Writing Exercise: Stumbling Into Book Scenes...

It's been a while since I posted one of these, but here's a writing exercise that our writers' group done the other night.

The exercise was to pick a book - any book - and imagine that for some unknown reason you wake up and find yourself in the middle of a scene.  See how long it takes for you to guess which book I chose :)

Exercise: Stumbling into book scenes  

Red.

As soon as my vision came back all I could see was red.  Had I really hit my head that hard?

As my eyes began to come round I started to make out shapes in the redness, shadows, objects...a hand...my hand.  And as other colour began to bleed in around me, my hand remained its rosy shade.  I twiddled my fingers.  They felt fine and moved with ease, but why were they red?  Looking up, I stared at the scene that unfolded before me, like a coloured fog lifting from the ground.

I was in a garden.  The grass was green and lush, the sky crystal blue, and hedges surrounded me on all sides, all crisp and trimmed to form blocks that opened up for paths to lead off beyond them.  It reminded me of a maze.

A tree grew beside where I stood, a small tree just a little taller than I was, and I noticed the roses that grew on it, fully bloomed and beautiful against their leaves.  The fact that some were red and some were white didn't strike me as odd.  What struck me was why I was here.  One minute I had been painting my bathroom, slipping from the stool, falling and feeling my head make contact with the sink - and the next I was standing in this summer garden.  Where was I?

It could have been a dream, I thought, but the warmth from the sun and the feel of the cool breeze felt so real - and those roses!  Their smell!  That was real too.

"Who's been painting my roses red?"

The voice boomed from behind the hedges, deep and angry yet somewhat feminine.  I thrashed round to look across the way but no one was there.

"Who's been painting my roses red?"

Gasping I looked down at my hand again.  It was still red only it wasn't a fog.  It was paint.  Red paint.  I looked at the red roses on the tree.  They were dripping, bleeding their redness on the leaves about them and revealing patches of white petal beneath.

Was it me?  Had I been painting those roses red?

It dawned on me then.  This sounded familiar.  Where had I seen this before?  Where had I read it?  It involved a little girl; a little girl with blonde hair and a blue dress; a little girl named Alice and a cheshire cat and a...

"Who's been painting my roses red!"

A large form in a boulbous dress burst forth from a path, her face red with anger, and her wide eyes glared around the garden before falling on me and my hand.

The Queen of Hearts stared daggers at me.

I shook my head, unbelieving of the whole scene that was playing out before me.  Was I really in Alice in Wonderland?  No, I thought.  I couldn't be.  Must be a dream, but then the Queen raised her hand and stretched a fat stubby finger in my direction.  The fear I felt was very real.

"Off with her head!"

Before I could argue my defence, before I could plead my innocence, guards rushed towards me from behind her and seized me.  The grip I felt on my arms was just as real.  Too real.  I couldn't control the scream that emerged from my throat as they swept me off my feet and dragged me deep into the maze with the full intention of carrying out what they had been ordered to do.

They were going to cut off my head.

And as they dragged me closer to the guillotine, one question sprang to my mind.

Where was Alice?
     

Writing Exercise: It Was An Odd Way To Start The Day

It's been a while, but today I thought I'd publish a piece of flash fiction that I wrote Monday for one of our Writers' Group Exercises. We each picked a random sentence and had to then let our imaginations go woth the flow...

Sentence: It was an odd way to start the day...

It was an odd way to start the day but who was I to complain. After everything that had happened recently a touch of normality was needed - but it felt strange.

I say it was an odd way to start the day; waking up to the smell of coffee and pancakes simmering away was one if the best ways to start a day - but as I mentioned before, it felt strange.

For the last few years I had been held captive by Pirates off the Turkish shores. I had originally set out with my wife in our yacht for a sail through the Med, something that wasn't unhead of. We had spent many months sailing the world but on this particular occasion, our trip didn't go to plan.

Our yacht was seized, we were captured and our belongings ransacked and sold on. I spent a month or so with my wife, chained in the brig of one of their ships before we were seperated.

After that I heard rumours of the pirates asking for a ransom. The fact that payment was refused infuriated them to the core. It was something they later loved to taunt me with, the fact that no one cared for me enough to pay.

I never saw my wife again. For years I was forced into labour on board their ship. If I couldn't earn them money through a ransom I would earn my keep another way.

Eventually I was able to plan my escape. With the shores of India in sight I waited until I was unguarded, something that now happened quite often, and I slipped overboard and swam to safetly. Once there I managed to seek help and was offered a hotel room while officials done their job.

This morning, after spending my first night in a bed that wasn't floating, I woke to the smell of coffee and pancakes. It was nice but I knew I wouldn't enjoy it. I strangely missed the rough handling that usually accompanied the rising sun - and I missed my wife.

Today, I knew, was to mark the first day of my search for her. I didn't care of the outcome, whether she was dead or sold on somewhere, but I knew I couldn't rest until I knew.