This challenge is produced by GirlieOnTheEdge with the following simple rules:
Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less.
Use the current week’s prompt word – RHYTHM
Click here to hear the author read his words:
Once upon a time, or in the near future, far far away on an incomprehensible blog near you, a confused and confusing scribe and a small, loose-knit group of inscrutable, international and perhaps interdenominational misfits decided, in what one can only surmise was a moment of chemically-induced haze and optimism, to open a possibly ill-conceived and strangely-staffed interwebcafébistrothingy.
The point of this illustrious if over-ambitious exercise remains blindingly unobvious to everyone outwith the elite inner circle, of whom at least one remains in a state of cheerful enbafflement.
To this writer’s untutored, indifferent and indeed tone-deaf ear this aforementioned e-c/b (Motto: SUCCINCT, because this is what we are, and what we will always strive to be, because we believe that a good writer should have the ability to communicate her or his message in a clear and concise manner without the use of too many Fronted Adverbials or, for that matter, Rear Admirals, even if it’s not always easy and we do start to go on and on and on a wee bit verbosely but we understand that this can happen so we try not to be too judgemental or over-critical but simply remind ourselves of our Motto (SUCCINCT) and, as we say, em, strive, y’know, etc etc etc… ) lacks, amidst a host of other attractions, its own distinctive musical identity.
There is no rock n roll, no operatic aria, no hymne à l’amour, no rhythm and blues, greens, pinks or even black & whites (please feel free to add your own colour preference(s) here, as my daltonic repertoire of hues, shades and tones is pretty much exhausted), no reggae, no country and western, eastern or any other direction, no power ballad (perhaps due to the soaring costs of gas and electricity), no hip-hop, hippity-hoppity, or (k)rap, in fact nuffink to get the toes tapping, the fingers clicking, the hips swaying or the eye-lashes a-fluttering.
In short, or even at considerable length, this quasi- pseudo- e-whatsit appears to be without any unique attraction, hook or gimmick, no dancing girl or giggling giraffe, no cumbersome cloud of uni-cycling unicorns, no belligerent bouquet of malevolent mermaids, no altruistic army of battle-weary butterflies, or stuff like that.
Meanwhile, in the darkening music-free shadows between the emergency exit and the end of eternity, quietly sits an erudite and elegant lady, tanned and scarred by a recent sojourn on La Côte Vermeille (and I didn’t even get a piggin’ postcard, friends, huh), with a pencil and paper, an enigmatic smile, an itchy trigger finger, and a Kalashnikov.
(to be discontinued…)