Today, Darren and I attended a workshop by Sheffield Uni WriteSoc.
For the first vignette, each person was supposed to form a story from four words suggested by another person. For the second part, we chose one word and described an obsession based on that word. For the final section, we linked the two stories together.
It was an enjoyable and interesting experience. Everyone came up with unique pieces. Thanks, Theo, for organising this.
The below vignettes are my attempts:
Those reservoir dogs, they wonder. They wonder what it would be like to be warm, to be snug, to be led around by the leash. They wonder, wonder with their doggy minds.
To them, studying is a puzzle, art history is a puzzle. These subjects - try as they might - they can't fit the knowledge together. They fear it's because they're stupid.
They dare not acknowledge this fear.
And so, they wonder and fear, dreaming. Then, that albino retriever saunters past, leading its owner to a polo game. Even human beings like to chase after balls too.
You finger that memory, feeling its rough, brittle surface. That memory contains the faces of your father and your mother, your family, friends. Everyone whom you've stalked on Facebook. Everyone whom you've loved, Liked and disLiked.
It's all about your home, isn't it? But what's a home? To a snail, a home is where-ever its shell is. But, to you, what is a home?
Home is the postcard, 5 inches by 7 inches, that your friend just sent. Home is the rocking chair that creaks. Home is the pastas, the pizzas, the paninis.
You, you left your home. YOU left it.
Your home, it'd be there when you return. Yes, it'd remain. But the home that remained is not the home that you've left.
I seduce you with my honeyed scent and brilliant yellow clothes. From the corner of your vision, you see me. Me, standing by the pathway, the sunshine lighting up my face.
You bend down, pat my head. "What a beautiful daffodil!" Your eyes sparkle. You love it when your home is tidy, neat and when we, blooming daffodils, salute along the pebble pathway.
Happily, you sashay out, leaving the place you call home.
A pack of reservoir dogs come past. Like you, they are drawn to my beauty. (Well... everyone is drawn to my beauty but that's another story.)
One of them raise its left hind leg above me and a stream of hot canine pee cascade on my upturned face.
I bob with pleasure, soaking in all the nutrients, all the goodness.
You return, to this cottage you call home. You bend down, look at me, smell me and you wonder why my scent is different.
The home that remained and the home you left are different.
For the first vignette, each person was supposed to form a story from four words suggested by another person. For the second part, we chose one word and described an obsession based on that word. For the final section, we linked the two stories together.
It was an enjoyable and interesting experience. Everyone came up with unique pieces. Thanks, Theo, for organising this.
The below vignettes are my attempts:
Reservoir Dogs - Art History - Fear - Polo
To them, studying is a puzzle, art history is a puzzle. These subjects - try as they might - they can't fit the knowledge together. They fear it's because they're stupid.
They dare not acknowledge this fear.
And so, they wonder and fear, dreaming. Then, that albino retriever saunters past, leading its owner to a polo game. Even human beings like to chase after balls too.
Home
It's all about your home, isn't it? But what's a home? To a snail, a home is where-ever its shell is. But, to you, what is a home?
Home is the postcard, 5 inches by 7 inches, that your friend just sent. Home is the rocking chair that creaks. Home is the pastas, the pizzas, the paninis.
You, you left your home. YOU left it.
Your home, it'd be there when you return. Yes, it'd remain. But the home that remained is not the home that you've left.
The Different Homes
You bend down, pat my head. "What a beautiful daffodil!" Your eyes sparkle. You love it when your home is tidy, neat and when we, blooming daffodils, salute along the pebble pathway.
Happily, you sashay out, leaving the place you call home.
A pack of reservoir dogs come past. Like you, they are drawn to my beauty. (Well... everyone is drawn to my beauty but that's another story.)
One of them raise its left hind leg above me and a stream of hot canine pee cascade on my upturned face.
I bob with pleasure, soaking in all the nutrients, all the goodness.
You return, to this cottage you call home. You bend down, look at me, smell me and you wonder why my scent is different.
The home that remained and the home you left are different.
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