Exercise: Representing estrangement between reunited friends

FinsburyParkCarrots

Create two characters, old friends suddenly reunited after several years. Describe the socio-economic status, politics and attitudes of each person; flesh them out; consider how the two characters have grown apart in their fortunes and opinions and how they cope with the revelation of their distance. How do they negotiate this change with themselves and each other? How could you narrate their past closeness and contrast it with the present world of the narrative?

Now, think of an event, a situation that happens to bring these two together either to reconciliation or to conflict. It could be a football match, a shared love interest, an accident: The more you exercise your imagination with the realms of realism the better! Then, focus on the psychological dynamics between the two characters.

You could write a short story, a piece of dramatic script or a poem, but the key thing is to try to express not only the spoken but the silent language of distance.

eden

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

Create two characters, old friends suddenly reunited after several years. Describe the socio-economic status, politics and attitudes of each person; flesh them out; consider how the two characters have grown apart in their fortunes and opinions and how they cope with the revelation of their distance. How do they negotiate this change with themselves and each other? How could you narrate their past closeness and contrast it with the present world of the narrative?

Now, think of an event, a situation that happens to bring these two together either to reconciliation or to conflict. It could be a football match, a shared love interest, an accident: The more you exercise your imagination with the realms of realism the better! Then, focus on the psychological dynamics between the two characters.

You could write a short story, a piece of dramatic script or a poem, but the key thing is to try to express not only the spoken but the silent language of distance.

Cant wait to do this when Im not running out the door!
Finsbury, you are a true scholar and a poet... and thank you for your subtle encouragements to get us all creating! I for one really appreciate it. I think this must be your gift and you really utilize it well.

Kwyjibo

I'll start on it, but I wanna see yours finsbury!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Definitely! I'll post mine after people post theirs. I want to see how different our attempts are!

ISN

I was gonna post a link to an email address which held all the pearls of our relationship.....but....I d3ecided I'm gonna make an effort and distill the best of that problematic relationship for your delectation.......(it's all over now.....but we had a lot of toing and froing, so it might take me some time)

FinsburyParkCarrots

Yep, draw on personal experience and make art of it.

ISN

it's already art......let's see if I can make poetry of it......it's all artist dying in a Parisienne garret type stuff......saved by questionable short texan bloke......you know the kind of thing.....I'll try to get a semblance of it on here soon

FinsburyParkCarrots

I look forward to reading it.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Just bumping this for anybody who might want to have a go.

steppenwolf

An old friend showed up the other day. Hadn't seen him in years. I killed him.


THE END

cartoonnightmare

Create two characters, old friends suddenly reunited after several years. Describe the socio-economic status, politics and attitudes of each person; flesh them out; consider how the two characters have grown apart in their fortunes and opinions and how they cope with the revelation of their distance. How do they negotiate this change with themselves and each other? How could you narrate their past closeness and contrast it with the present world of the narrative?

Now, think of an event, a situation that happens to bring these two together either to reconciliation or to conflict. It could be a football match, a shared love interest, an accident: The more you exercise your imagination with the realms of realism the better! Then, focus on the psychological dynamics between the two characters.

You could write a short story, a piece of dramatic script or a poem, but the key thing is to try to express not only the spoken but the silent language of distance.


hey, that sounds fun. thanks for the direction Finsbury. i'll try it hopefully soon. it will be really interesting to see how all of our writings turn out! i haven't ever written a short story, but i guess i could try.

Kwyjibo

“Who you callin’ a little prick?” Donald Reimer growled in his whiny little pit bull voice. He stood up violently, knocking down a few stools and spilling the drink that the bartender was handing to the woman behind him. Donald and the other man now stood face to face–maybe more like face to chest, as the other man was at least a head and a half taller than he. Donald’s contender was tall and muscular, with the build of a washed-up football lineman or shot put thrower. You could tell that at one time in his life this man had been lean and trim, but beer, bar food, and lack of exercise made him look like a five-month pregnant Frankenstein. The larger man would have easily won the fight, but he hadn’t been drinking enough to feel like fighting.
“I was talking about my friend’s husband,” the large man explained, moving slightly to reveal a woman sitting at the bar behind him. The man glibly added, “but you can be the little prick if you want.”
Normally at this point, Donald would have broken a bottle over the bar and with it try to stab the other man. This time, however, there was a woman involved. The woman at the bar smiled at him, and Donald was disarmed. He muttered an insincere apology and sat back down.
“Listen Kathy, I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow. I’d better head home.” The large man said. “Do you want to split a cab or something?” He added hopefully.
“No, I think I’ll stay here a little while. I’ve got a hotel room around the corner.” she said sadly. She noticed the surprised look on the man’s face. “I was sick of sleeping on the couch.” she clarified.
“Ok, well, you take it easy, and give me a call if you ever need anything.” The large man said making his exit.
Kathy picked up her drink and sat in the stool next to Donald. “That was quite impressive.” she said with a smile.
“What?” He replied without looking up from his drink.
“You know, the way you confronted Eddie. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to him before. Usually they just cower in fear or run away.” she explained, intending to stroke his ego.
“Well, I ain’t afraid of some fat man.” Donald answered with a smirk, but still without looking up from his drink. He was nervous that this woman was talking to him. He had a hard time talking to women, even if it was a frumpy divorcee.
“I thought it was very manly, it was almost like you were fighting for my honor.” It wasn’t the truth, she was still just trying to stroke his ego. “You seem like that type of guy to me, the type that would defend a woman’s honor.” she continued.
Donald still hadn’t looked up at her the entire time she had been sitting by him. She was starting to get frustrated, not just with him, but with men in general. She decided to make her move.
“I’m Kathy Williams, by the way.” She said extending her hand.
“I’m Donald.” He answered, finally looking up. He shook her hand, but when he began to let go, Kathy gripped it tighter, pulling herself toward him.
“You know Donald, I’ve got a hotel room just around the corner. Would you like to walk me home?” she said forcefully.
“Well I, it’s just that, um, you know.” Donald stuttered.
“No, I don’t know. Now come on.” Kathy said as she stood up and pulled Donald’s hand, making him follow her. She was pulling the shell-shocked man out of the bar when her husband walked in the door. They almost ran into one another.
“Marty!” Kathy said.
“What the hell?” Kathy’s husband started angrily. Lately–because of either his ignorance, his right-wing political leanings, or his hardcore Christian fundamentalism–he had grown disgusted with her. He didn’t really have any stake in her affairs. He didn’t care if she slept with some pathetic bar rat, but she was still his wife, and for some reason he was angry. He clicked the door shut behind him and stepped close to his wife. He stood so uncomfortably close to her that she could smell the chalky antacids on his breath. She looked at the ground and he grabbed her shoulders.
“You little tramp.” he said softly, his voice quivering with rage. “Come on, lets go.” he said as he started to turn around.
“Marty? Marty Williams?” Donald asked.
“What?” The man asked, turning around. “Holy shit!” He said, finally realizing who the lowlife was. “Donald Fucking Reimer! How the hell have you been?”
Donald didn’t answer. He had been ready to smash the man’s face into the curb for what he said to Kathy until he realized her husband was Marty Williams. Kathy had meanwhile shuffled awkwardly into the corner, unsure of what to make of the situation.
“Well? How’ve you been?”
“Uh, I been all right Marty. I been just fine.” He paused and scratched the back of his neck. “This your wife?” he asked, pointing in her direction.
“Yep. Well, I mean, not for long.” Marty Williams finished his sentence and cracked a smile. Something about his grin made Donald snap. If Kathy thought he was manly before, she was gonna love this.
“You think it’s fuckin’ funny callin’ your wife a tramp and then laughing about it? You think you’re a real tough guy huh?” Donald said, feeling more confident with each word.
Marty spit a toothpick he had gnawed to splinters down to the sticky bar floor. He stepped closer to Donald. They were now face to face because Donald stood one stair up from Kathy’s husband.
“Ok little guy, you have no idea what you’re talking about. So how ‘bout you just go sit back down and let me deal with my wife.” Marty barely got the last word out of his mouth before Donald Reimer punched him in the nose. Donald then lunged forward off the step, tackling Kathy’s husband. Their bodies were entangled on the floor, Kathy looked on in horror, or maybe glee, as her husband and this strange little bald man wrestled on the bar floor. Someone’s voice rang out over the sounds of grunting and crunching peanut shells. It was the bouncer.
“All right, that’s enough! God dammit I said that’s enough!” The bouncer shouted impatiently. He pulled the men apart and threw Kathy’s husband out the back door. He grabbed Donald and through him out the front. Kathy helped Donald up off the ground.
“Thank you.” she said quietly.

pearlmutt

"He stood so uncomfortably close to her that she could smell the chalky antacids on his breath."

that is very goodly gross. i mean it's perfect for that character and very original

(characterize a person by what his or her breath smells like)

I like it a lot!

FinsburyParkCarrots

"Someone’s voice rang out over the sounds of grunting and crunching peanut shells. It was the bouncer."

That's great! There are so many rich images and a great sense of pacing irony. And you make enough use of silence and subtext to make us fill in more about Kathy's inner world and life. I enjoyed this. Thanks!

FinsburyParkCarrots

steppenwolf wrote:

An old friend showed up the other day. Hadn't seen him in years. I killed him.


THE END

Haha, I'm thinking someone should write an abridged "Hamlet" along these lines.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Here's the first part of something I'm writing right now, for this:

Pete Horton, Ibiza tan whitening at the furrows of his brow, nodded his balding head rubbing it with the ringed fingers of his left hand. A beerfly rested on his wrist momentarily until he jerked and sent the creature spinning into swathes of cigarette smoke. He lowered his hand down to the green glass ashtray embossed with its brewery brand, upon the table before him, and picked up his Marlboro Light. He made a noise, a sonorous gasp of exaggerated mock horror, and leaned forward to look into the eyes of the person opposite.

"You married her? Jenny Hawksworth? I remember at school, even when all the geeky girls blossomed into, well, not beauties but, you know, presentable, she stayed the same. Right down to the National Health glasses and the pigtails. Sorry - sorry -- I know, okay, she's your wife now, but, oh well. I mean, ha! Who'd have thought. You know."

The man opposite, straightbacked in his chair and sipping from his half pint glass of house bitter, gazed at Pete impassively with wide brown eyes. Dan Gilling, more thickset than Pete, had been games captain in the last year at school through sixth form, and had maintained a more stocky version of the physique that had earned him the position of prop forward in the rugby team. And he was proud of the fact he still had all his copious chestnut hair too, now complemented with a groomed beard. Dan scrutinised Pete, bent over awkwardly in his seat as he nattered. Pete had been flanker, but had suffered a shoulder injury in an early match and dropped out of the team. It had been fifteen years since Dan and seen him, and really wouldn't have known him if he hadn't called, "I don't believe it! Dan? My mate Dan? Guv, meet Dan, my old mate from school. Right ladies' man he was. Always managed to pull the birds at parties, this one. You weren't safe with you girlfriend. Ain't that right, Dan?" Now Pete was seated before him in an attitude that couldn't be doing his back any good, sucking on those clubbers' filters and talking with this acquired, mincing drawl that was half rave club and half Piccadilly Circus Underground lavatories.

"We were best mates, Dan. Best mates. Remember that band we were in? You got an electric guitar, just a Marlin, for Christmas from your mum. And that tiny Sunn amp too. And you picked it up in no time, playing all these fast blue scales in weeks. Still got that Strat you bought next?"

"I remember. I still have that Strat, yes. And a couple more guitars since. Did you continue playing the bass?"

"Nah. Well, I played a bit, you know, the things you taught me. But no-one was playing the kind of music we were in those days, that guitar music. It was the late eighties, you know. House was in. Anyway, you went off to college. Do you still play?"

"I play on Thursday nights at my local. Jenny and I live in a village outside Oxford. I met her again at college, you see. I'm just here for a couple of days visiting mum. My sis and I are sorting out accommodation for her, a good care home, you know."

"Oh, so you're not in the area. Man, you're missing out here. Great scene. I've kept up on the rave scene here. We go to Ibiza, you know, parties, and the like. I do a bit of DJ-ing. Try to stay up on the local trends and all that. What kind of music do you play?"

"Trad jazz."

"You what? You used to be into all that far out stuff, trippy Hawkwind and the rest of it. Mind expansion. Thought you'd still be pushing the barriers, you know."

"I like trad."

"Nah, Jenny likes trad. Her old man used to play the double bass in that crap old time band, in the pub all the old coppers went into. The Chequers. Didn't think you'd be like that."

Pete threw a knowing glance and a sly smile Dan would have acknowledged reciprocally once upon a time. But Pete found his eyes dropping from their blank object askance to the ash falling on the table.

"Like what?", asked Dan in an alien monotone that set Pete redfaced back into his chair and twitching his left leg hurriedly in his baggy yellow trousers.

"Ah, never mind, old man. You want another half? A pint even?"

"Okay, sure. I'll pay. It's my treat. What are you having? Another one of those, what was it?"

"JD and coke, double. No, I'll get these, honest, Dan."

"No, no, I insist. My job pays very well and I'm just presuming I have a larger expendible income then you."

"What the hell?"

Dan was standing over Pete, feeling in his corduroy trousers for his wallet, extracting its strong smelling leather bulk and heading to the bar. Pete heard a fruit machine hit the jackpot for someone - the machine he'd put about seventeen quid of dole money into today - and he heard a woman's laugh echo loudly bouncing across the mumbling heads of punters in the smokey sprawl. Pete stood up and barred Dan at the bar.

"What did you mean, just there?"

"When, what? Sit down and I'll bring your drink over. Would you like a packet of nuts with it?"

* * * *

Part two to follow

pearlmutt

I've been working on this one too today.

G-riot

“In West African culture, both historically and today, each tribal clan has had its griot, an itinerant clan member who is combination historian-musician-storyteller: "A Griot is an oral historian and musician," explains Foday Musa Suso, one of West Africa 's most respected and well-known contemporary griots. "Griots were trusted court advisors to the kings of West Africa from the twelfth century to the twentieth. Every king wanted a Griot to recite the history of the kingdom, and to pass it down from father to son. History wasn't written down – everything was memorized and recited or sung." The griot memorized the clan's significant events such as births, deaths, marriages, hunts, and wars, ensuring the continuity of the collective heritage and culture. "If you want to buy some cloth, go to the weaver. If you want a hoe, ax or knife, then go to the blacksmith. But if you want to know the history of the people, you must go to the griots." Often accompanied by the kora (a harp-like stringed instrument), drumming and/or the handclapping of the villagers, a griot might speak for hours, even days, drawing upon a practiced and memorized history, passed from griot to griot for generations. It is said that, 'when a griot dies, a library has burned to the ground'."

http://ctl.du.edu/spirituals/Literature/griot.cfm

He sat down next to me on the bus, and I didn’t recognize him. How that was possible, I’m not sure. Maybe it was his beard. Could have been the sunglasses; I guess the weight was part of it. Most likely it simply was because I was staring out of the window, but whatever the reason I hadn't recognized him.

We were moving on away from the city. I was heading home. I watched the fields, studying them for changes. Had those trees been as covered with kudzu when I had last seen them? Hadn’t there been a barn over there on the top of that knoll? And the stone church, my friend had told me that it had burned down. How does a stone church burn down? It made me sad. I didn‘t want to believe it. So my friend assured me that the community had rebuilt it. As we rounded a curve, it came into view. The stones were still gray, but the windows were no longer stained glass. They had sat in a row, three of them, and the glass was beautiful, not like Chagall beautiful, just a peace lily, a cross, and an empty tomb. Very simple beauty. I had always admired them from the road, always wondered what they looked like from the pews on the inside with the light streaming through.

The architecture was very different now. The angles of the church were more pronounced. The structure itself was twice as large and the windows were now at the top of the building. They were clear. I suppose they provided more light inside. Maybe the church didn’t have to use electric light on sunny days anymore. I didn’t like it though, not at all. I would no longer look forward to seeing it.

And then the guy beside me began to hum. I guessed he was bored, we’d been riding a while, and neither he nor I had on headphones. I continued looking out of the window, watching the tiger lilies come into view. They grew anywhere, in a field, by a mailbox, alongside of a house. They were omnipresent on roads like this one, and on days like this one, I knew I could count on them.

He was humming now more loudly, this tune that was familiar. And I turned to look at him, and then I recognized him, and said, “John?”

And he smiled.

And I said, “John Williams!”

And he smiled again, and said, “Yes?”

So I said, “It’s Gail. Gail Porter from Western.”

“Gail Porter from Western, how have you been?”

I wished he would take off his glasses so that I could really get a good look at him. It had been years, and I had always liked him; even though things hadn’t worked out, I’d always really, really liked him.

I felt like he wasn’t really looking at me. It was an odd feeling. But I was trying to find his eyes behind the unusually dark tint of his glasses and couldn’t. All I could see was myself looking at him. I felt uncomfortable.

Like our last argument, uncomfortable. He had explained that he wasn’t going to college, and I had told him that if he didn’t go, we wouldn’t stay together. I had thought he would fold so to speak; instead he saw my hand and he raised it.

“Okay,” he’d said.

“Okay!” I’d barked back at him. “What do you mean okay?”

“I mean I’m not going.”

And then we’d sat there in his car for a long time; I’m not sure how long, but we’d sat there, and it had felt like an eternity. Then I got out and walked away and thought about him for years, but never once tried to call his parents and find out where he’d gotten off to and that kind of thing. I mean what can you do with, “Okay.”

I looked at him and took him in. He seemed not to care that I was staring at him. I said, “I’ve been doing very well.” And thought that he didn‘t look well at all. He was gaunt. His clothes were stained. The knees of his pants were faded. His shirt was thin.

“How have you been?” I asked. And I was genuinely concerned. He had hurt my pride, but that didn’t really seem to matter now.

He smiled, “I’ve been okay.”

He began to hum again, which I thought was bizarre. We should be having a conversation right now. We should be talking about the fact that I had gotten a promotion, and I was getting ready to buy a new home, and I was going to get married at the end of the summer, and I was just going home for a little R and R because all these life changes, you read about how stressful they are, and it’s true. And I would be driving, I mean, it’s horrible to have to take the bus, but Taylor was using his car for his business trip, and mine was in the shop, and I thought it might be nice, relaxing, to let someone else drive me home, but anyway, the point is whether you are on a bus or not, it usually works like you run into someone from your past. They are doing this, this, and this, and you are doing this, this, and going to do that. And then you smile, good to see you again. Goodbye.

But John was humming.

Finally I asked, “What is that song?” because I couldn’t stand to be staring at him anymore while he hummed and seemed not to notice me.

And he said, “You are my sunshine.”

And I said, “My mom used to sing me to sleep with that song.”

Then he smiled and turned his head, moving it sort of slowly along with his humming.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Cool, Pearlmutt. I'll finish mine and read yours right away!

pearlmutt

Thanks! That's great.

i think that you raise a bet not a hand, if that's a boo-boo, it's in my fragment, so somebody let me know. i'm not much of a poker player, but i like poker terminology.

olderman

bumpin this as i'll be contributing to the excersise soon.

an evening out four weeks ago with some i had not seen for many years. i hope to do this well.

ISN

Dad's dead? Mum's getting married.....we'll need meats for the funeral and the wedding....it makes me sick to think that my father King of Denmark can just be knocked off so quickly....my uncle is a rat!!! hey, a rat!!! Polonius you were ever a fool, and your daughter would do well to keep away from me.....hi dee heee ho ho ho.....Laertes you're so slow!!! Rosencrantz and Guildenstern went to sea and never returned...the play's the thing to catch a king.....what hey....I feel so gay in my stockings....!!! and let's all die - it'll be so shocking and visit the country from whose bourne no traveller comes back!! oh mother never accept drinks from strangers and Claudius is getting paler and paler....I am Hamlet the impaler....gasp!!!!