Believe it or not, Farriz, I have been tempted to write a series of novels involving a semi-retired CIA agent but haven’t because the government would put my manuscript under the micros ope before I could even self publish it. I use to work for one of those alphabet soup agencies so I’m subject to the National Security Act and all that that entails. 
No one ever really retires from any of those agencies. Even today, at the tender age of 77, they could call me back if they really needed my particular skill set 
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Day 1 (and the 10 minute thing is harder than I thought):
Late. I’m almost alone, in embalmed darkness with a sweet new life at my side. We play out the dance of newborn lives in more ways than one. The door is cracked, the barn never silent. I hear quiet chewing, sighs as animals slumber and the murmurous haunt of flies. The machine next to me makes its hushed rounds, fluid drips inside the plastic tubes. And the foal tries to survive. Born into the heat of summer, the seasonable months, left in the hands of a barely qualified volunteer, but given the benefit of science and the sweat of my brow and the skills and talents of tireless others, my little companion may yet win. I settle back against a bale of hay, caress the velvety cheek and mark another check on the clipboard that is never far away. As I am reborn into a new way of thinking and doing and being, she is born into a life that will begin with uncertainty. We both struggle but also fight for something beyond compare.
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Dear Jerry,
I guess that pretty much negates the ‘clean slate’ bit at the end, then!
Thanks for that comment; I was stuck today on which way to go, but the path is that much clearer now.
Was it Le Carre who wrote under a pseudonym for the very same reason?
Thanks again.
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Day 3 (weather)
Snow everywhere. Snow in the field where I walk, untouched by the world. Icy tracks in the streets where fools dare. Dainty flakes could not possibly add up to inches, but they do. Snow too small to watch; I miss the experience. Snow dazzling in the bits of sun. Across the river, only ice. A frozen weight that snaps trees and moods. Displaces entire limbs and people. Ice alters the landscape forever.
Day 4 - struggling but found solace (I didn’t write for a set amount of time, only did the copy structure sort of)
Even locked in chains as I was, the haunting melody of cello and piano freed me to feel a little. A dark country road, headlights sweeping pine trees, alone with my thoughts. Such excursions have their value in cracking the door open for emotion, if only for a moment.
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Howdy Farriz, Glad I could help.
Actually many writers use pen names today but they still have to submit their manuscript to the government for clearence before publishing and even before submitting it to an editor if the author wants to employ one. I have a friend who wrote a fictionalized account of one of his missions, but, unfortunately, his characters resembled the real people far too closely and had it rejected. He gave up after they rejected it the thrd time after three rewrites. I can’t see anyone who was really in “deep” trying to sneak it by by using a pseudonym because, if caught, and they would be caught, the consequences wouldn’t be pretty. Police officers writing crime fiction has it much easier then government agent writing spy fiction.
I would like to read your book when you finish it.
Enjoy your weekend.
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Our phone conversation moved mercurially like fast fading violets but remained on track. He brought up his group that shared mindfulness. They discussed discovering that you don’t really know anything; a phrase that took me back to reading that from Socrates. “I cannot see what, there are no final answers,” he said, “but something occurs underneath. Some authentic activity, some investigation.” I found comfort in that and countered with, “Like mist full of dewy wine. Seekers, we are seekers.” “Yes, that’s it. It’s not the discovery, it’s the trail or trial to it.”
Day 5
Daniel: Brilliant idea to give us a short one on a Friday!
My greyhound, aged and anxious, pushed her face into mine, like an insistent gossip, and her caramel eyes reproached me for food.
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I try to be helpful! Although not everyone is on day five yet…
Day 5 prompt:
Allen stepped back, in disdain and disgust, like a first-time father viewing his first dirt diaper, and walked out the door in his last exit from our home.
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Day 4
Even shaken by tears as she is, no one can appreciate as tenderly than she does the song of the robins fluttering outside her window. The clear sky, the blossoming branches, and every perfume offered by the coming of spring seem still to have a relaxing effect on her soul tormented from the fear of inadequacy. Every girl lives similar experiences: she may be breaking inside, overwhelmed by self-doubt; yet, when she has retired into herself, she will be like a phoenix comsumed by flames that turn her into ashes, but from those ashes she will rise again, stronger than before.
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Day 2
The Madrid taxis pass quickly and snake far into the distance then the cars come to a stop allowing people to cross the street. I observe the buildings tall and grand., towering over the pedestrians. The sale signs in the shops capture my interest and I spy shopping bags and decide where to go. The soft wool of a sweater makes me pick it up. I leave the shop after buying it and merge into the crowds.
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Day 3
Sun heating pavements. Sun making people carrying bottles of water, sipping the cool liquid often. Sun meaning suncream is essential to avoid sunburn. Sun as people dress in summer clothes. Sun on the grass, in the park and on streets emptier of people because of the scorching temperatures. Sun in the pool sun on vacation and melting ice cream.
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Day 5:
Little Joujou, his cheeks red and his lips in a sulky pout, stomped his foot, like an elephant warning its herd, and yelled, ‘I hate dinner! Give me my chocolate Easter eggs now!’
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Day 4 - Even as the sweat drips down from my wrinkled brow to mingle with the tearful fog behind my glasses, I continue my unwieldy persistence to create something as beautiful as such from whence it originated from something made utilitarian by those that hold avarice in their souls. The burnt redwood, the skimmed smooth feel of an ageless tree between my hands, cut, dried, and cut again to form a bricked-up tower of lumbering twigs, holding their lost beauty within each measured lank, seemed to call to my broken heart to mend them; to mold them back together. I felt a rage build as I rushed to the task and missed the forest for its severed limb as I pounded too hard and bent my nail. Such a mistake, I’ve left a small scar: a pull of the metal yanked out with a curse; yet my fingers slide down the length of the wood, a quick remorseful touch knowing the real scar was made at the death of the ancient trees yielding unforgiving remains.
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Lesson 4
She is, even broken in heart as no one understands how deeply she receives solace from the beauties of art. The burnished bronze, and yellow ochre of objects, the dripping time pieces of Dali, and the cubism of Picasso seem still to have the power of elevating her soul from the earth. Such a woman has a double existence: She may suffer extensively, and be at times weighted down by disappointments, yet when she retires into herself, she will be an iridescent spirit that has a halo around her, within whose circle, only light, love and beauty can enter.
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Day Four
For years, I’ve struggled with first pages. Not just that, but first lines, first words even. More than once, I’ve agonized over even that very first letter. It’s hard, so intactile, this numbness of loss, this void of genius, this . . . empty-ness. But, always I prevail, like the first robin of spring, that hint of woodsmoke come fall, like the tingle of a hot sun when the days are lush, and words flow. They flow like a mighty stream.
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Day Five, but it feels much like Friday
Lewis, stock still and moaning, reared his head, like a much larger cat spotting morning prey, and stepped away with a great and indifferent saunter leaving me in a widening pool of guilt over his empty dish.
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Day one:
It was early spring, and yet one of those rare summer days that sometimes happen in-between snow and mud. I was seated at my regular table. Above my head, the fruit-three. Nothing more than black lines at the moment, waiting to fill the crown with foliage as the summer grew closer. The waiter brought my coffee, utterly darkness, steaming hot. I removed my wollen coat and placed it together with my hat, gloves and scarf on the chair next to me. My feet stretched out underneath the table; on it, a single blue flower in a vase.
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Oooh, no pressure, as they say! A few months out still, I think.
Will message you when the end’s in sight … So kind of you, as well.
Thanks a bunch.
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Day 5:
Steve, trembling, flushed and sweating, feeling betrayed, he staggered from the room.
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