day. All qualified candidates would assemble in two large tents at a ...
The Lunch Date
I pulled my pocket watch from my waistcoat. It clicked as it unclasped. Its old-timey watch hands moved into the 11:50 am position. It was time for lunch. I rolled back from my desk, put on my suit jacket, and walked out of my office there on the third floor of Inglethorpe & Cavendish. With no appointments until 2 pm, I had time for lunch without too much of a rush. Today, though, I may have wanted a rush. Today I was going on a blind date.“Hope you like her,” Natasha said, giggling, as I passed the reception area and walked to the elevator. “Thanks,” I said. The elevator pealed. I walked in ...
Sophocles, Sleet, and Serendipity
The automobile that had hit Fern was still in the same spot it had been in for the last six months, a hulking, crippled beast with rusty mange and spiderweb scars cracked into its once-ferocious eyes. Still and scabbed, it sat, not quite slumbering among the other steel skeletons and burnt-out frames but rather caught in a cold, glassy state of pension. I could just barely make it out from behind the green quilt of pine trees at the end of the wheat field. Marcus always had the better eye for it.Fern always used to talk about the magic of happy accidents, the whole serendipity bit. The words ...
the writer's design
I wrote a story about shoelaces and city skylines where the protagonist loved a boy and the boy died. None of that was important or rightly belonged in my heart but I titled it Oblivion and asked my sister to read. There was a fear in my heart as she took the book to read. I was afraid, as most writers would, of how she would perceive thewww.onedoor.cc story. Would she understand the gravity of the story or the dilemma which I'd created for my characters? I stood behind her as she read. My little fox was by the fridge, his oversized ears at ease. There was something about the way it sat there, silent, that ...