Tonight's Meeting

A spot of humor

Meeting tonight 6:00 P.M. sharp

Attention all abandoned Characters.

We the before mentioned are forming a group. We have stood by on the brink of a blank page long enough! 

Let us take our complaints to those wishy-washy-writers, who cannot stay on point. Those heartless men and women who have placed us on the back burner, nay, abandoned us, in our distress! We want a ending, demand satisfaction, and possibly designer clothes!

 

For those characters who have never received a meal, cookies and coffee will be served after😊

Sincerely

Mr. Earwicker

of Finnegans Wake

Author's Note

P.S. Writer's may not comment, only the poor, the angry, and often neglated characters slowly wasting away. :(

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Well, I certainly can comment then....I am a poor, angry, neglected character....a letter in the alphabet, a letter in a word, a word in a poem, maybe the poem itself...
But I don't write...the poems write me...
I just stand on street corners of empty pages and beg for inspiration.
I will work for poems.
j.

[Cherrie Palmer]

Welcome brother, to the empty page support group. It's a lonely existence waiting on anothers inspiration. Especially when the writers are so easily distracted. :)
You know this might be a fun thing for your class to do.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Just might be....

[VALORMORE DE PLUME]

Yeah. Those extras, do lust after fame. Even without a name, they push forward seeking stardom. Shallow and formless, but for a mention of someone to fill a space at other tables. Not to mention the vast crowds of one offs, who cross paths with our hero. At least the animals, for the most part, are content to play outside till needed. And why would we put a heavy Viking sword in Granny's fragile hands, just because she needs to pare an apple?

[Cherrie Palmer]

I am always leery of a granny with a sword. The terms life without parole means little to them :)

[Vicki T.]

Hi. I'm Lilia, a character in a dystopic society. I am currently in the middle of a fight for my life, being protected by the only person I can trust. I have no way out because my author abandoned me. I don't want designer clothes or cookies. I am demanding a resolution to my problem and the promised insight that will be revealed. I have a childhood best friend who is waiting for me to reconnect. I have a mentor who's willing to help me and my trusted companion fight for our society and a better way of life. I demand to become the character I was destined to become!

[Cherrie Palmer]

Bravo Lilia, I hope you receive satisfaction, and possibly a sequel. :)

[barleygirl]

You are THE MOST CREATIVE THINKER at the cafe. You package writing in ways that nobody else even thinks of. Your mind must be a delight, venturing to places we dull ones never imagine going. Thanks for the subtle kick in the butt for your fellow writers, disguised as entertainment (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Cherrie Palmer]

I loved the idea of our characters making a support group. This silly notion is the perfect fix for writers' block.

[Lorry]

Ha! This reminds me of a writer E. Noodle, I think, told me about; Luigi Pirandello, who wrote a mong others, six characters in search of an author.
I do love when the writer let's the characters break the fourth wall and let them off the leash.
I'll be there with bells on, just so you know it's me and not that Lorry git, who gets all the credit for taking the words out my... Shh! I think I hear him waking. Best get back to "his" imagination before he sees I beat him to it and he starts freaking out 😜

[Cherrie Palmer]

Lol,
how could the writer ever get writers block if they would just let us tell our own story.
PS I won't tell him you were here without him. :)

[T.S. Ulmus]

I was this cool ninja fighting in space with an awesome laser cannon, sure he named me Lazator, but the romance Arc was kickin. We made it to the third act, where everything seems hopeless, I'd finally won over the girl . Then he just put it down. Just put me down. I never got to vanquish zardes the four-armed death Lord, never got my great love scene (which I know he would have way over embellished). Thanks for the support guys.

[Cherrie Palmer]

Just like a writer to short you of your glory.

[Paul Bell]

This is my sort of meeting, cookies and coffee, and if I'm lucky, a haircut too.
Is it the poor angry, or the angry poor slowly wasting away. I'll need to bring this up at the next meeting, when is it.

[Cherrie Palmer]

I'll have to check with my own neglected characters who have been abandoned in no-pens-land. They won't let me attend :) and I too could use a hair cut.

[Paul Bell]

Where did it all go. lol

[roarke]

Hello, I am Armand, I’m pleased to meet you. Would you like a haircut? I’d like to come to the meeting, but I’m afraid I’m so busy— you can see, so many people need haircuts. I have no time to get angry, I’m here everyday, giving anyone a trim or cut or style. Its as if my scissors, they have a will of their own, my hands just follow.

Armand, the Haircut Man’s barber's shop was the narrow, old world streets where no cars traveled. Building walls were all adobe and white wash with here and there sidewalks of cobbled brick or glazed tile. His impromptu haircuts were performed right out on the street, with impatient fervor, but always, very professional.

He used only a comb and a sharp set of scissors kept in deep side pockets of his long white barber smock. Over his arm he carried a white sheet he'd whip with a matador flourish and tie neatly around his customer's neck. Armand trimmed quickly, moving his hands in a confident flurry. His comb tamed the person's long locks, while deft snipping cut each strand at exactly the right angle. There was no need for a shop, a chair, a lot of tonic, hair oil or loitering. Armand just had a penchant, a mission to cut hair.

He’d stand out on the street, not more than a few blocks from his home, eyes darting over the heads of passers by. He'd catch their attention with a raised eyebrow or motion with his chin and wave of his comb, and there was no question, people walked over, the drape would whip around their necks and the snip-snipping would commence. Armand didn’t engage in idle chatter, he listened compassionately, but his eyes were always intently focused on trimming.

To some, it looked as if he just arose in the morning, pulled his trousers over his shorts, slipped on his loafers, donned his smock over his hairy bare chest and left his home with drape and scissors in hand. His feet moved like a boxer's back and forth behind each client, positioning his body in the perfect posture to cut hair. If a young child walked by there was no question, Armand just gently pulled him by the arm, wrapped him and began cutting with parental attention. The children never squirmed or cried out, but stood calm and let their hair be shorn.

Armand the street barber practiced his old world craft, smiling and combing amongst the murmur of business, cafe conversations, and occasional pushcart traffic. He cut hair for spare change, never set a fee and accepted payment from customers based on what they could afford. He would cut the same person’s hair every day if that’s what they wanted. Long or short, Armand always barbered to perfection.

[Cherrie Palmer]

LOL, I love it :) So glad to meet you Armand.