The exercise:
Four lines of prose about: the fight.
Because I'm listening to a Foo Fighters song as I write this.
Today we got back to work on the fence around the garden after focusing on other things for the last little while. I don't know if we'll get it finished tomorrow, but hopefully it'll be done by the end of the weekend.
Mine:
It wasn't much of a fight, really; just one punch and then it was over. A few lost teeth, nothing particularly memorable. Well, for me at least - I just threw the punch.
4 comments:
Did I mention how good your picture of Sir Philip was? I may not have done, work's been one thing piled on another these last two days (the only two I was actually in, so it's kind of expected).
I think that's a good summary of a fight in such a few lines!
the Fight
Charles Ascugimento, Head of Building Security, patrolled the lower halls with a military swagger. Ahead, there were sounds of a fight in progress, so he stealthed his step and slipped his hand-gun from his holster. Rounding a corner, he saw the backs of a crowd who were forming an impromptu ring for the fighters.
Fighting to the death for promotion might not be standard corporate practice, but it worked for Building Security.
THE FIGHT
So there was this strange situation going on and I couldn't really handle it that well. One might say it was a fight, but I'd prefer the term 'silence'. It was just me and you, sitting quietly around the kitchen table, smoking. We were both looking in other directions, focusing on points we didn't really see. Our pale faces were the sound-proof cover for all the screams and cries that echoed in our heads. I know if I opened my mouth then a whole hurricane would have slipped out, mostly consistent of anger and killing shouts. There came a moment when you had to close your eyes to come over the feeling that you can't take it anymore. I allowed myself a frown. We both have been a little shaky, but that's okay, just the coffee, yea. The little vein on your forehead was pulsing creepily. I wished as if I were watching a shooting star that it's a tumor. All this repression, my love. You put out your cigarette and got out of the kitchen. I heard you mutter you hope that I won't be here next time you come in. I mouthed a nice eff-word in return. Then you stopped and came back. You stuck your head in the kitchen, not opening the door entirely, saying:
"Honey, would you be a darling and return the books to the library?"
My smile was just as sweet as yours.
"Of course, dearest, just put them on the table."
Greg - you didn't, but the delayed compliment is still appreciated :)
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Charles encourages such behaviour. I wonder what they have to do for a raise...
Vento - somehow that ending made the situation even worse than if they had come to blows. Very nicely done.
And welcome to the blog! I hope to see more writing from you here :)
The Fight
"That someone else can fix you by pretending to be broken, is a dream you dream when you're awake."
I could think these things out-loud, but not today.
Today, you're almost out of air, the waters deep, and everyone knows that a drowning man will fight you.
So, I'll watch you wrestle with yourself a while and when you're done, I'll still love the broken parts of you.
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