The Rue de la Marche
Taking a break from the 100 word format to post some writing i've been doing from the exercises in Steering The Craft - what is so far an excellent and illuminating book on writing by Ursula Le Guin.
This piece was written for Exercise One - Being Gorgeous. It's all about playing with the sound and rhythm (NOT rhyme) of prose. I broke a rule of the exercise by having a few rhyming bits (that would make it verse, which is not the focus on the exercise), but that was actually more of a reflex of trying to write lyrically, I think. Anyway, I think it's a cute story, so I'm putting it here.
Little Rosie Dew slod, slipped and sled
through the cavernous arches of the Rue De La Marche, on the wave
of procession with the towering men and the women with their curls and their straights
and all their backs and their fronts push pushing one way.
And Little Rosie Dew was there, between, the legs and the bags
where she sled, slipped and slod over the shiny old stones
that paved a way across the Rue De La Marche, where she looked
and she looked
and there there he was beneath the arch, arching up
as Little Rosie Dew slod, slipped and sled through the monstrous arches of the Rue De La Marche
on the wave of procession of the numerous women and the men who acted like there was only one way to go, only forward and not back,
and definitely not across like Little Rosie Dew who was trying and trying to go get through
the march, through the gaps, between, the legs and the bags
and the heads with all their straight curls dangling under those arches.
But there, there he was; Poor Little Maw there looking scared, arched up on his back until Little Rosie Dew had finally stood still.
Under the cavernous arch she lent down to pet him and together they waited
for the wave of procession with the women and the men who were late
with all their bags and their suits moving off down the Rue De La Marche towards whatever was forward and definitely not back.
And Rosie Dew who was big, enough, picked up Poor Maw and she smiled as they went back, back, back up the Rue De La Marche where the plump big sky, it lived without arches.