The steep ascent to the halfway point of this project has past-me slowing down a little bit. The incline seems to be getting to me, as past-me tends a bit more towards the theoretical, the not-quite-cohesive, the just plain uninspired. I can clearly tell most of these were written on transit either to or from work. I’d say most of the entries in this decade are terrible but… yeah, no, most of the entries in this decade are terrible, in my present opinion.
There are a few gems, though. I like the image Number 52 sets up; there’s something sweet and sad about it.
Number 56 is probably my favourite out of the bunch except for the last sentence! Totally unnecessary! It would have been much stronger if it ended, “That’s why his tongue kept moving in and around.” Don’t add another character, past-me. Not yet. Not when you’ve just set up such an interesting initial one. Especially not if second character is just an observer. So boring!
Number 59 is clunky, but has some potential.
And I think I do actually enjoy Number 60: it’s a basic story we can all figure out afterward it ends; it’s an easy-in to a much larger adventure.
All the rest, though, terrible.
# 51 – 60
51. My wheels grew corners. Now all I can do is moan and whine like everyone else.
52. Their only time together is on the train; their laughter’s born so deep you’d never know there wasn’t a Christmas tree.
53. The ancient streets; his eyes resting on crystals and it’s all he can do to keep his heart from breaking his ribs.
54. He’s studying the unknown; a query into the collective soul: cars driving two by two, feet matching rhythms. What is instinct?
55. When she realised she could do anything, nothing remained sacred. So she went on a journey through forest and hill.
56. His teeth felt wrong: all squares and triangles. That’s why his tongue kept moving in and around. I’m sure he was self-conscious.
57. “What do I know? I am the story of a man in transit. That’s what I’ll write. But I can’t promise an end or anything.”
58. Cold hands grab my ribs as I stare at the night-covered smoke caressing the sky.
59. His ringed hand swirls the finger of scotch. His head leans forward, “But what can you do for me?”
60. The mountain seems so far away. Her face illuminated as she huddles, typing in the dimly lit villa: ‘8am – overcome fear.’