I Have a Challenge for You
Sep. 2nd, 2010 10:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
raeschaeSo I was hanging out with my BFF tonight and she was telling me about this assignment she gave her sophomore English classes (taken from an some online source that I didn't bother to ask her for until I realized I didn't have anyone to credit). It sounded interesting, so I thought I would throw it out and see if anyone else might be inclined to try it. No pressure, no boundaries or limits. Just a fun little exercise in creating an interesting character through minor details.
Writing Exercise: Creating Character Details.
The most interesting characters come alive in the smallest details: a favorite food, a favorite type of music, a fear of spiders, an allergy to plums, a scar from a fall at two years of age, a love of reality television. These details are what makes a character three dimensional and human. They may seem mundane, but think about what defines you as a person. Is it the grand events in your life, or the day to day? These details of the small add a layered richness beyond the world of the story. The more you know about your characters, the deeper the well you have to draw from, the more specifically you can write for them.
This character development exercise allows you to create the details of the small for your characters.
What's In Your Bag?
Empty out the bag you use most regularly, whatever you take with you when you go out. If you don't carry a bag, think about how you carry what's necessary - what's in your pockets? Write out in a point form list each item in that bag. Why do you carry each item? What purpose does it hold in your life? Is there anything emotional (such as a letter from an old girlfriend) in your bag? Is everything in your bag strictly functional? Is there anything in your bag that shouldn't be? Look at the bag itself. Why did you choose it? How long have you had it? Do you need a new one?
Once you've answered all the questions, look back at what you've written. What does your bag say about you? What is expected about your answers? What is unexpected?
Now, apply the same process to the main character in whatever project you are working on. Give this character a bag. What does the bag look like? Why does the character carry this bag? If the character definitely wouldn't carry a bag, create the reason why. How do they carry what's necessary for their day? How old is it? Is this character the type of person who can't leave the house without a huge bag? What do the items in the bag help the character to do? Is there anything job related in the bag? Based on what you know of the character, what items in the bag are expected? Put one thing in the bag which is unexpected. What does that unexpected item say about the character? What does this bag tell you about this character?
A Moment in Time
Now write a moment that takes place in the world of your story involving this character and their bag.
Exploring the world of the small in your characters is always going to give you a wealth of material to work with.
---
This is my offering:
Emptied into a gray plastic bin, the contents of his pockets seem random and disconnected.
His wallet - sixty-three dollars in cash, a few credit cards, library, gas, and coffee cards, his SAG and insurance cards, photos of his family - sits next to his cell phone, ear buds and the scuffed up flip-flops he always wears when he flies.
Next to that, his simple, black carry-on - the one he's owned since he hopped a plane to California when he was 18 - contains a change of clothes, an e-Reader loaded with books he keeps meaning to read, a plastic baggie of homemade trail mix he threw together last night, and the note that was waiting for him on the kitchen table when he headed out this morning.
There's a smaller tray behind that for his keys, eighty-seven cents, his watch, and a platinum ring that he already feels naked without even though he only took it off a second ago. His laptop has been checked and sent to wait for him on the other end of the conveyor belt.
As many times as he's done this, the number now reaching into the hundreds, it never gets less annoying. It never feels more normal. Seeing the things that he can't live without, the things that he has to keep close in case of an emergency, always makes his life seem more insignificant than he feels like it is. Flying always makes him more appreciative of what he's leaving behind and what he's heading toward at the same time.
Once his pockets are re-stuffed and he's loaded down like a pack mule once again, he makes the short trek to his gate just as first class begins to board. He pulls his pass from his pocket and offers it to the attendant with a smile. Stowing his bag overhead, he grabs the note out of the front pocket and then settles into his seat to read.
By the time the stewardess begins her in-flight instructions, he's smiling to himself and reading the note for the fifth time. This is what ties all of the random, disconnected pieces of his life together and makes them mean something.
---
I can't wait to see what you guys come up with!
Writing Exercise: Creating Character Details.
The most interesting characters come alive in the smallest details: a favorite food, a favorite type of music, a fear of spiders, an allergy to plums, a scar from a fall at two years of age, a love of reality television. These details are what makes a character three dimensional and human. They may seem mundane, but think about what defines you as a person. Is it the grand events in your life, or the day to day? These details of the small add a layered richness beyond the world of the story. The more you know about your characters, the deeper the well you have to draw from, the more specifically you can write for them.
This character development exercise allows you to create the details of the small for your characters.
What's In Your Bag?
Empty out the bag you use most regularly, whatever you take with you when you go out. If you don't carry a bag, think about how you carry what's necessary - what's in your pockets? Write out in a point form list each item in that bag. Why do you carry each item? What purpose does it hold in your life? Is there anything emotional (such as a letter from an old girlfriend) in your bag? Is everything in your bag strictly functional? Is there anything in your bag that shouldn't be? Look at the bag itself. Why did you choose it? How long have you had it? Do you need a new one?
Once you've answered all the questions, look back at what you've written. What does your bag say about you? What is expected about your answers? What is unexpected?
Now, apply the same process to the main character in whatever project you are working on. Give this character a bag. What does the bag look like? Why does the character carry this bag? If the character definitely wouldn't carry a bag, create the reason why. How do they carry what's necessary for their day? How old is it? Is this character the type of person who can't leave the house without a huge bag? What do the items in the bag help the character to do? Is there anything job related in the bag? Based on what you know of the character, what items in the bag are expected? Put one thing in the bag which is unexpected. What does that unexpected item say about the character? What does this bag tell you about this character?
A Moment in Time
Now write a moment that takes place in the world of your story involving this character and their bag.
Exploring the world of the small in your characters is always going to give you a wealth of material to work with.
---
This is my offering:
Emptied into a gray plastic bin, the contents of his pockets seem random and disconnected.
His wallet - sixty-three dollars in cash, a few credit cards, library, gas, and coffee cards, his SAG and insurance cards, photos of his family - sits next to his cell phone, ear buds and the scuffed up flip-flops he always wears when he flies.
Next to that, his simple, black carry-on - the one he's owned since he hopped a plane to California when he was 18 - contains a change of clothes, an e-Reader loaded with books he keeps meaning to read, a plastic baggie of homemade trail mix he threw together last night, and the note that was waiting for him on the kitchen table when he headed out this morning.
There's a smaller tray behind that for his keys, eighty-seven cents, his watch, and a platinum ring that he already feels naked without even though he only took it off a second ago. His laptop has been checked and sent to wait for him on the other end of the conveyor belt.
As many times as he's done this, the number now reaching into the hundreds, it never gets less annoying. It never feels more normal. Seeing the things that he can't live without, the things that he has to keep close in case of an emergency, always makes his life seem more insignificant than he feels like it is. Flying always makes him more appreciative of what he's leaving behind and what he's heading toward at the same time.
Once his pockets are re-stuffed and he's loaded down like a pack mule once again, he makes the short trek to his gate just as first class begins to board. He pulls his pass from his pocket and offers it to the attendant with a smile. Stowing his bag overhead, he grabs the note out of the front pocket and then settles into his seat to read.
J-
1. Call me when you land.
2. Kill the audition.
3. Don't miss me too much.
-J
By the time the stewardess begins her in-flight instructions, he's smiling to himself and reading the note for the fifth time. This is what ties all of the random, disconnected pieces of his life together and makes them mean something.
---
I can't wait to see what you guys come up with!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
unbeta'd and probably crap, but you asked (2.0)
Date: 2010-09-03 03:29 am (UTC)“No worries ma’am, I have all the time in the world. ‘Sides it seems you’re in need of a moment of rest.” I let my Texas show, slurring my words to sooth the frantic woman. She smiles at me and her finely trimmed right eyebrow rises toward her hairline.
“Tell me ‘bout it.” She’s digging in her purse, deep as the day is long, filled with all the items that make her life complete. Items that make her competent enough to manage the young boys she’s caring for. Each time she reaches into her bag, I find that I’m holding my breath about what will emerge. A quick scan of the counter reveals items I’m all too familiar with: ipod with a tangle of earphone cords messily strewn about, sunglasses, smart phone, and keys upon a tiny ring with a simple purple plastic keychain.
More exotic items are being extricated form the confines of the bag. Items I never, in my wildest dreams, could have imaged a person would actually carry around with them: a rubber duck, half eaten carrot stick, deflated and dirtied toxic green tennis ball and finally she pulls a beaten down wallet. She snickers at the impressed look I give her after taking inventory of the trinkets on the counter.
“Looks like I need a smaller purse, eh?” She muses, pulling coupons out for 50 percent off of Oscar Mayer’s hotdogs and 25 cents off of Kellogs’ corn flake cereal and handing them to the exasperated cashier. I feel the presence of you behind me, finally having returned from picking up the last minute coffee grinds we decided on that were almost forgotten due to my getting distracted by the candy isle.
“Nah… maybe just trim the fat a bit. That all can’t be necessary.” I answer her rhetorical question
“All this junk keeps me them happy.” She points to the two boys who are now seemingly being good little angels for their mommy. “So I keep it all on hand. Happy boys are quiet boys.” She slides her bankcard and I look away, giving her the privacy of paying without prying eyes.
“I understand that.” I sigh mock-mournfully and reach for the coffee in your hands and hold it as evidence of what keeps you happy. She narrows her eyes, deciphering what I meant without asking for clarification. She then nods once, understanding after having spotted our matching silver bands on the third finger of our left hands. The finger that indicates we’re bound to another for eternity, and damned happy to be.
“Ah, the big boys need treats to be kept in good moods as well.” She’s collects her receipt from the cashier and begins ushering her boys towards the door. “Have a good evening guys.” She smirks as you start to search your pocket for the coupon you swear you brought that offers one dollar off Foldgers thirty two ounce container of coffee grinds.
Re: unbeta'd and probably crap, but you asked (2.0)
Date: 2010-09-03 03:35 am (UTC)a rubber duck, half eaten carrot stick, deflated and dirtied toxic green tennis ball and finally she pulls a beaten down wallet I love these items - such a mom's purse!
This made my heart happy: Happy boys are quiet boys.” She slides her bankcard and I look away, giving her the privacy of paying without prying eyes...“I understand that.” I sigh mock-mournfully and reach for the coffee in your hands and hold it as evidence of what keeps you happy.
Re: unbeta'd and probably crap, but you asked (2.0)
Date: 2010-09-03 03:38 am (UTC)Re: unbeta'd and probably crap, but you asked (2.0)
Date: 2010-09-03 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 04:28 am (UTC)Re: unbeta'd and probably crap, but you asked (2.0)
Date: 2010-09-03 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 05:03 am (UTC)Thanks for posting...and I loved your offering. ♥
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 05:35 am (UTC)She shoves her hands in her back pockets when she finally stands, feeling the comfort of her phone at her finger tips even though she had to turn it off when she entered the ER, key chain shoved hastily into the other pocket, keys half dangling off of the red and sparkly plastic proclaiming to the world that she only looks sweet and innocent, the faded blue lanyard asserting that boys are stupid and rocks should be thrown. She shoves her shoulders up around her ears and feels impossibly young as she follows the nurse past the carefully drawn curtains, sure that she looks far too young to be the emergency contact and sole caregiver for him. She holds back as they near his bed, scuffing her feet on the floor, and she almost doesn’t hear it when the nurse asks if she’s okay.
Of course I’m not “Fine, I’m fine”.
He’s just come out of surgery, and won’t be able to talk to her yet, and they couldn’t find his insurance card, and she nods numbly as she pulls her purple and white roxy wallet out of the front pouch of her oversized hooded sweatshirt, and sorting through bank cards and checks and starbucks cards, social security card and drivers license and faded movie ticket stubs, a dog eared photo of them on the beach she wonders idly when, exactly, she became the kind of grown up that wears jeans and a transformers sweater at 3am to go and stand next to his IV stand and heart monitor, and if this is what being an adult is supposed to feel like.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 06:51 am (UTC)She’s going to be late. Again. Going out with the girls last night had seemed like a good idea, but they had stayed out later than she had hoped and after only five hours of sleep it was time to be at work. Her hair was still wet from a record time shower and her skin smelled vaguely of stale beer and smoke- just the thought made her feel trashy. After less than a month of working at the store she couldn’t afford to be late a third time. There was only so much grace she could expect them to show. Throwing up a quick prayer that the interstate construction was minimal today she jumped in the car and pushed 50 all the way down the street.
After a couple of near misses with lights and other cars she pulls into a parking spot and sprints inside. No one is around to see her so she hopes that she can play off having a project and having been in the back the whole time. Pulling open her locker, she digs in her purse for her magnetic nametag and a breath mint. Anything to get the old liquor taste out. No sooner does she stick her hand in the bottomless-pit-of-doom bag that she lovingly calls her life line does the panic set in. In the rush of leaving the house this morning she forgot to transfer everything from her clutch last night to her everyday purse. She can picture the thing lying innocently wherever it fell, holding everything she needs to feel complete today. Nothing in there would seem vital to anyone else, but without it she feels naked. Incomplete.
All through the day she has rushes of adrenaline when she realizes there is no mascara in her locker to do a touch up after lunch. The chap stick she puts on after a particularly stressful customer does not have her lip indentations in it and feels alien and rough. Her hands get dry around 1- as she has come to expect- but there is no sweet smelling relief for them back in the break room. At lunch she stares off into space without her cell phone to text with, or her planner to agonize over. People have been asking all day why she seems out of sorts, and she can’t seem to explain exactly what it means to not have everything she takes for granted right at her fingertips. When her hair falls in her face for the millionth time there is no emergency rubber band or bobby pin to keep it back. It isn’t until she opens her wallet to make sure that she at least has her license and debit card for the drive home that she has a moment of clarity. There, behind her insurance card, is a picture she had forgotten about. It’s of her and her sister from before she moved away and the tears that come to her eyes are completely unexpected. She makes a note on an old Sonic receipt to call when she gets home after work. It’s another reminder of something- or in this case someone- she takes for granted, but this is something that can be fixed.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 07:00 am (UTC)~#~
When the boys are finally asleep, curled up on clean sheets, Momma comes in. She stops for a moment and gives thanks for the miracle she can see with her own two eyes. The two of them together again. To have him here safe after so long, after struggling not to give up hope, she knows her first response is the right one. To give silent thanks to God that he is here and not.... that he is here. She looks at them curled together on the small bed, the way they used to when they were still small and innocent. Her own boy is miles from small now and all she can do is hope his friend has some shred of innocence left. He is safe now though, with her son curled protectively around him while they both sleep. Finally asleep.
She is a thankful woman but she is also somebodies Mama and that boys clothes are filthy. She retrieves his things to wash them , taking care to empty the pockets in case there is even one thing of value. It's been 4 months and God alone knows were all he has been but she cant imagine there is much to save. Still she is careful.
There is a small handful of change , less than the price of a cup of coffee, most of it pennies and nickels and she wonders for a moment.... did he beg for this money or find it on the streets as he walked?
His wallet is there. The one she herself gave him for his sixteenth birthday . The leather is soft and the brown has darkened almost to black. At first glance it seemed empty there is so little in it now. She opens it her curiosity getting the better of her, needing to see what he carried all this way.
His drivers licence. She remembers how proud they both were when they came in that day showing off this thing that declared them adult enough to drive.
His library card, the same one he got when he was barely old enough to read in the adult section. It should be no surprise he would still have it, the key to his favorite treasures, books.
2 photographs. One of his Mama, just exactly as they all remembered her, before she got so sick. Before she died. The other photo was one she had never seen even though it contained her own boy. It was just the two of them , outside some where, looking at each other the way they always did the last year, as if the only person in the world that mattered was right before their eyes. That was all. It brings tears to her eyes to know this all he carried from his old life.
She tucks it all back in were it belongs. Folds the wallet closed and sets it on the bedside table , with the meager pile of coins.It will be right there were he can see it first thing .
She gathers his filthy jeans and the t shirt far to thin for fall in the PNW . It isn't much but it is all he needs because he has them and they love him. all of them, and he is theirs now. They will never throw him away.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 09:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:35 am (UTC)Nothing in there would seem vital to anyone else, but without it she feels naked. Incomplete. I love this, especially combined with this: When her hair falls in her face for the millionth time there is no emergency rubber band or bobby pin to keep it back. It drives me CRAZY when I don't have my hair ties!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 11:39 am (UTC)This was fun!
Date: 2010-09-03 11:59 am (UTC)This was really fun.... and useful. I have more often writer's block than not, but this was a good way to start again!
This is what I've come up with: (Totally unbetaed, and I don't remember English words today, so I know there are places where I wanted to write it differently, but I couldn't remember how in English... so yeah.... give me some leeway...)
“Damn,” she curses under her breath and retract the hand she had showed all the way to the bottom of her small backpack. The lady sitting across the aisle from her in the bus shoots her a angry look, but Brenda just doesn’t care. Right now she’s more annoyed with the crumbs stuffed far up under her fingernails, from the half eaten cookie she must have left in her bag some time in the last couple of weeks. She use her thumb to clean out the crumbs that is stuck under her nails but cannot reach the last one that has found it’s way far up under the nail of her index finger. It takes up a little more space than it actually got and it burns. Just a little, but enough to fuel her anger.
It doesn’t take much to fuel her anger these days.
Cindy did it all by herself yesterday when she mentioned Brenda’s too tight fitting jeans, and Steve had been on the brunt side of her anger today when he happened to step out in front of her in the bus line. Once upon a time she would have loved for Steve to step out in front of her, giving her an excuse to start up a conversation with him.
Not today though.
Today she just wanted to be left alone.
She digs her hand down in the dept of the bag again and this time finds the pen she was looking for. She uses the pointy end of the cap clip to remove the last of the crumbs.
She tell herself that the sting of tears in her eyes is just because she dug too deep with the pen cap and that the bleeding under her nail hurts, but she cannot make excuses for the churning feeling in her stomach that’s been there for days.
With unsteady hands, she out the bag down on the floor between her legs, and pull the old beaten notebook up in one fluent movement. She throw a glance across the aisle and give the lady a smile. The look she receives back is one of understanding, and she has to look away before she begins to cry.
She takes one breath, open the book and starts writing.
“Dear diary….”
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 07:37 pm (UTC)ha ha i'm not sure there is more. theres probably not. it's mostly based on a true story, which is actually pretty boring.
thank you for posting the prompt (and encouraging random people to write in your comments!) i used to write for fun all the time and just kind of stopped... it was nice to read a prompt that made me want to write, and even nicer to feel like i had a place to share what i wrote, even if it was short and rambly and not particularly good. thank you for enabling my ass :D
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 09:03 pm (UTC)--
The rain slides down the see-thru plastic of her umbrella and drips to the floor, her already soaked pumps splash into yet another puddle as she wanders along the high street, in no rush to get to her destination. The pathways are pretty much deserted now, pedestrians rushing onwards with purpose whilst others shelter in the doorways or duck into shops to escape the sudden downpour; unprepared for the inclement weather of Britain in the autumn.
The leather strap over her left shoulder is frayed, stitched together and has clearly been re-braided time and time again. The body of the bag, held tightly against her side and sheltered from the rain is battered and worn; threads hanging loose from the soft grey patterned material. Her thumb runs back and forth over the stitching, a mechanism carried out without thought or purpose as she heads towards university. Unlike the others though she is well rehearsed in the delights of sudden downpours and her bag is a treasure trove of goodies.
In the two years of her studies the bag has been there in the cathedral city every step of the way, lugging textbooks, folders, pens and pencils along with providing, in a Mary Poppins-esque manner, umbrellas to shelter her from the rain. It’s seen breaks ups and make ups, all night study sessions in the library with snuck in snacks and days down on the beach, sand lingering in the lining for months afterwards. When she finally ducks into the first University building and is able to rummage in her bag she’ll find body spray with a missing lid, hair ties entangled in the wires of her iPod; receipts and crumpled notes passed between friends during boring lectures and a stick of chewing gum wrapped in shiny silver foil.
The rattle of her keys is accompanied by the soft thud of her purse, it too looking well loved and over used, means another compartment of her bag is being searched through. Now appears a badge proclaiming ’Please speak slowly, I am naturally blonde’, a wristband from the funfair at the weekend and a cardboard beer coaster with a phone number. Whose she has no idea as the ink has long since run.
And finally at the bottom she’ll find tissues to wipe away rain smeared mascara and her makeup tucked into the side pocket, the zipper long bust and now held closed with a safety pin decorated with beads. It might not be a designer bag with a label like Christian Dior, nor does it look like the kind of bag you’d want to stick your hand in without a tetanus shot prior but it does what it needs to do and it does it well. And to her, that’s all that matters.
Re: This was fun!
Date: 2010-09-03 09:05 pm (UTC)A Moment in Time
Date: 2010-09-04 12:48 am (UTC)Then, there's the necklace. He still wears it, even after all the trouble it caused. It's harmless now, Ororo and Dean saw to that. But, before it became their biggest burden, it had been a gift, given so lovingly from the hand of a man he would die for. His lover, his Sammy.
But it's not just his Sammy, is it? In fact, he's not just Sammy's anymore. They're both owned, body and soul, to a man who, while not as powerful as them, gives just as good as he gets where it counts.
Which brings him to the silver throwing dagger in his pocket. It's finely crafted and etched with powerful protective symbols. A gift, or perhaps an offering, from the man who owns him and his Sammy. A man of jade eyes and a stern jaw, body littered with scars from a life too hard, started too young.
Remy never leaves home with out the dagger, playing cards and most certainly not the necklace. The necklace is a bond to his first, his one true only, his Sammy.
Of course...there's always room for Dean...
-------------------
SO! There ya go! I answered! And in less than ten minutes too! (so proud of myself!) Now, I'm going gambling with my mom, dad, aunt and cousin. Wish me luck, babes!
I'm not sure I did this right...
Date: 2010-09-04 01:02 am (UTC)Katie hooks a finger over the end of the purse and pulls it too her.
The left side pocket has a number of legal sized envelopes with neon colored post-it’s intermingled with the boring white paper. She flips through them: credit card bill, magazine offer, two pieces from the University (bearing post it’s with a looping scrawl), something with a Law Office’s return address and something from State Farm. Katie sighed, all that told her was that Gen was busy. She already knew that.
The right side pocket had a pack of gum, two wrappers, three cellophane wrapped peppermints, a napkin and Gen’s cell phone. Katie’s fingers itched to pick up the phone but she was trying to keep her grip on reality not cross-over to stalker land.
Katie’s gaze flicked over to the stairs. She knew Gen was probably going to be out for at least an hour but her curiosity was winning out over propriety. She pulled the center section open and peered inside.
The brown BCBG case held the black pair of sunglasses Katie thought made Genevieve look like a fifties pin-up girl. The checkbook was a necessary evil, at least as far as Katie cared, and the shopping list was just so Genevieve that Katie couldn’t help grinning. The woman loved to organize.
Katie lifted the slim billfold from the purse and flipped the snap open. There was a stack of receipts, fifty seven dollars cash, a bankcard, a Visa, a Target card (and that made Katie laugh). Their recent shopping trip came flashing back to mind and she couldn’t help glancing at the god awful red and khaki “wall art” hanging on the living room wall.
She bit her lip and folded the wallet closed again. She stuck her hand in the purse and unzipped the side pocket. She pulled out a hand full of lip products (three kinds of Chapstick?) and loose coins. She set it down and peeked inside the shallow pocket. There were more coins (all totaling about three dollars) and a lighter. Katie arched an eyebrow since she was sure she hadn’t ever seen Gen smoke.
Katie plucked the post it from under the lighter and unfolded it. The smile on her face made her cheeks hurt. Her phone number was double underlined, surrounded by music notes and there was a flower doodled on the corner. She bit her lip again and looked over at the stairs. “Fuck.” She sighed and put tucked everything back into it’s place in the purse.
She tugged her boots off and padded up the staircase. She crept quietly down the short hallway and leaned in the doorway to Genevieve’s room. She was curled on her side, one arm tucked under her pillow and the other wrapped around the end of it. Katie rolled her eyes at herself for staring and walked over. She sat down as softly as she could and slid behind Gen’s form. She wrapped one arm around her waist and slid the other alongside Genevieve’s beneath the pillow. She nuzzled her neck and sighed as she let her eyes fall to close.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-04 02:18 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you took the challenge AND posted it. I totally understand how scary it can be to put yourself out there and wait to hear what people think about your work. It's kind of a rush when you do, though. At least, it is for me. :D
no subject
Date: 2010-09-04 02:21 pm (UTC)Re: A Moment in Time
Date: 2010-09-04 02:22 pm (UTC)Hope the casino paid off!
Re: I'm not sure I did this right...
Date: 2010-09-04 02:27 pm (UTC)Thanks for playing!
Re: A Moment in Time
Date: 2010-09-05 12:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-06 11:59 am (UTC)This is probably not at all what you were after and it is entirely probably that this makes no sense whatsoever (actually, it probably sucks). I can't do character but I guess if my handbag could talk this is what I'd want it to say -
I'm broken, beaten and torn at the seams. Fraying in places and stretched to breaking point. I'm nothing special, found at a small stall in a large market and bought for too little money from a large man with a larger fake smile. But I'm everything - her life and her lifeline. Everything she needs to get through the day. Her hope and her past and always by her side.
There's a scuff on my front and the zip in the middle that has lost it's tag and has a piece of black cord tied over and over in knots to make something to hold onto. But she needs me.
I've lost count of the amount of pharmaceuticals that are crammed in and pulled out of my front pocket on a daily basis. Too many. Kept in there with a lighter and at least one full packet of cigarettes. She should give up. I've been trying to hint at this by hiding the packet in the torn pocket of my lining but she keeps finding them. One day, maybe.
The middle pocket is her day-to-day, her contrast. Work pass with too many keys and her blackberry she can't stay away from crammed next to her iPod and her little old cheap Nokia phone. No one understands why she keeps two phones but there's a distinction there. I hear it when she defends them. Work and life. So little in her life allows her to seperate the two, with work inevitably taking over most of her awake hours but here she can make the distinction.
Her wallet is here too, every pocket crammed full of cards. Her boat license that she has never used but can't bear to let expire because it was something special she did with her Dad just the two of them. The cards in the front that she uses every day. The Credit Card that is already pushed to breaking. The cards tucked in the back of the pockets that remind her of 'him', that she's still not quite ready to let go of even though it's been over two years.
The back pocket is full of guide and travel books, tickets and planning notes. This is her hope. What has kept her going through the past 6 months. Planning to get away, to leave. I don't know if she's taking me with her or if she's planning on leaving her 'life' behind, even if just for a little while but I know she'll be back.
I carry her life from one place to the next. Across states, across countries and across rooms. One day I'll break, weighed down by the life that she leads and I'll be replaced. But she's strong and she'll carry on without me. She'll find a new life.
no subject
Date: 2010-09-06 01:49 pm (UTC)I love the hiding of the cigarettes in the lining, the boat license and the two phones - what beautiful details.
Thank you so much for doing this!
Re: I'm not sure I did this right...
Date: 2010-09-08 10:06 pm (UTC)