Jordan took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: Bring two historical characters together and writ the dialogue for their meeting over lunch or dinner.
The Winter of My Discontent
Scene: A trendy restaurant called Winter. King Richard III sits alone at a table for two, looking nervous. Two full wine glasses sit upon the table. Enter Joan of Arc, trailing her sword behind her.
Richard: Joan?
Joan: Who else? the maitre d' informed me you have reserved the entire
restaurant.
Richard: Yes, yes. These are trying times for England and its king.
Safety first.
Joan Strange, I’ve lived through similar times myself.
Richard: Small world.
Joan: I am Gods messenger.
Richard: (aside) Oh, Christ!
Joan: Majesty, did you say something? And why the grin?
Richard: Oh, I can smile and murmer when I smile…
Joan: And you, Majesty, do you perform Gods Work?
Richard: My life is lived with the Divine Right of Kings. My every
action is Gods Work.
Joan: Humour me, Majesty, recite the Lord’s Prayer.
Richard: Well, now, youre putting me on the spot.
Joan: (aside) Oh Christ! (Joan stands). I knew a blind date
was a mistake.
Richard: No, no, don’t leave. At least try the Malmsey.
Joan: Not likely, Majesty.
Richard: Now is the winter of my discontent.
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Friday, 18 December 2009
Where Have All the Summers Gone? (c)2009 Perry Wilson
Perry took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…
Where Have All The Summers Gone?
“Joe come see." I gave the old book a gentle rub to remove some of the dust and cobwebs.
“What?”Joe stomped down the wooden stairs to the basement of our new house.“Did you find buried treasure?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. “But not the kind you mean. Look.” I handed him the book. “It’s a diary.”
He laid the bok in his lap and let it fall open; it naturally did at about the one-third mark. “Today was a good day—” he read, “the bees seem to be returning.”
“Huh?” I reached for the book. “What do you mean?”“It says right here.”Joe pointed to the faded ink. “See?—bees.”
“Look deeper.”
He flipped back toward the front of the book. “I got the cherry dusted.” He looked up. “I’ve no idea why dusting furniture would be so important.”
I turned back to the shelf where I’d found the book. “Look at these.” A box of squat glass jars and chicken feathers was the only other thing on the shelf.
“There’s string there too.” Joe touched the feathers aside.
“Read more.” I didn’t even know where to start looking for an answer to this mystery.
“The hives are starting to populate, but the bees are sluggish.” He shrugged.
“ It might help if we knew what bees are.” I took the bok and put it back in the box, returning it back to the shelf. “Maybe we’ll have time to do research when we’ve settled in.”
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Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…
Where Have All The Summers Gone?
“Joe come see." I gave the old book a gentle rub to remove some of the dust and cobwebs.
“What?”Joe stomped down the wooden stairs to the basement of our new house.“Did you find buried treasure?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. “But not the kind you mean. Look.” I handed him the book. “It’s a diary.”
He laid the bok in his lap and let it fall open; it naturally did at about the one-third mark. “Today was a good day—” he read, “the bees seem to be returning.”
“Huh?” I reached for the book. “What do you mean?”“It says right here.”Joe pointed to the faded ink. “See?—bees.”
“Look deeper.”
He flipped back toward the front of the book. “I got the cherry dusted.” He looked up. “I’ve no idea why dusting furniture would be so important.”
I turned back to the shelf where I’d found the book. “Look at these.” A box of squat glass jars and chicken feathers was the only other thing on the shelf.
“There’s string there too.” Joe touched the feathers aside.
“Read more.” I didn’t even know where to start looking for an answer to this mystery.
“The hives are starting to populate, but the bees are sluggish.” He shrugged.
“ It might help if we knew what bees are.” I took the bok and put it back in the box, returning it back to the shelf. “Maybe we’ll have time to do research when we’ve settled in.”
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Maybe Not an Urban Cottage - (c)2009 Sally Reesman
Sally took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…
Maybe Not an Urban Cottage
It was a full time job, pulling and clipping the vines that clung and surrounded their way between the clapboard of the old house. At moments the delicate tendrils would loosen their cling and curl in search of another surface to clasp and grasp their clinging length. While suffocating in their growth, they still loosened their hold with a god swift tag — the edge of grass—stopped short of a wall — of old tree stumps covered in vines like green and growing fountain of vines – ripping these loose – a gray gargoyle plaster—like an Angel of Death—Black wings behind strong sinewed eyes lifting skulls from its feet and rolling them up in its knees.
At first thought it's a garden – gnome — a winged garoyle that is lying among vines that is inconsequential. The more the vines were pulled aside — revealing — more bones — ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones… It was when I saw —r ooster claw bones … cat bones … and large bones like the haunches of a horse or a large ribcage of what could be a bear or a horse. They had been covered in lime, bleached white, with bits of the marrow exhibiting — yellow and black interior not yet gone back to nature.
It was then — what sort of activities went on in this house of vines—covered in vines so thick that the vines had entered to the interior of the house through the cement foundations — to the eaves of the second floor, burrowing through the chinks of lathe — these suffocating clinging vines — entombing crushing the house – and the limbed bones of small and large animals—removed my impression of an urban cottage.
___________________________________________
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…
Maybe Not an Urban Cottage
It was a full time job, pulling and clipping the vines that clung and surrounded their way between the clapboard of the old house. At moments the delicate tendrils would loosen their cling and curl in search of another surface to clasp and grasp their clinging length. While suffocating in their growth, they still loosened their hold with a god swift tag — the edge of grass—stopped short of a wall — of old tree stumps covered in vines like green and growing fountain of vines – ripping these loose – a gray gargoyle plaster—like an Angel of Death—Black wings behind strong sinewed eyes lifting skulls from its feet and rolling them up in its knees.
At first thought it's a garden – gnome — a winged garoyle that is lying among vines that is inconsequential. The more the vines were pulled aside — revealing — more bones — ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones… It was when I saw —r ooster claw bones … cat bones … and large bones like the haunches of a horse or a large ribcage of what could be a bear or a horse. They had been covered in lime, bleached white, with bits of the marrow exhibiting — yellow and black interior not yet gone back to nature.
It was then — what sort of activities went on in this house of vines—covered in vines so thick that the vines had entered to the interior of the house through the cement foundations — to the eaves of the second floor, burrowing through the chinks of lathe — these suffocating clinging vines — entombing crushing the house – and the limbed bones of small and large animals—removed my impression of an urban cottage.
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