Sunday November 1st, 2015

The exercise:

Write about something that is: concealed.

Kat and I began watching Elementary online recently. One (of the two) episode(s) we watched this evening has provided inspiration for today's prompt, if not my take on it. Well, maybe it has. We'll see when I start writing it, I suppose.

Edit: yeah, not really. Perhaps the tone was inspired by the show in general though, if not the content.

Max and Natalie played at our house this afternoon. They remind me of two tornadoes, whirling around each other. And occasionally colliding.


It's no easy thing, carrying around a secret like mine for so long. It has weight. It is a constant companion. Which is comforting, in its own way. How could I ever be lonesome when this secret never leaves me be?

Sleep, however, can be a difficult friend. I'm sure you can imagine. I see those dark circles under your eyes. I know them. I understand them.

Words, you must be thinking. Only words. But words are powerful things. They can convey more than they appear to. Or, in some cases, precisely what they claim to. If you're paying enough attention. If you look closely.

Take, for example, the phrase Something has been weighing on my mind. Often bandied about, yes? Hardly anyone pays it any heed anymore. But take a moment. Look closer. There is truth there.

For that something truly is weighing on people. It is a weight. It can drag a person down. When someone tells you that, they are asking for help. They are telling you that they can no longer suffer their burden alone. Not for another day, another hour, not another breath. That is why they have come to confide in you. People should feel more honored to be trusted so deeply. But so many of us dismiss the very words being presented to us.

So I ask that you listen to me very, very closely, detective. For something has been weighing on my mind...


Greg said...

Sherlock Holmes seems to have had one of his periodic revivals of late, it seems like he's everywhere again, being reinterpreted for the times and places that we have today. Which isn't a bad thing, though perhaps it would be nice to see something a little more novel from time to time too. Still, it sounds like you're enjoying it, and your piece is thoughtful and leaves me wondering what it is that's weighing on the narrator's mind and driving him (or her!) to philosophise about it. I haven't seen the show, but I'm impressed with what you've produced from the prompt.

"Norm? Norm!" Henry's voice, probably only adequately described as stentorian, echoed around the lumber yard. A pile of chairs, all remnants from dining sets, shifted slightly as a result of the sonic assault. "Norm!"
"Sweet mother of angels, Henry," said Norm waddling round the corner of the steel shelving that ran the length of the yard. Planks of wood of varying grades and sizes jutted out from it, all above his head. "The yard's not big enough for you to shout like that. Go buy an indoor voice from somewhere."
He looked on as Henry gestured to a woman in a long purple dress. The dress was stretched unpleasantly tightly over her rather full figure as though she thought she was thinner than she actually was. Her breasts were cruellest treated and swelled and oozed over the low-cut neck giving her more seepage than cleavage. Her hair was blonde, dirty, and braided down to her waist, and she was fidgeting with the split ends of it.
"Is the lumber yard vegetarian, Norm?" said Henry, his voice still rather too loud.
"You what?"
"Is it vegetarian, Norm? The young, um, lady here wants to know." Henry avoided looking at her and Norm wished he could too. There was a sullen insolence in her eyes that he usually saw in customers who'd decided that they ought to have something, typicaly something that wasn't lumber.
"I don't know that I've ever seen the yard eat anything," said Norm. "So I suppose you could say it is, since it's never eaten meat?"
"Oh, you poor thing!" said the woman. Her words were slurred slightly as though she'd been drinking. "Are you oppressed proletariat?"
"I dunno," said Norm. "Am I oppressed proletariat, Henry?"
"Are a depressed old hairy rat? I wouldn't know about hairy," said Henry, clearly thinking hard. He worried at a hangnail. "You're about my age and I don't feel old. And you're about as cheerful as the donkey, is he depressed?"
"I don't think so," said Norm. "He's got a bit of distemper at the moment though, so he might be a bit down about it."
"Look, you clearly need to read this," said the woman, producing a copy of the Morning Post that she'd cunningly concealed about her person. "I think you're terribly oppressed and that you need to be husbanding the land more."
"Is that like fu–"
"Leave the donkey out of this!" said Norm as fast as he could manage. Henry subsided. "I think you're in the wrong town, miss," said Norm, certain that this wasn't going to work. "Perhaps you should try Sixticton?"

Marc said...

Greg - indeed he has. I am quite pleased with the general quality of the parts of it that I've seen. Though I should admit to not yet seeing Sherlock with Benedict Cumberbatch.

Hah, I think you're enjoying writing these two nearly as much as I enjoy reading them! Though now I'm left wondering about how this woman will be received upon her arrival in Sixticton...