Tea for Ten

A writing task: write a story in which all the characters have product names.

Characters:
Earl Grey + Lady Grey – host and hostess
Jasmine – their young daughter
Lipton – hussar
Darjeeling – hussar
Bai Mu Dan – karate teacher
Lapsang souchong – Chinese ambassador
Shui Xian – his wife
Medova – Russian maid
Pickwick – butler
Rooibos – gardener
Assam Khongea – police inspector

Tea for Ten  - DJ´s Daim Stories: Candied Crime

The Princess on the Pea

Finally! I raise my crystal glass and nod to my parents-in-law. Neither too little nor too much.

Frederick gives me an encouraging squeeze behind the veil. We have only had the first course so I´d better keep my cool. I sip at a glass of water.




The full story is now for sale: DJ´s Daim Stories: Candied Crime

Mushrooms and Toadstools

Write a short story which leads up to a given ending. Try to tie beginning and ending together.

He bought it for an old song in the cosy little antiquarian bookshop in Whitechapel. A gorgeous old book about British mushrooms and toadstools. A few of the pages looked the worse for wear, but it was still a really fine book. Such a treasure for a few pounds.

Back home in his study he let his hands slide down glossy plates in four-colour print and was fascinated by this new world of all the various fungi in their natural habitats. He read about gill and boletes mushrooms. He learned about mycelium, spawn, spores and fruiting bodies. The foreign words appealed to him. Like the former owner he dwelled on certain pages and learned the detailed descriptions by heart.

Sometimes he even ventured into the woods accompanied by his book. Tricholoma pardinum, Chlorophyllum molybdites, Inocybe erubescens and Amanita phalloides. Those marvellous names nearly made him drool.

Now and then his wife would interrupt his absorbing studies. “Arnold, dinner is on the table.” “Arnold, your tea is getting cold.” But most of the time Mildred left him to his book. He even considered getting himself a camera so he could immortalize particularly beautiful specimen from his perambulations.

He went out to put on his galoshes; the wood could be damp and chilly even on a sunny afternoon. Mildred stood in the doorway with her shopping list. “Arnold, I thought perhaps we should try a mushroom stew tonight.”

And then he threw it out.

Spring Cleaning

Not quite the right season, is it? What I should give you is a story called “The Blue Vase”, but what you see is what you get today: My writing course exercise 1 (Dialogue; working title = breaking up).

”I am damn sorry, but I don´t really believe in all this any more.”

“What do you mean?”

Larry indicates the red farm bathed in the April sun. “This. Us.” I have never noticed before that his shoulders stoop.

I plant the spade in the vegetable patch and lean against the handle. Nearly two hundred square metres newly dug mould.

”Well, it doesn´t really swing any more, does it? What I mean is, what is left between us, except work, work, work?”

And now I am supposed to start crying or yelling.

“Liz, for crap´s sake … You must also have noticed that the spark has gone. “

“Nope.” I am not looking at him but the farmhouse with the freshly painted windows.

“Oh, it is just impossible to discuss with you!” He has run out of words, and he turns around while I pull the spade out of the ground.

Afterwards, I clean the spade before I continue my spring work.

And this was the tight and concise ending. But if you bother me, I may be persuaded to add the humorous one tomorrow.

Writing fiction

Do you remember Emma, a very young damsel in distress? Would you like to hear what happened after this scene?

HIGHLIGHTS II (post no 200)

See the first part.
En dansk version: Karaktermordet.

IV. Shellfish Firmer will not listen. He will not speak either. He is still purple in his shriveled face after a particularly acid outburst which got stuck in his narrow windpipe.

On the contrary, he sets a handful of Successful Lawyers on me. Now I am in deep sh.. crisis (I hardly understand that yet, but it certainly doesn´t feel good).

V. Under cover of the darkest hour of the night I sneak into the dicteditor´s office where I connect a couple of power cables to his executive chair. As I am a genuine chicken, I sneak home to hide under my eiderdown duvet long before the grill party is ready to begin.

Afterwards no one understands what happened, but Selfmade Flavour is alive and twittering. According to blushing Flinch he has enhanced his vocabulary considerably.

“He repeats these nasty anecdotes, one worse than the other, and afterwards he pats himself on the shoulder exclaiming ´bloody good, Bonus, you are the greatest, Maximus´.” She blows her pointed nose noisily.

My effort to solve the crisis ends in temporary failure.

VI. Poor Flinch´s perm is drooping. A solution must be found, not necessarily the one expected.

I borrow a sharp knife from an accommodating Successful Lawyer, together with a chloroformed cloth. I bring my own hacksaw, hammer and chisel, and a pair of garden gloves. Forthcoming Flinch offers to assist me, certain that Selfgrown Former can only get better. Under pretence of removing a disgusting nose pick she pushes the cloth against his nose, gently but firm, until he snores blithely in his slightly charred executive chair. Resolutely I prepare for a lobotomy, I know exactly how from watching heaps of BBC documentaries.

“Actually he is my son,” breathes miss Flinch, and with a jerk of my hand I cut the umbilical cord. By accident. Scout´s honour! After this initial spot of trouble I aim for the golden section and locate the self-starter and the gear box without further trouble, but the Black Box? Where on earth … there is none????

HIGHLIGHTS. A Novel in Six Parts

[Thanks to Maxine for the brilliant title. This is the last writing exercise of ten]

I. The main character has a project.
II. An obstacle.
III. An attempt to overcome the obstacle.
IV. Crisis.
V. Temporary failure.
VI. Final success – not necessarily in the expected way.
Length: no need to tell you – I am a rule-breaker anyway.

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HIGHLIGHTS

I. Exalted I leap into the publishing house with my innovative project, “Highlights” (a concoction of nursery rhymes and other semi-manufactured pieces from my writing course, but the editor won´t know that).

The secretary, little sharp-nosed Miss Flinch promises to put the Opus on Mr Bon Aparte´s desk. Of course she is in love with the dict... eh, editor (but I don´t know that yet). Hearing herself saying the Name colours her pale cheeks.

“Bonaparte?” I ask.

”You see, the editor is also a hobby farmer. Ten weeks ago he fell off his brand-new tractor, bang on his head!” The water rises in her artless eyes. “When they put his left arm in a sling, he started calling himself Bon Aparte.” (The editor´s real name is Selfish Farmer, an old acquaintance from the writing course. I certainly don´t know that yet).

II. ”Well, the editor is not quite satisfied with your manuscript, Ms Lowbrow.” Tiny Flinch is on the phone. She understates the case slightly, unwilling to repeat Flamer´s coarse epithets (which is why they cannot be reproduced).

“Then he won´t publish it?” I ask stupidly.

“Publish…? Well, ehm, not quite. Actually he considers suing you for fraud, plagiarism, corruption, unpatriotic activity…” She takes a deep breath. “That was the gist of it, I think.”
The dict… editor´s real name is revealed during our conversation, and the Obstacle is clear to me!

III. I, the Pen Fighter, must try to conquer the Obstacle. (The solution is Character Murder, but I don´t know that yet). As a member of the intellectually challenged sex I immediately throw myself on the floor, wagging my tail (a method which works surprisingly often, believe it or not).

“Honourable Selfless Framer, master of narration, repetition, manipulation, imitation, flatulation …” I haven´t read any of his writing exercises for a long time, but garden gnomes rarely change their style. From my position on the floor I cast sidelong glances upwards. Does he buy my adulation?

“… not to mention the example you set through your important and timeless message about the innocent pleasures of country life among humming tractors and flowering slurry spills…” I continue.

To be continued.

In His White Shirt

[Dansk version af teksten]

Describe a feeling without using the word. Which feeling do you think I tried to describe?

I try not to stare at my father in the white shirt. While I take off my jacket, I observe that for once the train wasn´t late. I remember to tell him about the lilacs, and the apple trees which are finally blooming. Last week I only saw tiny buds, but today the pink flowers glow like little girls in ballet skirts. He chuckles. Fruit trees are close to his heart.

Through the shirt I can see his shoulder blades as if he had forgotten to remove the hanger. I remember how I sat on his shoulders, ruling the whole world, when we took a walk along the beach. With my short legs I soon grew tired of walking in the wet sand, but my father always knew a way out.

I sit down beside his bed and notice the bluish needle marks on his hand, and I can hardly breathe. The room smells of medication plus a sour-sweet odour which I disown.

Gently I stroke his dry, warm hand with my fingers, like when you are afraid to squeeze a young bird too hard. A network of veins is visible through his skin which is turning parchment yellow. He reaches out his thin fingers, and I dare holding his hand properly. It feels a bit clumsy because of that thing they call a butterfly. We are not really used to doing it either.

I hold a glass of water with a straw to his lips. They are cracking. My handsome, well-bred father burps and farts, and he has begun to lose tufts of hair. A scrap of food has been left in the corner of his mouth, and I wipe it off. Does he really have to return to the infant stage before the parasite has finished eating him bit by bit?

A doctor walks in with his clean, white papers in a green folder. He tries to catch my eyes across my father´s bed. I concentrate on my father´s palm as if all the answers were written there. I must be holding him too firmly, because he moans a bit.

If my throat had not been contracted, I would have sung to him, sung just like when … I turn my eyes towards the open window, but something blurs my image of the spring which is right outside.

DISTURBED

[For danske læsere: se en dansk version af teksten her. Husk ugens bog-konkurrence, som udløber søndag ved midnat.]

Writing exercise. Write a ´slow text´ in no more than 400 words.

DISTURBED
Joan pulled out one pair of silk socks after the other, felt with her hands in all corners and nooks of the drawers, pulled them out and checked under the bottom. Systematically she continued with shelves bulging with vests and pants, sticking her hands deep down each and every pin-striped pocket and into the toes of the polished shoes.

Halfway through she tiptoed back to the large bedroom. Erlandson´s wife was still moaning quietly with a cold cloth over her eyes . The curtains were drawn and threw a sickly-green tinge over the bed. One could almost feel pity for the woman.

Joan continued with the bed and the bedside table. Checking under and over, inside and behind, up and down. She pulled the sheets off and turned the mattress. The two small drawers revealed a large collection of main-stream porn and the occasional dust mouse, but not a shred of interesting paper anywhere.

She swung out the flat screen from the wall, scrutinized the backside and let her fingertips run down the wallpaper. Nothing. But she knew her subconscious mind had registered a detail which jarred. A bird sailed past the window, and her heart skipped a beat.

She placed herself in the doorway and looked around her as if she saw the room for the first time. The bed, the wardrobe, the bedside table. The walls and the carpet. She had even tried if the skirting boards were loose.

The table! He had put the alarm clock and the ashtray in the windowsill. Why use the sill when there was a table at hand? Joan knelt down next to the square piece of furniture. Experimentally she dragged it away from the wall, rocking it from side to side. Something rattled inside the plinth…

“What do you think you are doing?”

Her eyes darted round and revealed to her what the room must look like from his point of view. Underwear and socks spilling out of the drawers, a couple of porn magazines on the floor, both wardrobe doors wide open and here she was, sitting on his sheets, turning his bedside table upside-down. She let the four round legs slide back into the four corresponding marks in the carpet as if the drawers were loaded with nitroglycerine. She drew herself up and let go of the table.

She knew that she could not talk herself out of this.

The Key

Write about a conflict. Time: c 20 minutes.
[For en dansk version af teksten se her]

Joan is scrutinizing the flat, cold piece of metal and the key ring with the horseshoe. The key to Susan´s flat. It should have been on one of the pegs in the hall, but she found it in his pocket.

She weighs it in her hand while she glances at their own door with the glass panels which are practically rattling still. She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

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“Why have you been in Susan´s flat?” The words were out of her mouth before she could keep them back, but she regretted even before she saw the look on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Please, don’t. I know.” She struggled to keep her voice down. ”I have found the key.”

“What the heck, since when have you begun searching my pockets?” He grabbed her upper arms before she had a chance to pull away from him. He shook her viciously, but he was not as angry as she would have expected.

”Someone has to empty them before it all goes in the washing machine.” She watched his face. He was angry; a vein was throbbing in his temple and his left eye twitched, but there was also something else. Something she was not quite able to put her finger on. She could feel her bowels contracting.

”What were you doing in Susan´s flat?”

He opened his mouth in an inarticulate roar, and pushed her backwards so her back hit the coffee table, before she fell to the floor. Automatically she held her arms over her head, but he just turned round and dashed out of the flat, slamming the door so the echo rang up and down the staircase.

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Joan tries to hit the key hole with her trembling hand. It can´t be true. If he is also involved with Susan … She fumbles with the stupid key while her thoughts go berserk.

Cautiously, she opens the front door . She ought to call out because what if Susan is suddenly there, but her throat is dry, and her heart flutters like a caged bird while she penetrates the dim and stuffy living room. Joan holds her hand before her mouth and nose, the sweet smell tells her she should turn back, but her feet move towards the kitchen on their own accord. She pushes the door open with her elbow and freezes on the threshold.

She gazes in front of her. There is nothing on the kitchen floor. There must not be anything. It can´t be Susan´s blue bathrobe lying there. And the belt, it is far too tight…

Susan, her best friend since their school days.
Joan crumples up on the floor, hugs herself and sobs like a little girl.

On the Bus

[En lignende, dansk skriveøvelse kan findes her]

1. Write a short text about a bus. Third-person narrator, max 250 words.
2. Rewrite the story, using a first-person narrator. Max 250 words. Time: 2 x 10 minutes.

On the bus.

The driver let the wide door slide open with a wheezing sound. Half a dozen passengers were queuing up. The young ones jumped on first. Four or five with satchels or rucksacks, colourful and loud like parrots in the rain forest. Next a couple of housewives in sensible shoes and bulging Tesco bags in both hands. Then a male passenger with attaché case and quality paper under his arm.

A plump woman with a wide-eyed child in a pram and two large bags stood waiting patiently. The driver rose half-way but noticed yet another one. Last man in the queue, a skinny fellow in jeans, grabbed the pram and helped the little family onboard.

“Thanks a lot”. The young mother sent him a bright smile before pushing the pram aside near the door in the middle. She bent over the child, and for a second her happy gooogligooo drowned all other sounds.

Purring, the bus rolled along while the doors slid back. The driver squinted at the digital watch above his head. Twenty minutes past five. Only two minutes behind schedule, and in less than an hour he could be with his family.

Next stop. The bell rang, and automatically he registered the four passengers in the queue. None looked drunk or aggressive. A handful left the bus via the middle door. An easy day he thought, exactly when the middle part of the bus rose from the street in a blinding light.

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On the bus

I have chosen a crowded stop. I stay behind in the queue while I study the other passengers. Five teenagers with supersonic mobile phones to their ears who are capable of chatting among themselves simultaneously. That bunch won´t notice anyone over twenty.

Two chatty shoppers and a clerky type. I ignore the two but stay outside his field of vision behind the mother with the fat child in the pram. Without a word I grab the sticky handle, and in one precise movement we lift it over the two steps. I move in between her and the bags, only for a moment, but long enough. I put them on the floor next to her. She thanks me profusely and I send her a short smile. She will be able to remember me, but if everything happens according to my plan that won´t make any difference.

The woman pushes her messy menagerie as far aside as she is capable of and bends over the little lump of fat. Nice thighs. I slide into a seat next to the middle door while I squint at my watch. Twenty minutes past five. Two minutes behind the schedule but it will be okay.

I get up early so I can push the button with my knuckle. Never take any chances. The bus pulls into the curb. I can feel my pulse throbbing but with measured steps I cross the street and slip in between two rows of shops as a tremendous flash of light is mirrored in the shop fronts.

The Visitor

[Se en dansk version af samme tekst her]

Write a starter in c 15 minutes. Introduce characters, environment, action and emotion.

Abruptly she sat up in her bed. A deep voice had forced its way through the dark night into her half-conscious mind. Daddy must have come home!

Emma pattered out on the landing in bare feet, pulling the soft blanket after her like a tail. She watched them through the rails of the banister. They looked so funny in stripes. He was much taller than mommy so she had to lean back her head. “You fool, you´ll wake up the children,” she whispered, but she didn´t look angry.

Even though it must be in the middle of the night, mommy had not gone to bed yet. She was wearing lipstick, and the new necklace from her birthday. The wrinkles on her forehead had gone. The man put his arms around her and whispered something Emma could not hear. She was not sure it was daddy after all.

“Won´t you come in?” Mommy sounded almost like a little girl.

From her perfect little lookout Emma saw him squeezing mommy´s neck. She didn´t really understand why the grown-ups liked that kind of thing. She had tried kissing Marcus in the kindergarten, but he had just tasted like a cucumber. She leaned forward to get a better view, and right then she could feel mommy´s perfume in her nose, reminding her of the flowers in their garden.

Mommy was red in the face, and she did not smile any more. Emma heard her necklace snap, and the light sparkled in the dancing pearls, making them look like a fountain.

She clutched the blanket in her hands and pulled it up to her eyes. Her thumb slid into her mouth while a small puddle formed beneath her feet.

Hitch

Writing Exercise: Write a starter in no more than 200 words.
[En lignende dansk tekst kan findes her]

Hitch

I took a deep breath before I stepped out in the open. No cars in sight right now. As soon as I had hoisted my skirt a bit up and put a hand on my hip to keep it there, I was ready. I began waving my thumb in the air. Steady now!

Swish.

The only thing I had been able to grab when I ran off was the briefcase. I had wiped it thoroughly with my denim jacket which was so stained and torn that I had to dump it in a ditch anyway. I pricked up my ears. Was that a twig which snapped?

Swisssh. Swish.

A couple of cars shot past. Discreetly I rubbed my face with a Kleenex. I reeked of sweat and had an acrid taste of blood in my mouth, but they wouldn´t be able to see that. I just had to get a lift, because I couldn´t walk another ten feet.

Swish. Swiii… Iiiiih.

Finally! The rusty van pulled in with grating brakes, and I hobbled forward lest the driver should change his mind. I reached for the door handle. Right then the door in the back slid open.

What Vegetable Are You?

[Min første udgave, på dansk, kan findes her]

I bet you know the kind of thing. What colour are you? What animal are you? What vegetable or fruit are you? You probably just toss something off, but I have had plenty of time to think about it recently. What kind of vegetable am I?

I would really like to be a strong, crunchy carrot. Full of colour and bite, even better raw than cooked, just ready to eat. Or what about a peach? Silky skin in beautiful, coordinated colours and a sweet, succulent core. The kind of fruit you would put in a pretty bowl and display on the table.

Actually, I think I am more like a leek or a celery stick. Long and lanky, bristling wisps on top, and no redeeming bends or curves. No good at using my feeble limbs, and speaking my own cause, that is just not me.

I find myself wavering between the two. Leek or celery, celery or leek? Perhaps my colour of skin can solve the issue? Discreetly, I cast sidelong glances down myself. Would one call the main impression pale green or maggot white? I am finding it still harder to find words for the exact nuances, but they are far from pretty. Neither can I deny there is a stark or importunate smell to me now and then. Don´t you think I know that I have been lying around in this buzzing cold counter beneath the clinical neon tubes for too long?

Most of the time I am just waiting. Once in a while lovely women pay me attention, stroking their life giving hands down my skinny body, dwelling briefly here and there. Some of them wear gloves. I don´t like that much, it creates such a distance between us. Oh, this one didn´t take me with her home either.

I do understand you, sister, I am completely useless, and would just lie about, rotting in your vegetable bin, old and stringy as I am after three months on my back.

What I loathe most of all is when there is more than one of them. When they stand there, discussing my future prospects as if I were not there. If I could just get one word in. Please, someone, couldn´t you just try to listen! All I am trying to say is, “please switch off that bloody machine!”

Morning Rituals

The task: write a hot text without using the word or synonyms for it. Remember the principle show, don´t tell.

Hardly had she heard the sound of Arnold slamming the door, before she threw the grubby linen in the laundry basket together with her sensible cotton nightie, and put crisp, cool satin sheets on the double bed. A skimpy scrap of silk slid down over her curvaceous figure, her fingers ran through her blonde curls and she had just time to slip back in bed before he rang the bell.

“I am right in here, officer.” Her husky voice crept round the door like a quivering jazz improvisation. “You can leave your shooting iron on the dresser.”

”Are you the little missus who called for help?” He tripped over the threshold with his trousers round his heels and his tongue flopping in his trail. There was no time for sophistication today. She scratched him with her long nails, inhaling whiffs of testosterone while he prowled and prodded, sending his fingertips on an expedition through undulating territory in search of unchartered areas. Like succulent buds they romped between the sheets until they finally lost it and drifted over the edge on a wave of salty sweat and surreal rays of sunshine.

She put him through his paces until he deflated like a threadbare tyre. He opened his mouth, but she held a crimson fingertip to his savaged lips. He was so gorgeous in all his hairy, muscular glory that she wanted to preserve the illusion yet another moment.

”Go and get me a cool drink, will you, Tarzan.” She wafted him out of the bed, determined to keep her oasis of golden, shimmering haze to herself.

Did he really have to trample around like that? Had he lost his way between the bedroom and the fridge? She wasn´t hit by the truth until the crack penetrated her smug self-satisfaction. Through a red drizzle she saw Arnold standing in the doorway, pointing at her.

[Se den oprindelige, danske tekst her - der er ikke tale om egentlig oversættelse her, men en omskrivning]