Purple Basil and Baby Pumpkin

pb1 pb2

These two photos are very similar.  As I am not very good with photography, yet, I still wanted to share these two images.  When I began blogging, over a year ago, one of my most favorite blogs was Prairie Views, and still is.  I love to grow pumpkin flowers, as usually anything else I try to grow dies within an 8 week time frame.  I have never properly pollinated a pumpkin flower, however they are sure pretty when they grow to be large and yellow-orange.

The two plants with many leaves are Purple Basil plants, which have doubled in height in the past 9 weeks or so.  The little baby seedling in the bottom of the photo is a sturdy pumpkin sprout I germinated and planted around 10.28.15.  Its roots have already grown outside of its container, so I am sure the seedling will grow to be a tall, healthy vine with flowers.  Will it be pollinated?  I am not sure.  If it lives to make flowers, I may try to pollinate them, even though my past attempts with pollination were of no success. The flowers are nice once in full bloom.

As for the Purple Basil, I am not sure what I plan to do with it, as I did not think it would live this long.  If it lives two years, I will probably give it to a trusted gardener, upon finding one.  Thank you for visiting jcm3blog.com – a great place to discuss astounding short fiction.  Thank you, too, for your understanding in regards to the quality of these photos – I hope you enjoy them. 🙂

Corrosion of Elements

water-heater coils

The picture above depicts two heating elements.  They are from the inside of a water heater.  The one on the top is a new double-coil, and the one on the bottom shows what three years of corrosion can do to an element in a water-heater.  The corrosion was caused from calcium in tap water, though I thought it could have been caused by fluorine.  One way or the other, the lower element was why I had no hot water for a while, and the above element works nice when I have it on.  I posted the picture because I found it to be interesting.  From what I understand, about one in fifty hot water heaters endure a special phenomenon.  As they are all grounded, some can posses a magnetic charge that allows the elements to repel additives or contaminants contained in tap water.  Such a water heater can last for over 40 years.  Most will need their elements changed within five, however.  One way or the other, I am happy that the hot water heater works again. 🙂

An Excerpt…

Many times, as composers of stories and makers of creative works, we endure a great many ideas throughout the day.  As we siphon through these ideas from time to time, we do not always have the time to put our best notions down on paper or out into electronic availability.  I had an idea for a space exploration prompt, for other people, yet with limited response (due to possible near non-exposure), I wrote out an idea for it.  Here it is – it will possibly be published elsewhere this month or later… 🙂

The Fuselage
   From the glossy windows of a small, outer atmosphere born, multi-engine computerized, ceramic-shelled fuselage, five astronauts documented their observations of Earth with on-board imaging technology and documentation devices safely within their space-born exploration and research vehicle.  The team’s lead scientist’s name was Captain Ron Featherton.  His crew of four researchers’ names were Gill, Luke, Isa (short for Isabelle), and Shawn.  The team’s mission?  To observe, document and digitally characterize Earth’s natural radiation belts, normal global geology and external geomorphology, and to journey safely from Earth’s outer atmosphere within normal return velocities.
   After documenting observations, including storms, stars, and pressure movements, the crew was impressed with their flight-specific gathered data and electronic journals.  Upon storing information into their data systems, it was nearing time to venture home.  Just then, however, the lead monitor of engine systems and on-board life, air, navigation systems Secondary Operations Engineer, Shawn, suddenly exclaimed…
   “Captain, our oxygen supply is decreasing due to an unknown malfunction source!  Should we down the two minor engine thrusts to maintain average support systems?”  “No,” said Captain Ron, “We need to leave them running to maintain minimum necessary travel speed – we will be returning to Earth in moments and should not take the risk.”  A small bubbling patch of perspiration beaded unnoticeably upon Shawn’s brow.  “Eye eye, Cap,” said Shawn has he continued to navigate the average-sized spaceship along its normonic path.
   “This is such a marvelous view of our planet and distant celestial sparkling bodies,” observed Gill in a dreamy frame of mind.  She had worked for most of her career to enjoy one single amazing experience such as this one.  “Of the things I have seen during my lifetime,” commented Luke, “There has been none such as marvelous as this one; never before have I viewed such a spectacular view of Earth and our amazing galaxy.”  “I concur,” said Isa, “I will treasure this moment for a lifetime.”
    As the astronauts continued to maintain normal operations, the spacecraft’s instrumentation panel began beeping and going haywire.  “We are losing vital oxygen fast, Captain!” exclaimed Shawn.  “Down the secondary thrusts and engage back-up systems! We will be lucky to survive!”  commanded Captain Ron.  Isa spoke a short prayer.
   Drifting through space the astronauts wondered if they were a part of a moribund exploration, done-for, bereft.  Oxygen continued to weaken as Captain Ron tried to contact home-command.  Unable to do so, the situation grew more terrible.  Due to lack of sufficient air his team of four fell unconscious.  He somehow did not.  Maintaining system controls, Captain Ron was able to bring the ship to a state of tentative normalcy.
   Therein lied his dilemma:  should he risk losing the lives of his team, utilize the oxygen supply in order to return to Mother Earth alive, chance becoming a known and perceived, detested failure, responsible for the deaths of four renown scientists?  “It is a temptation to disengage the pressure controls and drift hopelessly into the bliss of outer space… to suffer the short-lived torture of suffocation and die,” thought the compassionate space-captain, “No one would ever know.”  He had no family to return to, gave the cowardly notion a pinch of dangerous thought.
   The newly engineered, high-tech space-born fuselage allowed no emergency abort capabilities, proved now, to be a deadly capsule due to its systems’ malfunctions.  As he looked upon his crew in tears, the captain released their air supply.  Captain Ron brought the ship’s systems back to complete and normal operation within moments.  He powered up the main thrusts.  The other four died shortly thereafter.  Captain Ron returned to Planet Earth within normal and safe velocities exceeding an approximate 19,817 mph, presented never-before-gathered radiation belt data, sought counselling.

A Drabble…

The paragraphs below depict a micro-story I wrote for a blog I found recently.  Interestingly enough, it is always fun to include classic literary devices within a ‘word-filtered’ sentence combination.  I enjoyed editing the story; the original was over 300 words, over 200 words of their submission requirement.  My final submission was 98 words.  Due to the differences of the two drafts, I included both of them, here.  By request I will remove the actual submission.
Sam and Sam
Both car doors closed close to the same time.  A teenage school girl named Samantha and her male friend named Sam both exited their parents’ vehicles in front of the local bookstore known for its darkstout coffee.  “How goes it?” she asked.  “Great,” he said.  They went in to order a coffee.  They both liked cold house coffee; it was cheaper than the more extravagant lattes.  “I will take a house coffee on ice,” said Sam, attempting to hand the cashier with crimson red-blonde hair a five. She then heard Sam say, “I will have the same, however I will pay for both.”  She said thank you and Sam handed the cashier a ten.
After receiving their coffees they explored the store.  There were a great many exciting books and periodicals.  They both loved to read and did well in school.  After noticing how much the bestsellers cost, they visited the music section.  Sam and Sam liked most music, however they loved rock and dance the most.  “Check it out!” said Sam, and Samantha ran over to him.  It was a newly released greatest hits live recording by “nin”.
“Let’s put our money together and we can listen to it later,” said Samantha, too excited to wonder about teenage puppy love.  “Okay,” said Sam – their parents would be back anytime.  Their hour was nearing its death.  They made it to the checkout line and it seemed to be keeping the pace of a sprinting post-storm snail.
Samantha gave Sam her five and it was their turn.  There existed a man behind them deep in thought, holding a book titled, “On Living Well”.  The new C.D. was listed for $11.89; the teller said, “Your total is twelve ninety-six.”  “We are short seventy-six cents,” said Sam on accident.  Samantha was confused; the man behind them said, “Keep your money.  I will buy that disc for you.”  “Wow,” said Sam, “What is your name?”  “Atticus.”
Sam and Sam, by J. C. Martin, III
They exited their parents’ vehicles in front of a bookstore known for darkstout coffee.  “Howdy,” she said.  “Hi,” went inside.
Cold house coffee,” requested Samantha, tried paying.  Sam said, “I will have the same,” paid for both.  “Thank you.
They explored.  “Check it out!” exclaimed Sam, seeing a new release by “nin“.  “Let’s listen to it later.”  “Okay.
Their hour dwindled.  Checkout kept the pace of a sprinting poststorm snail.  Samantha gave Sam her five.
A man held a book, “On Well Living”.  “$12.96.”  “We’re short.”  “I’ll buy it.”  “Okay.”  “What is your name?”  “Atticus.

Fiction Parable, no. 1

Parablic Prologue

Despite our ability to tell a great campfire story or write one down, there are always those authors who amaze us with what we learn to recognize.  My own definitions of what constitute a great story are very broad and easy.  A good story is a good story.  I cannot simply resist the comparison, however, of something that was written by an author well-learned in the “serious” study of literary technique, to a common story written down.  We as humans can consider reading fiction to be a great and healthy way to ease our minds, to break away, even if temporarily, from the ferocious and deadly things we sometimes call real life.

Just a few days ago, I got a new book on writing short stories.  I have read many.  This one impressed me, though; it was due to a parable that satisfied classic definitions of what techniques must be used to qualify a story as an acceptable literary composition, a draft any teacher, professor, or common reader would enjoy and be satisfied with.  The most popular techniques necessary for a great story are plot (a series of events leading to a conclusion), symbol (an object that carries meaning or indication), characters, scene, time (events carry on and pass time).  I always include a climax as a requirement, or leave the notion out of a story on purpose.  These essential elements of a story formulate a tale’s theme.  The book that I plan on reading, after I do a few more reviews (they take me weeks) is titled, “The Short Story and the Reader,” by T. S. Kane and L. J. Peters (both Oxford University English professors).  Its ISBN: 0-19-501960-1.  This parable is meant to be a praise of the first page.

So, without further ado or any comments related to Aesop, I will present to you an exciting and inspirational parable manufactured with close to no thought.  Its requirements?  To satisfy the elements mentioned above.

The Train Cave

During their time away from work, the two men decided to go outdoors.  Dunne and Gravin sat atop what they thought would be a rather exciting place to describe their surroundings on paper by writing – the cave of a train.  After hiking for quite some time that morning, they found the cave.

“Do you think we are on time?” asked Dunne.  “Sure,” said Gravin, “We have to be a little early.”  He checked his hand-drawn map given to him by a student he knew.  She said the cave was easier to find in the daylight.  The sun was bright, the breeze gentle and nice.  Both men produced their writing pads and a pen immediately; the train would be there any minute.

“Only in an instance can we describe this falloque monster,” said Dunne.  “I may just draw it” said Gravin.  “That would be your most profitable contribution.  It is going to come around that bend, and go right beneath us into the dark cave below,” said Dunne – the constant authority of all things known.

The two crazed persons ready, they felt the ground shaking.  A horn “Chew-chewed,” and they heard the engine of a locomotive well on its way.  Eyes focused dead on the turn below a hill in the tracks not too far away, the men were ready to write, to scribe and describe.  The amazing old-timey passenger train roared right out of the cave at an enormous speed with great vibration.

“I guess we will write it the other way!” exclaimed Dunne in the wind of the noise.  “Duly noted Doc,” said Gravin, “Duly noted!”


The Van Man

One time, there was a man who drove a van.  In this van he hauled drums.  He played many gigs.  Times good and bad, the best were hardly meek.

His name?  Mark Gibson.  A common name, people thought it was cool that his last name was on a lot of guitars.  Mark followed around with lots of different people and bands over the years.  Before he was a drummer, he worked various jobs and did not finish college.  He made up his mind.  He thought, “I am a man.  I make decisions, and I like to do things.”  So, that is what he did.  He found people who could sing and play the guitar, and he played the drums for their various bands.

Mark stayed with one band for four whole years, and decided to let them go.  His reasoning was that the others in the band were pretty tight; they knew at least four people who would greatly appreciate being able to play the drums with them.  Hence, he explained things to these guys, and left them.  Their name was “The Flaming Lizards,” and they did rock pretty hard, according to their fans.

Mark decided to travel.  Most of his gigs were in the southern part of Arizona, where bands are known prosper.  He had some funds saved, howbeit, and decided to travel to Hollywood California.  To meet people.

Everything was planned out nicely; he had his van gassed up all of the way, an extra tank, his: drums, clothes, money, personal belongings, goals.  Mark was set, and he head out.  He drove and drove down the open, peaceful highway.  The scenery was breathtaking, the air pure, the temperature even surprisingly acceptable.  He nearly fell asleep at the wheel, kept himself awake with cheep cola.

Something subtle occurred, though; his engine gurgled.  The man could claim many a night in his well-kept and fine tuned van with a v-6.  He knew that his engine, should not, gurgle.  He was in a good mood and happy.  He thought, “That was just a ‘gurgle,’ I will check the gas, maybe let Betsy here cool off for a moment before a good long haul.”

As he glanced down to the gas meter, it was on empty.  He had driven just long enough to be way out in the middle of nowhere.  “How can this be?” he wondered.  He pulled over to figure this out and turned off the ignition.  “My tank should not even have 10% of its gas gone, now,” he thought, and he gave his beloved Betsy a nonchalant, common-knowledge, physical visual inspection.

As soon as Mark got out of his van, with no traffic in sight, he smelled something he just did not want to smell at the time -gas.  He checked to see if he forgot his gas cap.  It was there.  Where was the smell coming from?  He looked underneath the van; found a disconnected fuel line; and reasoned that the line had not been loosened from foul play.  The connection seal was rusted and worn.  “Connection seal,” thought Mark, and thought, “This is not too big of a deal, I have my 5 gallon tank.  I will fill her up and carry on.”

He opened the back doors of Betsy and saw his beloved, covered drum set.  “What a vehicle he thought,” as he reached for his gas tank.  It was not there.  Mark distinctly remembered filling it up to go in and pay for the gas, did not recall putting it in the van.  “What a start,” thought Mark.  He crawled in his van, locked its doors, rolled down a window, said a small prayer, and took a nap.

Mark woke in the middle of the afternoon, his van baked over like a late afternoon brick oven in a sixty year old pizza parlor well established in some downtown Italian district of an historic metropolis, as he left his windows up.  The sounds of traffic going by were of seeming familiarity – he was sure to be out of this fix, soon.

He got up and escaped the confines of his oven-house, and leaned up against Betsy to begin to ask for help.  Sure enough, after four vehicles blew past him rapidly, a truck pulled over.  It was an older farmer and his adopted daughter was with him.  She was nineteen, shapely, precariously attractive.  “Where you headed?” asked the man, “Problems?”

“I am out of gas,” said Mark to Mr. Summersby, “My fuel line fell out.”  “We will see what we can do,” said the farmer, as his daughter was happy to see the drummer-man and said nothing.  Mr. Summersby ran the farm his father ran.  He and his wife adopted a young girl 17 years ago.  She was born in the United States.  Her parents were there illegally from Mexico, were taken back.  Her name?  Isabelle.

Mark saw Isabelle; she was pretty.  Her long flowing hair black, her smooth skin a natural pale tan, her smile, tempting and gentle… her lip was haired.  Mark did not really know what to think of this.  She was pretty and well-endowed, no doubt, but she seemed partially manly.  Not forgetting what was going on he said, “Good friend, my name is Mark, and I am headed to California as a percussionist.”  “I think I have enough gas here in my spare tank to get you to the next station.  You can call me Mr. Summersby.”

Mr. Summersby put gas in the van after Mark fixed the fuel line.  The drummer followed the farmer to the nearest gas station.  Mark offered the farmer money, and the farmer said it was not necessary, to have a safe trip.  “But Daddy,” said Isabelle, “Cannot he come and have dinner on the way?”  Mark was sure hungry, still did not know what he really thought about it.  “I suppose he can,” said the farmer, “You said your name was Mark?”  “Yes sir,” said Mark, “I must be headed out, though.”  “Oh sure,” said Mr. Summersby, “You have to be getting on.  You have your drumming waiting for you in California.  Our farm is just up the way, though.  You are more than welcome to come and eat with us, tonight, and to try and travel again in the morning.  My wife can cook.”

“You talked me into it,” said Mark.  He followed the old truck to their farm; Isabelle’s subtle grin stayed the same the whole way.  Upon arrival, Isabelle asked her non-biological father, “So, what do you think Mom is cooking tonight.”  “I think she mentioned fried chicken,” said Mr. Summersby, and they all went inside to clean up.

Mark was a tall and slender man; Mrs. Summersby was delighted to meet him.  They exchanged pleasant conversation and had dinner and conversed, and Isabelle wanted to see Mark’s drum-set before turning in. He showed it to her at dusk and she was amazed.  He explained how he only uses two small drums, a bass, and a symbol, because his rhythm and natural talent was what pleased the crowds -not big and costly extravagant drum-sets that would be harder to travel with.  He sold a larger set of drums to someone for a good price a few years back.  She was impressed, gave the man a hug, and went off to tidy up for bedtime.

Mr. Summersby showed Mark to the barn.  “We have plenty of room inside,” said Mr. Summersby, “Out here you will probably like it nicer.”  The farmer gave the drummer a bunch of blankets and a pillow.  “The dinner was great, and I thank you for the bedding,” said Mark.  He would have not minded staying in his van on the road, really, but the fried chicken dinner was great, and he did appreciate the bedding.  The farmer and the drummer conversed for quite some time about the farm, its history, and Mr. Summersby’s thoughts on its future.  Things would be modest.  Things would be fine.

As he had taken a nap earlier, Mark made his bed and stayed up gazing to the stars from a barn window.  The night was crisp; the air was clear; and the drummer dozed off.  A creek popped in the night.  Mark awoke without opening his eyes or changing his breathing.  He eased a squint from one eye in the direction of the barn door.  He saw it opening, entirely on its own.

A figure walked through it quietly and closed the door quickly and with no noise.  He could see her.  It was only Isabelle.  She walked carefully toward the drummer and into the light of his small window.  “I wanted to come see you,” she said.  “Your dad is going to come out here, and he will kill us,” said Mark, thinking.  “No he will not,” said Isabelle, “He and Ma are off sleeping soundly.  They will not wake up. I just wanted to talk.”  “Sure you do,” said Mark, as Isabelle lit a small candle and put it besides them.  He sat up, and she sat down by him.  He noticed that she had not removed the hair from her lip, that her nightgown was stunning with its soft laces, albeit, a probable form of costly Asian silk, its small decorative lace-flowers resembling cherry tree blossoms.

The two talked and talked about her school and plans and life and his career and all for some time.  She leaned in to try to kiss him.  He backed away, thinking she might be like a man.  Of course, he knew better.  It would not be proper ethically to let one thing lead to another, not with this young girl on someone else’s farm.  “I am sorry,” said Mark, “You are very pretty, I just do not think it would be okay for us to do anything physically.”

She put her hand on his work-hardened shoulder and said, “Listen.  I plan to live alone for most of my life.  My career is not going to involve mindless boyfriends – I am going after my own bacon.  We only live once, and I want to feel your body in mine.”

The drummer just did not know what to think about all of this.  This pretty girl and her hairy mustache – it was awkward.  She wanted it; he knew he did, too; and, as Mark looked into her eyes, he, again, saw the frail hairs of her upper lip.  That was his dilemma.  “If I wanted to get with something manly, I could just wait until California,” thought Mark, thinking, “I prefer women, do not understand being with something besides them.”

Nevertheless, the two gave into temptation.  It was her first time.  They embraced each other and made passionate love together, she was strong and got what she wanted.  The two slept like a rock.  They woke up before dawn; she wrote down her address so he could contact her.  Mark promised he would, said to keep in touch, his new band would be traveling.  He planned to send her a post card from California, gave her a twenty for some extra lunch money or whatever.  She was happy.  Isabelle kissed him on the cheek and snuck back inside to crawl into bed before her parents awoke.  They were fast asleep.  The sun’s morning glow was coming before it over the horizon.

Mark was ready to head out.  He put all of the bedding on the back porch and checked out his van.  It was fine; his fuel line was secure and fine.  As he was going, he hollered to Mr. Summersby’s window.  “I guess I am heading out,” said Mark.  “Be safe and do not be a stranger now,” said both the farmer and his wife.  “Okay,” said the drummer, “We thank you now.”  That was all they said, and he made it to the van and drove away.

Mark drove all the way to California; sent Isabelle a postcard with a horse on it; met some guitarists and played often gigs with large crowds; and they all rocked on.

Sentence Constructs. The Emphatic, the Magnificent.

Sentence Constructs.  The Emphatic, the Magnificent.

This is a post I have wanted to write out for some days, now.  It is mostly a tribute to Thomas S. Kane, who is no longer alive.  From what I understand, he wrote more than just one or two books, was a professor of English for over two decades.  He is a very inspirational author – in my mind – because he shows us many things that we can do with our written grammar that are simple, fun, summarized, accurate.  Not claiming to be all-knowing, I have been very impressed with his choice of quotes and explanations of certain concepts in writing – especially with such ideas as sentence construction.  When do we use an emphatic sentence?  When it is appropriate to draw attention with one, among other normal constructs?

The book I have been reading that I get a percentage of my writing inspiration from can be found here.  It is encouraging and makes prose manufacture seem easier and more possible.  Better.  Anyone who reads/considers this text will at least find added confidence in their pursuit of writing; the book is hard to put down, much more fun and thought provocative than 98% of the grammar books I have encountered.  It is my favorite, so far.

In this hopefully not-too-long post, I intend to present a few emphatic sentences.  What they say may not be too important, but the kind of sentence made and how its meter or punctuation is chosen will may be.  Some of the most impressive sentence constructions I have seen while reading Kane’s book so far are explained below.  In order to refrain from this idea taking too long, I decided to include about five favorite forms of sentence construction.

The triadic sentence.

A triadic sentence is a kind of a freight-train style sentence; it is a popular choice among authors due to the idea that it is limited and confined.  A common freight-train sentence can include any number of clauses/phrases; a triadic sentence’s secondary part is a 3-phrase combination.  In my first example of  a sentence construction for this post, I will describe hot-air balloons with a triadic sentence.

The balloons floated freely through the air, their passengers at awe with the farmland below; their rate of travel masked by their effortless existence in the lower atmosphere; their distinctions made by their varied brilliant hues of primary and secondary colors.

The convoluted sentence.

I am impressed with the construction of certain forms of sentences.  This particular form of construction is nearly the most difficult and impressive that I have seen.  I am sure constructs of this nature occur naturally – when manufactured on purpose, however, they endure the notion of additional skill or effort or even the chance of luck.  It is a periodic structure that includes subordinate elements which split the main clause of the sentence.  My example is below.

She drew attention, be her frail white sun suit in semblance to her skin, to those who witnessed the stretch of her purr.

Such sentences can be tasking on their readers and should be used sparingly, reminds Kane, as these next sentences are also rather emphatic.  They draw emphasis, lose their mite when overused.

The Fragment.

What fragment?  This one.  And another?  Oh, sure.  Not quite the last.

Polysyndeton and asyndeton sentence constructs.

These formidable words were inspiring to me.  They were ideas that I had not heard or or read about; I decided to include them in a post, here.  These are easier to make than a purposely constructed convoluted sentence, are thought to be dangerous to use in the academic world and should be approved of prior to delivery if at all possible.  Else, take no chance with them.  Make the better grade, in other words.

To put it simply, a polysyndeton sentence presents to its audience a list, just as the asyndeton.  Polysyndeton sentences do not use commas to separate the objects/phrases in the list, asyndeton sentences do.  An asyndeton sentence needs no conjunctions – it does not use the words and, or, nor or yet.  A conventional sentence uses commas and a conjunction, with or without a comma before it.  I will write a sentence three ways, as was done in Kane’s book, with my own sentence.


The amazing and well-read author’s fantasy works commonly included wizards, magic, lands, elves, horses and fairies.


The amazing and well-read author’s fantasy works commonly included wizards and magic and lands and elves and horses and fairies.


The amazing and well-read author’s fantasy works commonly included:  wizards, magic, lands, elves, horses, fairies.

As stated in the text I got these ideas from, conventional sentences that present a list can draw attention to the last element written.  Both polysyndeton and asyndeton sentences draw attention to the objects in the list equally.  The items as a group usually have more attention with the polysyndeton style, and a group of things described with the asyndeton style exist with less emphasis.  I liked those structures, personally.

Mimetic Rhythm.

Quite possibly the most impressive examples I have read in prose were mimetic rhythm constructs.  They present to their readers poetic meter, proper construction, and secondary meaning.  They are only done well by the masters.  Mimetic means imitative; a mimetic sentence imitates the perception a sentence displays or its presentation of feeling.  Its meter alludes to its emotional display, in other words, as best explained in Kane’s text.  Here are a few examples.

x       /      x       x        x        /        x        x     /          x    x     /       x       x         x   /  x  x        /          x    x    /      x      x

Her long pale drab hung loose from the height of her shoulders down in artichoke green, to the dull, flat floor.

The sentence above tries to use non-exciting adjectives to paint a monotonous picture of a dismal and non-important lady.  While imperfect, the x‘s above attempt to mark the unstressed syllables and the /‘s attempt marking the stressed syllables.  As it may be of no surprise, the example above was inspired by but not about the historical monarch figure, Plain Jane.  The next sentence should be more exciting.

/        x    x       /     x   x    /     x     x   /     x     x     /    x     x    /     x      x    /      x   /      x     /    x     /       /      x    x    x   /  x  x

Shimmering sparkling shining in glisten, her necklace’s crystals by one by one, the elf princess sported no additional



While the above example was a rough and improvisational attempt, it was still somewhat exciting to construct.  The very essence of rhythm is presented in meter similar to actual poetry.  The line continues with its sharply repetitive sounds and concludes with less enthusiasm.  In prose, rhyming, alliteration, and even musical meter must only be used when able to be done without drawing too much attention to a sentence.  As an author, one wants to make a single sentence important from time to time, to draw emphasis.  When the situation arises, we can resort to one of the many forms of emphatic construction.


So there we have it – some example attempts of impressive prose construction.  While I may be able to win no poetry contest without question, I cautiously remind others not to sell themselves short.  We are all inspired by various concepts from time to time.  I am a thankful man learning.  So hats off to you, avid audience; I await your valued commentary.