First, let me thank you all so much for your comments on my last post. I haven't gone through them all yet (Over 95 comments in a single day?? WOW!) but plan to give each of your blogs a visit and hello. :) I've really loved the ones I've visited already and can't wait to see where your blogging journey takes each of you!
If you haven't done so yet, go HERE to introduce yourself and tell me about your blog!
Welcome to [insert trumpet fanfare]...
The name of the game is "Make It Up Monday," and the rules are as follows:
Every Monday, I am going to post a picture that I have found somewhere on the interwebs.
Take a look at the picture - I mean really look at it - and write down in the comment form a response to it.
It doesn't have to be super long or anything (but it can be as long as you want), just a few words even will do.
I will post information about the picture, but it is up to you whether you use it or not. If you want to completely disregard the info I provide and come up with something completely original, then go for it!
For example, if a person is in the photo, what is he or she thinking?
What was going on directly before the picture was taken?
What's going to happen after?
Or, if you like captions, write a caption for the picture.
Easy as pie.
My only request is that you keep it marginally clean. Nothing that is purposefully offensive or rude, s'il vous plait! I believe that every word in the English language has a place for use (including the 4-letter ones), but please don't use them gratuitously. Just in general be classy about whatever you write.
All games have winners, right? Well, this one is no different. I and a small team of super qualified judges (aka my awesome family) will look at all the submissions and pick out our favorite. Depending on how many people enter, we will pick between 1 and 5 entries, and on Friday at approximately 5pm I will post the winner(s) with his/her/their submission(s) and a link to his/her/their blog(s). Free publicity! Wooo!!!
I will also write a little something (to be added at the end of this post), but it will, of course, not be added into the list of entries to be considered for winning. I mean, what do I need publicity on my own blog for? hehe
The deadline for submissions is on Thursday at 5pm, so get to writing!
Without further ado, here is the picture!!
And now for my response...
Love it? Hate it? Meh?
I'm not sure how I feel about it. I think that, were I able to take this and work on it for a full week I could come up with something better (and longer, of course), but that's not the purpose of these exercises for me. I write for approximately 5 minutes, go back and do some minor editing, and that's what you guys see.
I can't wait to read all the great stuff you guys come up with!! Just remember: It doesn't matter what you write, just so long as you write.
Peace.
Stef.
If you haven't done so yet, go HERE to introduce yourself and tell me about your blog!
Welcome to [insert trumpet fanfare]...
The name of the game is "Make It Up Monday," and the rules are as follows:
Every Monday, I am going to post a picture that I have found somewhere on the interwebs.
Take a look at the picture - I mean really look at it - and write down in the comment form a response to it.
It doesn't have to be super long or anything (but it can be as long as you want), just a few words even will do.
I will post information about the picture, but it is up to you whether you use it or not. If you want to completely disregard the info I provide and come up with something completely original, then go for it!
For example, if a person is in the photo, what is he or she thinking?
What was going on directly before the picture was taken?
What's going to happen after?
Or, if you like captions, write a caption for the picture.
Easy as pie.
My only request is that you keep it marginally clean. Nothing that is purposefully offensive or rude, s'il vous plait! I believe that every word in the English language has a place for use (including the 4-letter ones), but please don't use them gratuitously. Just in general be classy about whatever you write.
All games have winners, right? Well, this one is no different. I and a small team of super qualified judges (aka my awesome family) will look at all the submissions and pick out our favorite. Depending on how many people enter, we will pick between 1 and 5 entries, and on Friday at approximately 5pm I will post the winner(s) with his/her/their submission(s) and a link to his/her/their blog(s). Free publicity! Wooo!!!
I will also write a little something (to be added at the end of this post), but it will, of course, not be added into the list of entries to be considered for winning. I mean, what do I need publicity on my own blog for? hehe
The deadline for submissions is on Thursday at 5pm, so get to writing!
Without further ado, here is the picture!!
 |
| I got this picture from Kottke.org 'a weblog about the liberal arts 2.0 edited by Jason Kottke.' It's called "The Old Hero of Gettysburg" and features John L. Burns, a veteran and sharpshooter in the War of 1812. To see the Wikipedia article about his heroism, go HERE. |
And now for my response...
Mr. John L. Burns was an intimidating man, one of robust character and a dominating personality. During his years serving in the war, he was the type of man to keep those around him calm and collected in spite of the bullets that whipped by their ears and tore into their comrades. He had a mission, and he was going to complete it, come hell or high water.
His rifle seemed to be connected to him as if it were another appendage, and his aim was so stunningly accurate that the men he killed never saw it coming. Death was instantaneous; there was no need to make anyone suffer.END
When asked why he wanted so badly to take part in the Civil War at such an old age, he said, "At the end of the day, I was just fightin' for what's right. Who's to say I can't fight for somethin' I believe in?"
Love it? Hate it? Meh?
I'm not sure how I feel about it. I think that, were I able to take this and work on it for a full week I could come up with something better (and longer, of course), but that's not the purpose of these exercises for me. I write for approximately 5 minutes, go back and do some minor editing, and that's what you guys see.
I can't wait to read all the great stuff you guys come up with!! Just remember: It doesn't matter what you write, just so long as you write.
Peace.
Stef.
Comments
The only person who had the ability to soften his eyes and his heart was his beautiful sixteen year old daughter. Her date to the county fair is approaching the house and being coldly stared down by Mr. Burns.
Madeleine
http://scribbleandedit.blogspot.com
He could hear the trickster in the bushes sneaking closer and closer.
If that old fox thought that he would be able to steal the chickens today he had better think again.
"Pa I'm 18 years old I'm gonna go into town, & find me a nice dress so that I can convince a nice boy ta' marry me." said Evangeline.
"Evangeline, you ain't gonna do no such thing, you gonna stay right here & no arguing this time." he replied.
"Pa, it just aint right. How did you meet ma'? I suppose she just showed up on your door step one day, all dolled up and said I'm here to make you a wife?"
"Well as a matter of fact...and JL Began to tear up at the thought of his late wife..."
"Pa I'm sorry I didn't mean to bring up Ma, but whats a girl my age gonna do to support herself, when yall are both gone?"
" Alright Evangeline take the ole' horse to town, but you best be back here no later than noon. Ya hear?"
"Yes Pa. Oh Thank you so much."
JL, teared up again thinking about his wife. He remembered the first time He saw her, and the way he'd pursued her. She was everything he'd ever dreamed of in a woman, & Evangeline had grown up just like her ma'. She was a fine young woman & he knew She would make a man a good wife, but He'd never have told her the real reason he didn't want her to find a husband. He didn't think he ever would. JL Burns knew that when his daughter found a man, he'd be left alone, in his broken down home, with nothing but his gun for comfort. He didn't know how to part with her. She was the only thing he had left of his wife. The only thing he had left to live for. So he sat in the old rocking chair, and watched his daughter, his reason for breathing ride away from him, and as the sun climbed higher into the sky, JL burns closed his eyes, & saw his wife again...
And even that is wrong. Why 'hero' at all, ever, to one able and willing to kill? As I approach the end of my crutched days, rifle beside me, I am afraid of what I cannot shoot, of what I cannot flee. At one time, the rifle soothed my fear, allowed me to sleep soundly.
Hero? No longer!
Now, when I dream at night in those rare sleeps, even there I cannot flee the ghosts of those unnamed and faceless dead I laid to rest. When I dream, the rifle that I once bore with a light heroism grows heavier and heavier in my frozen hands until the weight of it feels as if it will crack open the earth below my booted feet. And no matter how hard I strain I cannot move my fingers, let the rifle go, even as I hear the footsteps around me rustling the grass, cracking the twigs, rumbling the pebbles of a nearby scree. Then my lungs begin to burn for air, air that I gasp for before waking with a shock.
Hero! I keep my eyes open for the enemy that abound, even though I have become aware that these my enemies are unseen ghosts that I cannot shoot even though they walk the earth in the guise of men eager to be the hero's friend, helper, conscience.
Hero. What fools we men are.
It looks like rain.
His superiors assured him it was not his injury, but his age; and had he a son to go in his place, he would be well taken care of.
With no heir, Burns hung his noted 'peculiar' garb, removed his boots, and lay his Winchester by his side.
Just in case.
My second thought was that it must be dangerous to hold a gun while being on crutches, because the gun would be pointing at your own toes.
Finally, I dwelled on the fact that the house needs some serious repairs.
He lost her just two months before to the infection that had spread through her leg. Elly had twisted her ankle and cut her foot in a fall. That's all it took, one little cut and now she was gone.
Ever since the day Elly died John spent his days in her rocker with his rifle close at hand and waited. Waited for a sign... A sign from above. A sign from Elly. A sign of something that would help him find away through his pain or end the conflict with in him over what he had in mind for his rifle.
Blue returned 3 days later, to a feast of possum and squirrel piled up at Jed's feet.
But Gettysburg changed him. For the first time his heart was filled with warmth, saved the people, and became a hero. the end! haha
~ I'm not really of a writer type.. :) but it was fun though... I it's the first time in a long time since I started telling stories about a single photo. :) awesome blog!
Who did not have much of a plan
But to sit in his chair
And enjoy the fresh air
With crutches and musket on hand.
"Ise got my gun right cheer and I'll shoot any dadblamed varmit who tries to take'em. They's nary a man in these parts who can take'em frum me."
"I'm a real good shot, too," he said reaching over to touch the butt of his gun. "I ain't never missed."
Nowadays he's deaf and partially blind.
A stagger in his step, crutches in his hand,
Heroes like him are now out of demand
Without a wife to speak of he dwindles away his days,
Out in his rocker, catching some rays.
A monotonous life, devoid of colour
For the old war veteran, How could life be any duller?
only steady when a gun was in his grasp,His hands only steady when blood smeared his face and His fears only removed when he knew he had a purpose,a belief to fight for.
John L. Burns the soldier,the fighter,the man.
Bullet 1.00, Funeral arrangements 3000.00, convincing others not to trespass- priceless :)
The way John sees it he's already been through hell and after watching his friends die in war, and often wondering how he made it out with only a few injuries (a bum leg and frostbitten feet, if you must know), he has nothing left to lose.
John sits on his porch most days and nights protecting what is his...a forgotten hero with a war weathered pride in his country and an ever present love of the land.
So I say to everyone commenting what do you stand for?
When the young reporter, suavely dressed in long-tailed coat, top hat, and all the finery and frippery of the Victorian age, finally stopped for a breath, John spit tobacco into the weeds and stroked his sharpshooter's rifle.
"It's a good day for huntin' squirrels."
"Sir?"
The cravated man never received an answer. John had spoken his last words.
John looked around him at what was once his proud home. It was really starting to show its age, like him. He glanced down at his feet. Where were his boots? Who had taken his boots? He needed his musket by him all the time now, to protect him.
John closed his eyes and tried to remember. The effort made him sleepy. He leaned back in his chair. He had been a hero once. He knew that much.
And then there was Abby's wedding to arrange; even he, calloused and worn, had swollen with some mysterious emotion close to pride at his youngest daughter's happiness. Margaret would have been tickled with the whole thing; half the town had crowded in their backyard. Abby gathered friends as adeptly as she had wildflowers when she was young; she was the belle of the town.
Though John chucked to himself when he pictured his late wife's reaction to the lace embroidery Abby's dress, which tore on a nail in the porch. She would have screwed up her full lips into a sour pucker and puffed her cheeks in an effort to keep her forehead smooth, lest her eyebrows betray her horror.
No, hers he could see, though she had been gone six years now. There wasn't a face he couldn't, when he closed his eyes and squinted. The grocer two blocks down, though he packed up for california twelve years ago. The first man he met who carried a gold pocket watch. The baker's wife, who he had only glimpsed once- rumor had it she was disturbed and kept hidden.
And the boys...all young, flushed, doe-eyed, scratchy in their uniforms. Oh yes, he could remember every one of them. Even the ones he had killed.
But hers? Never. Glimpses of chestnut hair, sparse lashes, a nose with an unfashionable bump she would finger self-consciously. But never a face.
He remembered telling her goodbye, how he wanted to kiss her, how she shielded her eyes. In the end, he has just shifted in his boots. "don't you worry," he smirked. "They wont know what hit them."
She hadn't said anything in response.
And they didn't know what hit them. It was easy, easy as picking off cottontails. It wasn't so much that he was a war hero as he was a legend; immortal, untouchable, above it all. His rifle was as a part of him as his eye, or his arm, or his trigger finger. Or her.
But with each shot, the color of her eyes faded. And now, he couldn't see her at all.
His rifle...well, he set it outside two years ago today. Hasn't touched it since. He kept hoping it would fade away too- that maybe, if he gave it up, she would come back. Just for a second. A glimmer.
He never knew what happened to her. He never promised to come back, and he hadn't. But what he wouldn't give now, to see her face again. How could he have forgotten? Why her?
He never knew what hit him.