Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Wordy Wednesday

Wordy Wednesday is back! Sorry it took so long, my writing motivation hasn't been very high, something I seriously need to fix. I have to get my write on if I want to go anywhere with my words!

Vintage Typewriter "Writing Machine no. 1" at Los Angeles Flea Market - 8x10" Fine Art Matte Photography Print
Photo by Anne Delores.
This is a random bit of writing from a few years ago. I just found it on my computer and I honestly have no idea what I was doing with it or where it was supposed to go, haha. I hope you enjoy it anyways. Also, read it in a British accent, it sounds better.


“It is far too cold a night to be August,” Lord Brighton commented offhand. “Surely it is weather more suitable to October or some such month between summer and winter. What say you George?”
George Livingston glanced over at his companion, a man of such incomparable classic good-looks, who was infamous in the London society for his outrageous words. It was only a month ago that the two men had met. Their paths had crossed at a small dinner party held by the Dowager Duchess of Rochester. George had been quite enthralled with James Brighton and they immediately struck up a friendship. He couldn’t exactly say what it was about James that so fascinated him but he supposed it had something to do with his wild theories and odd perspective of the world.
At present the two were heading out of their club and off to the theatre.
“It is rather brisk, isn’t it?” George replied. “What is the play we are to see tonight?”
James gave an extravagant hand gesture as if the title of the play were bigger than life itself. “It is none other than Romeo and Juliet, the most divine of tragedies, don’t you agree?”
“I’ve always found it rather pitiful,” the other man replied.
“You do not see its beauty, my friend. Such a tragedy of a romance can be nothing but pure divinity. It is the beauty of it, the rashness of the lovers enveloped in their love that makes it so fantastic.”
“But nothing is accomplished,” George pointed out.
“Nothing need be accomplished, it is art. We should all live like such art. It is brilliant.”
“If you say so, dear friend. I shall accompany you but I don’t believe it is as much as all of that.”
“Of course it is,” James insisted. “And Juliet is to be played by none other than Miss. Amelia Devon. Surely you’ve heard of her?”
“I’m afraid I have not.”
“Ah, you are in for a wonderful spectacle of the true art of acting, George. She is God’s gift to the theatre.”

What do you think? I know, it's really random and has no real direction, but writing wise it's not too bad. I don't think so at least, correct me if I'm wrong.

Lady Unlaced

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