"Of all that is written- I love only what a person has written with his own blood." - Friedrich Nietzsch (and ink. Ink is good too), "The tragedies and joys of your time here are meant to fly within fiction. Don't waste them - love them - write of them - and make them soar.", Blurble-by-gum, Cloud Curtain Calls, From my close observation of writers... they fall into two groups: 1) those who bleed copiously and visibly at any bad review and 2) those who bleed copiously and secretly at any bad review. - Isaac A, Hoomor, If you can't say something nice - say anything it's better than nowt - hahahaha, Love is all you need and some beer is a bonus, My Life as a Cult Leader by Esmeralda Cloud, No old cabbage or tommy toes thank you very much, Prose, The Yo-Yo Esmeo Crew, Tickle-ye-Esme, Tumbleweed, WTAFISOA?
Said thoughts being yours for ‘The Book’ — the true title is top (upper shelf, hidden behind emergency tins of beans and hand gel) secret. Secret McSecret. Said wares being Esme’s offerings over the past five years and the things you liked bestest about them, all zhuzhed-up for the book, and they shall be the body of her long-awaited (ready when she’s pensionable) tome.
I would like to add some wordage from you, yes you! * Throws a few paper darts at those wearing straightjackets *. Your wordage regarding Esme and her Cloud or Esme’s Cloud (depending on how it perches in your brain snakes) to be added to The Book of Esme Cloudiness (still not its name) at either the beginning, the end, or randomly plonked where the Gods and medium to small-sized dogs decree. I am informed this is also known as ‘blurb’.
Your eulogy, your encomium, your paean, panegyric, tribute (and so forth), shall be placed wherever they fit the right nook and tropospheric cranny. * Just about manages to restrain herself from flashing said cranny*. And I will do my very best to get as many as possible in there. *Salutes and sings The Cloud’s Anthem: Cover My Wings With Popcorn Because Cop-porn Gets You Arrested *
So, I beg of thee, do tell what you make of this place and the offerings presented. (Other than a hat or a brooch). I should add this isn’t some kind of ego-ridden tommy-tank fest for Esme (sounds like something you wear wellington boots for — falls about ). It’s to insert some of you into the tome, connect with my unsung heroes (who she’s asking to sing about herself, ha!) who have supported and made The Cloud and Esme so very happy over the years. * Holds Professor Taboo off with a high-voltage prod *
Terms and cravats:
No more than 200 words (give or take a semi), no fewer than one (good grief). Size isn’t everything mind folks. One line can be as powerful as an essay, and also no-one shall find frowns floating down upon them if they do nowt but give a ‘like’ to this very (very) post.
Your thoughts may be on whatever you fancy, though ideally will be connected in some form to Esme, and/or The Cloud’s musings, the pomes, the tales (heads and nostrils), sticky bun moments, tragedy, joy, sauce, howling and more (or less). Serious or giddy, both or either, all good. * Suddenly considers writing her own reviews and sliding them across the table for people to sign then realises everyone can hear her thinking so shuts the hell up. *
Swear words and cussing of all kinds allowed. No opera, ideally.
I’m not against the odd stick man.
You promise that you shall not hunt Esme down and bury her in a pile of her own books interspersed with locally sourced dog poo should your forty-page essay not be included.
You may use any name you wish, even if it be a completely new one. (So long as it isn’t Esmeralda Cloud. This covers the ubiquitous there’s-always-one factor.)
Offerings to be written either in the comment section below — * looks over the edge of the Cloud and waves * — or by email to esmeuponthecloud [at] gmail.com or on the back of a cereal packet posted to The Cloud’s agent:
The Cockswell Inn
6 Scrattchett Street
- Watches around a fifth of her followers click ‘Unfollow’ and head for the WP hills, never to be seen again. *
Esme swears her undying love to those still in attendance (or a-nine-sticky-buns-dance), to all creatures and gods great and small that sit before her wearing their ceremonial cloaks and tin foil hats proudly/relatively horrified. To wit: The Followers, Members of the Cult of The Cloud, The Dice-apples, The Yo-Yo Esmeo Crew gettin’ down (and needing a hand to get back up again). In short, to you.