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“In a yellow rectangle, in the black facade of a house, a woman is laying a table.”
The above is taken from a prose poem by Thomas A Clark entitled by ‘A walk by moonlight’. For August’s comp I would like you to develop this scene in not more than 300 words. Deadline 3rd September as I’ll be away until then.
Perhaps I should make it clear this is just one line intended as a prompt to build a story on, from a collection of poetical, random lines, in a pocketbook entitled ‘Distance and Proximity’.
Sunshine and Shadow (219 words inc. title)
In a yellow rectangle, in the black façade of a house, a woman is laying a table. Her movements are deft and economical…
Wait.
That’s not right.
For a start, that rectangle isn’t yellow; it’s liquid gold. Or maybe it’s a garden of primroses in spring. No. It’s even more than that. It’s molten sunflower petals in a swirl of amber resin. And it ripples, like the flutter of butterfly wings, with just enough resonance to distort the edges of the rectangle. Except it isn’t really a rectangle; it’s a flag launched like a secret on to the breeze. Nor is the façade of the house black; it’s a thousand sails of ammonite adrift on a charcoal sea.
Ah, but the woman. Look at her. You think that what she’s doing is laying a table? It’s so much more than that. Watch. She prides herself on her precision, on her casual mastery. To her, this is a dance – a mathematical ballet. And listen. Can you hear the soft tintinnabulation of silver-plated cutlery on old oak? Or the caress of cool fingertips on vintage cotton? The woman speaks geometry – the language of measurement – framing each place setting with softness and symmetry. A knife, a fork, a spoon, a glass… a curve of condiments.
The shaping of things.
Turning of the Wheel
In a yellow rectangle, in the black façade of a house, a woman is laying a table. Not the sort set for the serving of meat, but one that would see her more trussed and seared than any spit hog.
Candles set: North. South. East. West.
Salt cast for purification.Gaia had fasted for this night of the blood moon, its mellow light falling squarely about the surrounding floor. Amber on black: a powerful pairing. Closing the shutters would smother its magic. Open brought risk of discovery; her naked body deemed vulgar, her acts wicked … unless sought.
Successfully sought.At the foot of each Candle, Herbs, morn-harvested.
Fossil stone.
Owl feather.
Beads of amber.
Brook water, moon-gathered.The wheel of seasons would complete its turning soon, and she must give thanks for her safe journey thus far. Poor Sarah not here to say likewise, cried out by the man who then donned the black cap. Still he sought out the old ways, to deny him as perilous as tending.
In the centre, incense for spirit.
Chalice of silver.
Wand of oak, wind fallen.
Athame, black handled.
Apple, to be eaten entirely.Black Cap had turned to Gaia on hearing whispers of her skills. His wife’s time was nearing, but Gaia had seen death as well as birth. Oh, pray it be not Mary’s or the boy child’s. The gods, they could be sparing, the goddesses kind. And though this was a season for endings, was it not also the doorway to fresh starts? Crone Mother, on my watch, let it be starts.
Incense lit, the smoke rose, curling … widdershins.
An uncoiling of fate? A life spared?Let it be so.
Grant me, I pray, another full turn of the wheel.292 words
Picture Gap
296 words
The woman standing at the dining table carries an unsmiling, get-to-work concentration. Her hair is grabbed into an updo clip, and beneath a lit pendant lampshade she shifts paperbacks from the tabletop into a box, tucking away volumes of sky-blue, white and pink. Beach reads.
The woman, or someone, has chosen Scandi décor for this room. Waxed wood, bone-coloured walls, a straight-edged sofa, no ornament bar a painting of cornered shapes. The space would be soulless but for her, her shoulders square with energy. She seals the box with brown sticky tape, slaps her palms down onto it and tips her head back. Her ribs swell in slow inspirations as if she’s on holiday by the sea.
Outside, a car blazes its headlights through the open slats of a blind. The brightness flattens her features until it is switched off and a man walks in, seeming ready to help though he doesn’t remove his coat. The woman acknowledges him with a nod. While she lifts white dinner plates from a sideboard he picks up a half-full binbag and slides his arm inside. The woman frowns, she pauses. He pulls out a photograph, a flash of white, the cone of a wedding dress. He is shaking the photo at her, its torn edge quivering.
The woman’s mouth is half open but she doesn’t speak, only stares at him rummaging in the bag and finding the picture’s top half. He breaks off some sticky tape.
Her finger is jabbing towards the front door, her mouth is a wide mechanical run of words.
The man drops both halves of the photo, still unjoined, on to the table. With his jaw clamped, he leaves.
The picture’s rip is horizontal. In both halves, parts of the man and woman are touching.
Monthly comp: there’s already three thoroughly inspirational entries this month … I’m heading for the Hull ferry later today, will be back on the 3rd September, hoping to see how others interpret this prompt.
Not quite sure where this was going, but it felt good to respond to a prompt for the first time in ages…
“In a yellow rectangle, in the black facade of a house, a woman is laying a table.”
He could have picked any window, of any house, in any street, with curtains left undrawn. But he decides this is going to be The One.
He could have found her watching TV in the lounge. Cooking dinner in the kitchen. Or reading a bedtime story to her kids in their bedroom.
Night night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.
All he needed was a woman. Illuminated. Visible.
And now he’s found one.
She pauses in the act of setting a knife down in its place. Looks up and out into the black night beyond the glass.
A thrill runs through him, knowing she can’t see him; the glass will show only her own face, reflected back at her.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?
She’s no beauty, the one he’s chosen, but she’ll do.
She’ll have to.
There is not the smallest piece of amusement in her confusion as she stands with a knife in one hand, a fork in the other. Which to the right and which to the left? She knows, of course, but in that moment the answer eludes her. So much hangs on the decision. Once, many years ago, she served water in a glass; put it at his place. For her trouble she suffered a broken wrist. After a long day at work, a man wants beer. It was two days before she was able to set the table again. He said that it was fine for there to be a jug of water. Stupid of her. No doubt her stupidity was why she slipped and fell. And broke her wrist.
Knife to the right. She relaxes, but only a little, because there is another puzzle. In what direction should the spoon be pointed. It is something she has done a thousand times before, far more in fact, but this time she remains uncertain. She returns to the kitchen and consults her mother’s wedding present: a manual for the new wife. Handle to the right, bowl to the left.
The table looks right, even to her stupid gaze. The glass is where he likes it. When she hears his car, she will place a bottle of beer by the glass. He will pour it, because pouring the beer correctly, is a skill she does not possess. When this was established, she had to wear a headscarf and dark glasses.
Back in the kitchen, the stew is simmering; lamb almost falling from the bone. Slices of the plump, white mushrooms, slide past the spoon as she stirs. Almost good enough to eat. She must remember to dispose of the remaining mushrooms tonight.
Innocence
She spread the gorgeous plaid cloth over the table. So many things she could praise the new government for, adding class to the house topped the list. Who knew pigs would be classier than humans? And nicer.
After this, set the table for the pigs and their usual Thursday night guests. Serve dinner, check in every twenty minutes. Life was splendid.
The prime minister’s voice boomed behind her, startling her. The pig, Napolean, walked on his hind legs now, pointed at her. “You’re helping the humans cheat. I wondered all week how Mr. Jones and his idiot friends could have beaten us?”
She stumbled backwards. “Me? I didn’t –”
“Us pigs are superior. Made no sense. I figured it out.”
“I swear –”
“When you come in to supposedly refill our drinks.” He stopped an inch in front of her, glaring down at her, breath stinking of rum. “You’re signaling to them what cards we hold.”
She would never help the humans.
She couldn’t lose this job. She gave the other humans the middle finger when Napolean took over. No way she would find work with them. Or lodging.
She stammered, “Mr. Napolean, you must believe me.”
“The only thing I must do is kick you off my farm.”
“Please –”
“I’ll find a way for you to right your wrong.”
She nodded, beads of sweat on her face. Napolean stormed out.
Why didn’t she flee with Mr. Jones?
Wrinkles spoilt the tablecloth on the pigs’ side, where Napolean sat. She smoothed it. There was a hump under the table’s edge, hidden by the tablecloth.
What could that be?
She knelt. A pack of cards stared back at her.
That cheater. The animals were right – the pigs were the same as the humans.
Word Count: 293 words excluding title
Setting a writing prompt then watching the array of exciting interpretations — six in all!! — flood in as they did this month, confirming there are always many times more than one ‘correct’ answer, I consider one of life’s especial pleasures, but I have to say actuality exceeded expectation by some considerable margin – thank you all!
Seagreen’s observations were wonderfully poetic; mesmerising , in a dreamy sort of way that lit my mind.
Janette’s black magic theme in ‘Turning of the wheel was similarly unanticipated. Large in scope, other-worldly, and all the more intriguing for being way beyond my imaging capability.
Libby’s ‘Picture Gap’ is solidly down to earth in its setting but mind-blowing in the breadths of possibilities of the story it tells – one to stay with me, untangling, over and over, it’s message.
To have prompted Squidge’s rare appearance a particular pleasure, despite (and also because of) the nastiness of the inherent threat.
Athelstone also pounced upon an opportunity to unsettle; the subtlety of the woman’s reactions, her confusion evokes sympathy, and then applause for her discovered strength.
Alex’s ‘Innocence’ twists an already-nasty and familiar tale, forcing us to see the woman in a different light, at the mercy of false porcine accusations.
Obviously, such riches have made it hard to single out one winner, since all strongly merit that title, so I am declaring Squidge the one to take the top spot, and I look forward to discovering how she intends to challenge us.
Thanks for the prompt, Sandra. Enjoyed it this month. And very well done to Squidge. A worthy winner!
Congratulations @squidge A fabulously tense story.
Thank you Sandra for setting such an interesting challenge.
Oh blimey! Did not expect that at all… Wow, thanks, Sandra.
Everyone else’s was fab. Feel a bit of a fraud having popped in here for the first time in ages and getting to set this month’s challenge, but I’ll do my best x
Congratulations to Squidge for winning and to the rest of us simply for being amazing.
Also thanks to Sandra for shooing me in an unexpected direction ☺️
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