Aurelia Gould

[aurelia-gould]

Int. Café - Day

He had been drawing her for several minutes before she noticed him. He had been sitting two tables away and she was immersed in her book. He was careful not to draw her attention, barely moving his head, carefully lifting only his eyes to catch a glimpse. It was only when she came to the line “we accept the love that we think we deserve” that she lifted her eyes to ponder upon the words. How true, she thought to herself and looked around the café as if to get the silent approval of the other customers. And before he had time to lower his eyes, she spotted him staring at her. It was too late for him to do anything now so he stood there transfixed, her gaze allowing no alternative. She only lowered her eyes momentarily to see what he was holding - it was a small black drawing pad – and then immediately returned to his eyes in case they tried to escape.      There was something familiar about him, even though she had never seen him before. He reminded her of someone – a young Glenn Gould, perhaps, without the wackiness, she thought. He was even wearing a pair of cut-off gloves, like the ones the famous pianist was always wearing in photographs.      After taking him in she decided to lower her eyes back to her book. It was only then that she let a smile form on her lips. And he saw it, and he smiled back. But she didn’t see that. So he continued drawing her and she continued reading her book, or at least pretending to read it, for she was now stuck on that single line without being able to move on, her eyes having to jump back to the beginning of the sentence, again and again, like a broken typewriter. Knowing that a stranger’s, a handsome stranger’s, eyes were fixed on her was making her heart beat faster. She was feeling like the heroine of a romantic comedy. That’s the part in the plot, she thought, where he comes up and hands her the drawing and he looks charming and she’s all smitten. But her life was not a romantic comedy and things like these never happened to mere mortals like her. That last thought wiped the smile off her face. What business did she have day-dreaming like that?     “We accept the love we think we deserve,” she read again. That line had been written for her. She never thought she deserved someone fabulous. In theory she did, but in practice she always second-guessed herself. Like she was doing now. Why would she deserve some handsome stranger finding her interesting or pretty enough to draw her? Suddenly she was mad at herself. She was sick of putting herself down. She would take action. So she looked up again -- just in time to see him stand up and gather his stuff. Her soul sank. Glenn Gould was leaving. He left some money on the table and headed towards the door. She bowed her head in defeat, her eyes returning to the book but not really seeing. Not a minute had passed when the waiter walked up to her.     'Would you like to pay me perhaps?' he said handing her a piece of paper. 'I believe that’s you,' he pointed to the drawing. And before she had time to speak, he flipped the paper to reveal the following message: [Please give it to the girl sitting next to the window]. If you don’t detest it, I’ll be waiting outside the metro entrance.      'Yes, I would like to pay you,' she smiled to the waiter and reached for her wallet. 

[Fiction Writer's Workshop by Josip Novakovich - Exercise]

[aurelia-gould]

How to be alone

Martha was never late for her daily appointment. It didn’t matter that perhaps nobody would really miss her if she didn’t show up. Some might even be disturbed by her presence. She knew that and yet she didn’t care. She felt some sort of ethical obligation. Others might call her obligation religious, but religious she was not. She showed up simply because nobody else would. And she was persistent. And always on time.     Except for today. Today she was running late. Her appointment on the other side of town had taken longer than expected. The outcome had been miraculous but that did not seem to offer her any relief. She was late and that was that. What if today was the day Mrs Walsh decided to come back and no one was there for her? What if she thought she was abandoned and gave up? Martha arrived panting outside room 210. She took a single breath and went in.     The curtains were drawn and the room was burning in noon sun. ’Oh, I know, I know, Mrs Walsh. They simply don’t get it! Let me close them for you!’ Martha had decided that Mrs Walsh hated the sun because she had grown up in the north of the country. ‘You’re looking so much better today. I even spot some color on your cheeks. Yes I do.’ She took a comb out of her handbag and run it through Mrs Walsh’s fringe. ‘Much better, no?’ She then drew a chair near the bed and took Mrs Walsh’s hand in hers. ‘I am so sorry I am late. I hope you weren’t worried. It won’t happen again, I promise. You know I would never leave, don’t you?’ She smiled at an answer that never came and continued, ‘So where have we left off? Oh yes, Lesson #14 – How to be alone.

Aloneness has a bad reputation, but that’s only because our societies praise togetherness no matter what. Me, I’ve always adored the poet who said there should be spaces in our togetherness. But try selling that to people. They may like the sound of it but they never buy it. People are scared of being alone. Aloneness is considered a plague, a curse. It is not a state people might want to choose but a state they find themselves in after breaking up and between relationships. It’s a state a healthy person should want to get out of. Yet, let me tell you, it’s ok to be alone. 

Martha paused as if to ponder on what she was reading even though she had read the same words many times before. She too knew about aloneness. For her it had been a habit. Something she had picked up from her mother who had lived her entire life alone, with plenty of friends but without the need of a man. Martha liked men and had plenty of friends but none were a necessity for her. She knew how to be alone. She wasn’t sure that Mrs Walsh knew, however. During the past three weeks no one had come to visit her. Mrs Walsh was alone and probably had no one to come back for. But that was no excuse as far as Martha was concerned. Mrs Walsh was still young. She could still do so many things with her life. Meet new people. If only she could see that being alone was an option and not something to fear. If only she could sense that there was someone rooting for her to come back. Martha had tried so hard for so long. If only--      Martha looked back at her own life and her eyes started welling up. At that same moment an unusual sound broke the monotonous beeping of Mrs Walsh’s machine. Martha jumped up. She was familiar with that sound. She knew the drill now. The door opened and two nurses came barging in. The one fumbled with the life support. The other leaned over Mrs Walsh to check her vitals.      'Well, I’ll be damned,' she said more to herself than to her colleague. 'Mrs Walsh, can you hear me? Mrs Walsh?'     'Mrs Walsh, welcome back,' added the other.      Mrs Walsh, her eyes still sealed, opened her mouth to form a word but no sound came out.      'Mrs Walsh, are you trying to say something? Do you know where you are?'      Her lips parted again and delivered an almost inaudible 'Martha.'      'Did she say Martha?'     'I don’t know. Mrs Walsh could you repeat?'     Mrs Walsh struggled, 'Martha.'     'Martha. Who is Martha? Mrs Walsh, who is Martha?’ She turned to her colleague. ‘Does she have a daughter?'       'No, no children.'     Martha could not hold back her tears now. She didn’t know if she was crying for Mrs Walsh who had made it back or for herself who never did. She felt ashamed for her self-pity. She knew she should be happy for her patients. Yet the more fulfilled she got the more alone she felt, trapped between two worlds, forever shattered by the knowledge that none of her friends had fought for her, none of her remaining relatives had believed in her enough or loved her enough to wait for her return. Her mother would have fought for her. Martha knew that. Of course she was thankful that her mother hadn’t lived to see her only daughter die in a car accident, but she really wished she had lived to be with her during her coma. Martha had learnt to be alone but she had also learnt that only the love of another could bring you back. And she had made it her mission to offer that love to others.     Martha dried her tears and composed herself. She could not linger any longer. She had a two o'clock appointment with Mr Feebles. 55. Scaffolding accident. No children, no relatives.     'Welcome back Mrs Walsh. I will be looking out for you,' she said and stepped out of the room.

[Your final short story for this course should be between 750 and 1000 words in length, and based on a central character. You may want to introduce other characters, but as this is a very short story it will probably work best if you only have one or two other characters alongside the main one]

[aurelia-gould]

Taxi Driver

I came out into the crispy air with a slight buzz. My escape vehicle was at home for the night; I had planned to have a drink or two - I ended up having three - so the alternative yellow kind would have to do. I braced myself and raised my hand. It was a woman. Oh cool, I thought and felt some sort of relief. I opened the back door and got in.     'Good evening, Ηolargos please,' I said and cracked a smile.     'Good evening,' said the woman with a slightly Russian accent and turned the meter on. 'If music not like I can put different kind,' she said sternly with her hand already on its way to the car radio.     'No, no it’s fine, I don’t, leave it on' I said throwing myself forward to stop her, fumbling for words, so flabbergasted I was by the offer, let alone the choice of music that was on.     I allowed myself a moment for the music to settle in and get a closer look at my driver. I could only catch a glimpse of her profile and an abundance of blond hair tied in the back in a loose bun. Was she wearing a suit? Two-piece, yes. She was concentrating on her driving, her pale face frozen into an empty expression. No hint of a smile.     'Is this Mozart?' I asked half believing my own words.      Suddenly her one visible eye lit up and her mouth opened as if in slow motion to form a most surprised 'You know Mozart?'        'Ah, yes,' I mumbled taken aback by her reaction, 'I like him, I know this piece.'     'You know Piano Sonata No.7 In C. K.309?' she said citing the piece’s credentials like a soldier at attention stating his name and position.      'The question is how you know it,' I said aware that it might sound insulting.      A proud 'I am pianist' came as a reply.     'You are a taxi driver and a pianist,' I said still aware that my comments had a hint of prejudice.     'I was pianist,' she said with a sadness replacing the pride in her voice. 'I was pianist in Ukraine. Now I am driver. This me,' she said with resignation now, pointing to the car radio, her eyes fixed on the road.     'What do you mean? Are you the one playing? I thought it was the radio.'     But she was already gone. She wasn’t expecting any compliment. She already knew she was good. She wasn’t interested in consolations. She already knew that her life had robbed her of her one passion. She was already back in the Ukraine sitting on a piano seat in front of thousands playing that piano sonata.     Maybe it was the three drinks, maybe the sad second movement of the sonata, but I started crying. I saw her looking at me through the rearview mirror, but she didn’t make a comment and she never said another word until we reached my house and she said 'thank you' when I paid her the fare.

[Write a brief scene, around 300–500 words in which you portray a character in a complex way, going against the usual expectations for such a character]

[aurelia-gould]

Introducing Martha

Martha was never late for her daily appointment. It didn't matter that perhaps nobody would really miss her if she didn’t show up. Some might even be disturbed by her presence. She knew that and yet she didn’t care. She felt some sort of ethical obligation. Others might call her obligation religious, but religious she was not. She showed up simply because nobody else would. And she was persistent. And always on time.     Except for today. Today she was running late and out of no fault of her own - the plumber she had asked for five days ago finally showed up, un-announced, and he really took his time. But the excuse didn’t seem to offer her any relief. She was late and that was that. What if today was the day? What if Mrs. Walsh decided to come back today but there was no one there to pull her in? What if she thought she was abandoned and gave up? Martha had tried so hard for so long. It wouldn’t be fair. She arrived panting outside room 210. She made sure nobody was watching and went in.     The curtains were drawn and the room was burning in noon sun. 'Oh, I know, I know, Mrs. Walsh. They simply don’t get it! Let me close them for you!' Martha had decided that Mrs. Walsh hated the sun because she had grown up in the north of the country. 'You’re looking so much better today. I even spot some colour on your cheeks. Yes I do.' She took a comb out of her handbag and run it through Mrs. Walsh’s fringe. 'Much better, no?' She then drew a chair near the bed and took Mrs. Walsh’s hand in hers. 'I am so sorry I am late. I hope you weren’t worried. It won’t happen again, I promise. You know I would never leave, don’t you?' She smiled at an answer that never came and continued, 'So where have we left off? Oh yes, lesson #14 – How not to be alone.'

[This may become the beginning of a story called Lessons Learnt on Earth]

[Remember that stories are about characters, so once you have an idea for a story make sure you have a strong impression of the characters that will be at the centre of the story. There is no specific target to meet here. Just start writing and see where it takes you. It might become a story that you want to develop further, and you might carry on working on it. It might be something where you write the first paragraph or two and then decide you don’t want to proceed further, and you’d rather try another idea. That’s up to you. Try to write at least 200 words, up to a maximum of 350 words]

[aurelia-gould]

In Your Room

In your childhood bedroom I trace you backwards to a time when the you I know had not arrived yet. And yet this you I meet seems more real than the one I’ve come to know for you were your most raw then and your most unguarded.

Your 4-year-old eyes fix on me out of the frame of a picture hanging on the wall and I can’t help but smile back. You are so beautiful. But I am immediately gripped by sadness because I fear that this you staring at me is probably dead by now. So I avert my eyes out of discretion.

The rest of the walls are empty but black marks reveal where teen idols used to hang. I make you tell me and we laugh. The bed you slept in is being unfaithful; it spills your secrets and whispers your dreams. The dusty books on the shelves show me the way to the worlds you fantasized of escaping to but never did because real life kept catching up with you.

Your ma and pa are present here even though one or both may now be gone. I make you pull down their old photo albums. I want to meet them because through them I can know you better. For you may be nothing like them but I can spot the faces you pull and the way you hold your body in their black and white poses. You tell me stories, we lose track of time, it’s getting darker, but I can see you better. 

[aurelia-gould]

Make it ride on its own melting

"It begins in delight and ends in wisdom…It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life – not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion….It finds its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some final phrase at once wise and sad – the happy-sad blend of the drinking song….For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn’t know I knew….Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting…" [from The Figure a Poem Makes - Robert Frost]

I think what Frost writes holds true for any piece of good writing. The line "ride on its own melting" always comes to mind when I think of how unforced a good piece is, how its essence really becomes its driving force.

[aurelia-gould]

A little accident

I hadn’t planned on dying that Friday morning when I left home for my weekly training. Obviously. I mean who dies at 27? Rock and roll stars maybe. But even them die either from drugs or on plane accidents. Not by falling off mountain bikes that they had ridden ever since they were toddlers and had become the extension of their butts. So why had I been singled out? Why had that branch decided to break in two at that particular moment? Why hadn’t I managed to swerve left before it hit me? Why hadn’t I been going down that hill a little faster or a little slower? Why didn’t I survive?     I remember standing there looking at myself on that table in the ER, not a single scratch and bruise. All I could think of was the mortician and what a piece of cake I would be for him. No restoring of bones, no make up. I was as handsome as ever. I am not being cocky. Handsome I was. I knew it. People knew it. It was a fact. But how often do you get to see yourself from outside? For the first time then I could really look at myself and confirm that I was indeed handsome. Thick blond hair with a wavy fringe falling in the front, light blue eyes, dense eyelids that girls seemed to like, once pink soft lips, well-shaped nose, high cheekbones, slender tall body, killer abs…They hadn’t had time to remove all of my clothes since I died just minutes after arriving at the hospital and I couldn’t help but smile when my eyes spotted my starch white boxer shorts popping out from underneath my filthy sweatpants. There I lay dead but at least my underwear was clean. Not to mention ironed. I know. It was just a quirkiness of mine. Some people like their sheets ironed, I liked my boxer shorts. No, I didn’t like ironing. Are you nuts? But she did. She thought it was psychotherapeutic. The sight of my underwear had made me think of her for the first time after my fall. And my smile disappeared.     My love, I remember thinking, she would never understand. She hadn’t prepared for all this. My parents had. Or so I thought. Deep inside they must have come to terms with the possibility that their son, the mountain bike champion, might one day fall down and never stand up again. After all those falls, all those broken bones, they must have set a place in their hearts for that possibility. But her; she wasn’t prepared. I could detect the worry in her voice every time I left for training and she would quite casually yell after me as I opened the door, 'Watch out my little wreck!' And now she would be receiving that call and she would not be able to understand. That didn’t seem fair. But there was nothing I could do. Then.

[Turn on the radio and take note of the first thing that is mentioned. Use it as the basis for a story of no more than 500 words. Imagine a character, someone who is central to what the story is about]

[aurelia-gould]

Waiting for the Muse

I have not written much fiction but whenever I write what helps me get started is not to think linearly; not to think that my story should have a beginning, a middle and an end. I like to crash land on that first line as if I were dropped from the sky. I like to arrive in the middle of a situation, in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of a person's life. And then whatever I write sort of unfolds from there towards unknown destinations. This way of starting somehow keeps me on my feet because I have to quickly assess where I landed, look around me and decide what I should do. It gives me a sense of emergency that I personally need. Otherwise, I tend to procrastinate and second guess myself. What should I be writing? I have nothing interesting to say about anything. Where is my muse? That sort of thing...

[aurelia-gould]

Emergency Landing

She crash landed on that first line as if she were dropped from the sky. She looked around, assessed her situation - she was dropped in the middle of a dinner conversation between an old lady and her dog - and began her story thus: "They never call," the old lady complained in her high-pitched voice as she attacked a half-boiled zucchini with her fork....

[Try describing something familiar with one or two ordinary words that you wouldn’t normally use in that context]

[aurelia-gould]

A Room of One's Own

An astronaut entered her line of vision from left. Or at least it looked like an astronaut. Before Aurelia had time to deliberate, her 4-year-old daughter Maya handed her a drawing, announcing proudly and rather ceremonially, 'Mom, I want to be an astronaut. And travel in space and kill all the galactic bad people…'     Galactic? Where did she pick that up? Was Mark showing her Star War movies again? Oh dear!     '…and I will take Felix with me and….”     'Honey,' Aurelia interrupted, 'it looks beautiful and you will tell me all about the galactic bad people when I finish this,' she pointed to a blank page on the screen of her laptop, 'but remember I said mommy needs one hour to do some work on her novel? It’s not one hour yet.'     'Well, when is one hour?' Maya asked despondently.     'One hour is when the small hand is on two. See?' she said handing Maya her wristwatch. Maya took it, quite suspicious of the accuracy of her mother’s timing. 'It won’t be long now. Tell you what, you go and draw me some galactic bad people and when I finish here you can show me how they look.' Maya cast one final suspicious look at the blank laptop screen and reluctantly turned around and headed for her bedroom. Great, now I am the galactic bad people, Aurelia thought.     The kitchen clock showed 1:25. She still had 35 minutes. The red sauce on the stove started sizzling, hurling red droplets left and right. She hurried up to turn the heat down and then hurried back to her seat. 1:26. She started typing:

A lazy mist was rising from the river that run unseen between the two mountains in the background. In the house across the small valley, the old couple of circus dancers were up and about – she could see their silhouettes appearing and disappearing behind the trees in their garden. They had not put their music on yet. It was early. She still had three hours before tango tunes would start bouncing off the surrounding mountains. This was her time. She sipped from her steaming coffee mug as she took in the familiar morning sounds. The birds in the nearby trees were having breakfast. The faraway rooster forgot again to stop announcing the coming of a new day. The neighbouring donkey hee-hawed three times and flapped its tail. The workers on the other side of the village were just starting their slow rhythmical pounding. Tak tak, tak tak tak. She breathed in the crispy morning air, she wrapped the red velvety blanket tighter around her shoulders and started typing on her old Smith-Corona - the sound of her fingers striking the keys bouncing off the surrounding mountains. Clipity clipity clipity clipity, tak tak, clipity clipity clipity, tak tak tak, clipity clipity clipity, tak tak, clipity clipity clipity clipity clipity clipity.

[Imagine two different venues for writing – one that seems most suited to you, and one that you would find bizarre or too difficult. Write a paragraph describing two writers at work, one in each of the venues]

[aurelia-gould]

A Sad Season

The colour purple had caught my attention. That’s what made me slightly raise my eyes from the book I was reading and cast a sidelong glance. One Season I read on the side. It was a sleeping bag. And then I noticed a pair of hands, striking in their paleness against all that purple. But it was not their colour that made me search for the rest of the person. It was their lack of movement and how they were not exactly resting against the sleeping bag but rather anticipating. I followed the hands all the way up to the face of the person they belonged to. It was a girl, her complexion matching the colour of her hands but her expression not revealing any anticipation not even for the bus she was obviously expecting. If anything, it revealed a sadness. That girl’s sole possessions that cold morning were sadness and a purple sleeping bag. Were the two connected? But then she did something that gave me comfort. She moved her tongue inside her mouth as if to remove some food remnant from her tooth. And I thought, if she has had time to eat something, things can’t be that bad. 

[Write a short character sketch – no more than 200 words – in which you concentrate on appearance and any particular mannerisms you noted]

[aurelia-gould]

Truthful Fiction & Fictitious Truth

Mastering that jazz choreography was fairly easy for her. She had been a dancer after all. And she still had the body. What she lacked was the stamina. She looked at her classmates around her, all in their late ‘20s or early ‘30s. What was she doing there among them? Her, who could have been their mother. 

This morning in the metro on my way to work I noticed a man holding a suitcase without handle. He was holding it like you hold a box of chocolates. And a dream I once had came to mind of a man just like this one holding a suitcase without handle just like that. Only in that dream the suitcase contained a bomb. And the bomb went off. The man with the suitcase got up and got off in the next stop. His suitcase still in his hands. 

[Write a paragraph (50 to 100 words) containing one fact and three fictitious elements. You can write about yourself, about your interests, about history – about anything you like. Then try the reverse – write a paragraph containing three facts and one fictitious element] 

[aurelia-gould]

Aunt Renie bought me this typewriter as a contribution, she said, to my writing efforts. I can't believe it! She's so generous and supportive! I am still slow, but I will get the hang of it eventually!

[mudwerks]

[aurelia-gould]

Happy New Year!!

[aurelia-gould]

My homework for Mr Forsyth's class, using three figures of rhetoric: hypophora, syllepsis and diacope.

[thehorologicon-blog]

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most eloquent of them all?*

Earlier this month, we challenged you to write eloquently. We asked you to write and submit a short poem that used three kinds of rhetoric as seen in The Elements of Eloquence –  hypophora, syllepsis and diacope – and after reading many beautiful entries, Mark Forsyth has picked our winners. 

Winners

First Place Jennifer Hicks and An Appeal for Eloquence and Reason. “I had to choose this because it uses the rhetorical tricks specified and so many more. I loved the rhythms that she set up. And, though I agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment, that was not my only reason for picking it.”

You’ve won a signed copy of The Elements of Eloquence: How to Turn the Perfect English Phrase plus a set of Shakespeare Fridge Poetry.

 Second Place Joseph Camilleri and A Reluctant Love Song. “Largely this is because “Love, unbidden love” was the best diacope and the most beautiful line in all the poems. I also loved his compound adjectives “earth-weary” and “night-drenched”.”   You’ve won a set of Shakespeare Fridge Poetry.

Honourable Mention  Mark Forsyth also wanted to give an honourable mention to Joce’s (girlwiththedragontattooine) beautiful poem, Stars. 

Congratulations to both winners and thank you to everyone who entered! 

*This is an example of a rhetorical question!

[adanvc]

Cafe du Dome, Paris, 1925.

by André Kertész