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lobelia321Just when I thought it was getting easier... This week I again wrote two versions. Last week's I found easier. All three texts below the cut.
Assignment nr.3: Brief: Ben finds a baby. 400 words, using all 5 senses. No plot.
Ben raised his head and sniffed the air. The morning was heavy with the smell of mud and crabs. He was knee-deep in the river Nile, just behind the bend to the temple at Dandarah. He could hear the temple gongs in the distance and imagined the other priests hurrying to their dawn ablutions but here, among the reeds, all was calm. A frog quacked. A dragonfly flitted. The first rays of the sun touched the tops of the reeds in a flurry of soft pink.
Soon the hierophant would start chanting and all the acolytes would join in. There would be the lighting of the flame, the swinging of the censors, the screeching of the peacocks in the marble courtyard. Later, there would be bitter beer and fried onions with beans. Ben's stomach twinged. There was a loose tooth right at the back of his mouth, and his tongue worried away at it.
The mud squelched between Ben's bare toes. A fish leaped out of the stagnant water, once, twice. Something stirred in the shadows of the bulrushes. Around his neck, the necklace with its five turquoise stones hung heavy. Its edges pressed against his chest, smooth, cool, pebble-round. With each breath, he sensed them there, chafing his naked skin.
The water was brown and warm. Little leaves and seed pods swirled along its surface. Ben stumbled on a rock, and then he saw it: a shape near the bank, drifting among the bulrushes.
Ben blinked and put one hand above his eyes for shade.
It was a basket. A round reed basket, very ordinary, of the type sold for a few copper tokens in the market. Inside the basket, swaddled in a coarsely-woven, red-and-grey striped linen sheet, lay a baby.
Assignment nr.4: Bobbie (or Betty) runs into a former spouse in a restaurant. 5 senses, emotional history.
Everything was too bright. The sun pierced Bobbi's eyes. Light reflected off the lake in a thousand shards. And in the distance, the snow on Mount Kanchenjunga's flanks flashed white, white, white.
Bobbi turned around, into the shade of Moon Temple Restaurant. Black spots danced in front of her sight, and she blinked a few times, wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her left hand. Placed the hand carefully onto the white tablecloth. Looked at each of her fingers, the fourth one indented below the knuckle, the little finger with its band-aid fraying at the edges, the thumb bruised below the nail. The tablecloth was starched within an inch of its life, its surface a grid of blade-sharp creases. Bobbi smoothed her palm across the cotton, rough like a cat's tongue.
In front of her, the bowl of soup. She'd ordered it using hand signals and trying to pronounce words from the glossery in her Rough Guide to Nepal. Now it was here: a clear steaming broth. Bits of shallot floated in it, and red flecks that she hoped weren't too hot. Steam rose in curls, along with an aroma of garlic, burnt pepper, cardamom and something else, someting indefinable, sharp and bright. She licked her cracked lips.
A pot clattered from the direction of the kitchen. Someone laughed. Down in the valley, water rushed across boulders and a goat bleated. She was the only diner. Table on the verandah, her old woollen cardigan against the chill.
At this point, I abandoned the attempt and went on to...
Assignment nr.4, second attempt
Bobbi Braganza, thirty-five, high of heel and red of lipstick, breezed into the Dumpling Hut on Norfolk Street. The place was a dump, and that suited her fine. Peeling posters advertising acupuncture and showing illustrations of Chinese astrology clung to the mouldy walls. People sat squashed, shoulder to shoulder, at the five tiny tables. Voices shouted. Neon lights fizzed. There was a chaotic smell of onions, ginger and boiled sugar.
Nobody would ever look for her here. In fact, it was the first time she'd ever even set foot in this part of Cambridge. She plucked off her Gucci cashmere-lined gloves, finger by finger. Her sunglasses had misted up after the January chill outside but she kept them on, as much for camouflage as anything else. "Waiter!" She slid onto the only vacant chair, a rickety metal contraption. But of course there were no waiters; it was all counter service.
The menu, such as it was, felt sticky to her now naked fingers. It was a single A-4 laminated sheet, clearly printed many years ago on some prediluvian computer, with white labels stuck in layers on top of the price lists. The most recent costs were handwritten in blue biro. 'Dumpling, 5x, pork, £3', she read. The script was somewhat difficult to make out, what with her polarised Ray bans. 'Dumpling, 5x, chicken, £3. Dumpling, 5x, vegetarian, £3. Pickled egg, £0.50.' Well, the place was certainly cheap. The kind of place nobody she knew would be seen dead in. "Hah," she said.
Little tin boxes with paper tissues squatted on each table. Plastic chop sticks were stuck in faux-bamboo vases like bunches of dried-up flowers. Salt shakers, soy sauce jugs, crumbs on the PVC table top. Pop music blared. Not the muted sounds of jazz piano or discreet Vivaldi she was used to hearing as a dining accompaniment. No risk of any memories here, none whatsoever.
Behind her, the door opened. Cold air burst in. People laughed, pots and pans clanged. Would nobody shut that door? A voice rang out: "Waiter!" She knew that voice. Her fingers, her wrist, her spine, every single nerve in her body stiffened. She stared at the menu but the words were blurred. "Bobbi?" boomed the voice, "is that you? My God!" She turned around and from behind dark lenses, tried to glare at her former husband.
Assignment nr.3: Brief: Ben finds a baby. 400 words, using all 5 senses. No plot.
Ben raised his head and sniffed the air. The morning was heavy with the smell of mud and crabs. He was knee-deep in the river Nile, just behind the bend to the temple at Dandarah. He could hear the temple gongs in the distance and imagined the other priests hurrying to their dawn ablutions but here, among the reeds, all was calm. A frog quacked. A dragonfly flitted. The first rays of the sun touched the tops of the reeds in a flurry of soft pink.
Soon the hierophant would start chanting and all the acolytes would join in. There would be the lighting of the flame, the swinging of the censors, the screeching of the peacocks in the marble courtyard. Later, there would be bitter beer and fried onions with beans. Ben's stomach twinged. There was a loose tooth right at the back of his mouth, and his tongue worried away at it.
The mud squelched between Ben's bare toes. A fish leaped out of the stagnant water, once, twice. Something stirred in the shadows of the bulrushes. Around his neck, the necklace with its five turquoise stones hung heavy. Its edges pressed against his chest, smooth, cool, pebble-round. With each breath, he sensed them there, chafing his naked skin.
The water was brown and warm. Little leaves and seed pods swirled along its surface. Ben stumbled on a rock, and then he saw it: a shape near the bank, drifting among the bulrushes.
Ben blinked and put one hand above his eyes for shade.
It was a basket. A round reed basket, very ordinary, of the type sold for a few copper tokens in the market. Inside the basket, swaddled in a coarsely-woven, red-and-grey striped linen sheet, lay a baby.
Assignment nr.4: Bobbie (or Betty) runs into a former spouse in a restaurant. 5 senses, emotional history.
Everything was too bright. The sun pierced Bobbi's eyes. Light reflected off the lake in a thousand shards. And in the distance, the snow on Mount Kanchenjunga's flanks flashed white, white, white.
Bobbi turned around, into the shade of Moon Temple Restaurant. Black spots danced in front of her sight, and she blinked a few times, wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her left hand. Placed the hand carefully onto the white tablecloth. Looked at each of her fingers, the fourth one indented below the knuckle, the little finger with its band-aid fraying at the edges, the thumb bruised below the nail. The tablecloth was starched within an inch of its life, its surface a grid of blade-sharp creases. Bobbi smoothed her palm across the cotton, rough like a cat's tongue.
In front of her, the bowl of soup. She'd ordered it using hand signals and trying to pronounce words from the glossery in her Rough Guide to Nepal. Now it was here: a clear steaming broth. Bits of shallot floated in it, and red flecks that she hoped weren't too hot. Steam rose in curls, along with an aroma of garlic, burnt pepper, cardamom and something else, someting indefinable, sharp and bright. She licked her cracked lips.
A pot clattered from the direction of the kitchen. Someone laughed. Down in the valley, water rushed across boulders and a goat bleated. She was the only diner. Table on the verandah, her old woollen cardigan against the chill.
At this point, I abandoned the attempt and went on to...
Assignment nr.4, second attempt
Bobbi Braganza, thirty-five, high of heel and red of lipstick, breezed into the Dumpling Hut on Norfolk Street. The place was a dump, and that suited her fine. Peeling posters advertising acupuncture and showing illustrations of Chinese astrology clung to the mouldy walls. People sat squashed, shoulder to shoulder, at the five tiny tables. Voices shouted. Neon lights fizzed. There was a chaotic smell of onions, ginger and boiled sugar.
Nobody would ever look for her here. In fact, it was the first time she'd ever even set foot in this part of Cambridge. She plucked off her Gucci cashmere-lined gloves, finger by finger. Her sunglasses had misted up after the January chill outside but she kept them on, as much for camouflage as anything else. "Waiter!" She slid onto the only vacant chair, a rickety metal contraption. But of course there were no waiters; it was all counter service.
The menu, such as it was, felt sticky to her now naked fingers. It was a single A-4 laminated sheet, clearly printed many years ago on some prediluvian computer, with white labels stuck in layers on top of the price lists. The most recent costs were handwritten in blue biro. 'Dumpling, 5x, pork, £3', she read. The script was somewhat difficult to make out, what with her polarised Ray bans. 'Dumpling, 5x, chicken, £3. Dumpling, 5x, vegetarian, £3. Pickled egg, £0.50.' Well, the place was certainly cheap. The kind of place nobody she knew would be seen dead in. "Hah," she said.
Little tin boxes with paper tissues squatted on each table. Plastic chop sticks were stuck in faux-bamboo vases like bunches of dried-up flowers. Salt shakers, soy sauce jugs, crumbs on the PVC table top. Pop music blared. Not the muted sounds of jazz piano or discreet Vivaldi she was used to hearing as a dining accompaniment. No risk of any memories here, none whatsoever.
Behind her, the door opened. Cold air burst in. People laughed, pots and pans clanged. Would nobody shut that door? A voice rang out: "Waiter!" She knew that voice. Her fingers, her wrist, her spine, every single nerve in her body stiffened. She stared at the menu but the words were blurred. "Bobbi?" boomed the voice, "is that you? My God!" She turned around and from behind dark lenses, tried to glare at her former husband.
