Play along on White Out Wednesdays. Black Cat Alley says:

  • copy and paste the featured post into your space (blog post draft)  then using the text colour option, “whiteout the words” you select, leaving behind your creation.

Leave the format and spacing as it stands,  and/or re-format it into something tidy (easier reading). It’s up to you.

Remember: you might not have a “polished perfected piece” – this is a subtraction process – so no adding bits to make it “right.”

If you chose to include the original post in your blog, as context for readers,  please cite and credit appropriately, if that information is available.

  • Tag your post: Black Cat Alley, Whiteout Wednesdays.
  • Create a link or pingback to my original post. 
  • Add your entry to the Link Up  (I find it easier to group the entries this way and anyone who might be blogging from Blogger can also play along.)

Please note: if you create a pingback, I manually approve them, so it might be a day or two before you see it show up. The same applies for direct linking.

  • You have a week to create! You can play as many times as you’d like. And please consider taking some time to visit and like or comment on the other entries.

This week’s text is Alaska by Tom Franklin, exerted here. I took one paragraph, and created a new narrative.

My white out in Alaska:

At night in my dark glasses and Bruce in smoky harems of women and they’d insist on buying us a drunk welder at the bar. if he got lucky honey, I’d amble and punch up John Prine and bikers and cowboys..In the middle of the fight, I’d crawl bleeding out the back and sleep on a rock until morning.

Original paragraph:

At night we’d stop in dives, me in my dark glasses and Bruce in his eelskin cowboy boots. There’d be smoky harems of women interested in such eclectic guys, and they’d insist on buying us boilermakers. When I picked up a babe, I’d take the truck and leave Bruce arm-wrestling a drunk welder at the bar. Or if he got lucky and split with a startling honey, I’d amble to the jukebox and punch up John Prine and lure my dream girl away from the line-dancing bikers and cowboys. In the middle of the fight, I’d crawl bleeding out the back and sleep on a rock next to a cow skull and wait until the olive drab truck topped the hill in the morning.

I just might come back and play again.