Sunday February 10th, 2013

The exercise:

Write about: the orders.

Finally finished ordering our seeds today. Probably a good thing, considering we should be starting to get going in the greenhouse in a couple of weeks.


The silence in the room was unsettling, both for its intensity and its unusualness. It was much more common for its occupants to be shouting at each other in order to be heard over the general tumult, often multiple times to clear up confusion brought upon by misheard words.

But at that moment an especially unfortunate soul was heard passing wind. No heads turned in his direction then, but he knew immediately that he would not be hearing the end of it any time soon.

A few dry lips were licked, several awkward swallows were forced down. No words were spoken for what felt like hours.

In reality less than a minute passed before Pierre, the head chef with the monstrous temper, finally spoke.

"Table eight wants WHAT for dinner?"


Greg said...

It's snowing here again a little, which is slightly surprising but rather nice :) Hope everything's good over there, given that your post was up a touch later than I was expecting today!
Heh, Pierre seems like my kind of chef! Great little scene, very much the calm before the storm. The tension is neatly maintained.

The orders
It was dusk before the orders arrived, handed over by a florid courier, flushed with the exertion of running from HQ. His hands were clammy, and Field-Marshall Farquhardt wiped the envelope delicately on the back of General Carmarthen's coat.
"Go," he said to the courier, whose face fell at not being invited to a drink and a chair. The courier left anyway, and Field-Marshall Farquhardt handed the envelope to General Carmarthen.
"Speculate?" asked the General, hefting the envelope in one hand. "I'd say there's only one piece of paper in here."
"They'd be mad to take the offense now," said the Field-Marshall. "I should think it's clear that we have the upper hand; they've seen all the communiques. They must be backing down."
General Carmarthen picked up a silver sabre letter opener and slit the envelope along the short side with a quick stroke. He tilted the envelope, and two pieces of paper fell out.
"This one," he said, "is just a list of insults. Mmmm...." He perused it quickly. "Nothing much, although if your mother can really do that you should sell her to a circus. And this one says... Six Spades."
Field-Marshall Farquhardt dropped his cup of tea, but luckily the cup bounced on the persian rug, splashing it with cold milk. "They raised?" he said. "But... it doesn't make sense even as a take-out strategy!"
"I know," said the General. "But they have raised, and so now we must decide: can we make a Grand Slam, or do we punish?"
"We have a few hours," said the Field-Marshall. "Possibly the chief benefit of correspondance Bridge."

Marc said...

Greg - yeah, was struggling both to find a topic and find the desire to write. They both always come, sooner or later, but this time was later than usual.

Hah, did not see where you were going with that at all. Love the little details, the wiping of the letter on the general in particular :D