Speaking of Weird…

What do you all make of Harper Lee?

I mean, obviously she went to the same Passive-Aggressive Secret and Silent Public Relations school as JD “The Secluded” Salinger, whereas Salinger specialized more in the art of silently aggressive relations and she more in the silently passive sort.

I mean, come on… You write one of the bestest novels in the history of novels and then go virtually dark for sixty years and then all of a sudden you’re like, “Hey, lookie everyone what I just found here attached to the back of one of the bestest novel manuscripts in the history of novel manuscripts!”

Yeah, I know… Weird.

And not to mention all the weird that surrounds her bestest first novel To Kill a Mockingbird. Some even speculate that she didn’t even write it – or at least most of it; that her bestest buddy Truman Capote, in an effort to win her lifelong affection – because we all know the great TC was all about being liked – wrote it for her.

Anyway… Who knows.

Sure wish I did.

But in the absence of knowledge, let’s make up some weird.

For today’s WEIRD WEDNESDAY prompt…

Write something weird, be it a poem, limerick, essay, flash fiction (750ish words or less), stream of consciousness, whatever, about a secret meeting between Harper Lee, Truman Capote, and JD Salinger for the purpose that is yours to determine.

And by the way, by weird I do not mean perverse regardless how well this opportunity of a prompt may provide for it. Just saying…

This may explain things a bit about the prompts.
This provides some Harper Lee context.
Submissions close at 7pmish.
Selection announced sometime thereafter.
No comments other than submissions for the prompts please. All comments welcome for the selection when published, however.
Please “Like” those submissions you like.

It should be noted that, as stated on the Disclaimer page and the Relating to Humans guidelines, a “Like” by me does not necessarily mean I like or endorse a submitted work. My “Like” is foremost intended as a means of acknowledging a submission; though chances are pretty good I may like it, as well.



4 Replies to “Speaking of Weird…”

  1. “Jerry, would you care for another martini?”
    Truman swizzled the pitcher with uncharacteristic vigor.
    “As long as it doesn’t with another monologue about Perry and the tragedy of two people committing a crime that neither would do alone,” said Jerry. His tone dripped with scorn that seemed to jab Truman like a cop’s baton. The two of them had been at it since last night. The martinis had been Truman’s idea. but they weren’t helping.
    “Oh, was I talking about that again?” asked Truman, the swirling gin and ice in the frosted pitcher.
    He might have been joking. It was hard to tell with Truman, even when you knew him well.
    Truman looked over at the divan. “Nelle, was I talking about Perry again?”
    Nelle drew on her cigarette, luxuriantly exhaled. The smoke bounced of the pages of her book and blossomed around her so languidly she appeared to exist on another plain entirely.
    “Sorry, Truman? What was the question?”
    Truman, prim now as he sloshed the martinis into his and Jerry’s glasses–Nelle hadn’t touched hers, not caring much for gin at that time of day–crimped his lips and glared at her. “I wish you’d attend to the conversation. I’ve been quite witty.”
    “Says you,” said Jerry. His hand on the martini glass was apelike and incongruous, as though he might snap the stem like a bread stick. “I hadn’t noticed any particular flights of wit.” He peered through the smoke at Nelle. “What are you reading there?”
    “Oh, just a galley i picked up when I was at Harper Collins this morning. It’s by Ted Hughes’ wife,” said Nelle, again not looking up. “You know. The poet?”
    Jerry squinted through the smoke. He thought that squinting made him look more handsome. “So you’re reading poetry?”
    Nelle looked up. “Why the scorn, Jerome? You have have problems with poetry?”
    “I like poetry,” said Truman. “If it’s good. Nothing quite so bad as a bad poem, though. Don’t you agree?”
    Jerry glared at him, held out his glass. Truman poured.
    “Now don’t you boys start back in on each other,” said Nelle. “For your information, Jerome, it’s an autobiography. Fairly wrenching, actually. And remarkably well written.”
    Jerry drank his martini in one long swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood. He tugged a pack of Lucky Strike from his pocket, jammed a cigarette into his mouth. He swayed a little as he lit it. “Great,” he said to Nelle. “Just what we need. Another woman who writes well.”
    For the first time that afternoon Truman agreed with him.

    Liked by 5 people


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