Subcultural engagement for the 21st Century...
Barbelith is a new kind of community (find out more)...
You can login or register.

Underground > Creation >

Random Writing Exercise 2: protagonists without adjectives.

We're The Great Old Ones Now

08:20 / 09.05.03

Protagonists without adjectives:

Two hundred words to convey a character, no direct description of the protagonist ("he is an angry young man" or "Achilles, mighty hero"), and no self-examinatory exposition ("I was angry"/"I was born in Toledo in 1964").

Convey the person and the scene as far as possible without adjectives or adjectival constructions.

We're The Great Old Ones Now

16:19 / 09.05.03

He enters Rico's at seven on the dot, and sits in contemplation of the menu. His fingers examine its laminate, peel back the corner. His gaze moves from the wood of the table top to the gash in the bench seat opposite, then across the room unimpeded to Marissa, where she sits with an air of purpose at the bar, drinking shot after shot of scotch. He watches with no expression, lets his gaze move onward to the two men at the corner table. They do not acknowledge him.

At eight oh nine, the bartender steps away to answer a call, as expected. He stands and goes to the washroom, passing close to but not touching Marissa, who is now slumped against the brasswork. His coat brushes the foot of her barstool. In the washroom, he prepares himself without rancour or expectation, then turns, gun in hand.

He steps into the room at eight eleven, and there is little noise. One bullet for each person, then a follow-up. Marissa whimpers, and he hesitates before pressing the trigger, but still does not wrench it or spoil the shot.

He leaves at eight fifteen, in time for the movie.

17:38 / 09.05.03

He sat in the corner of the diner, watching the buses go by. He'd blown in with the dust, which came up every day with the 3:17 from Tuscon, erasing the sky.

Today was a Thursday. When the dust subsided, it left him behind.

Nobody quite knew what to do; they'd fallen out of the habit of having customers for more than 20 minutes at a time. Everyone who came in was on their way somewhere else, and the buses didn't wait. And no one -- not Maddy, not George, not P.J. -- really wanted to get too close to him.

He sighed, staring out the window at something no one else could see. Even when Maddy walked up, pad and pen ready, he never made eye contact.

"What can I get you?"

He sighed again and squeezed his eyes shut before clearing his throat.

"Someplace to go," he whispered.

"Bathroom's in the back. Are you... you gonna order anything?"

"I don't need the bathroom, thanks. I... I'll get something. Just a minute. I don't know...."

His voice trailed off, and a single tear began carving a path through the dust smeared across his face.

18:34 / 09.05.03

Two for the price of one...

"Hey. Hey, Boyd. Whatcha lookin' at?"

"Rattler. Gotta be a six-footer."

"Where?"

"There. Under the shed. See? He come in outta the yard to get cool."

"Daaaaaaamn. Good eye. I never woulda seen that. You gonna take him?"

"Fool if I didn't. That's two pair of boots right there. Old Hank'll gimme a hunnert bucks for a skin like that. Get me my knives. "

"Hunnert bucks. Christ Almighty. Whatcha gonna do with the money, Boyd?"

"Dunno. Open the case, willya? Can't work the locks with these gloves on."

"Shit-fire, makin' me thirsty just thinkin' about all the beer I'm gonna buy with my half."

"Your half?"

"Shee-it! Look out, Boyd!"

"He's fast, ain't he? Watch me, now..."

Thunk.

"Go-o-o-o-o-oddamn, Boyd, you got blood all over my shirt!"

"Quit yer moanin'. And you can forget about that beer, you useless son-of-a-bitch. I ain't bustin' my ass skinnin' rattlesnakes so's you can drink the profits away."

"Well, that's just fine. Next time, get your own damn knives!"

"Aw, shut up. I'd a left him live he'd only ended up down the cellar-hole and got you in the ankle some night you go down for a beer."

"Yeah, well, there ain't gonna be no beer, now, is they?"

The Apple-Picker

19:12 / 09.05.03

Predictions are unruly things, she thought, staring at the window glazed with the couple’s reflection. They had plans. They shared their plans with this bus full of captives and eavesdroppers. She listened to their voices through her headphones, through the low music and wouldn’t think of her own plans. Instead, she dismantled theirs. Her hands smoothed out the book spread across her lap, and she finally looked at it.

The bus rocked over grates and manhole covers, shifting her towards the couple as it whined to a stop at 15th. Her stop. She slipped her book into her bag, and after hooking the straps over her shoulder, she stepped to the back door and pushed its handles. Nothing happened. She stood there, and then pushed them again. The bus started to roll to 17th when the couple shouted, “Whoa whoa whoa! Back door!” Someone up at the front said it louder, “Back door!”

She turned around and looked at the couple when the doors opened. They smiled at her and nodded. Pressing the flat of her hand to her stomach and pulling her spine into line, she stretched her lips as a courtesy. You never know what will happen.

at the scarwash

21:38 / 09.05.03

The fire on the range to danced tightly as she laid the skillet on the burner. She looked at the recipe for a few moments, vaguely guessing about converting the proportions from metric. A pat of pale margerine plopped on to the hot metal, immediately beginning to skate about on the pebbled cast-iron. She hung a Lucky from her lower lip, lifting the pan so she could light it. A clump of ash fell into the skillet as she added cheap Chablis. The cat jumped up on the counter and looked up at her, saying, "Bmmmrrrw?" She stirred the wine, ash and melted butter together. "We hate entertaining," she said, "Don't we, Louis?"

We're The Great Old Ones Now

08:33 / 10.05.03

Adjective police: 'pale', 'pebbled', 'cheap', 'melted'.
Adverb warning: 'tightly', 'vaguely', 'immediately'.

What, if anything, do these descriptors add to the passage?

(Sorry to pick holes, testpattern, but this is sort of the point.)

Whisky Priestess

10:08 / 10.05.03

Although apart from that, in terms of a dramatic set-up or as the beginning of a short story (yeah I know that's not the point) I reckon it's the best so far.

We're The Great Old Ones Now

11:14 / 10.05.03

That is, as you so rightly observe, not the point.

I think it's counter-productive to get into "is this good?" discussions, because I want as many people to participate as possible - I don't want anyone thinking they need to 'match up' to what has already been posted or might be posted by someone else.

I'm also going to be a bit strict about the rules one these things, because they are exercises, not joint creative projects or whatever. This thread and the others are about craft, not art or talent or any of those mysterious intangibles. Now... if someone were to write something which had no adjectives, and then conclude the final passage with a single, very telling one, that might be a craft decision worth exploring.

But since you like the passage, why don't you answer my picky question - do those adjectives add anything?

14:57 / 10.05.03

"Cheap" and "vaguely," definitely—they maximize the utter indifference of the protagonist.

The others, not so much: they add to the squalidness of the scene in a general way, but they're not particularly necessary—i.e., the fact that it's margarine in the pan, and not butter, is a telling detail in itself; the modifier "pale" doesn't really add much.

But the cheapness of the wine is a necessary detail, as it says something about the character—as does the vagueness of the wondering: her failure to properly convert the proportions of the recipe is not born out of ignorance, but a simple unwillingness to put in an effort.

We're The Great Old Ones Now

19:07 / 10.05.03

You don't think those things are already implied by the context, the action, and the tone? Testpattern, forgive the intrusion:

The fire on the range to danced as she laid the skillet on the burner. She looked at the recipe for a few moments, guessing about converting the proportions from metric. A pat of margerine plopped on to the hot metal, beginning to skate about on the cast-iron. She hung a Lucky from her lower lip, lifting the pan so she could light it. A clump of ash fell into the skillet as she added Chablis. The cat jumped up on the counter and looked up at her, saying, "Bmmmrrrw?" She stirred the wine, ash and butter together. "We hate entertaining," she said, "Don't we, Louis?"

Now change 'Chablis' for something a little less educated, and where's the difference?

19:35 / 10.05.03

She began to rotate her thumb popping it in and out as she walked down the hall. She stopped as the hallway came to a corner and put her back against plaster. She thought about lighting a cigarette going so far as to rummage in her pockets before deciding against it. She thought about giving up smoking and about her job interview next week and let out a sigh. A single strand of cobweb blew above her head unnoticed as she tied her hair back let it down again and lit a cigarette.

19:37 / 10.05.03

A bit short and most likely a bit crap but I have been procrastinating for too long (doesn't everyone?) so just decided to get something posted.

23:46 / 10.05.03

Dave placed his arse on the park bench. The wood creaks and groans for a few seconds then settled, curved between the two metal struts. He eats his fish and chips, pigeons circling around his feet. He watches a man in a smart grey suit walking in an anti-clockwise direction around the small city park.
Is this my contact? Dave thinks to himself. The guy in the grey suit walks past. Was this the contact? No, he passes by with just a casual glance. Dave pulls a copy of New X-men from his jacket pocket and is soon engrossed in the story of all mutant freaks. Which one would he be? He throws the rest of his chips on the ground causing a swarm of birds to descend on the area. As more birds swoop and dive to get at the food, Dave rises waving his arms and shrieking:
“Go away, go away”. Most of the birds disperse and Dave sits back down. He eyes another man who enters the park, but this guy is looking right back at him. Instead of walking around the outer circle path he storms across the grass towards Dave, fists clenched.
“Git auiht a ma fakin seat you wanka” he yells, raising his fist.

01:40 / 11.05.03

Part two; protagonists without adjectives.

One swing was all he landed. As usual, when drunk and brawling, it wasn’t the punch with the stopping-power, but the swinger. Round his own shoulder, over the prick’s, and into the side of his jaw. Sure, he felt it. He felt his hand compress as it only ever had when swung in anger. He also felt some teeth through that cheek.
He wasn’t able to say when the police arrived on the scene, but he knew it was after that hook, and before any others were thrown.

All he knew was that he was now in an embrace with this man, the one he wanted to kill. If the police car moved on, he thought, he would be able to stop telling this twat what he was going to do to him, and actually do it. Both of them had gained the sense somewhere along the line to realize the only way they weren’t going away with the car was if they looked like friends, friends who get good and drunk and take the occasional swing. You could probably guess that both of them also thought that the police would be of no help to them, both expecting to win this day through the force of their convictions alone.

Only losers need cops, thought Mark.

01:43 / 11.05.03

damn.
i think i cheated....
i shoulda proof read more slowly.

12:13 / 12.05.03

Edith washes the dinner service. She scrubs each dish and then rinses them clean. She does not need to think about this task. Edith isn’t really here at all.

Edith is upstairs in the lady’s bedroom. She stands by the window, taking in the morning air. Across Exhibition Road a policeman on his beat. She calls out a greeting and flutters her duster at him. She’s rewarded with his blush and a smile. At the front door the master’s car arrives. The new footman reaches out to open the car door. Watching him trip up the stone steps, Edith decides that he is entirely too conceited for his own good. She closes the window.

Edith is also in the hall. She has attached four yellow flannels to her hands and knees and is bent over the wooden floor. The mid afternoon sun warms her back. Rubbing the sweat from her forehead she catches William, the footman, pulling faces through the glass of the front door. She turns from him, but not without poking her tongue out first.

Back in the kitchen a noise from behind, and then she is hitting the water face first, hair floating up around her still open eyes. As quickly she is out, dripping, gulping in lungfuls of air, taking Bills mouth over her own, and quaking with laughter at him, herself, and the absurdity of it all.

13:16 / 12.05.03

I found that task extremely difficult. It had me completely confounded for at least a day. I then decided to forget about it for the weekend, and then made this attempt in my lunch hour. I guess its in your hands now, to pick apart.
On reflection - I've found the exercises very useful, as a way of making sure I write more often, and making me think about the way I'm writing. But I'm intimidated by the talent demonstrated by you lot. Some of this stuff is amazing. I suppose that I'm feeling vulnerable - to write, and display, and then get 'nothing' back takes a lot of courage. I find myself asking what next? Is this helpful?
I've just read your feedback above Nick - and your comments are indeed helpful. What does everybody else feel about this?

at the scarwash

20:59 / 13.05.03

Thanks for the comments, everyone. In response to them, yes I know I missed the "vaguely." I think that the white wine bit is okay because no one uses anything but "cheap" wine to cook with. I think that cheap and Chablis should be there simply because I like the rhythm and the alliteration of the sentence as it is. As for all of the rest of the adjectives, I think that I misunderstood the excercise somewhat. I didn't realize that we weren't to use adjectives to describe the scene. Sometimes I read these posts too quickly, I suppose. You're all quite correct; pale, pebbled, etc. don't really contribute anything. I like them as sounds.
I really like this excercise, because it forces one to really rely upon setting and style to define character.
I think Nick does this really fucking well in his bit. The methodical, straightforward description of the scene and the telegraphic pacing of the prose give quite a wonderful portrait of our hitman. Especially this sentence: "Marissa whimpers, and he hesitates before pressing the trigger, but still does not wrench it or spoil the shot."
I also really liked the Apple Picker's money-shot: "Pressing the flat of her hand to her stomach and pulling her spine
into line, she stretched her lips as a courtesy." There's something really effective about the way this turns the protagonist into a machine. The effect, when combined with her impressions of the couple on the bus, is really creepy.

00:57 / 14.05.03

"I like this knife, see the blood groove? It insures the wound bleeds as much as possible, but thats for later, for now this scalpel will do."

"Mrmph, RRRmphmrmph"

"Hmmm? Oh no, I'm afraid there won't be any conversation, you see, because this is about information you have, and pleasure of course."

"mmmph, mmph mmph."

"Yes, thats a darling, give in, feel it going inside you, yes, it's strange how you don't need anastheasia when the person has given up and your gentle enough. But it takes skill darling, don't think it doesn't take skill."

"mrrmm, mmph"

"Now now, don't give up too much yet, you still need to tell all the gossip babe, can't have you surrendering too far, I'll have to get the pliers to your balls if you pass out."

23:21 / 14.05.03

The teacher wandered over to the offices. They climbed up the bleachers. She scaled the steps up to the window and opened it. She perched there, emptying her purse. Her friends were talking, and one glanced over at her. Her foot crushed the bristles of her hairbrush. She cracked open her pack of cigarettes with her thumb, plucked out a cigarette, and leaned back, just under the window. She lit her cigarette and took a drag. Her gaze passed over the gym: her boyfriend was playing volleyball. He raised his arm and spiked the ball. It hit a kid in the back. She faked a smile. She tilted her head and breathed. Gorillas were all she could think of. She fell asleep.

“I don’t know where she’s living now,” one of her friends said.

Mascara and a tampon rolled down the bleachers. The cigarette dropped from her fingers, scarred the wood, went out.

10:50 / 03.06.03

The bus stopped, admitted one new passenger, and set off again before she could even sit down. This did not seem to suprise her. She walked to a seat in the middle of the bus and sat down without a pause. No one on the bus knew her; a few gazed at her without interest for a few seconds before turning away.

When she felt ready her hands began to move. The patterns were well known to her and she did not falter, muttering the words under her breath. Some of the other passengers stared at her, interest renewed; others looked away.

The bus stopped again. No one got on, or off. They stayed there for eight minutes.

Her hands ceased moving once the bus left the stop. She breathed deep, with an air of contentment. The other passengers thought she was crazy. They'd never know what she'd done for them.

16:03 / 18.06.03

He stared at his password for the first time. "sanctityismine" it read. All those years typing it, he had never seen it on a screen. It had come and gone in flurry of staccato key hits, and fallen into a line of asterisks.

He remembered saying he wanted asterisks when he'd wanted cocaine. He remembered no one understanding. The frustration of knowing but not communicating. That egocentric curse.

It was the password that freed him. Others were watching it, curious, but still not understanding. They still thought of it as asterisks, fired into the unseeing machina they called god. It was because they saw him as an asterisk. A message to god.

His hand dropped from the keyboard. He blinked. Pushed his chair away from the desk, and walked away from the world he had built.

The intersubjective called.

Less searchable M0rd4nt

16:39 / 21.06.03

Up in his room, Albie is eating cake decorations again. He puts them into his mouth one at a time, rattles them to and fro across the backs of his teeth as they dissolve.

His pen moves across the page, adding a feather to the angel's wings. There are two-hundred and thirty-seven feathers so far, leaving another seven hundred and sixty-three still to draw. Then he can begin on the seashore.

The cake decorations present a problem: they seem like the cheapest way to ingest silver, but they are made from sugar. Albie is watching his figure. There's no calorie count on the plastic tub, but he estimates that if one Tic-Tac has two calories, then one cake decoration must contain about half a calorie. Currently he eats one and a half pots of Assorted Dragees per day.

The angel's left wing is now almost half complete. Two hundred and forty-four, two hundred and forty-five. Inspecting his skin, he sees no results yet, but he hasn't been doing this for long-- only three weeks. It's too early for the silver to have begun getting laid down in the tissues. His skin probably won't turn grey for months yet. Albie hopes he can stick to this latest programme. Another two feathers appear.

From downstairs, his mother calls to him. "Sandra? Tea's on the table!"

"Jus' comin'," Albie calls back. He finishes the next three feathers, though, so he won't have to start the picture all over again. Opening the door to his room, he smells sausages.