By Amy Robinson
What did you do on your summer vacation? Did you fall in love with a Russian author from the late 1800's like Marilyn did on her trip to Russia? Did your elderly neighbor take to sunning himself in a pink Speedo? Turn the weird things you've witnessed into a 10 minute play on Tues. Sept. 20th for 10 Minutes in Heaven: Cook Up a 10 Minute Play with award-winning playwright, Aaron Henne! Click "Buy Now" on our website to enroll in our classes before they are all full!
• Back to the "Feature:" An Evening with Bob Gale (in conversation with Tom McNulty) (9/25)
• 10 Min. In Heaven: Cook Up A 10 Min. Play (9/20)
• 10 Min. In Heaven: Cook Up A 10 Min. Play (9/20)
• Get Your Book Published (9/22)
• Short and Sweet: The Art of the Short Story (1 Day) (9/27)
• So You Want To Be A Writer? (Wed. p.m.'s, Sat a.m's, in Sept. and Oct., Online in Oct.)
• Finishing School (Wed. p.m.'s, Sat a.m's in Sept. and Oct.)
• Stuff I Like: High-Concept Blogging (10/2)
• Get Your Webisode On (Sun. p.m.'s in Oct.)
Writing Prompt: Make a list of 3 of the weirdest experiences or people that have crossed your path. Pick one and add a sensory detail to it (smell, taste, sound, touch). Then write a story, poem, or scene about that item, including the sensory detail. Write for 10 minutes, then post your write in the comments of this blog!
For example, I'm going to write about my 7th grade history teacher, who used to store his gum behind his ear for later. What weirdness surrounds you?
Comment on this blog! Write about something weird that you have seen or a weird person that you've met. If you post your 10 minute write in the comments, you could win a free class!
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The Weird Sisters by Pauline Adamek.
“There are witches covens up here, you know,” my Mother casually commented during our two-hour drive up to the Blue Mountains. “What?!” I exclaimed, a frown creasing my brow. I sat forward in my seat, straining against the seatbelt and craning my head towards her from my place the back seat. Mum knew she had my undivided attention. “Oh, everybody knows about them,” came her breezy reply, adding, “Sit back, missy,” and that’s when I knew she didn’t have anything to tell me at all. I slumped back in my seat in disgust.
But that got me thinking. Witches. Alive. In this day and age. Didn’t they just belong in old books and ancient fairytales? I was so absorbed by my thoughts, gazing at the passing bushland, that we arrived in Leura before I knew it.
“I’m just gonna pop in to this shop to get some cakes for Nana,” Mum announced, but before she could add, “Just wait in the car—” like she always did, I piped up, “I’m coming too!”
And that’s where I saw them. Two old ladies and a younger one. Three weird sisters completely dressed in layers and layers of black clothing, with crazy, unkempt hair, all huddled together in the back of the shop. There was something completely abnormal about this malevolent trio; they seemed like a malignant cluster. Maybe they were conspiring about something, planning something evil. One of them had a jar in her hand and they were all poring over the label. I was transfixed – they just had to be the witches Mum had told me about. I looked around to see if Mum had spotted them too, but she was happily selecting cakes and bouncing on her toes all excited about the treats.
I turned back to gaze at the witches and at that instant the younger one looked up at me and stared back. It was a hostile glare that seemed to demand, ‘Who are you and why are you in our presence?!’ Her glance was so sharp and transfixed that it pierced me in my heart as I gasped. Her face was unnaturally pale but it was her hard, unfriendly expression that made my knees start to quiver.
I ran out of that shop as fast as I could and heard the bell of the shop door tinkle behind me. I raced to the car, hunched down in my seat and tried to disappear. “Did you see them?” I squealed when Mum returned to the car and handed me the pretty box of cakes. “See who, darling?” “Did you see the witches?!” I practically screamed as she turned the key in the engine and we took off. I looked behind me, terrified I’d see the wicked trio bursting out of the shop on their broomsticks, in fierce pursuit. “What witches?” she murmured, and started humming to the radio. It was hopeless. She’d never believe me anyway.
--end—
We spent our honeymoon in Greece – land of Zeus and sun and beaches and good food. And tourists. I had no idea how overrun Greece was – much as we’ve all been subjected to the same very effective marketing campaign – (never tainted by the Greek debt crisis – somehow, that is a different Greece) – little fishing islands, perfect, calm aqua Aegean sea, sun-browned old men on donkeys. Greece remains the promise land.
Our first stop was Crete—which is a huge island where the roads have no names and to navigate you have to direct your car towards the next village on your route – look for signs pointing you in the right direction, and piece together your trip, town by town.
It was late September, but despite this, the island of Crete was scorching – it is a barren island – the vegetation – if any – low-lying olive trees – the earth is sandy –littered with blue plastic bags and green plastic bottles. (Trash pickup must have been slashed with the debt crisis.)
Because of the distances, the roads and the heat, we stayed at the hotel – an extensive resort with 5 restaurants, 3 pools, beachfront, gym, spa, etc. Crete is not a spot much frequented by Americans – the tourist population is mostly British, Australian and Russian – new money Russian.
Down at the pool, on a day when it was too windy to swim in the ocean, we took shelter under big thatched umbrellas. The pool was empty but for one woman – wearing a pink sparkly trucker hat on top of her bleached blond hair, which was tucked into a bun, held up with a huge Chanel double C clip. She had big dark sunglasses obscuring the top half of her face, but even from the beach chairs, I could make out her lips – pouty, puckered. Apparently in Russia too, they have discovered the delights of Botox. She swam slowly at one end of the pool – moving back and forth in a sort of doggy paddle.
When she got out of the pool she made a bee-line for her partner – a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a limp, whom I had targeted (wrongly) as some sort of British dignitary. They conferred quietly by his deck chair, and then she took her towel and spread it by the edge of the pool, hiking up her wine colored bikini bottom before lying herself down – in the middle of the pathway that circled the pool. Her partner was austere – reserved – cold – did not respond to this colorful bird as he ought to have. So she got attention elsewhere – from other men who had to step over her to get to their deck chairs. And attention she got.
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