"Small" writing challenges for my small writing talent. Hotel note pads are the only space allowed. Let's see if I can strip it down and tighten it up to learn something. Improving my skill of weird fiction.
The old man in suspenders stops whittling when he has empty hands, or he ends when holding a smartly carved idea. The result reached on that porch, whittling with friends and shavings piled by boots.
My sharpened pencil carves and whittles at ideas. Sometimes, things come from it. I can show what I created on my porch. I can set it high on my mantle and remember the day, the weather, the people I met. I mostly wind up with shredded and dissected ideas at my feet; hacked into nothing to say. The time spent, nearly as enjoyable. Whittling on.
(Feb. 12th, 2017: Home) Just a free writing moment turned into something interesting to contemplate, just like an unexpected result.