I promised a couple of budding writers a starting place. Here's a couple I used recently, just to get things going. Both of the following explore perception and description; try them out and see how far you go, and leave them here for all to see, if you feel so inclined. Good Luck. Xx
The View of the Nac Mac Feegle: Pick three everyday objects, and zoom in on them. A shower head becomes a UFO, a weed becomes a shrubbery.
Blind-Man's Bluff: Pick up three everyday objects and describe them using only touch for stimuli.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
Lord Of The Flies: A Rather Average Evening.
"No Problem." I concede, not realising what I’m signing up for as I head for the kitchen with three teenage boys in tow.
2 minutes in, as we assemble the ingredients on the worktop, I have to pull apart two rampant, angered youths.
"’s true!" Number Three growls indignantly. "Y’ do have to use a different knife for meat."
"Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean you threaten to knife him, does it, Three?"
The knives themselves, ridiculously blunt through necessity, cause quite a ruckus as they are produced. Forbidden fruits!
They snipe at each other silently behind my back, until some ancient instinct flares within the them at the sight of flame as I ignite the hob.
"Whadawe do then?" grumbles Number One, unable to avert his gaze.
"Well, if you take the green board and cut the chicken into cubes, about so big..." I gesture with my thumb and index finger, "Two, if you could chop the onions and pepper, and Three, could you do the mushrooms and the chilli? Both of you use the white boards. I’ll heat up the oil. Three, throw out the chilli seeds, unless you want it really hot, and make sure you wash your hands when you’re done!"
All goes quiet, and I cannot help sense the calm, against the full-on fights of not an hour ago.
"Done." They mutter, almost simultaneously, as the oil begins to hiss aggressively.
"Fabulous! Right. Onions 1st, then chicken after a minute or so, then the vegetables. Then, if One adds that spice sachet, and stirs the food to stop it sticking, Two can take charge of the wraps, and Three can do the cheese, Salsa and Sour Cream; and the two you can set the table."
"Wha’ about you?" Number Two protests.
"Nu-uh. It’s your meal, guys. I’m just here if things go wrong."
They stare at me for a moment as power shifts. No-one’s ever trusted them before.
"Well? Come on, or it’ll be nine o-clock before you eat." I’m hopelessly aware that one blunted knife could slip through someone’s ribs its holder turns around, and if malice erupts, there’s little space to step between them.
"Wha' d’we do?"
"Onions first, Fuck-brains."
"Guys." I warn.
In go the onions, with whoops of delight as the oil protests. And I stand back and watch.
Number One, the eldest, held authority over the other two, and quickly took charge of the task in hand.
As they haphazardly hurl food into the pan, he tosses it with flair, and barks instruction out across the room.
Exultant screams fill the room as I melt into the work-top and let the tale unfold, half amused, and half afraid of the creatures I have made.
It doesn’t take a moment for the shirts to fly across the room, but then, it’s hot in here with the hob on full. Seconds later, abetted by a wooden spoon, the barbecue-war-sauce is spread ceremoniously across each boy, with a heart-shuddering cackle of manhood. They dance around the flame in the tiny kitchen, a tangled mass of activity as they go about their separate tasks, the fire’s potency reflected in their eyes. I can’t quite grasp what’s going on.
The noise level rises, with an evil tribal note. I glance towards the door, but Number Two hovers nearby, one sharp eye on me.
I can almost hear the heathen-tongues spurt forth with instruction to ‘bind and boil the care-worker’. I forcibly remind myself that this is real life, and that that could never happen.
"Man Prevails!" Wails Number One, as he stirs the pot one last time, and the flame dies down.
Two and Three step in, plates in hand, to capture the raw spirit of the thing in tiny doughy parcels.
"Hope yer ‘ungry!"
Through the serving hatch, we see Number Four appearing from nowhere, and thudding onto a dining chair.
"Phwoooar!" his eyes light up as a plate is placed in front of him.
The other staff quickly follow suit, passing the plates through until the table’s full.
"Nice going, guys!" I congratulate, as everyone tucks in. "Now, who’s washing up?"
2 minutes in, as we assemble the ingredients on the worktop, I have to pull apart two rampant, angered youths.
"’s true!" Number Three growls indignantly. "Y’ do have to use a different knife for meat."
"Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean you threaten to knife him, does it, Three?"
The knives themselves, ridiculously blunt through necessity, cause quite a ruckus as they are produced. Forbidden fruits!
They snipe at each other silently behind my back, until some ancient instinct flares within the them at the sight of flame as I ignite the hob.
"Whadawe do then?" grumbles Number One, unable to avert his gaze.
"Well, if you take the green board and cut the chicken into cubes, about so big..." I gesture with my thumb and index finger, "Two, if you could chop the onions and pepper, and Three, could you do the mushrooms and the chilli? Both of you use the white boards. I’ll heat up the oil. Three, throw out the chilli seeds, unless you want it really hot, and make sure you wash your hands when you’re done!"
All goes quiet, and I cannot help sense the calm, against the full-on fights of not an hour ago.
"Done." They mutter, almost simultaneously, as the oil begins to hiss aggressively.
"Fabulous! Right. Onions 1st, then chicken after a minute or so, then the vegetables. Then, if One adds that spice sachet, and stirs the food to stop it sticking, Two can take charge of the wraps, and Three can do the cheese, Salsa and Sour Cream; and the two you can set the table."
"Wha’ about you?" Number Two protests.
"Nu-uh. It’s your meal, guys. I’m just here if things go wrong."
They stare at me for a moment as power shifts. No-one’s ever trusted them before.
"Well? Come on, or it’ll be nine o-clock before you eat." I’m hopelessly aware that one blunted knife could slip through someone’s ribs its holder turns around, and if malice erupts, there’s little space to step between them.
"Wha' d’we do?"
"Onions first, Fuck-brains."
"Guys." I warn.
In go the onions, with whoops of delight as the oil protests. And I stand back and watch.
Number One, the eldest, held authority over the other two, and quickly took charge of the task in hand.
As they haphazardly hurl food into the pan, he tosses it with flair, and barks instruction out across the room.
Exultant screams fill the room as I melt into the work-top and let the tale unfold, half amused, and half afraid of the creatures I have made.
It doesn’t take a moment for the shirts to fly across the room, but then, it’s hot in here with the hob on full. Seconds later, abetted by a wooden spoon, the barbecue-war-sauce is spread ceremoniously across each boy, with a heart-shuddering cackle of manhood. They dance around the flame in the tiny kitchen, a tangled mass of activity as they go about their separate tasks, the fire’s potency reflected in their eyes. I can’t quite grasp what’s going on.
The noise level rises, with an evil tribal note. I glance towards the door, but Number Two hovers nearby, one sharp eye on me.
I can almost hear the heathen-tongues spurt forth with instruction to ‘bind and boil the care-worker’. I forcibly remind myself that this is real life, and that that could never happen.
"Man Prevails!" Wails Number One, as he stirs the pot one last time, and the flame dies down.
Two and Three step in, plates in hand, to capture the raw spirit of the thing in tiny doughy parcels.
"Hope yer ‘ungry!"
Through the serving hatch, we see Number Four appearing from nowhere, and thudding onto a dining chair.
"Phwoooar!" his eyes light up as a plate is placed in front of him.
The other staff quickly follow suit, passing the plates through until the table’s full.
"Nice going, guys!" I congratulate, as everyone tucks in. "Now, who’s washing up?"
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