This was an exercise which I had responded to as a part of a writer's workshop in which I was involved many years ago. These were lying somewhere gathering dust when a friend of mine insisted on reading them. I decided to put it up here as well.
The exercise was basically to present a sentence which reflected a sensory perception: sense of sound, sight, touch, time, space, taste, etc.
I am still trying to recover the rest...
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The last word Damien spoke was "Dad", which was also his first one, five years ago; I was holding him then and now.
He sucked her tongue into his mouth, savouring the lust and definite completion of the the 3 million dollar contract, while she licked at his naivete'.
I was about to turn around & complain about not hearing a single bird in these woods, when he gunned his Hummer making it roar for a couple of seconds before shutting it suddenly; I got what I wanted and more.
I watched her eyes moisten to the news, softening the blue of her eyes to a painful shade of grey, & as the tear tried to slip down the side of her face, she tilted her head slightly & brought it back within the wrinkled folds of her eyelid; her tears were hers.
He had to write to her, so he wrote the words "Dearest Erika", stopped and smiled at the sparkling ink on the words before licking the portions that made her name.
Every hair on my body stood and watched his wet finger trail down my neck to unchartered, but eager, grounds.
As we were positioned in the back of the truck with our sides pasted together, knees dovetailing into each other's crotches, unable to turn our heads around, I counted thirteen children in front of me and assumed the same number on each of the five benches I saw when I was hurled in, hence sixty-five; this was my first unofficial assignment in math which helped me work towards my doctoral thesis.
(I realise the sentence above is too long, but I didn't want to help myself against it! )
When Uncle Joe hugged me, rather crushed me against his barrel sized chest, it was cheap whiskey instead of the usual Armani which told me that he hadn't recovered from his wife's death; this was my cue to make him mine.
Did he do this because his astrologer told him he would, or was it written in the stars; what difference does it make now?
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"her tears were hers" I can almost picture the scene in my minds eye. The tilt of the head and the blink of the eyelids to hold it back before it can be seen. Beautifully written, cant say more than that.
ReplyDelete3 is my favourite.I could hear the roar ringing in my ear drums.You sure can create very good sensory perceptions.tell me more about your writing workshops.
ReplyDeleteI watched her eyes moisten to the news, softening the blue of her eyes to a painful shade of grey, & as the tear tried to slip down the side of her face, she tilted her head slightly & brought it back within the wrinkled folds of her eyelid; her tears were hers.
ReplyDeleteLovely! And the others were good too... crisp yet powerful way of conveying... kudos!
Dear DV,
ReplyDelete:-) Glad you liked them (esp. the 4th one). Thank you.
Dear W,
Yes, 3rd was one of my favourite too. Thank you. What do you wish to know about this workshop? There are a few online workshops (free) for creative writing. I shall post the link soon. This happened a couple of years ago. I took up the workshop merely to discipline my writing (I used to write like a mad man for a few weeks and then nothing for months). Let me know what you exactly want and maybe I can help you.
Dear SS,
I suppose the 4th one was a hit even in the workshop (someone actually asked me if they could borrow it!!! I couldn't refuse). I was overjoyed when someone said that they liked the 7th one. If read in one breath it delivers the required effect! :-)
@nd one's my favourit..
ReplyDeleteI've linked u..
Hey Sangeets,
ReplyDeleteLong time since you visited this blog. Thanks. Yup, the second one has its own story behind it....
I see more of a painter's strokes in this piece of yours, more of pastels, soft and tender, musty...I guess I am sounding bizzare ... but guess am thinking like a lover of art. I can almost sense the canvas that you are putting your brush strokes to..nevertheless, your stream of conciousness technique is intact...this time the senses have played a more dramatic role in adding the colour to the features of your characters...Beautifully painted!
ReplyDeleteBut ofcourse! you call it 'senses'!
ReplyDeleteIts not really a single piece, Amrita. Its more of a collage, a collection of different coloured threads bound together with a wick.
ReplyDeleteStream of consciousness? I am afraid that I haven't delivered it appropriately. There really isn't much demonstration of the same. It is merely a set of independent sentences... :-)
I am overjoyed to see you compare it to a painting. Thank you. Quite a compliment in itself!!! :-)
How different is a writer from a painter? :-)