Realizing my purpose

Tomorrow:

Tomorrow I will make that phone call that I am dreading to make. I have made it several times and have had no answer. I will try again.

Tomorrow I start looking for other work. What I need next is some economy to work with and I have none.

Tomorrow I am going to write. I am going to take my research, my play, and my laptop, and leave the house, and write somewhere. Probably PCJ or The Library.

Tomorrow will eventually be today, and when it is I will not say "Tomorrow I will" again.

There is no point in waiting on yourself. You just have to Be Bold, and take the next step. Life is looking for victims, and I won't be one.

Flash Fiction: From The Golden Key

Illustration property of Claudia Bettinardi. Follow this link to her blog for some great illustrations

The following piece is again something I wrote some time ago. I actually had to go digging through some files to find this one. It is a kind of rewriting / response to one of the Grimm fairy tales known as The Golden Key. I encourage you to read the original version after reading mine; if only so that you can be angry with me. Cheers! Comments always welcome.

From The Golden Key

By John Little

For hundreds of years I have waited. Sense a time long ago that I can not quite remember, I have been laying in this field. I have watched the all the stars shift, ever so slightly, around the dark horizon. I have seen every color of the sun at least twice. I have spoken to every creature from mole to mouse and badger to bear. Every animal enjoys my company, but has no idea of my use. They lack the appropriate digits to make use of me. The crows like my shine and the rats like my texture. A raven once thought to take me to his nest, but I begged him to leave me be. He agreed but he would visit me every day until his death. That was several decades ago. I have sunk deeper into my doom. These things I see anymore only as memories, not as realities. Cold, it is so very cold. It must be winter. Snow. Dark. Now Light. I see light. Little hands, such cold little hands. What is this?  A boy?  A beggar boy at that. He seems cold and hungry. I would surmise that what lies in my chest would make him a happier lad. If he saw to take good care of me I would grant him such a pleasure. I shall guide him to home. Yes. Yes the keyhole is right, there, got it! Now all you need do is turn and find what is inside, my little shivering savior.

Flash Fiction : Ragtime

I have been determined to post something every day. I am still counting today as yesterday, since this day just started for me. This story is a little more poetic in its style than my other one's have been, but a change of pace is always nice. I wrote this quite a while ago, and it is based on a story I heard about a man named Ragtime. Comments welcome.

 Ragtime

You don’t expect to go when you are small. What can you do when you’re small?

I was the brain. My two brothers were the brawn. They went, and I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t think I would go.

 I thought I would get special treatment, being smart. I thought I was gonna be the “go to” guy. I was wrong.

I was like everyone else.

I could run. I could jump. I could crawl. So they took me.

They taught us how to shoot. How to get shot. How to die. How to not die. All important stuff.

Back then they only had two real requirements. Are you healthy? Yes. Can you lift more than fifty pounds above your head. Yes.

Go.

I couldn’t lift that much above my head. I barely got it to my chest. They said that was good enough and pushed me through.

Shots. Shots. Shots. Not liquor. Needles.

When we got there I ran. Like everybody else. I ran. I ran, I jumped, I crawled. I also ducked. I ducked a lot.

Everybody liked music then. Not that people don’t like it now, but we really liked music. We would match it to our heart’s to slow the world down. When we weren’t listening we felt it anyway. A guy would leave and walk like slow jazz, he would come running back to ragtime.

I remember the first one. They all laughed when I could fit. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t running. At first I thought it was freedom.

Tunnels aren’t freedom.

Firing a gun in there was like putting a cherry bomb in your ear. It hurt. Almost as much as it did the other guy. Almost.

I learned to swim in earth. They called me fish. I called them bastards.

Tunnels weren’t freedom, but they gave me leave.

I went down, with ten guys waiting for me to return. I came back and they were none. Blind. Deaf. Dumb. And cold. They were none.

I pulled out a radio and called support. I heard ragtime in the background.

After a while. It’s all ragtime.

Thanksgiving

Despite having a massive headache, I am determined to write something today, so here it is.

Thanksgiving is a time for a lot of things; food, friends, and family being among them. To be frank I refuse to write a long diatrab about how Thanksgiving is a time to "give thanks" and how it is really about the generosity of one's heart and so on. I know this, and I know everyone else knows this, so I am not going to go there. I could also talk about my family, and trust me there is a LOT to talk about, both good and bad, but I am not going there either. To be honest, I am rather perturbed and disgruntled about everything and its brother in existence at the moment. But. At the same time I am happy to be alive and to be able to complain about it. So instead of being transparently thankful, or ungratefully complaining, I am just going to leave you with an impromptu poem.

The day begins with waking
And continues with baking
It moves on and on
Like the ringing of a gong

When the times comes to eat
None of us take a seat
The food is not done
The cook has unspun

But We all keep on waiting
Not bothering with debating
The cook though does not quit
All along making quite a fit

I watch and I take
and I take and take and take
But eventually, to my dismay
I say something, I really shouldn't say
Something, I think I will remember
At least till the end of November

But as the food is served not long after
I find that this Thanksgiving to be
Just another chapter
For my friends, my family, and me

 Hope everyone had an awesome Thanksgiving! And Try and give your relatives some slack.

Happy Holidays.

Review and discussion of Joe Bunting's "14 Prompts" and a look at The Write Practice

Photo property of thewritepractice.com

Before I started this blog I had never really noticed how many blogs there were out there. If someone had asked me, "Hey, do you read blogs?" I would have said, "No, that is reserved for a special kind of internet vampire and I like the light of day," or something along those lines. I am hoping that my current interest in blogging is not the result of a obsessive, but brief, spark that is doomed to fade. In my efforts to not let that fate transpire I have started looking at other blogs for ideas, and general interesting content. I recently came across The Write Practice blog, which is where the above image came from (I am also attempting to not violate any copy-rights). This blog, founded by a Mr. Joe Bunting, and supported by several others, offers a lot of advice to creative writers, as well as a space for them to practice. I think that is where the "practice" in the blogs name sake comes from. I good guess I'd imagine.

Anyway! To the point. The Write Practice is currently offering a digital copy of the above book titled 14 Prompts, written by Mr. Bunting, for free; all you need to do is subscribe to the blog. I have done just that and just finished reading it through. It is a quick read and offers some authentically helpful pieces of advice along with its 14 prompts.

14 Prompts is a helpful and understanding kind of writing guide with pieces of beautiful and well written prose thrown in. The author encourages readers to participate in a constructive writing environment and offers both this book, and it's parent blog as venues for just that. Bunting makes the logical effort to promote his blog by suggesting that readers of 14 Prompts should respond to its prompts and discussion questions on the blog itself. However, Bunting takes the extra step to, and the thoughtful one, and offers the idea that his book could be used in a small group off the net, and after reading it becomes apparent that was a thought he had in mind during its creation.

The text covers lots of topics and supplies various prompts and discussion questions. Bunting suggests that despite his book of prompts being a very short list, it is an effective list, and means to cultivate more than just seemingly random ideas for the reader.

As I read through the text I took note of several ideas that I personally found useful. The text also touched on the biggest problem I face personally as writer : preoccupation with perfection. The first line of the 14th prompt of Bunting's book is "Perfection is no place for a writer." I feel both comforted and unnerved by this message; one side of my brain thinking, "Oh thank god," and the other awkwardly asking "really?" and neither gaining any ground.  I think that this is a challenge that many writers face, and I know that it can't be easily resolved, if at all, but Bunting's advice reminds me that my preoccupation should really be with writing, and not with perfection. The rest of Bunting's last prompt continues discussing this issue and offers some interesting insight on how to manage it. Definitely worth a look if this is a specific problem you suffer from.

If you have any interest in creative writing I would highly recommend taking a look at, and of course following, Bunting's blog and picking up a copy of his book. What I have covered only scratches the surface and there is plenty of other great advice to be had, as well as a supportive group of like minded individuals to support you.


Pleasant reading.



 

Flash fiction : When I was Young

A friend of mine pointed out to me that I have a massive backlog of already written work, and that I should start posting some of it. Hope you enjoy and feel free to leave comments.

When I was young…

I am telling you Jenny, he doesn’t know how to do anything, not a damned thing. He forgets where he put his hearing aid even though he always puts it in the same place. I know where he puts it because it is always in the same place. Right by the…the…the…could you let that cat out dear? Yes, we always let the cat out at night. Ever sense Monty died back in 92 there hasn’t been no fool animal around to chase the cat. We must have told Monty a hundred times if we told him once not to chase the cat, but did he remember? No. He never remembered. Reminds, me, he forgets to feed the animals too. If it weren’t for me they would never get fed, poor old Monty would keel over after three days. You know, I bet Monty would probably eat Smokey right up, granted he would get a chunk of him even if he weren’t hungry. Where is Smokey anyway? That kitten gets himself into more trouble than a fox in a hen house. Running here and running there, pouncing. He always likes to pounce, pounce, pounce, on everything in sight. It has been hell keeping Monty away from him. I almost regret the day that he brought him home. That tiny little fuzz-ball wasn’t more than a few days old, so small we had to feed it with an eyedropper. Where is that old Tomcat now? You let him out didn’t you? I think he has been out long enough. Let him back in.

Funny. He is usually sitting right there. Oh well, he probably found a mouse. Filthy pests. I remember when he said he would put out traps and clear out the mice toot sweet. He isn’t even middle aged yet and he is forgetting things all the time, maybe it isn’t forgetfulness, just false promises. You listen to me now! Never make a false promise! Never forget a promise! You make enough of those or forget enough times and your word becomes a sieve! A sieve! Won’t hold no water. You hear! You hear!

You…Jenny, have you seen your father’s hearing aid? He said that he lost his hearing aide, I haven’t seen it either. I always tell him that I don’t know where he puts his things, he should leave them somewhere he can remember. Damned fool, I remember when I first met him, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, came right up to me and said, “Hello Miss, my name is…is…is…is…”… Jenny? Have you seen your father?  

Who in fiction are you?

 

I participate in personality tests on occasion, and I find the ones that offer who I am as a writer, or fictional character, to be the most entertaining. The one I am going to post is sponsored by the Scottish Book Trust for Book Week Scotland 2013. It offers an interesting list of results, amongst which I have seen Dumbledore, and Attitcus Finch thus far. I got the latter. I was okay with that. Enjoy! And don't forget to post your results in the comments section!

Test: Who in fiction are you?

Picture Prompt: Sup Wiley?

I came across this picture in my search for a good train picture for the writing prompts page. This I think is a great picture prompt. How exactly did this happen? And what might happen from here? You don't have to answer my questions, I think the picture works fine by itself. Seriously though, how did this happen? Haha.

Writing about Traveling

A little while ago I heard a train go by, and I wondered where it was going. The prompt for today is very simple. What would you do if you could just jump onto a passing train? Where would it take you? Just at thought. 

My Top three Books for Decemeber 2013 : Tis the Season you know

You know what they say right? Omne trium perfectum, the best things come in threes. With that in mind, my list includes two classics and one that I think should be a classic:

1. Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas
2. Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol
3. Terry Pratchett's  Hogfather

 Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas is a time honored classic and I am sure everyone has seen or read it, but your kids might not have. I would encourage anyone who thinks their children haven't seen or read this book to read it to them. Note, when I say read it to them, I mean actually read it to them. The movie is good, and very accurate, but there is something more potent in reading it aloud to your child then to just leave them in front of a Television screen. Also, if anyone has an old copy of the book that they don't think they will need anymore I would recommend donating it, in fact, I would recommend donating any books that you think could be better served somewhere else. Advice I should probably take myself.

Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol is even more of a classic and I am sure everyone has seen or heard it in one shape or another. Part of why I like this novel is that it has taken so many shapes throughout the years. In fact the previously mentioned story How the Grinch Stole Christmas is in fact an allegory to A Christmas Carol. A bitter and seemingly powerful figure who despises all of those around him, thinking them unworthy of his care or attention, is ultimately changed for the better and becomes a shining light of a person, or whatever the Grinch is (kind of resembles a moldy yeti or something). I personally have fondest memories of A Muppet Christmas Carol, and I don't think any other movie version could usurp its place, but with that in mind the novel needs its own attention. A wonderfully crafted story of reflection and redemption. A tale of spirits and a man's life that will leave you questioning whether or not you yourself are a Scrooge in your own life. Dickens language is fantastic, and although it may not be for everyone, it deserves a fair shake. In addition I recently came across an audio book version of A Christmas Carol done by Jim Dale, a voice actor who in my opinion is quite good. If you find that you like his reading, you can find more information about him and his work on his website.

Finally we make our way to Terry Pratchett's Hogfather, which is where the idea for this post originally started. 

Before I begin on this particular novel I implore you to check out Terry Pratchett's extensive work. Terry Pratchett was the fantasy king long before J.K. Rowling stepped into the scene, and although you might not have heard of him, his works are quite the ride. The creator of the truly manic and marvelous Disc World, Terry Pratchett has built a fantasy realm all his own, which just so happens to sit on the backs of four giant elephants, which sit astride the back of an impossibly large turtle. No really, I am serious, go check it out. He has developed some of my absolute favorite characters, among them being Death. Who believe it or not, is one of the main protagonists of the the Hogfather.

The Hogfather is not your typical Christmas story if not for any other reason than that it isn't about Christmas, it's about Hogswatch. The Hogfather, which is where the novel's name sake comes from, is the Disc World equivalent to Santa Claus. The crux of this story is that something has happened to the Hogfather, and the first "person" to respond is none other than death. Death dawns the appropriate robes, attempts to develop the appropriate attitude, and catch phrases, and replaces the Hogfather for one extremely crazy Hogswatch. There is much more to the story, and the plot can be rather dark at times, but most Christmas stories have their dark points, but we know everything works out in the end. Just ask Death. He knows. I would also highly recommend the two part mini-series film version of the Hogfather it's surprisingly well done and was my first introduction to the story. One of the few occasions where I watched the mini-series, read the book, and didn't say "The book was better," they are both just fantastic.

The Hogfather has actually made it as the first round novel of the book club I am starting with this blog. I will be posting thoughtful questions and ideas about the book as the month of December moves along. If anyone wishes to join just comment or shoot us an email. If will also personally be reading A Christmas Carol again, so if anyone wants to chat about that I will be open to it, and will more than likely be writing about it.

Happy Holidays

The Reading Keep : My reading list

I am almost too tired to be making this post, but I am anyway! So this picture about sums up how I feel about books and reading lists: I want more of them than I can probably manage. That is why I am resigned to building a Keep to hold what will be someday a truly absurd number of books. This entry, and its fellows to come, will be the precursor to the actual physical "Reading Keep," and for now all it will be holding is the books I am most currently reading. I am quite serious about this being a physical structure, and blueprints will be forthcoming, just you wait. Now then!

At the moment I am working my way through:

1984 by George Orwell

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R Tolkien
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
and
Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

I have read all of these before, aside from the last one. I tend to have several different books for several different purposes.

1984 is what I take with me when I am going somewhere and I know I will have some time to kill, like the Doctors office, or some other sort of appointment.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring is what I read shortly before going to bed. I really love this novel and all its wonderful relatives, and when tired the rich detail sends me off to a rather wonderful world of slumber. I mean this in all of the best ways, and at times the book will keep me awake more than help me fall asleep.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire isn't actually what I am "reading" at the moment. Don't get me wrong though I am not watching the movies. I could write an entire series of posts on how I feel about the movies, maybe even a whole other blog. I have taken to listening to the Harry Potter Novels on Audio book instead of watching TV. Any time I have the desire to watch TV I usually squelch it with a good book, but at times when I need some kind of sound other than the gears of my own mind, I turn to a good audio book. Recently the audio books of the Harry Potter series, as voiced by Jim Dale, have served me quite well.

Last, but certainly not least, Neverwhere is the novel that I am actively working my way through at the moment. I am a big fan of Neil Gaiman and enjoy his work immensely. This is currently the only book that I will spend hour upon hour on, and as usual, it is going by too fast, but that is not author's fault, merely my voracious appetite. I have read several of his novels including American Gods, Stardust, The Graveyard Book, and the novel he co-wrote with Terry Pratchett, Good Omens.

All of the novels I have listed or mentioned come highly recommended from me and I am sure will offer you a good time. If anyone has any suggestions I would be more than happy to hear them. I will read anything really, I am definitely not a genre snob and can even joy non-fiction. Although I am not afraid of making some enemies now in saying that nothing but angry spurting will come from suggesting Twilight, or any of its author's other work. Fair warning.

I know this is a long post, but hey, why not make it longer. I am open to the idea of starting a book club if anyone is interested. I know this blog is in its infancy at the moment and the club might only consist of myself for a bit, but I thought I would get the idea out there. It would be something like one book a month and could range wildly in genre, and be very open to suggestion.

Best to all! And Goodnight!

Picture Prompt

Exactly as the title implies, the prompt is to pull a story from the picture. From this point on I will be looking for picture prompts and would appreciate and submissions of pictures you think would make good prompts. This page will not be only for picture prompts, but I felt that it would be a good addition.

Writing Prompt Monday

So, I am not sure how often I will be supplying writing prompts throughout any given week, but I am going to make a point to put at least one, or two, or maybe three, up every Monday. I will be pulling these from places, books, and my own noggin.











1. I call this one "The Salesmen," and it came out of a writers group that I participate in on a week, to bi weekly basis. This is where you start: A salesmen walks up to a house, knocks on the door, and is waiting for an answer. Go from there. You could think about what he is going to sell, what kind of personality he has, does he like his job, who is going to answer the door, etc. Just have fun with it.

2. This one is for developing a character (and I owe this one to Amanda Miller). Imagine twenty things that you would find in your characters trash can or waste basket.

3. I call this next one, "The little things." Look out the window nearest to you. Now really take in everything you are seeing. Then imagine that one thing, one little detail, was just slightly off. If it is bright and sunny imagine that the sun is now blue, or a hot dog vendor is selling buns filled with celery. How would these really slight changes affect the world? Assume that in that world these are what is considered normal. Creating a small world were the simple facts are slightly different from your own can be entertaining, inspiring, and can be an exercise in keeping consistency in your writing.


Hope these give you something to think about! If enough interest is shown I might start a Facebook group or something for a small writers group. Just a thought.

The creation of the pages!

NOTE TO ALL AUTHORS AND ADMINS

So, this is my nearest approximation to creating separate pages that can be updated. Things will always be posted to the "Home" page, but if one of the following labels is attached to the post it will also appear in that category.

John's Writing, Pictures, Reviews, Thoughts, Writing Prompts

I can add or change these as needed and if anyone has any specific page / page names they want let me know. Labels need to be written in under the Labels section on the right hand side of the posting screen. I am sure everyone can figure that out, but better safe than stupid questions. So! On we go!

Tell all the Truth, but Tell it Slant

To the left of this text sits an image borrowed from the Dickinson Electronic Archives website. This daguerreotype (a method of taking images that predates photography) contains what is possibly an image of Emily Dickinson and her friend Kate Turner Anthon. I say possibly because there is some debate concerning its authenticity. Personally I very much believe it to be an authentic picture of Dickinson and a much need breath of fresh air from her more well known picture. The reason I am posting this picture, and dedicating this blog entry to Dickinson, is because my next big project, which is very nearly finished its first draft, found its inception in this image.




To make a long story short, I am writing a play. In three acts I tell the story of Emily Dickinson's life as seen through the eyes of her closest friend, and sister-in-law, Susan Dickinson. I use letters sent from Emily to  Susan, Susan's own travel logs, well established historical timelines, and other resources to make my fiction as historical as possible. What started out as a crazy idea became a final project for my course work at University of Maryland and has since evolved into an independent project with a lot of support. In reality this entry is to help motivate me to finish this play. I have two and a half of the three acts completed. I have some unfounded fears about the project, mainly just a fear of completing it, and I am attempting to bury that fear in resolve.  The following is the second scene of the play. It has already been read publicly and seen by a few people, so I am not worried about it being here. I read this scene at the conference held by the Emily Dickinson International Society, and they rather enjoyed it. As always, thanks go to Professor Martha Nell Smith for encouraging me and letting me know that I am more awesome than I think I am. I would really appreciate any comments you might have. Enjoy.

Act I

Scene II

Setting:                     The year is 1847 in the season of fall, in the background stands Amherst academy in Massachusetts. The school is painted white, stands three stories tall and has numerous windows. The scene is focused on a small natural area with trees and grass. There is a small road in the foreground where people and coaches may come and go freely.

At Rise:                     Emily Dickinson is sleeping under a tree. She has a tiny journal and pen in her hands. She is wearing a green dress (not a black one). The wind is blowing and Amherst academy has just let out of class for the week. Many of the students are walking home, but Susan has seen Emily and is walking towards her.

[Susan comes up to Emily]

Susan:    Hello. Are you alright Miss?

Emily:    [Stirring from her sleep] No miss, I am not all right.

Susan:    [Growing concerned] What is the matter? Are you ill?

Emily:    [Opening her eyes to really look at Susan] There is no matter. Aside from that which I stand upon. And I am no more ill than you appear to be.

Susan: [Confused] I do not understand. You just said that you were not well?

Emily:    I said no such thing. I said that I am not all right. [waving her left hand] I very much have a left.

Susan: Oh! That is not funny!

Emily: I thought it was.

Susan: Well, you might think better if you actually attended class.

Emily: Excuse me? What makes you believe that I have not attended class?

Susan: You are out her snoozing under a tree, we have only just been let out, but here you are snoozing away! You must have been here for quite some time.

Emily: Some time yes. But not quite. I did leave my studies early to make a visit to home this weekend.

Susan: Well you have not made it very far have you? I venture a tortoise could slide its way farther in an hour than you have.

Emily: Why a tortoise?

[Susan doesn’t stop berating Emily]

Susan: I mean really, you must be the laziest [She stops short] What?

Emily: Why a tortoise? Why not a more narrow fellow?

Susan: A narrow fellow? Do you mean a worm?

Emily: The worm travels earth, not grass. No, a narrow fellow.

[Emily begins to stalk something invisible in the grass working her way around and around, but getting closer and closer to Susan]

A NARROW [She pronounces the word slowly and carefully] fellow in the grass. Occasionally rides; You may have met him,--did you not? His notice sudden is.

[Suddenly Emily looks abruptly into Susan’s face scaring her and causing her to fall to the ground, she now sits transfixed as Emily returns to stalking]

The grass divides as with a comb, [Emily lies down on the grass and works her way back to Susan] a spotted shaft is seen; and then it closes at your feet and opens further on.

[She gets to Susan and lays down next to her]

He likes a boggy acre, A floor too cool [she grabs Susan’s arm, Susan does not struggle, but stares, Emily lets go after a moment] for corn. Yet when a child barefoot, I more than once at morn, have passed, I thought, a whip-lash Unbraiding in the sun,--when stooping to secure it, It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature’s people I know, and they know me; I feel for them a transport of cordiality; but never met this fellow, attended or alone [Emily looks up into Susan’s face], Without a tighter breathing, And a zero at the bone.

Susan:    That, that was simply amazing.

Emily:    No, that was amazing. Nothing simple about it. Except, for perhaps myself.

Susan:    That was stupendous! After that how could you call yourself simple?  You absolutely must write that down. Here your pen and paper! [She picks up Emily’s pen and paper lying now on the ground]

Emily:    I have already forgotten it, it may return at a later time and place. Moreover, I am not the one who assumed that I did not attend class.

Susan:    I was wrong, but you can understand my confusion?

Emily:    To understand confusion, a most wonderful paradox don’t you think?

Susan:    Where did you learn to speak and think like that?

Emily:    Like what?

Susan:    Turning words inside out, and stringing them together like in that poem.

Emily:    I mostly taught myself, but I believe the Seminary to have something to do with it, as a well as a few choice authors.

Susan:    The Seminary, you mean you don’t go to the academy, but to the female Seminary. The college!?

Emily:    No, I mean to say that I was a student of the academy, but otherwise, yes, I am a student of the Seminary, at least for the moment.

Susan: I mistook you for a member of my school, how old are you?

Emily:    That means wholly nothing, but I was born some seventeen years ago.

Susan:    Me too! We are the same age, but you are of a higher education, I suppose.

Emily:    Truly? We are of the same age? May I ask your name Miss?

Susan:    My name? I was named by my parents Susan Huntington Gilbert, and you?

Emily:    I was named Emily Elizabeth Dickinson. Susan. Suuuuuusaaaannnnnnnn. [Emily is over pronouncing the name] No. That will not do.

Susan:    What do you mean? “That will not do” That is my name.

Emily:    No. It is too formal. Not natural. How about Sus? [Susan makes a face] No? Then Sue! Yes, I like Sue much better. It is warmer, and I believe that our narrow fellow here would agree. [A small garden snake crawls into Emily’s hand, Susan jumps and stifles a scream]

I told you Sue, “His notice sudden is.”

End Scene