exercise - Write a scene

[wildsweetone]

Here's an exercise that may help improve writing skills. I've come across it in my travels to learn about how to plot - I don't plot in my own writing, yet.

Write a brief scene with no characters, a clear location, a limited period of time, and a single event that changes and moves the story forward. (You don't actually have to have a story in mind. Just pretend you do.)

I've just finished writing one and discovered with some shock, that I used a character, so it'll be an interesting exercise for me to see if I can rewrite the same scene without the character. (Actually, I think I've just started another story by doing this so be forewarned, you may be giving yourself more work than you initially think. lol)

 

[oggbashan]

Perhaps this would do...

Langdon Hole, Dover

I stand on The Saxon Shore Way looking down into Langdon Hole. The strong westerly wind supports a gull hanging stationary in mid-air. The grass and clover wave in the sunlight annoying the foraging bees.

I look towards the blue tinged France. I see the busy ferries crossing and re-crossing, the freighters and tankers lumbering through The Channel and sailing boats leaning at impossible angles as they tack towards Dover Harbour.

A few walkers make their way across the downland towards the invisible South Foreland lighthouse. They gradually disappear over the hill to be replaced by more enthusiasts. The pony tracks around me are still damp from the morning’s rain but rapidly drying under the bright sun and the gusting wind.

The blue sea crashes against the rocks as the tide recedes revealing the bones of a wrecked coaster under the cliffs. Some of the rocks are recent falls showing brilliant white contrasting with the seaweed wreathed older ones.

Leaning against a fence post I just stand and stare. This is a savage and dangerous beauty with dizzy heights and crumbling chalk topped with a verdant green. The few bushes and trees bend over, testifying to the force of the wind on the exposed clifftop. Here and there odd lumps of concrete survive from the war their purpose long past. One at the extreme edge seems poised for a dive to the crashing waters below. This month, next month, who knows? it will join the shattered remains at the cliff’s base until it is covered by a further chalk fall.

I take one last look at France. I can just make out the tower of the Town Hall and to its left the lighthouse. Turning to return to the car park my eyes flick along the French dunes to Cap Griz Nez and all the ships between France and England. I enjoy the clear view that follows rain as I walk along the path so close to the cliff edge. Will this path be here next year? I don’t know. What I do know is that it is only continual erosion that keeps the White Cliffs white.

I enjoyed that short break from the mundane. The seagull follows hoping for a handout but I have nothing to offer but my appreciation of his effortless soaring. Perhaps next time I should bring a sandwich?

31 July 2003

 

[Medieval-Man]

My quasi-comedy involving Dean Baron, Musician

I had something here that I'm not allowed to remove, so I'll just edit it out entirely, now, I only do write with characters, and scanned through that because of an overabundance of idea's to do, I saved it, so maaaaaybe we can do a "With characters" thread.

 

[wildsweetone]

Write a brief scene with no characters, a clear location, a limited period of time, and a single event that changes and moves the story forward. (You don't actually have to have a story in mind. Just pretend you do.)

I may be wrong, please forgive me if I am, but it says 'no characters'.

I would take that to mean absolutely no characters, no first person, no second or third person.

Methinks this is more difficult than it looks.

 

[Jenny _S]

The wind covered the treeless, sun baked expanse making the dust rise and fall at the whim of no one. The sun burned everything, parching even the soil so that nothing could survive. Even the smallest insects had retreated into their underground dens to escape the merciless heat of the day.

But then, far off in the distance, just above the far mountains the sky began to slowly darken beginning with a Grey band just above the peaks then growing to cover the most of the western sky. Within hours the entire sky had become a dull slate color. The wind had taken on a chill and hastened into the east.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon the first drops of rain began to fall. Life returning to the wasteland just as the first vertebrates wriggled in the shallow pools of rain water to evolve into mankind, once again the rains brought a newness to the desert, a rejuvenation of plants and those animals who would forage in and around them. But only for a little while.

(Zero characters LMAO)

 

[wildsweetone]

wahoooooo! yessssss

Great work Jenny! I just knew it could be done. Now I'll go and try mine again.

 

[Guest]

No one was home, but the curtains were drawn and the mid-afternoon sun streamed through the tall bay windows forming large rectangles of light across the dining room’s width. The large worn table was spread with music papers, all featuring busy measures written in a distinct hand. Under most of the bars on four pages lying in order—one, two, three, four—were handwritten words in Cyrillic, the title page dedicated to Maya Dyeva-Rosa—Karmen. The music was for piano and bass voice in C-major.

Arranged in a row above the song's pages were a copy of Oscar Wilde’s fairy tales, a small photograph of a smiling couple obviously in love, and a dried vase of a dozen dead roses—deep dark red. The light hit these objects to compose a still-life befitting the musical score and its lyrics, the words to an eight-line verse by Pushkin beginning, “O, rose-maiden I am fettered.”

The scene remained composed throughout the hours leading to twilight when it became imbued with transparent layers of mauve, carmine and violet. As the hues turned to darkness laughter could be heard outside, then a door creaking open and the sounds of more laughing, breathlessness, and finally silence, as footsteps climbing the stairs to the bedroom above diminished within the complete darkness of the house.

Perdita

 

[wildsweetone]

Wow Perdita, that is a vivid picture for me.

Just doing the finishing touches to mine, will post momentarily.

 

[raphy]

Ooh, fun exercise - In essence this is about as 'pure' TPO as it gets. Inanimate objects aren't characters, are they? Tough exercise for me - So much of my stuff is 'stream-of-conscioussness'

--
The forest stretched out below the mountain like some enormous beast. Vast, hungry and timeless, it lay in wait for unwary explorers and foolhardy treasure-seekers alike.

There was silence. A sense of anticipation, of expectancy, as if the universe itself was waiting. A singular crack in time, stretched out to immeasurable lengths, and compressed into an infinitesimally small moment. Nothing moved. Nothing dared.

Then, when the air was stretched thin with tension, a rumble sounded. Deep in the bowels of the earth at first, it grew louder and more insistent with every passing second. And then without warning or reason, it stopped.

The mountain imploded, falling in on itself, rock and boulder and stone dropping into the chasm caused by the earthquake. A great dust cloud rose up, engulfing and all encompassing. It took only 30 minutes and when the dust had settled the wind was already blowing the new seeds in from the west. The forest would claim another victim.
--

 

[wildsweetone]

Raphy, wow. That is awesome too!

 

[wildsweetone]

Here's my first attempt - I didn't finish it before I realised I had a character in it. Darn characters turning up uninvited like that. *sigh*

#
The front door of the house was wide open. It seemed very odd though, because there was no sound, nor other sign of life to be seen. Stepping into the house he sneezed as his face walked straight into a cobweb. Wiping the invisible thread from his cheeks and nose, he moved forward more cautiously, waving one arm in front to ensure no more nasty webbing captured him.

The further into the house he went, the more he realised it had been untouched for months, maybe even a year. Spider webs hung from doorways, across the hall and they were all low enough to catch him.

Reaching the kitchen, he stood still shocked. Not one web was in the room. Not even a single spider sat in waiting in any of the kitchen’s corners. The pots were gleaming with cleanliness, the sink bench spotless. Not one speck of dust sat on any surface.

#
Now here's the version that got written when I told him to wait on the porch. *wink*

#
The front door of the house stood wide open. It seemed very odd though, because there was no sound, nor other sign of life to be seen. Cobwebs draped across doorways, across the hall from one ceiling beam to another. They hung from the antique wooden picture frames, falling down in front of the oil paintings in large stringy clumps of dust bound silk.

Dust lay thick on tabletops, on shelves and on the floor. Not a footprint marred the perfect brown carpet.

The kitchen was different. Pots and pans hung from fixtures, all sparkling with cleanliness. The stainless steel bench top shone. Steam rose from the kettle as if it had just been boiled and a mug stood on the bench in readiness to be filled.

A bay window overlooked the back garden. Herbs in boxes overflowing in abundance, roses in full bloom some matching those in the crystal vase on the wooden kitchen table. There was only one door to enter the kitchen. The dust stopped at the door’s edge.

The chair by the old agar rocked, though nothing touched it, nothing moved past it, and nothing sat upon it.
#

Man that sure was fun to write.

 

[raphy]

WSO - Err, isn't there supposed to be an event or something that signifies the passing of time within the passage?

Damn, now everyone's going to think I'm mean and critical...

Raph, wondering if he misunderstood the instructions.

 

[wildsweetone]

Oh! So a moving chair with nobody sitting on it is not an event in itself?

 

[raphy]

Ah. Well, I suppose so. I hadn't quite figured out if that was supposed to mark some paranomal-esque ghostly event or if it was just more descriptive prose..

Sorry =(

 

[wildsweetone]

Actually thinking about it more...


it says

...and a single event that changes and moves the story forward

I think that the rocking chair should begin moving as its being described. That would signify a change, right?

Hey, please don't be sorry. I'm learning here too.

 

[wildsweetone]

repeat of previous post with slight change in last paragraph.

#
The front door of the house stood wide open. It seemed very odd though, because there was no sound, nor other sign of life to be seen. Cobwebs draped across doorways, across the hall from one ceiling beam to another. They hung from the antique wooden picture frames, falling down in front of the oil paintings in large stringy clumps of dust bound silk.

Dust lay thick on tabletops, on shelves and on the floor. Not a footprint marred the perfect brown carpet.

The kitchen was different. Pots and pans hung from fixtures, all sparkling with cleanliness. The stainless steel bench top shone. Steam rose from the kettle as if it had just been boiled and a mug stood on the bench in readiness to be filled.

A bay window overlooked the back garden. Herbs in boxes overflowing in abundance, roses in full bloom some matching those in the crystal vase on the wooden kitchen table. There was only one door to enter the kitchen. The dust stopped at the door’s edge.

The chair by the old agar began rocking, though nothing touched it, nothing moved past it, and nothing sat upon it.
#

 

[raphy]

I think that the rocking chair should begin moving as its being described. That would signify a change, right?

Aah, yes, that would be great! And would emphasize the creepy paranomal freaky event of a chair moving with no obvious reason.

Remember, things happen every day.... And they do so without people around to interact with them. Effectively, all you're doing is describing those things.

 

[wildsweetone]

Thank you for your help raphy. I'm going to try another tomorrow. I've missed descriptive writing.

 

[raphy]

Thank you for your help raphy. I'm going to try another tomorrow. I've missed descriptive writing.

Anytime WSO, I love exchanging ideas and thoughts with another writer.. Like I said, it's a very interesting exercise for me specifically, because so much of my writing is stream-of-consciousness.. And with no sentient beings in the piece, it forces me to write descriptively.. Which I'm not very good at =)

 

[wildsweetone]

this is why i'm still hooked on the AH...

Raphy has suggested this as a far better ending:

Raphy: Speaking from a purely emotional impact point of view - I was thinking about your ghostly rocking chair and I thought about your last sentence... How about reversing it.. Establish that he chair's there and that nothing's touching it.. Then make it move...

Like this:

--
A rocking chair sat in the middle of the room. Then slowly and almost unbelievably, with no breeze to push it, no body to sit on it, it began, unaccountably, to rock.
--

Thanks Raphy!

 

[raphy]

 

[Guest]

Write a brief scene with no characters, a clear location, a limited period of time, and a single event that changes and moves the story forward. (You don't actually have to have a story in mind. Just pretend you do.)

Thanks WSO! This is a great excercise, and really made me think about the event I was picturing in my mind. Here's my little scene...

The garden is empty now, the only movement comes from leaves kissed by the breeze. A cold silence has fallen. The bikes lay where they fell, void of their riders. The barbeque is no longer alight, but a dull glow is emitted from the warm embers.

Darkness sweeps into the garden, its black hand touching all it finds. A child's plastic ball is caught by the wind, and blown across the lawn, until it comes to rest against the wall. The starry sky begins to disappear behind a heavy curtain of cloud.

Rain begins to fall. The once dry path is now speckled with drops of water. As the rain gets heavier these drops converge to form a mass of moisture on the ground. A flash of lightening catches the scene, reflecting off the sheets of water falling from the sky. All is dark once more, even before a rumble of thunder resonates from the clouds. The tranquillity is ripped apart by this violent storm.


Lou

 

[gauchecritic]

Across the bay lie the Jellyfish. Anonymous mounds of orange-yellow waiting for the children with their buckets and spades, sticks and pebbles, wonder and passion or the returning surf to drag them homewards lifeless though they are.

The clinking, clanking, wind whipped rigging bears it's own accompaniment to the raucous, disparaging mewling of black-tipped wings, spilling air, carrying plaintive gulls in search of forgotten, abandoned fries.

Expectant, fat drops of rain give birth to splotches of wetness as they hit, dappling concrete and wood, just and unjust alike.

The rhythm of the rigging slows as the birds drift always earthwards to waiting flat spaces or the chill breast of the still water, hungry as ever, but denied their scavengers role by the oncoming downrush.

Flat calm becomes splish-sploshed with the darkling sky's bounty as the tide across the way claims its own decaying denizens before home kept children dare venture.

The empty thermos and vacant silver foil packaging give mute testimony to brighter times gone and perforce the ending day making all home-ward bound to remember with smiles and nods the sounds and smells, calls and recollections.

Then, generous to the last, a wish is granted. Through dismal overcast, lances flame, to waken dozing gulls, scattering heavenwards, searching once more with cacophonous chorus, emblazoning white hulls and silvered masts and lighting those raindrop crowns dancing on the water. 'Just 5 more minutes' to partake of the beauty that is Bridlington.

Gauche

Edited to add: That took absolutely ages and I had to have a picture to work from and I had to use a thesaurus and the event which moved the passage on was the sun shining through to give more time at the sea-side.

 

[Guest]

Dear Gauche,

You are a poet. I daresay this is the best of I've read of you, and of the best I've read on Lit. or elsewhere save those works of the famously departed.

You have a uniquely flowing tongue, a vocabulary foreign to me but accessible in my mind's eye. You present Bridlington as if it were another Venice for me.

with admiration, Purr

 

[MathGirl]

Good greif! Not agian!

I kiked down the dor of her Frisco apartment and cammed in her fase.
MG