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This was a writing game in the Cambridge book on creative writing. The assignment was to write a very short poem from the perspective of a table cloth, a short story on the departure of two lovers and the sexual union of air and earth, and a longer story about a vindictive father, adulterous mother, and a Snow-Child (whatever that means)
Here is my interpretation:
Old Table-Cloth
What sartorial gratification I get,
When I envelop a muddied hand
And when the voluptuous five-fingered form
Snakes around my textured body.
Its writhing palpitating me,
Until I can take no more
And afterwards I am relinquished
Wet, sweaty and abhorred
…
An electric synergy snaked through the air, as if invisible eels were writhing about, profligately and all, beneath the midday cirri, rubbing and twisting against each other like licentious hippies. The stern wind of winter was departing lugubriously, giving way to gentle warm air; the prudish conditions of the past season transposed with the promiscuity of spring. The orgasmic proliferation of vegetation was already in its initial stages, with neonatal flora everywhere. A strong chemistry between the genteel air and virile earth was lingering, the sexual union of the two inevitable.
This still-life of ubiquitous, unmodified beauty was only interrupted by a damp, artificial fishing harbor. Here, the tall line of fishing vessels stretched long enough to form a rancid promenade for the seamen that were listlessly walking about. At the terminus, on the extreme right end of the harbor, was a duet of lovers. The man was gawky and short, with a wispy comb over, and wore short shorts and a neon palm-tree embodied Hawaiian shirt. He was staring ruefully, with a tinge of indignation, at a taller, prettier, black-haired girl. She was in close proximity of a large fishing boat, which brimmed with swarthy sailors. One of her feet was drawn back skittishly towards the direction of the boat, as if it was anxious to bring the other foot back with it. Her face was poised in studied commiseration.
“Is there even electricity in that part of Guatemala?” he asked, despairingly.
“Steven-“ She started, but bit her lip and took in a deep breathe. Her voice was fluctuating, struggling to stay on the proper melancholic frequency, refusing to resonate sympathetically. She breathed out.
“I’m not sure, Steven. Probably not. Maybe…” She stopped and looked to her immediate left, gazing out at the serene, sedentary ocean, taking note of its unruffled composure. She snapped her head back into place.
“But that’s not the point, Steven. It’s those iguanas!-“
Steven let out a small, almost imperceptible, exasperated groan.
“Steven! They are indigenous to a small rock in the middle of an extremely menacing jungle!” She was quoting from the wildlife journal she had cut the volunteer ad from, he presumed.
“…surrounded by lepers, jaguars, lions, and disease!” She made sure her concern reverberated properly.
“But Laury, how will you survive?” He exaggerated the ‘you’ in such a way to signify that she, of all people, with no expertise in Guatemala or jungle trekking, could not survive such arduous conditions.
She jerked her head briskly back and to the immediate right, as if she were shot by a sluggish, dawdling bullet, to indicating the boat full of seamen behind her.
“Don’s a great guide-“
“Don?”
“Yes, Steven, Don.”
There was no moral zenith to be reached with her, that he understood. She would circumnavigate around all his attempts to implore her to remain with him. This was of course due to the lack of, or too much, serotonin in her brain (he didn’t quite understand the neurologists prognosis). For three years, he had filled her drive for extremism with bungee jumping, parachuting, base jumping, sky diving, motorcycles, and anything that would arouse her indolent adrenal gland. But she never had enough, and once she caught sight of a volunteer opportunity in the wildlife journal she bought at a New York City newsstand one dreary, rainy, quotidian day, she was obsessed.
At the actuation of the Guatemalan monomania, she incessantly opted Steven to join her in the dense jungles. He was reluctant, but agreed nonetheless. A week before departure, however, the death of a relative obliged him to stay behind; his aunt lived in California, and he could only afford nominal, no so swift transportation, so he made plans to take the car out in seven days’ time, and pleaded her abandon Guatemala and join him.
Laury, in desperate need to up her serotonin count, could not possibly go on a week-long car ride, nor could she stand around at a funeral pretending to be melancholy and grievous while suppressing the hammering urge to flip over the coffin or jump out the window or undress and run around bare in front of the funereal crowd. So Laury denied Steven the favor he so passionately solicited her for, and she stubbornly made the decision to go alone with the volunteer group.
So Luary, subdued and looking like an ambivalent, scenic still-life, took one last look at Steven.
“Don will keep me safe, Steven,” she said, and with that, a half halo turn was made, and she marched to the swaying boat, full of eager, grinning sailors.
…
To my dear Steven,
How are you? Are you doing alright? How was the funeral? I hope it wasn’t too sad for you. I hate funerals. Well, I guess you want to know what happened with the iguanas, right? Turns out they are pretty well off. They actually have a very unique defense mechanism, where they shoot out this deadly acid at any predator that comes within ten feet of them. They’ve been doing that for years. A lot of jungle cats died from this, so now we are trying to save them from the iguanas. It’s sort of messy, since we have to wear haz-mat suits and everything while we’re building this big wooden fence around their rock. They keep spraying us and ruining the suits, so we have to hurry up and finish the fence before we run out of suits. It’s pretty fun, and I miss you. Don had an accident a couple days ago. I think he was trying to impress me, because he was building the fence without his suit and all, and this big mean looking iguana sprayed acid on his face, so it got really messed up. I don’t really mind though, he was really creepy.
Anyway… they feed us here nicely, and the bathrooms aren’t as bad as I thought. There’s a bit of electricity too. It’s sort of lonely though. I miss you a lot…
Don’t worry though, I’ll be returning in a month or so. Can’t wait to see you Steven!
With love,
Laury
…
The Snow-Child
Father
‘The gears are stuck. They have something stuck in them, it’s stuck deep. It stops them from turning, it stops the cog from moving. You can move them, but you can’t. You don’t feel like it. You say it’s the machine. But it’s not. It’s you. You don’t feel like it. Your stuck in them, you’re stuck deep. You stop them from turning, you stop the cog from moving. You can’t move them. Did you try oil?’
He awoke with a start, as if going up for breathe after nearly drowning. He was drenched, his body temperature ambivalent; it did not know wether it wanted to be hot or cold. He decided cold, and cooled himself with a shower. He was dreaming of wavy voices and rusting gears again. He had been for years, sporadically.
When he got out of the shower, towel around large waist, he noticed the hallow, unfilled creases on his bed, where the wife should have been.
Anxious, he turned on the light, squinting.
He put on boxers and opened the bedroom door, thinking of ways to harangue her for making him uncomfortable with her uncalled for absence.
Everywhere was dark, and he hit his toe with a loud “Shit.” He turned on the lights, checked the bathroom, and then his medicine cabinet, where he snatched two white pills from the depressing, translucent orange cylinder.
He sat down in the kitchen and thought.
She had been doing this, sporadically, for a year. When she got angry, she left in the middle of the night “for a walk.”
Sometimes he wanted to follow her, but she was too quiet for him to notice while he slept.
The first time she did this he got worried and waited in the kitchen until she came. When she did he accused her of cheating. She denied this.
The second time she did this he tried to find her outside. Since she took the car, he didn’t get far and went back. He waited till she came and again accused her of cheating. She denied this too.
Third time he just took the two white pills from the orange cylinder and drank until he felt sleepy.
As he sat now in the kitchen, he sort of wished she was cheating on him. At least then he could shove the fact that he was right in her face.
He took out some whiskey, and drowned a gulp straight. He put it down on table and screwed back the cap.
He knew self-control at an emotionally taxing time like this was essential.
Besides, he wasn’t a violent man.
He scanned his cluttered kitchen, small and claustrophobic. The first time he saw it, back when he bought the house, many years ago, it looked cozy.
He lasered in on a picture of him fishing with one of his best friends. He hated his friend intermittently.
Now and then, his friend would go on a bragging spell, telling him of all his recent victories; slept with a new woman, got the deal, won a bet, played a killer poker game, tried a new drug, improved his vocal fluctuations, worked out for four hours straight, annihilated someone at basketball, threatened someone bigger than him, etc. He would listen to these ruefully, tensing his body and wishing to shut him up. But he never did, out of respect.
He closed his eyes, testing to see if the pills were working yet. Once they entered his blood, he would get a lightheaded, hyperphysical feeling, as if he was being dragged upwards into the stratosphere.
They were working, and he floated up to the wild blue yonder.
He thought about his job. He had to get up in about four hours. The pills prevented him from getting too angry.
His boss was one of the few people he enjoyed, and felt sorry for. He was an awkward, married man, nervous and quiet.
He was confident he would get a promotion in a year’s time or so. His boss liked him.
At the thought he relaxed, drowned in the incandescent soft glow of the yellow bulb above him, and further sank into his seat…
WHAAAA
His eyes became fiery disks, perfectly round and alert.
WHAAAA
He fixed his posture.
WHAAAA
He stood up, leaning the right side of his head in the direction of the wailing.
WHAAAA
With loud tiptoeing, his head swimming, and thoughts absent, he gravitated towards the front door.
He stopped, looked through the hole.
Nothing, except darkness and streetlamps.
He opened the door.
WHAAAA
And jumped back.
Below his feet he saw a horrific and beautiful sight. A premature, translucent baby lay in a stained basket, eyes closed, with a small frown drawn on its powdery face.
He called out “Hello,” in every direction. Everywhere was dark, and nobody called back. Stupefied, catatonic, he started tearing. The baby stopped crying. It squinted up at him, its face drenched in tears.
Flustered, he picked up the basket, his heart palpitating, his face drowned in tears.
The basket was nearly weightless, almost ethereal. He took it in and put it on top of the kitchen table, with the baby quietly looking at him through narrow slits.
He opened the fridge, taking out apple sauce and milk. He found a popsicle stick in the cupboard, using it to scrape out a little apple sauce and brang it towards the baby’s mouth.
Immediately, it began crying. Panicking, he offered the baby milk from a saucer. He tried to pour a drop down its tiny throat, but it turned its head, crying.
He was almost dry heaving now. He looked at the overly thin body, writhing meekly and pathetically. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it.
But he didn’t want it crying.
He picked up the basket, and rocked it in his arms, saying “it’s ok” in a small, hoarse voice.
The baby stopped crying. It looked up at him through its narrow slits.
He tried to smile at the baby, not showing his teeth.
He looked down at it sadly. Then he looked up at the window in the kitchen. The Californian streets were drenched in darkness and streetlamps.
It never snowed here.
Mother
“… so I shouted ‘Hello down there!’ to her, and she just stared at me, eyes glazed over and everything… I never saw anything more sad. I mean the girl was maybe twelve years old or thirteen or fourteen, so she understood me perfectly. But she was probably so used to that well that I must’ve seemed liked an alien to her… I guess if you spend 26 hours straight looking up at a circle of light that you can’t reach, you kind of disregard it after a while. She still couldn’t talk after I got her out…”
“Wow, just wow. Ladies and gentlemen, a true local hero, this man here-“
“Oh, stop, I just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”
“And humble, to boot! Ha, well that’s all for the time we have for tonight’s program folks, thank for listening to Wake U-”
FSHHWTEEEE
Radio clouded her mind. Tuned her out, made her out of focus. She needed to keep her eyes on the road, especially at this time of the night.
She came to a fork. She knew that if she wanted a 24/7 deli to get some beer she would have to go straight. If she wanted to go to a nice, low-lit, pensive bar, she would have to make a left. If she wanted to sleep with someone other than her husband, she would have to make a right.
She made her choice, and glided gently along the narrow street until she came upon a lit house, muffled music escaping from inside.
She got out of the convertible and walked briskly in the cool, zestful air.
It woke her up slightly. She knocked, and soon after a soft toned voice said something like ‘It’s open.’
She stepped into the resonant reverberations of a high quality sound system pumping out “Just Like Heaven,” by The Cure.
Robert Smith’s melodious voice always worked for her, and her clothes were off before he even came into the room.
When he did she was on the couch, looking at a picture of him on a fishing trip. She put it down quickly, got up and motioned him over to his bedroom.
Al Greene’s voice came on afterward.
The Snow-Child
Dark, very, very dark. Painful, hurting, hurting all over, very dark. Hungry, very painful, dark.
Light. Pain. Hunger. Voices, happiness.
Voices, anger frustration sadness.
Hunger.
Voices, regret.
Dark.
Voices, screaming.
Pain, hunger.
Dark, cold, very dark. Sadness, tears. Movement. Voices, calm. Calm.
La fin de Trifecta
She shut the convertible door loudly. She knew he was up. He always waited for her. Maybe this time she’d tell him the truth. Maybe not. It really depended on how many pills he took and how much he drank.
She opened the door to a lit house.
He was in the kitchnen, sunk in his chair, looking up at the soft light smiling dreamily. His eyes were drooping.
Outside, everywhere was dark.
“What are you smiling at?” She asked.
He looked over to her, serene.
“You know, it never snows here.”
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