Assignment number two
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write a story whose action covers no more than five minutes. That doesn't mean that the story need only take five minutes to read. But it does mean that the action within it cannot cover a span of more than five minutes. All the action. That means that you cannot flash back (unless what you flash back to does not take you over the five minutes); you cannot say "when he was a child" (he was a child for more than five minutes) or "last week" (beginning to get the point?). The entire temporal span of the story must be five minutes, maximum.Apart from that, the only rule is that you must be creative and original. Try stepping outside your usual idiom. I'm awarding praise for those who try to fly, crash and burn, and brickbats for those who play it safe.
There's no closing date, so don't feel you have to rush. I'll still be here this time next year.
posted by Dr Zen @ 4:49 pm
14 Comments:
wow
good one, z
mind spinning madly - love the concept.
alas, back to $-motivated muse for the nonce...
Layla
Sounds fun. And no trains. But since I'm not sure what "playing it safe" would be in this context, I'll probably do it by accident. Thanks for the assignment. Becky S
Cool, thanks. I'll come up with something.
I'm already on it.
What's the prize?
I'm sorry. It's not a contest. There won't be winners. Only losers.
I'll do it for a cigar.
You can have a cigar if you triumph. Fair?
How about this. If I write something so good, you are forced to post it without comment, you have to send me a cigar.
But I will comment on why it is good!
I'm busy for the medium term, so it's a hypthetical cigar, to be honest.
I'll be reading. Very pleased to be able to see your comments now. Have linked you.
This assignment made me think of Borges' story The Secret Miracle, you know the one. The dissident completing the manuscript of his Agnus Mopum in front of the firing squad. Would you have allowed it?
I think you know I would not.
Stalemate
The cup had an endless pattern in mid-blue glaze running around the bright white china; hills and lakes and floating clouds, bamboo huts on little rocky isles with solitary trees, soaring birds above curly-ended boats whose occupants wore pointed hats and stood with sticks or sat and let themselves be sculled along. As I turned it in my hand one hill or island would start to vanish but another would appear from the opposite side, first higher and then lower, and in between them the birds and boats bobbed up and down to keep to their respective places.
I used my other hand to turn the cup completely round to see if one hill might be higher than the others, or one boat have a different set of figures. I paused, wondering why it should be important to me. I took a sip from the cup. "This tea's cold!" I exclaimed.
"Mine is too", said my companion. He was sitting in a chair to my left, dressed in faded blue pyjamas under a tired brown dressing gown. He held his cup in a shaky hand, leaving the saucer on the tea-trolley in front of him.
"Why didn't you say so? Now you've made me have to find out for myself".
"I was going to, but you said it first".
I put my cup and saucer down on my end of the trolley, and he replaced his cup with a slight tremble that made the saucer chime. They floated languidly upon their reflections in the polished wood like water-lillies on a silent pond.
"I suppose one of us will have to go and get some more", I grumbled, reaching for the walking stick that leant against the trolley. "I'd better do it, you're not properly dressed, are you?"
A sudden snatch of birdsong rippled through the room, and then, almost as an echo of the echo, was repeated note-perfect once again, and died away.
"A song-thrush", I exclaimed, but he raised his hand and said "A blackbird".
"You don't know the one from the other", I replied, then saw in his face that yes, he did know, and cared deeply about knowing it.
"A song-thrush would not have sung the same tune twice", he answered, "but a blackbird only sings a single song".
I glanced towards the source of the sound. White lace curtains fluttered quietly, like clouds that would be going if they only had a helping breeze to move them on their way. Behind them, the french windows waited, opened wide to the next sounds that might want to enter.
"The doors are still open", I said accusingly, turning back to him. "Don't you know how to close things after you?"
"But I thought it was you who came to see me", he said as he looked around him. "Isn't this my room?"
"I don't think so. It would be in a terrible state if it were yours. And what makes you think that I would come to see you?"
"I'm not dressed", he sighed, and straightened slowly in his chair. "Alright, I'll close them. Give me my stick".
I picked up the stick that leant against the tea-trolley and felt the smoothness of the light brown wood. "This isn't your stick", I said, 'it's mine".
"But why isn't my stick here?", he said in a puzzled tone. "It must be here somewhere, I couldn't have come in without it". He looked around and then began to fumble in the pockets of his dressing gown as though it had somehow managed to hide itself in them.
He gave up. "You'll have to close them, I'm afraid. I won't be able to get there and back on my own."
"Oh, very well", I said, handing him the stick, "you can borrow it just this once. But don't you lose it or put it somewhere I can't reach. It is mine, you know".
He accepted it, and looked at the handle with a puzzled frown, as though aware that he should have recognised that it wasn't his. He made a movement to get out of the chair, but found that the trolley would be in his way. Sitting back down, he leant the stick against the trolley.
"Here", he said, picking up his cup and saucer, "You just pick up yours, so we can move this out of the way".
I reached out and picked up the stick. "I'll hold this so that it doesn't fall to the floor, shall I?"
"But you won't be able to pick up your cup and saucer, will you?" he asked, putting down his own and holding out a hand for the stick.
"You're doing this on purpose", I said, handing him the stick. I picked up my cup. A fragrance drifted through the room. I sniffed, and said "Jasmine".
"Isn't that a jasmine tree, there, beside the lake?" he asked, putting down the stick against the trolley.
I looked at him, wondering what he was talking about. He had picked up his cup, and was looking at it. I looked back at my own. I could just see the part of an island where a tree sprang out from a rock and stooped to kiss the surface of the water.
"I don't think so", I said, "I'm almost certain it's a willow". I picked up the cup and studied it carefully.
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