Jelly Writers (December)

Really productive hour at the Jelly Writer’s Club tonight.

Writing with different constraints – flash fiction. We were given the inspiration of the six word novel, often attributed to Ernest Hemingway:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

((Reminds me of Jimmy Carr’s “Dwarf shortage” and “Venison’s dear” short jokes.))

Pretty high bar to aim for.

First assignment was to write a 50 word story with an “Adventure” theme (10 minutes). Quite hard to quickly come up with something that felt like a story in just a few sentences.

Crunching pebbles, the pirates disembarked and pulled the boat ashore below the daunting cliffs. Grapnels were produced and, hand over hand, they ascended. Unsuspecting villages nestled in the distance, they jogged on, cutlasses at the ready. Plundering time. And maybe some other hobbies.

Then the limit was halved to 25 words with “love story” theme. Surprisingly, this made it easier and I had time for a second. One sad story and one more up-beat.

“Do you love me?” Silence.
“You used to.” More silence.
“Have I changed that much?”
She reached out, touching the mirror.
“Please love me.”

 

Heart pumping, he fled then room.
She mustn’t see him leaving the printed card on the table.
“A party for two. Please come.”

Next a different challenge – writing a story where each sentence starts with the next letter in the alphabet – an Abecedarius on the theme of “Going to an art gallery”:

Art galleries had always appealed to him. Beautiful marble sculpture, arranged in cavernous rooms. Carefully hung oil paintings like windows onto another world. Daring installations of iron and silk challenging preconceptions. Everything was exciting and stimulating for him. From the David of antiquity to the Banksy of the modern age, he couldn’t get enough. Given the chance, he would spend all day with these cathedrals of creativity.  How the brush strokes, the chiselling, the light and dark, drew into a different world. Inside the halls, he would stroll for what seemed miles, his mind unaware of the time, or the other people around him. Just once, he hoped they would miss him and lock the doors for the night leaving all the exhibits there to be experienced anew in the gloom. Knocking on the door, he impatiently demanded entrance. “Let me in,” he mentally called out. Mercifully, 10 o’clock finally struck in the tower across the square and the gallery was his for the next eight hours. New exhibits in the south wing were the priority before soaking up his favourites. Old masters.  {{out of time}}

All good fun.

 

 

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