From: Burning Eyes <mbarker@MIT.EDU>
To: those misty hills <writers@mitvma.mit.edu>
Subject:      EXERCISE: Over the Bridge...

[okay, we got to fryday, the oil's hot, the pan's not, let's see what
kind of flames we can get ourselves into...]

        The rain brushed silver-gray scratches across the face of the
world.  It drummed impatient castanet rolls on her umbrella as she
walked on the bridge.
        Autumn trees seemed to flame, red, gold, even browning leaves
somehow glowing against the damp dark trunks.  Silvery curtains of
rain danced, grey banks of fog billowed and melted away, and when the
buildings along the river appeared momentarily, they seemed unusually
far away, wavering and shifting as the rain darkened the distance.
She enjoyed the illusion of movement that seemed to make the end of
the bridge shift around in the pouring rain outside the comfort of her
umbrella.
        She never even noticed when she walked from the ordinary world
into another one.

[so?  who is she?  what kind of world did she walk into?  what happens
to her?

take this beginning--drenched in melodrama?  who said that?--and let
it drip down your neural netting, squelch around in the mud of your
clay feet, and eventually tingle out in a freshet of wordy
wonder...WRITE!]

rainy days and moondays...
tink