writing exercise
back to writing exercises:
Persevere. A man. A white dog. A frangipani. An orange. The river seine. The train. Toenails. Neck. Sad. Restless. Princess.
A man sits on a park bench, wrapped in a tired raincoat the colour of wet putty. His trouser cuffs are sodden and his hands are clasped childishly in his lap. He looks down into them. They might be someone else's. To the left, geese run in a line, beak to tail, like a paper cutting. A white dog splashes through a puddle and looks back in surprise.
The man is thinking of a certain frangipani scent, the way it hung over them in a heavy cloud as they talked. She had on an orange dress, closer to a kaftan than a dress, and had this been anyone else he would have been tempted to laugh. They spoke of the time they walked along the Seine, laughing about the French and their absurd pride. She had taken his arm lightly then, and it did not have a proprietorial feel, but was more like being brushed by a breeze. He loved this about her but wished there was something more substantial, something he could take hold of and keep.
After they spoke she got up and picked a frangipani flower, putting it between the pages of the book she was reading. He craned his neck to see, too late, what the cover told him.
Then she walked in the direction of the station and he remained where he was, not looking up. He sat like this until he knew she would be on the train, shaking out her hair, moving onto the next thing, free of him already. He thought of princesses in fairy tales and the spells they bind their fervent suitors by, and he went back to his hotel and lay on the bed. What he heard was the sound of someone clipping their toenails on the balcony next door. He lay and listened, each clip nicking his mind, holding it pinched there. He lay there and listened and thought he might kill the owner of the toenails but he was unable to get up and close the door.
A line of pain snaked up his neck and across his head. He had been sitting on a wall with her, his head clamped in her direction for hours. He had not wanted to waste a second, to give up the sight of her for even a moment. She had fiddled with her bag, and her book, not looking at him unless to fix his eyes with hers to make a point known. She was, she said, really going. He had to take this in. She was sad, but we are all sad from time to time. The sand in the egg-timer had run out. Her feet were restless. At night they moved in her sleep of their own accord and when she woke her legs were tired and aching. She must not ignore this. She could not account for this restlessness in her. She agreed with him that it made her unhappy, but she could not stay. At least, she said, I no longer romanticise it. There is that to be said.
Where dat orange? Where dat perseverence?
Persevere. A man. A white dog. A frangipani. An orange. The river seine. The train. Toenails. Neck. Sad. Restless. Princess.
A man sits on a park bench, wrapped in a tired raincoat the colour of wet putty. His trouser cuffs are sodden and his hands are clasped childishly in his lap. He looks down into them. They might be someone else's. To the left, geese run in a line, beak to tail, like a paper cutting. A white dog splashes through a puddle and looks back in surprise.
The man is thinking of a certain frangipani scent, the way it hung over them in a heavy cloud as they talked. She had on an orange dress, closer to a kaftan than a dress, and had this been anyone else he would have been tempted to laugh. They spoke of the time they walked along the Seine, laughing about the French and their absurd pride. She had taken his arm lightly then, and it did not have a proprietorial feel, but was more like being brushed by a breeze. He loved this about her but wished there was something more substantial, something he could take hold of and keep.
After they spoke she got up and picked a frangipani flower, putting it between the pages of the book she was reading. He craned his neck to see, too late, what the cover told him.
Then she walked in the direction of the station and he remained where he was, not looking up. He sat like this until he knew she would be on the train, shaking out her hair, moving onto the next thing, free of him already. He thought of princesses in fairy tales and the spells they bind their fervent suitors by, and he went back to his hotel and lay on the bed. What he heard was the sound of someone clipping their toenails on the balcony next door. He lay and listened, each clip nicking his mind, holding it pinched there. He lay there and listened and thought he might kill the owner of the toenails but he was unable to get up and close the door.
A line of pain snaked up his neck and across his head. He had been sitting on a wall with her, his head clamped in her direction for hours. He had not wanted to waste a second, to give up the sight of her for even a moment. She had fiddled with her bag, and her book, not looking at him unless to fix his eyes with hers to make a point known. She was, she said, really going. He had to take this in. She was sad, but we are all sad from time to time. The sand in the egg-timer had run out. Her feet were restless. At night they moved in her sleep of their own accord and when she woke her legs were tired and aching. She must not ignore this. She could not account for this restlessness in her. She agreed with him that it made her unhappy, but she could not stay. At least, she said, I no longer romanticise it. There is that to be said.
Where dat orange? Where dat perseverence?