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I thought July’s challenge could be a free choice of subject matter and genre, but to add a little twist to the task your entry must contain a reference to a cooking pot of your choice (saucepan, frying pan etc.) and the words,
Shadow
Bridge
Trinket
Word variants of the above are also ok.
Be funny, be scary, be mysterious, be whatever takes your fancy, but remember to keep the word limit to any amount, up to 500 .
An explanatory note: I saw an exercise which asked for story without verbs and wanted to give it a go, so that’s what I’ve attempted here.
A Delivery
Inside the shadowed arch of a canal bridge: a half circle of water-drips and their echoes, drops and plops, plips, a full saucepan of water on the towpath, someone’s rubbish, new drinking supply for the ease of local rats. And a large upright shape too, a half-hidden man, perhaps also a local rat, his cigarette smoke a grey cloud under the brickwork.
Not yet the rendezvous, the handover. Soon but not yet, minutes not hours for the package. Who the giver and who the receiver?
The man’s hands: empty but for the cigarette in one and a lighter in the other. His breath warm and nicotined on the bridge’s cold bricks. A convenient spot, this, for a puff, for another coffin nail, a layer of tar on the arch, homely like the yellow-brown ceilings of pubs. But no pub gangs for this man, nor wide boys nor spivs. Independent operator. Self-reliant.
Ears open. Footsteps on the road above and their halt on the crown of the bridge. A whistle from on high, tuneful, Greensleeves, and a question inside our man. A tune too casual by half? Too jaunty? Anyhow, a communique.
The packet, a drop, here on a string, a rectangle of newspaper-wrap below the curve of the arch, a dangle against a nearly black moonless night. A penknife from our man’s coat pocket, a snip, a grab of the packet. Footsteps above, then distant footsteps, then no footsteps. Solitude again.
No reflection from the canal; no sound from anywhere. But even so: caution. The packet – now in a coat pocket, now out of the pocket for a check, for confirmation. Inside the cover of tabloid newspaper, a jewellery box. A sleek beauty. And the man’s expectation? Diamond drop-earrings, expensive tickles for some woman’s neck, but not too costly, not rare. Sellable.
In the shadow of the bridge, a flame from his lighter. Vision. What delicate hinges, what soft velvet, a luxury pillow for of a sparkle of– . A dull shine. Paste in a tin setting. The thing of highest value? His fingerprints.
Trinkets in the mud at the bottom of the canal, anger in his chest. The towpath: route to a supposed safe-house, invisible from the bridge but within his reach, his mindset, his circle of choices for revenge.
382 words
“Season to taste”
I could say it started as a joke, except I knew, at that age, Suze and I were, a bit self-consciously, aiming to bridge the gap between our schoolgirl selves and the mysterious, scary-but-enticing grown-up world we were bracing ourselves to enter.
Both of us were in top English. Read our homework to each other, critiqued (a more grown-up, more carefully-applied process than ‘criticise’) and praised (more or less sincerely) to our mutual benefit. Where we differed was while Suze also did Chemistry and Physics, I did Art. Was in the top group there too.
We also shared and exchanged books. Not only each other’s but also those belonging to our parents. With permission, usually, but also the ones they aimed to hide. The ones with lots of s*x. Suze was ahead of me with that. Not that she’d actually DONE anything, but her parents were less … inhibited, less secretive and more widely read than mine. Something Suze took full advantage of, beginning to write what she claimed would be her debut novel. She let me read it bit by bit when she was more or less happy with it. I thought it at least as good as most of what her mother read. Even so, I was surprised when, after weeks of prevaricating, she announced she was going to self-publish it.
‘Don’t you have to be, you know, over eighteen?’
‘I’m using Flora’s account.’ Flora her “giddy aunt” ‘And not my own name.’
‘And what about things like proof-reading?’
‘You’ve read it. Pointed out the mistakes.’
‘Yeah but …’
‘What I want you to do is paint something for the cover.’
Aah. I’d read her novel, yes. Her words put pictures in my head. Shadowy, and where experience couldn’t provide, they sparked my imagination more than a bit more scarlet. Plus, I did have one major advantage: the Life Drawing group I’d been going to for the past six weeks (claiming I was seventeen). We had male and female models. All ages. All naked. Lots of different poses. I was always being told I had talent, and was sure I could more than cobble something indicative of the clandestine trinkety nature of Suze’s story.
Reading my glee, Suze frowned, ‘You can’t have, you know, full frontal … or, or actual!‘
‘No, but I can … suggest. That kitchen table scene, for example. . A well placed tagine pot, ladles –‘
Suze shrieked, ‘And spice jars!’
‘Gives you some scope with your title.’
I’d already decided which of the models I’d ask to pose for me. Give me scope to enlarge upon my experience
[436 words]
Warning for occasional strong language
Don’t ever cross a crocodile.
Back when Chubby was chubby and not six inches taller than me and good looking, his nan died, and he went to the funeral. Afterwards, we met up near his gaff and he was in a bit of a moody with me.
‘All your fault, Teabreak, you twat!’ he goes.
‘Woss that then,’ I say, and I offer him a Number 6 to make up for whatever terrible thing I’d done.
‘Ta!’ he says. After a couple of puffs he says, ‘I burst out laughin’ and only just managed to pretend I was cryin’ but I reckon mum had me sussed.’
We was standing on the foot bridge just east of where the trains come out of Liverpool Street. Sometimes we play a game that Chubby reckons is from Winnie the Poo, where we chuck our fag-ends onto the top of the engine then dash to the other side to see if they’re still there. I aint read any of that, but I’m beginning to suspect Chubby might have got it wrong. Any-old-how, this particular day, I’m wondering why it’s my fault that he can’t control himself in public.
I mean, I liked his nan. She was a nice old girl. We used to go round after school, and she’d cook us bacon sandwiches. She had this big iron pot thing which she used for everything from fried eggs to stews. Called it her Dutch oven. That was quite funny I suppose.
‘Was it her cooking pot?’
A train goes under us. We throw our fags down and dash to the other side. Total failure.
‘What the fuck are you on about?’ he says.
‘Was it her cooking pot thing that made you laugh?’
‘Course it wasn’t you pillock. What’s funny about a cooking pot?’
I wish I had a nan. I aint even got a proper mum. Well, I got Brina and Larry. Brina’s OK, but Larry don’t hide the fact he wants me gone.
‘Well, was it her trinkets and stuff? You know, all that crap she had in a cash box that she reckoned was real diamonds. We both laughed about that.’
‘No,’ says Chubby, ‘it wasn’t that. Give us another fag, pal.’
I must be feeling unusually generous, because even though it’s his turn I pass him another and light us both up.
‘Well?’
Chubby sighs. ‘They read her favourite poem, the one that begins “Don’t ever cross a crocodile.”’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say, ‘she liked that. I quite liked it. She was always telling us that one.’
‘Well, I remembered what you said that time. “Don’t ever pork a porcupine.” As soon as I thought it, I couldn’t help myself. I squealed like a fucking donkey.’
I look at him, shading my eyes so I can see him. ‘Not me mate. That was Binksy who said that.’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ he says.
‘That’s OK,’ I say.
A train passes under us, and we throw down our fag ends.
496 words without title
Only three entries but what a selection!
All expertly written and cleverly presented is evidence that Den of Writers contains a wealth of experienced and skilled writers.
- Wow Libby what a wonderfully executed piece of verb-less writing; plus a well-crafted opening sentence as well.
Richly descriptive but without verbs, the shorter sentences added the sense of furtiveness and secrecy to the scene.
The imagery fairly flowed and cleverly captured the sights, sounds and scents of above and below the bridge.
So many wonderful phrases. A few of my favourites were
His breath warm and nicotined on the bridge’s cold bricks.
Inside the cover of tabloid newspaper, a jewellery box. A sleek beauty.
In the shadow of the bridge, a flame from his lighter. Vision.
It felt as though I were there, watching everything unfold.
- Sandra
You opened a perceptive and nostalgic window into a teenage memory of a friendship and shared experience and at the same time cleverly encapsulated that teenage enthusiasm and curiosity about transitioning into adult hood.
I could feel the passion and confidence and camaraderie radiating from both characters.
‘you can’t have , you know full frontal …… ‘
‘no but I can …suggest’
I smiled reading this entry and also remembered some of the more colourful escapades of my youth too.
- Ath
Your entry, was in turn, sad, funny and endearing.
‘Chubby was chubby and not six inches taller than me and good looking, his nan died, and he went to the funeral.’
‘I offer him a Number 6 to make up for whatever terrible thing I’d done.’
Like Sandra’s, a snapshot trip into a time that stirred similar memories of years gone by for me. I smiled at the poo sticks analogy – I’m sure we’ve all done something similar with items other than sticks.
You cleverly created a sense of innocence coupled with a devil may care attitude and peppered with forbidden smoking, swearing, and near the knuckle jokes often shared by youth. Expertly done. Most enjoyable.
Choosing a winner to carry the baton over to the August competition has not easy because there were many clever nuances to consider about each offering. I wanted them all to have winning place, each for different reasons.
Commiserations to both Ath and Sandra as both your entries were top notch too but in the end, by a whisker, I nominate Libby for such an innovative verb-less entry.
Congratulations Libby – what an interesting verbless exercise, one I’d like to attempt sometime and which you managed so smoothly. Thanks to Ath for another entertaining Teabreak episode. And to Terrie for both the challenge and the summing up. The being stretched into a maybe new direction is so good for my writing, shame more Denizens can’t find time to enter.
Thank you, Terrie! This is lovely surprise, and I’m pleased you liked my story.
I really enjoyed Sandra’s and Ath’s stories too. So lifelike. Thank you both of you for being such excellent competitors.
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