A little late in posting this...a dialogue piece was Week 4's ask. I have a new found respect for screen writers. I normally write quite reasonably freely, but this piece was a different experience. I can best describe the process by explaining I talked aloud frequently and stared out the window frequently. I wrote less frequently......
It was late and Father Henry had been listening to the sins of his flock for the past two hours. He was ready for a pot of hot tea, some supper and sleep.
“Safe here….safe here,” came a whisper on the other side of the lattice.
Father Henry slid the small screen across, stretched his legs and settled himself once more.
“Safe from the fire Father? Am I safe from the fire?”
”Yes son, you are safe here.”
”Good good, I went everywhere you see, everywhere. But the ground kept opening up Father, right there in front of me.”
”Yes there is temptation wherever we go son.”
”Tendrils of red, orange, yellow and blue in the centre Father, the worst flame of all.”
”Have you succumbed to a temptation son? God can absolve your sins if you are ready to confide in him. Perhaps I can give you counsel?”
”This is the only place I am safe Father.”
It was not really a question but Father Henry answered, ”Yes you are safe here in God’s house.”
”Good good, I am tired Father of the running, always running and just when I think it is over, there comes the yawning chasm, licking at my feet. It is alive Father, and horrible. It wants me, it is drawing me in.”
”Perhaps son if you tell me what is tempting you, God can provide you with strength to fortify your soul.”
”My soul?” The man seemed to ponder this question deeply. Father Henry could see the man looking upward possibly at the small relief of Jesus mounted above the lattice. Sometimes it took longer than usual for a person to confess their sins. He had to be patient.
”Yes my soul is a coward Father. Only a coward runs away and hides in a booth. A brave man stands up to his demons.” The man rose abruptly, pushing the curtain aside.
”Oh the heat Father, I can feel it close. I must stay here. Why won’t this curtain close?” The man’s fingers fumbled clumsily at the snagged curtain before it gave way under tension and closed shut once more.
”I can see son you are in great distress, can I not offer you some comfort. Perhaps you could pray with me. ‘The Act of Contrition’, do you know it? No matter I can say it for us both…. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell.”
“Do you think it is hell Father? Come to take me for my sin?”
”I think son that you may confuse the notion of hell with the reality of hell. The ground will not swallow you up if you step outside the church. But your soul will be invited to join God in heaven if you are truly repentent.”
Again the man looked upward pondering this new information.
”I think Father that I must pay for my sin.”
“What sin my son?”
“The prayer Father can you finish it for me?"
“Yes…where was I ..oh yes….But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.”
”It is getting hotter…. I think it is coming for me Father. There is no rest, no escape.” His voice barely a whisper as if any loud noise would bring the pit closer, homing in on the sound of despair.
”My son, you are protected here in God’s house.”
”Then why so hot Father? Look at this, I am sweating clean through my shirt."
”Perhaps son we could have a doctor look at you?”
”The doctor did look at me, he looked deep inside me Father, and he saw it, my cowardly soul. Then it struck out and I ran.”
Father Henry felt the hairs on his arms stand tall and tight. "You have been sleeping rough I see. Perhaps we can offer you a place to sleep and we can talk more in the morning."
"Yes, yes, do you have a marble floor, or stone? Yes that would do, I can lie down and get some rest." He flung open the curtain again and ran to the front of the church. Before Father Henry could join him as his legs were stiff from hours of sitting, the man had curled at the foot of the altar. He rounded the last pew and saw the man was asleep with his hand lightly resting on the clawed foot of the altar, perhaps hoping for the bronzed eagle to surge into the air and lift him high above the flames.
June 06, 2010
June 01, 2010
Week 5- Creative Writing Course
No you are not going mad or abducted by aliens (that old chestnut), I have missed two weeks. I will get to those....soon. In the mean time here is week 5. The 'ask' is to take a strong and simple memory and make it the centrepiece of a story. It should be the only aspect of the story that is real. The exercise is asking us to explore memories as inspiration. Where do we get our ideas?
She danced for him in front of a velvet curtain. Long languid limbs flowing against the soft sway of emerald, designed to be a tantalising combination. Fingers drawing invisible paint strokes delicate and beautiful, illustrating the art of her movement.
But tonight as the dark descended and the moon was master once more he was disinterested.
It was her second dance and already it had lost its appeal.
The first had been a wonderful surprise, a spontaneous private performance, where every gesture, look and movement had thrilled him. Unexpected given most of these affairs started with a surge of frantic passion. This time it had been a slow burn, and he had hoped for a similar sensation for their second meeting.
Instead it was excruciating, contrived, almost boring. It seemed to him to be a banal cliche. There was something staged about it, as if he the audience was being manipulated to believe this was somehow unique.
He searched for a reason, how the two experiences could be so different. He did not realise he was staring at her, lost in the question. Unseeing eyes not focused on arms lifted high to accentuate the arch of the back, each hip taking a turn to play at the beat.
But there was no reason. Their moment was simply done. It could not be held tight to the beating chest. It was lost.
He turned from her, took a slug of whisky, and switched on the TV to catch the last report before European markets closed for the day. He assured himself, "I sleep better alone anyway."
She danced for him in front of a velvet curtain. Long languid limbs flowing against the soft sway of emerald, designed to be a tantalising combination. Fingers drawing invisible paint strokes delicate and beautiful, illustrating the art of her movement.
But tonight as the dark descended and the moon was master once more he was disinterested.
It was her second dance and already it had lost its appeal.
The first had been a wonderful surprise, a spontaneous private performance, where every gesture, look and movement had thrilled him. Unexpected given most of these affairs started with a surge of frantic passion. This time it had been a slow burn, and he had hoped for a similar sensation for their second meeting.
Instead it was excruciating, contrived, almost boring. It seemed to him to be a banal cliche. There was something staged about it, as if he the audience was being manipulated to believe this was somehow unique.
He searched for a reason, how the two experiences could be so different. He did not realise he was staring at her, lost in the question. Unseeing eyes not focused on arms lifted high to accentuate the arch of the back, each hip taking a turn to play at the beat.
But there was no reason. Their moment was simply done. It could not be held tight to the beating chest. It was lost.
He turned from her, took a slug of whisky, and switched on the TV to catch the last report before European markets closed for the day. He assured himself, "I sleep better alone anyway."
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