Sometimes when I don't feel like carrying on with my book, or updating a blog, but still want to write about something, I do something like this. I go through exercises in an old writing textbook.
My worst day:
I was still running when the bus pulled away. I could have sworn the bus driver saw me, and still chose not to wait. I managed to catch up; I could make out the whites of the children’s eyes gawking at me through the back window when the bus abruptly stopped. Thud! I woke up looking up the behind of a dove, perched innocently on the only branch over hanging the street. Its white feathers the white puffy clouds, the green leaves of the tree rustling in the morning breeze. “Am I in heaven?” I thought Splat! I was rudely awakened from my day dream. The dove must have been trained in combat; it had dropped its breakfast right between my eyes. Scrambling up, to the amusement of onlookers I looked for something to wipe my face. Could my morning get any worse? Late for work, ran into the back of the bus, crapped on by a bird. Looking down in defeat, I noticed that I had two different colour shoes on.
Embarrassing:
Red faced he looked at us, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, for once at a loss for words. My son giggled. In our horror, my husband and I realized what had happened. Glaring at Tim, and then back to our guest, wondering how we were going to explain to the Prime Minister of England, how a whoopee cushion happened to be under his seat. This was one prank to many, my husband grabbed Tim by his ear and frog marched him out of the room, once again, leaving me to do the explaining
The Boss:
Her eyes were red and puffy; I could see that she had been crying. She shuffled papers on her desk, trying to act as if nothing was wrong. “What’s the matter?” I asked, awkwardly folding my arms, and then putting my hands in my pockets. Looking up at me, tears started streaming down her cheeks. “It’s John” She gasped “He’s had a heart attack”
Frustration:
Wham! She hit the keyboard, her frustration getting the better of her. She had been staring at the computer screen for a week now, and had not managed another word past her first two lines. She looked up at the award hanging on the wall, directly above her desk. Paula Miller emblazed in bold across it. Winner of the Pulitzers prize for non-fiction 2009. “Yeah right” she thought, “I am a one hit wonder”
Terrorism:
Her hands shaking, she turned up the volume on the TV. The school looked familiar. Paramedics and a fire truck filled the screen. “It has been confirmed that the cause of the explosion at Metro heights primary school was in fact a bomb” She didn't hear the rest, the remote dropped out of her hand. Her daughter went to Metro heights primary school. She tried to stand up, “Amy” she wailed. Her legs collapsed underneath her; falling into a heap the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Mother-in-law
My future mother-in-law cooked with such love that no matter what she made, it was always perfect. She had the kitchen built with two stoves, so that she could cook multiple dishes at once. She had a counter made, quite large specifically for the purpose of laying out her food whilst preparing it in an orderly fashion. Every vegetable, every fruit and every type of meat had its own bowl. She would place them in the exact same spot every time. Meat in the middle, with veggies on the left, and fruit and salads to the right. She would bury herself in her cooking, her brow furrowed with concentration she would chop, cut and stab with the precision of a chef, but her flamboyant arm movements reminded me of a conductor, working a piece of musical art. And that is exactly what her food was, art.
When she was in full flight, it was near impossible to get her attention. She was so focused on her task that everything else was secondary. The way she would expertly hold a fresh prawn, cut it down the middle at a fearful speed, she would grab the little vein running down the middle between her thumbs and pointing finger, and in a single motion pull it out. The next prawn would be in her hand before you could even register that the last one was already in the bowl. Prawns done, wash hands and the would set about getting on with the next task, getting the vegetables ready.
The Sweet potato’s set neatly side by side, six in a row. She would set the tip of her knife on one end, place her other hand over the top of the blade, and in one movement, one swift cut it would be sliced down the middle. Not stopping top look at her handy work she would grab one half, hold it up, inspect it, and then in her hand cut it in half again. This process was repeated until all of the potato’s lay in a bowl. She would then move onto her next task. Her lips puckered, her eyes focused, she handled the kitchen like a military operation. Not once can I ever remember her preparing a meal without a smile on her face.
Tony:
“You are so cute when you get jealous, you know that” said Tony as he reached across the table and gently pushed Elsa’s hair behind her ear.new line when a different person speaks. “I’m not getting jealous Tony, but you can’t flirt with every waitress in the world. You always do it” she whispered as she leant closer. “Please don’t make a scene; I am just being friendly honey, I…” He didn’t finish his sentence. A commotion at the entrance of the clubhouse got his attention. A beautiful blonde was arguing with the doorman. Tony’s knuckles whited around his glass as he recognised her. The blonde pushed past the doorman, and stormed through towards where Tony and Elsa were sitting. Tony’s face went white. “Lu, Lulu” he stammered. “Who?” Elsa demanded swinging around to see what he was staring at.
Tony got up, intent on cutting Lulu off before she reached the table. But he was to slow. She was upon them, ignoring Tony she faced Elsa, her face scarlet, and nostrils flaring. “What do you…” not allowing Elsa to finish, Lulu grabbed a glass of wine and threw it into Elsa’s face. There was a stunned silence. Lulu stood glass in hand, glaring at Elsa, almost daring her to get up. “Bitch, slut” she snarled through clenched teeth. “Home wrecker!” Overcome with embarrassment, Elsa just sat, mouth open, looking at Lulu, and then at Tony “Who are you” Elsa gasped. “Tony’s wife, that’s who, and who the hell are you?” Lulu hissed. She raised her hand to strike Elsa “have you no shame?” Elsa raised her arms to protect her face, but the blow never came. Tony had stepped forward and grabbed her arm. Regaining her composer, Elsa finally responded. What do you mean “your husband, we have been married for two years” she responded incredulously. “What do you want?” Tony, still grasping Lulu’s arm was trying to pull Lulu away, and was whispering in Lulu’s ear. “Leave her alone Tony, let’s see what she wants” said Elsa, bewildered. “Yes, Tony, let’s” replied Lulu. “Married for two years? Explain this cow!” said Lula, throwing her ID book onto the table. Tony, still holding onto Lulu’s arm pulled her violently aside and tried to grab the ID Document. But Elsa had already snatched it. Opening it, she saw that Lulu was telling the truth. “Care to explain this Tony” she leant forward, exposing the book to him. “She is a mad woman, and has been stalking me for months”. Elsa knew when Tony was lying, he was lying now. “Tony, I think you have some explaining to do” said Elsa, her bottom lip started to quiver. “Please Tony, tell me I am dreaming” she whimpered. “What’s going on, is this some sort of sick joke Tony?” Tony was usually a smooth talker, he could not worm his way out of this situation. “He looked sheepish, and neither Elsa nor Lulu were used to seeing him like that. This was a different man to the one they had fallen in love with. “I, I, I can explain, if I could just talk to each of you separately.” He almost begged. His lack of conviction betrayed him, he was not denying it. Tony’s secret world was tumbling around him. “Are you married to her?” Lulu and Elsa simultaneously burst out. Once again Tony’s expression betrayed him, “um, er, well just listen to me” he stammered again. “We should sit down and talk about this”
Elsa slumped into her chair; her hair tumbled forward into her face as the tears dripped onto her breasts, rolled down and was quickly absorbed by her red stained dress. Her worst nightmare imaginable had been realized. The coin had dropped, Tony was a bigamist.
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