Week 314 of the 100 word challenge? Well, something like that. I'm mired in some challenging times over here word-nerds, and can't put enough firing neurons together to write a title so I've resorted to numbering, but since I only know the rough start date of VV, that week number is estimated.
Wasn't that interesting? (queue eyeroll)
And guess what else? I'm late AND I still can't summon up the brain power to write a proper post. Instead, a few paragraphs from my current book club book, The Handmaid's Tale, because I'm not so brain dead yet, apparently, that I can't recognize beautiful writing:
I sink down into my body as into a swamp, fenland, where only I know the footing. Treacherous ground, my own territory. I become the earth I set my ear against, for rumors of the future. Each twinge, each murmur of slight pain, ripples of sloughed-off matter, swellings and diminishings of tissue, the droolings of the flesh, these are signs, these are things I need to know about. Each month I watch for blood, fearfully, for when it comes it means failure. I have failed once again to fulfill the expectations of others, which have become my own.
I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of transportation, or an implement for the accomplishment of my will. I could use it to run, push buttons of one sort or another, make things happen. There were limits, but my body was nevertheless lithe, single, solid, one with me.
Now the flesh arranges itself differently. I'm a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black. Pinpoints of light swell, sparkle, burst and shrivel within it, countless as stars. Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round, heavy, an omen. It transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine. To feel that empty, again, again. I listen to my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.
Freaking Margaret Atwood. So go forth word-nerdlings, dig your fingers into your own soil, and write 100 words on:
P.S. This week's challenge is open until Sunday to give y'all an extra day on account of the lateness of this post.