Writing exercise: our character at a family event

In a previous writing exercice, we developped a character going through a quarter-of-life crisis. Mine was called Anne-Laure, 27, and worked as a consultant in Brussels. This exercice shows this character in a family gathering.

"So, Anne, what have you done this week?" her mother asked.
"Just the usual" Anne-Laure replied.
"Did you try the recipe I gave you?"
"No, but Louise did". Louise was Anne-Laure's flatmate; her mother's eyes suddenly woke up.
"Oh, wonderful! How did she managed the thing - with the stuffing - did she...?"
But Anne-Laure interrupted her mother.
"I don't know. She did something else. She only got inspired from the recipe. You know I hate mushrooms... She did something else."
"Oh really? What did she replace the mushrooms with?"
"I don't know. I didn't look."
Her mother made her famous irritated look and accompanied it with a disapproving silence. Everyone seemed hung to the words that were not spoken. Until Anne-Laure said:
"Look. I don't like cooking, ok? There is no big deal. It's not like if I could love everything. Dad doesn't like gardening. You don't like ironing."
"As if you liked ironing" Arthur said, but nobody seemed to notice. Her mother continued.
"And you, Arthur, have you cleaned your room?"
He replied, "no. Have you cleaned yours?"
Anne-Laure and Arthur exchanged a mischievious look and their mother laughed.
Proper parents would not laugh, their father thought. In fact, proper parents would scold them. But he didn't speak a word. Instead, he pretented to be absorbed by his plate: he still couldn't identify what he was eating. He didn't mind her wife to be a cordon-bleu, but did she have to make things so complicated? It took her hours to get this meal together, and he was hungry. He would have been satisfied with a sandwich.
But it didn't matter what he thought, because in the meantime his children had started a conversation about a new TV show. His wife attempted to follow, when really she didn't know a thing about it.
Yet on this latter point, he was wrong. In fact, his wife wasn't even listening to what her children were saying. She was thinking about the recipe her daughter didn't use. What was it with Anne-Laure that made her hate cooking? And what was it with herself that made her feel more connected to her daughter's flatmate than to her daughter herself?
On the other side of the table, Anne-Laure was still talking to Arthur with animation, except that the conversation had switched from a new TV show to TV shows they had discussed before. She was not really thinking about the TV shows either. She was rather thinking about the circumstances that made her watch them. She hated being alone in her flat, she truly hated it. So she watched the television. It made the time run faster. Was it how she would end up? Alone, and watching the television to distract her from the emptiness?
Perhaps she would, but Arthur didn't seem to think so.
In fact, at that precise moment, he was not thinking at all.

A Christmas scene

“Susan, this is for you. Merry Christmas”. Their Mum lifted a small package, too small to attract the interest of the others, but neither Ben nor Susan were fooled. They couldn’t really miss the luxurious wrapping and the Yves Saint Laurent tag. And apparently, they were the only ones to care. Their elder brothers looked numb. They had received their gifts already – by order of age, as it always happened in their family. For the 33rd year in a row, Edward was the first to unwrap his present. Thomas followed him closely. Susan was the third, and Ben was the fourth. Ben had always been the last and the least. He had always hated Christmas, and every Christmas looked as hateful as the other.
Could it have been done otherwise? Could the presents be distributed by order of preference? None of them even imagined such a thing to be possible. It would disrupt the family’s habit to the point of chaos. Similarly, Ben’s two elder brothers couldn’t really receive things that were not in pairs. It had always been that way. When they were children...
Read the full text here.

Writing on Edina's roof

If you happen to speak French...

Here is the link to few stories I am writing in French - hopefully a book. It's the story of three friends going through a quarter of life crisis. Claire is struggling to come to terms with her dissertation; her boyfriend Alban has underestimated the impact of Claire moving in with him; and her best friend, Lucie, is finding out that her dream job is not what she wants to do with her life. Hopefully it ends well; all I can tell is, no one dies.
Though I could kill them all in a car crash in order to save me from the trouble of finding a proper ending...

Brussels arrival

A little square, with me in the middle. None of the surrounding buildings seemed to fit together. The orange house, with its optimistic façade, cheered at me with open windows and flowers in the window-sills. Then the grey flat, sadly glancing at his neighbour. All he had to offer were the satellites of its inhabitants. But at least he was useful, people had their home in him. When I looked behind me I could see a structure of what once must have been an office, but had clearly been abandoned years ago. I could see the building’s frustration about this. Its shadow was so strong that I suddenly felt chilly.

I stood up and ran into a tall building with dark red curtains. The windows were so dusty that I would no longer be able to feel the intimidating tension of the little square. A café, it seemed. A narrow entrance hall where I could hear noises from the room next-door.

A person – was it human? – welcomed me. Where I came from, he asked. Good question, did it matter?
- Of course it matters! he roared, in Portuguese, it is the only identity you have in this city!

It was like I had to pass an exam and had just lost my crib note. Where did I come from? My lips tried hard to spell it out but my brains opposed. The person, who rather looked like a horse, stared at me so violently that I had to come up with something.

Belgian, I whispered.
- BELGIAN?! the horse neighed. WRONG! – in Hungarian this time.
How can that be wrong? I am in Brussels, which is the capital of…
- No-one is Belgian here, and you certainly aren’t!! - Was it Polish that he spoke now?
…well, then, Danish? I brought up.
The angry horse gave me a suspicious look, but said ‘fine’. I followed him into the noisy bar area.

Walking behind him I could see that his bottom – or was it his back? – was striped like a zebra. He directed me through a chaos of loudly talking entities to an empty chair, placed around a big round table. The smoke was so think that I could only define my neighbours’ silhouettes. The clouds hang just around the entities’ heads so I could only see their hands on the table, holding all kinds of glasses with strangely coloured beers. I followed their arms up to their shoulders and necks, but could I not see their heads. No matter how hard I tried to concentrate, it was not possible to define the language that was spoken.

I will bring you a Duvel, the horsezebra said, and disappeared.

Before I could think of something to say to join the conversation a sheep’s nose bumped into my ear.
- New here?
Si, I said, as I thought it was speaking Spanish.
- Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.
Just when I tried to find an answer the sheep turned back from me to take sip from its beer.

Mr Tonto Tonto

Create this character. Mr Tonto Tonto - 87 years old – pensioned pipe maker – He has the sharpest memory in the world, and he remembers the future.

That pipe was no usual pipe. No, indeed, child, no pipe was ever made that resembled this one. First of all, you have to know that it was pink. I made the chamber with pink ceramic, I stemmed it with pink marble and I surrounded with pink glass – yes, glass! Why not? Indeed this pipe was meant to be fragile, like happiness is. Because happiness is fragile, child, it is fragile… And this pipe was about to make his user the happiest man in the world. It was a happy pipe. That is why it was pink and surrounded with glass. I signed it with my name, T.T., because that is my name, I am Tonto Tonto.
But about this pipe. It was not so dissimilar to the one I made for your father when he got married. Except your father didn’t like pink; your mother did, but she didn’t like pipes. So I made it black, but black isn’t a good colour for happiness, that is why your father was to be less happy than the owner of the pink pipe. I still signed it T.T., because it is my name, I am Tonto Tonto, and it was still a happy pipe. And you haven’t seen your father very unhappy, have you, child? So imagine how happy the owner of the pink pipe will be.
You can only imagine, because I don’t know who will own the pink pipe yet. What do you mean? No, I haven’t sold it yet. In fact, I haven’t made it yet. Is that a problem with you, child? I will tell you what a problem with me is. You young people never want to hear about the past. All you can think about is the present. But the past, you don’t care about. Let me tell you child, that if you had cared about the past, you would have known what my pipes have done, how great a happiness they have created. They were all meant to create happiness, but people always want them made in black so it doesn’t always work.
Let me tell you this. Out of the 2431 pipes I have created, only 567 have made people unhappy. Only one of them made its owner really, really unhappy. But it doesn’t matter anymore because he is dead. He died of a heart attack right there, outside the shop, because that is where he died. Someone mugged him for the pipe. It wasn’t a happy pipe. The owner wanted it made out of two pieces of wood, one black and one almost black. He insisted, so I made it out of two pieces of wood but I told him it was not to be a happy pipe. I also knew that the pipe would break when the owner would be mugged, but I didn’t tell him that, because otherwise he wouldn’t have bought it, and that pipe would have been mine, and I didn’t want to be unhappy. Don’t look at me like that, the pipe really did make his owners unhappy. Take the mugger, for example. He tried to glue the pipe back together when he realised it was broken. Instead he glued his hand to the pipe, and he had to go to the hospital… And the hospital called the police. So that made him really unhappy. I knew it would make him unhappy. That is why I didn’t sign the pipe with my name. I signed it N.H. instead, that is for Not Happy, because the pipe was not happy.
Now, child, if you want, I might tell you more about my pipes. I have a sharp memory for pipes, the sharpest memory in the world of pipe makers. Other pipe makers do not remember all the pipes they have created, but I do, those that I sign and that I don’t sign, with my name T.T., because that is my name, I am Tonto Tonto.

Anna is gone

- OH MY GOD!
All the girls looked up from the plates full of waffles and jam. The voice came from the door, previously closed, but now wide open. There stood a girl. And... it looked like... Anna. But no, that would just be impossible. Anna was gone. But this girl has great similarities to Anna, just that everything was different. Anna's hair used to we light brown and straight, a bit greasy hanging down on her shoulders, over the grey sweater with a hood and zipper she used to wear with blue jeans like verybody else.
This girls' hair wasn't greasy, it was blonde and huge, and she wasn't wearing anything like the clothes they normally wore at this school. Instead, she wore a too-big, red dress: a grown-up woman's dress, not really fitting a 14 year old. To that, she was wearing black boots, like a military, and green socks. And there was something over her left eye. A line. Looked like somebody drawn a white line across her eyebrow and forehead. Was it a scar?
She stood there in the door with her arms stretched out like she wanted to hug them all, and she repeated her message:
- OH. MY. GOD.
It was completely silent in the room. Nobody was eating, waffles fell down from the girls' hands, down on the table. Confusion. Insecurity. They started looking at each other, desperately, seeking consensus on how to react to this. Nobody wanted to the initiative. Who would dare to take the first step, pose the question?
Finally, it was Sarah, the most confident of them all, who did it. Carefully, like she was stepping on a mine-field.
- A-nn-a...? Is that... you?
Everybody stared again at the girl in the door. Nobody dared to even blink their eyes, waiting for the reaction.
And then:
A secret smile developed into a real smile from one side of her face to the other. The close her eyes and started to giggle. And...
she nodded.
They all realised at once. Screaming in high pitch they ran up to her to hug her and kiss her and soon they all were standing around Anna, begging her:
- Tell us, tell us PLEASE!!
- OK, Anna said. I will tell you...

The meaning of the Lost and Found

Martha believed that everything happened for a reason. Whose plan it was, she could not tell; she usually thought “fate” or “destiny”, not daring to make a higher mention. Sometimes good things happened and sometimes it was bad; but at least she slept peacefully, knowing that someone, somewhere, had a plan for her for the next day, let alone for the rest of her life.
And most of the time she was right: someone did have a plan for her on the day after. She worked in an administration and that person was her boss.
Martha could have spent the rest of her days like this, waiting for her fate, yet a question bothered her. A small, meaningless question, which kept creeping inside her mind: was there any meaning to the things she lost? But she did not worry much, as she thought that destiny would provide her with an answer when it had planned to do so.
That was, until she lost her keys at the office. That day, she thought it was fate, and that the answer would soon be revealed. So she stayed at work to look for her keys. All evening, she searched and searched and searched, and when she eventually found her keys, she kept searching for signs of something extraordinary waiting to happen. Yet nothing happened. It was very disconcerting.
To an outsider, this could just seem like a loss of time. Yet to Martha, it was different. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps she had escaped from something terrible, something that would have happened if she did not stay in the office. She might have been part of an accident on the way home, for example. Or perhaps there wouldn’t have been an accident, but this was all part of a bigger plan, which she just couldn’t understand at that moment.
Yet perhaps it didn’t mean anything at all.
So that night she started to think about it before she went to sleep. The morning did not provide her with an answer, so on the night after, she couldn’t sleep at all. Then she couldn’t find any meaning to the fact that she was not sleeping, and it only made it worst.
Soon, she was so tired that she didn’t even look for signs anymore. Nothing was happening to her and she wondered whether she might have been wrong, or only partially wrong. Maybe some things happened for a reason, and other things didn’t mean anything. After all, the files of her destiny must have been extremely complicated to take care of, if the person who managed it had to take into account all the interconnections and interdependences of one event on the other. One week later, the question still bothered her and she couldn’t even lift her eyes from the pavement.
It was then that she noticed a sparkling thing lying next to her feet. Had it always been there? She didn’t know, but today she noticed it. Or rather, the fact that she had lost her keys then been unable to sleep embodied her with the power of finding the object. It was a set of keys which did not belong to her. Another person’s loss. Fate was sending her a message.
So she happily took the keys and went to the office, relieved to see that things did happen for a reason after all.
The fact that no one ever came to ask for the keys did not bother her.

One hundred words of solitude

He was sitting with his back leaning on the entrance door.
- Don't leave. – He said.
He hugged her knees as she tried to pass by him.
- I have to go to work. – She said.
- If you leave now you will never come back.
His tears fell on her shiny shoes. He saw the future in the shaking marbles.
- Let me go. – She said.
There is always a moment when you stand up. He stood up.
She kissed his wet face and closed the door behind her.

The person in me

- You treat me like this because you don't see the individual in me. You look at me, and all you see is breasts, thighs, pure flesh. If you could see me for who I am, if you could see the person in me, you would want to be my best friend. You are trapped by your animal instincts. You should try to focus on my inner values.

- Well, that's exactly what I'm doing. – The butcher said, and removed the chitterlings of the chicken with his knife.

Quickie

The elevator door closes. Trapped for ten floors. Me and him. Eyes towards the ground. My elbow at his arm. Coincidentally. Focus on this point of contact. Physical. Streaks of electricity along the paths of my nerves. Up my arm. Reaching my breasts. Reaching my flesh. Muscle tension, miniature shivers. Tiny hairs erected. Holding my breath. His arm shifts away. The connection has been broken. Looking up, pupils wide. Brown eyes staring back. Unfamiliar. "Have we met before?" No, not really.

I am scared

"I am scared," she said.

"Scared? Why should you be scared?"

"Well, shouldn't I be?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

The young woman took a deep breath. "That night. The body. This… This thing..."

"Which body? Which night?"

"You were there. I remember you were there."

"You are talking nonsense."

"It is the truth! I swear! He is after us, he will kill us all…"

"Nobody is trying to kill you."

"I am scared. I am so scared." And the woman said nothing more, but decided to close her eyes, so the murderer would not recognise her.

(100 words)

Love and trust

- Love is to not trust, she said, lying down, eyes closed, with him beside, looking at her.
- How?
- If you know you will be loved forever, what's the need to love someone back?
She looked sad. He found her incredibly beautiful.
- It will happen to us too.
- No! I love you always, he said, and kissed her. She opened her eyes and kissed him back. His eyes were closed now.
- Never trust someone who kisses with eyes opened, she said afterwards.
- I wasn't looking, he said surprised.
- But someday you will.