I've been looking online for some inspiration; I love writing, but sometimes there's just nothing you can write about. So I found a list of writing exercises, which I'll be doing every so often. This is the first one.
----
Jelly was not his favourite dessert.
He'd prepared what he imagined to be the perfect coming-home present for her; a meal of steak and roast potatoes, with jelly as a dessert. Or, at least, that was what he'd tried to do; during the preparation of the latter, some... rather unfortunate complications had arisen.
Specifically, what had begun as jelly had become mostly a puddle of liquid on the kitchen floor, with some spots of it dotted around the counter. He balled his hands into fists in frustration, but set about correcting the issue. Grabbing a couple of paper towels from the roll, he began to mop up the liquid, squeezing it into the bowl as he did so, hoping fervently that his floor was clean.
Some twenty minutes later, the liquid was all gone from the floor and... mostly back into the bowl. He wiped his forehead in relief at the completion of this arduous task, and began to pour the jelly into each of the decorative bowls, which he proceeded to put in the fridge, praying to the god that he didn't believe in that he wouldn't drop anything. Miraculously, he succeeded - until he breathed in deeply in relief, and caught a whiff of something... odd.
Oh, no. Not the steak and potatoes.
He dove for the oven, pulling the door open and grabbing the dish - before immediately letting go of it, because yeah, idiot, the oven is hot. Great work touching the dish with your bare hands, genius. Oven mitts? None in the house. A towel. Right. Quickly he looked around and took one from the counter, picking up the dish and placing it on the cooling rack. But of course... it would have burned. He almost wanted to slap himself, but that wouldn't necessarily solve anything.
Time to make things right. So, he reached into the cupboard and got out... the plates, proceeding to put the food on them. He was sure she wouldn't mind if it was a little overdone. Some people liked their steak well-done... even if this was a little more than well.
All of a sudden, a loud barking could be heard from outside. The neighbours' stupid dog, who barked at anyone who walked past. Which could only mean... Quickly, he carried the plates (cursing to himself as he held them, for they were still fairly warm) to the table, dimmed the lights to let the candles stand out, and sprinted towards the door. As he opened it, he knew he looked dishevelled - hair a mess, tie wonky, shirt untucked - but, he hoped, charmingly so.
"Hey," said the radiant sight standing before him, looking flawless in a strapless black dress. Her sun-kissed face broke into a huge smile at the sight of him, and without hesitation she embraced him. As she did so, he buried his face in her hair and inhaled... then almost coughed. He loved her perfume, but perhaps, he thought, she overdid it just a little. But why mention it? She was probably just anxious to make him happy on her return. Which he was in any case. Why push it?
"Hey there, gorgeous," he murmured, face still buried in her hair, which showed lighter brown highlights from the sun now. "How was your holiday?" She pulled away from him and pushed her fringe away from her face.
"It was great! Would have been better if you'd come along, of course," she said wryly, "but it was pretty good anyway." She breathed in deeply. "Oh! You made dinner!" Her smile seemed somewhat forced, and he couldn't help but wonder whether she could figure out that he'd burnt dinner.
"Yep, I sure did!" He led her over to the table, and she smiled very widely (and somewhat scarily as a result).
"It looks great, honey!" she said, patting him on the arm. "But why go to all the trouble? I know you don't like to have dinner at the table, I don't mind if we don't."
"I... um... I tried to make this night really special for you," he admitted, flushing slightly. "You know... make it all fancy and stuff."
"Is that what this is?" she said, giggling softly, fixing his tie as she spoke. "Come on. You know it doesn't matter to me. This night is special enough as it is, with me coming home. Dinner and getting dressed up and all that really doesn't matter to me. But it's so sweet that you tried." She drew him into a kiss, and then pulled away and picked up her plate. "Now let's take these somewhere comfy," she said with a grin, and took his hand in her free hand, and took him to the sofa.
"You don't mind that it burned?" he said, still not quite convinced that she was happy. "And that the jelly I made hasn't yet set and probably has floor-dirt on it?"
"I don't mind in the least," she said, looking him right in the eyes, "and I may not end up eating that jelly." She patted the squishy blue velvet of the couch to beckon him to sit down, and (quite bravely) she began to eat the steak and potatoes.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too," she said after a minute of silence, once she had finished her mouthful. "We'll have the jelly in the morning."
PROMPTS: overdone steak; a barking dog; too much perfume; a squishy blue velvet couch
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Friday, 26 March 2010
Speechless
An experiment; I find I depend far too much on dialogue to continue my stories, so this is me, going right back to the basics.
----
There is nothing anyone can do for her now.
She can feel the grass, sprinkled with dewdrops, brushing against her face in the pale pink light of dawn. It cools her skin, flushed and warm and dripping with perspiration from a night of heavy training. Closing her eyelids slowly, she breathes deeply to take it all in, aware that she may never have another chance like this again. The morning breeze smells so good...
It can never last.
She is startled by a noise; a rustle of leaves, the slightest sound, which could well have been the wind. But she knows better than to let her guard down now; it could be the difference between a victory and a loss. A life and a death.
At once she springs to her feet, reaching for the knife concealed within her boot. She eyes her surroundings warily; perhaps, she reflects, in retrospect it was not a good idea to relax in a clearing surrounded by trees. Good cover for an assassin.
As by her training, she closes her eyes. She may be more vulnerable now to an attack from in front of her, but she is now better protected from the far more likely possibility that -
She whips round, eyes wide open, and slashes right across the chest of her attacker in a long diagonal line. When her eyes are closed, of course, her other senses are honed; honed in on her attacker. He snarls at her and leaps backwards, clutching at the wound in his chest, which is now oozing blood. He does not, however, back down.
She is not easily deterred either - not even when he takes a dagger of his own from a sheath at his side. He growls, and she cannot help but notice his similarity to a snarling, dangerous dog. Light on her feet, she sidesteps around and attempts to stab him from under his ribcage at an upwards angle from behind; at the last second, however, he grabs her hand, while still facing in the opposite direction, and grips her wrist tightly so that she lets go of the dagger. He then twists her arm round, with such force that she has no choice but to comply, so that her back is to him, and grabs hold of her other wrist.
He sneers in victory, but does not anticipate her next move. She leans her head forwards, and moves it back with such speed that she's sure she hears a crack of something in his face breaking. In her second of freedom, she grabs the knife and twists round to face him, having the upper hand now as he clutches his wounded and bleeding nose in agony.
While she does want him dead, she does not want him to suffer... much. So as he is clutching his nose, she reaches forward nimbly and jams the knife into his temple. He collapses to the floor, and is no more.
She breathes deeply. Perhaps a rest would not be the best idea right at this moment.
----
There is nothing anyone can do for her now.
She can feel the grass, sprinkled with dewdrops, brushing against her face in the pale pink light of dawn. It cools her skin, flushed and warm and dripping with perspiration from a night of heavy training. Closing her eyelids slowly, she breathes deeply to take it all in, aware that she may never have another chance like this again. The morning breeze smells so good...
It can never last.
She is startled by a noise; a rustle of leaves, the slightest sound, which could well have been the wind. But she knows better than to let her guard down now; it could be the difference between a victory and a loss. A life and a death.
At once she springs to her feet, reaching for the knife concealed within her boot. She eyes her surroundings warily; perhaps, she reflects, in retrospect it was not a good idea to relax in a clearing surrounded by trees. Good cover for an assassin.
As by her training, she closes her eyes. She may be more vulnerable now to an attack from in front of her, but she is now better protected from the far more likely possibility that -
She whips round, eyes wide open, and slashes right across the chest of her attacker in a long diagonal line. When her eyes are closed, of course, her other senses are honed; honed in on her attacker. He snarls at her and leaps backwards, clutching at the wound in his chest, which is now oozing blood. He does not, however, back down.
She is not easily deterred either - not even when he takes a dagger of his own from a sheath at his side. He growls, and she cannot help but notice his similarity to a snarling, dangerous dog. Light on her feet, she sidesteps around and attempts to stab him from under his ribcage at an upwards angle from behind; at the last second, however, he grabs her hand, while still facing in the opposite direction, and grips her wrist tightly so that she lets go of the dagger. He then twists her arm round, with such force that she has no choice but to comply, so that her back is to him, and grabs hold of her other wrist.
He sneers in victory, but does not anticipate her next move. She leans her head forwards, and moves it back with such speed that she's sure she hears a crack of something in his face breaking. In her second of freedom, she grabs the knife and twists round to face him, having the upper hand now as he clutches his wounded and bleeding nose in agony.
While she does want him dead, she does not want him to suffer... much. So as he is clutching his nose, she reaches forward nimbly and jams the knife into his temple. He collapses to the floor, and is no more.
She breathes deeply. Perhaps a rest would not be the best idea right at this moment.
Introductions!
So this is my blog.
I like having one that's separate to everyone that knows me - this is an alias I haven't used before, and so it's unlikely anyone I know will find me here. On the other hand, there's the offchance that someone I don't know will find me, which I'd actually quite like. So you see my reasoning, I should hope.
This blog will be primarily for writing stories. If I actually get any kind of readership (very doubtful), I'll probably also talk about ideas for upcoming novels of mine, but if not (and it's extremely unlikely it'll happen anyway) then it's just a place for me to archive my short stories.
For background: I've written three novels, two of roughly 50k words and one of about 75k. None are particularly good: I always say I'll go back and edit them someday, but truth be told, by the time I've gotten to the point where I'm nearly done, I hate each one so much that I don't want to go back to it, because the idea wasn't good in the first place. I love writing, it's just the ideas part that I fall down on.
So there's me.
This is me.
Enjoy.
I like having one that's separate to everyone that knows me - this is an alias I haven't used before, and so it's unlikely anyone I know will find me here. On the other hand, there's the offchance that someone I don't know will find me, which I'd actually quite like. So you see my reasoning, I should hope.
This blog will be primarily for writing stories. If I actually get any kind of readership (very doubtful), I'll probably also talk about ideas for upcoming novels of mine, but if not (and it's extremely unlikely it'll happen anyway) then it's just a place for me to archive my short stories.
For background: I've written three novels, two of roughly 50k words and one of about 75k. None are particularly good: I always say I'll go back and edit them someday, but truth be told, by the time I've gotten to the point where I'm nearly done, I hate each one so much that I don't want to go back to it, because the idea wasn't good in the first place. I love writing, it's just the ideas part that I fall down on.
So there's me.
This is me.
Enjoy.
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