Post by Mlle Bienvenu on Mar 6, 2003 23:08:25 GMT -5
This is the first in a group of linked excercises. You must start off with an object. Don't plan anything, just pick an object and write. Here is my result.
It was green.
Well, not the whole thing, of course. Don’t be stupid. Naturally the whole thing wasn’t green. Most of it was white. But that’s beside the point; the part you noticed was green and that’s what matters.
The odd thing about it was that my uncle had black eyes, so why he wanted a green glass eye was beyond my comprehension. I was only a lad, but still! It seemed that even the grown-ups didn’t understand it any better than I. Nonetheless, he remained as avuncular as ever, oblivious, I suppose, to the sniggers he received from his saner relatives. Or maybe he just couldn’t see their pointing and staring out of his one good eye.
My brother, on the other hand, thought there was nothing in the world more fascinating than that glass eye. (“Can I hold it?”) My brother has always been a bit off, if you ask me. Every time our uncle would visit, he would beg the man to tell him the story about how he’d lost his eye. Mother (God rest her soul) would protest, but he’d always wave her away saying, “Nonsense, Marta! The boy’s got an inquiring mind!” Honestly, I have no idea how Mother (God rest her soul) and Uncle could possibly be related.
The story was always different (I’m not sure if my brother ever noticed); he’d lost it while he was on a campaign in India, or in the Sudan, or held hostage by savages, or it got pecked out by ravens, or eaten by a pack of wolves, or it was the price he’d paid to a voodoo master to save his life from being possessed by evil spirits. The more impossible the story, the more rapt my brother’s attentions. He’d sit still and listen while my uncle’s bottle-green glass eye would loll about in his head, not following where his real eye looked. It just stared straight ahead.
He delighted in popping the false eye out of his head, then discreetly placing it in the bottom of his teacup and asking for a cuppa. When Mother (God rest her soul) went to pour the tea, she’d let out a small cry and practically drop the teapot brimming with scalding hot tea. (And usually managing to pour a great deal of hot tea on my uncle’s trousers) He’d just chortle, his jowls shaking, and pat his trousers with his handkerchief saying things like, “That’s a good sport Marta old gal! Hardly felt a thing!”. Mother (God rest her soul) never knew whether to be angry with him for frightening her, or sorry for spilling the tea all over his trousers. With that, he’d pluck the false eye from the cup, dry it off with his handkerchief and pop it back in his head, still chortling, while scowls, grimaces and rather shocked and embarrassed expressions ran around the table, except for one wide grin belonging (not surprisingly) to my brother.
It was green.
Well, not the whole thing, of course. Don’t be stupid. Naturally the whole thing wasn’t green. Most of it was white. But that’s beside the point; the part you noticed was green and that’s what matters.
The odd thing about it was that my uncle had black eyes, so why he wanted a green glass eye was beyond my comprehension. I was only a lad, but still! It seemed that even the grown-ups didn’t understand it any better than I. Nonetheless, he remained as avuncular as ever, oblivious, I suppose, to the sniggers he received from his saner relatives. Or maybe he just couldn’t see their pointing and staring out of his one good eye.
My brother, on the other hand, thought there was nothing in the world more fascinating than that glass eye. (“Can I hold it?”) My brother has always been a bit off, if you ask me. Every time our uncle would visit, he would beg the man to tell him the story about how he’d lost his eye. Mother (God rest her soul) would protest, but he’d always wave her away saying, “Nonsense, Marta! The boy’s got an inquiring mind!” Honestly, I have no idea how Mother (God rest her soul) and Uncle could possibly be related.
The story was always different (I’m not sure if my brother ever noticed); he’d lost it while he was on a campaign in India, or in the Sudan, or held hostage by savages, or it got pecked out by ravens, or eaten by a pack of wolves, or it was the price he’d paid to a voodoo master to save his life from being possessed by evil spirits. The more impossible the story, the more rapt my brother’s attentions. He’d sit still and listen while my uncle’s bottle-green glass eye would loll about in his head, not following where his real eye looked. It just stared straight ahead.
He delighted in popping the false eye out of his head, then discreetly placing it in the bottom of his teacup and asking for a cuppa. When Mother (God rest her soul) went to pour the tea, she’d let out a small cry and practically drop the teapot brimming with scalding hot tea. (And usually managing to pour a great deal of hot tea on my uncle’s trousers) He’d just chortle, his jowls shaking, and pat his trousers with his handkerchief saying things like, “That’s a good sport Marta old gal! Hardly felt a thing!”. Mother (God rest her soul) never knew whether to be angry with him for frightening her, or sorry for spilling the tea all over his trousers. With that, he’d pluck the false eye from the cup, dry it off with his handkerchief and pop it back in his head, still chortling, while scowls, grimaces and rather shocked and embarrassed expressions ran around the table, except for one wide grin belonging (not surprisingly) to my brother.
