Writing Game 12

https://area-fifty-done.tumblr.com/

Paris suits you

The evening sun had painted the sky over Paris in a red velvety color.
I was on my way to see "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at the theater near my hotel.
I turned down a narrow, one-way cobblestone street, and soon caught the aroma from the small restaurants. While beforehand, all I could smell was exhaust fumes and gasoline, these scents were soon replaced by the wonderful smells of baked potatoes, duck and garlic from the nearby restaurants.
The smells were an innocent testament to me being far away from home, as where I come from, the scents that fill the air mainly originate from sketchy meals that more often than not come from Kraft Foods cardboard boxes.
My thoughts were suddenly halted as an angry French hostess raised her voice at some poor waitresses. "Girls! Stop what you are doing! Go get knives and forks!", she yelled at them, which caused them all to scurry off in near panic.
I continued on my path and soon reached the theater, where my girlfriend was waiting for me.
"Harvey Milk! Paris suits you!", she said as I approached her.
She soon started blabbering about her day. She had gone to the Louvre, and had gotten a bit too inspired by the Mona Lisa, having tried to copy her both in terms of makeup and hairstyle.
"And I have used hairspray for both my hair and makeup! It really works great as a setting spray for makeup, too!"
I smiled fondly at her. "Well, you do look fabulous, but next time you really should not spray your face with hairspray. Did you get the tickets for the theater?"
"Uh-oh, Spaghetti-O's! I forgot them!", she exclaimed, already preparing to head off.
I smiled to myself. While Lisa is usually a very good travel companion, sometimes, it is almost like she lives on a different planet with how forgetful she is. Saturn, I would say. I have heard it rains diamonds there. It would suit her well.
As she headed off to get the tickets, I looked around for something to waste time on. After a while, I decided to order a cup of coffee at a cafe while waiting for her to come back with them.

Postcard from Spain

Dear mama

Spain is beautiful! While the rest of Europe have done nothing but drain my spirit with its ruins and misery, Spain has been a breath of fresh air, seemingly untouched by the horrors that are still too close to now. The white hills on this postcard are from the region I visited yesterday. I have been joined by a man on the recent part of my travels. You remember little Johnny, right? Well, as it turns out, his brother is also travelling across Europe! He seems like a nice man, and though I know you are most likely jumping in joy by the chance of me actually meeting a an whom I like and enjoys my company, I would not order the white dress yet, if I were you. I am still unsure of whether I am even looking for a man? I am scared I would not be able to do the profession of a man's wife justice, much like my recent shortcomings as both a seamstress and a nurse. I do not know if I can handle being a letdown again. I promise I will try to make up my mind before I come back home. He does seems nice, though. Too nice perhaps, as I would hate to bear the knowledge of knowing his choice in me as a spouse would be one of a gentleman's good manners rather than that of love.

I hope to see you soon, mama 

- Jig

Writing game 8

(A feeling of complete sorrow fills the entire stage. The sorrow which is present in this scene should not be comparable to the sorrow of saying a final goodbye to a beloved grandmother who died of old age surrounded by her large family with a smile on her face. It should rather be comparable to the gut wrenching sorrow of a mother attending the funeral of her young child who has died at a much too young age after several painful years of trying to fight cancer, without any luck. The sorrow felt while watching how the lid of the coffin is kept on during the funeral, knowing how the surgeries and medication has destroyed the beforehand happy and youthful face beyond recognition, and these having left behind only a mere pained and tortured shell of what her beforehand lovable and happy child used to be.)

Reflection:
This sort of text is different from other texts because it is a stage direction, and therefore not something that the audience will read. It is up to the actor and director to interpret the text as a helpful guideline of how to set the scene and the tone of the play. Therefore it is different in the sense that the audience will never know what it says, and will only know the performers' interpretation of it.

Fra Pandolf

A rich duke wanted me to paint his lady
However his actions somehow seemed shady
He really wished for a wife that was stupid
Believing her an easier target for Cupid
Despite himself finding his name so sweet
It never made her swoon at his feet
So the duke decided he wanted her dead
One morning, I've heard, they severed her head
At least that's what I think I've been told
But don't trust the memory of someone who's old

The Spy Who Shot Me

The floors in the remote cabin in the Rocky Mountains creaked slightly as he moved across the room. Brammer sighed silently to himself. The years had been tough on him, with the responisbility of the job taking its toll along with when Lisa left. Oh Lisa... But he could not dwell in the past any longer. He knew he had to push through. He had to finish this job. He had been tracking this guy for days now. The world would be better when he got to him, and he knew it. Of course he could not deny that shooting to him would also be to his own amusement, after all he did enjoy a good hunt.
"I'm in the building." Brammer spoke into his pen, which had a microphone function, but could also shoot out a lazer beam, and fold out as a parachute, both being nice options should he need it.
The risk of him needing it was small though, Brammer having worked at perfecting his aim continuously over the spand of his long and miserable life. He silently moved downstairs. Within seconds, Brammer spotted his target, standing with his back to him, leaning over a table filled with documents, most likely of a vicous and villainly character. His soon-to-be victims specks of grey hair glistened in the moon light. He was significantly older than him, wiser and perhaps also more skilled in the art of gunsmanship. Brammer knew that if he did not get this shot right, he would soon feel the fury of his opponent, could he not manage to escape off the mountain with his parachute.
Brammer cocked his gun and took aim. It was as if the world stood still for just one moment.
BANG!
"Ouch!"Adam yelled and turned around, only to see an empty livingroom. By the light sound of frantic footsteps going up the stairs, it could only be Noah, his smallest kid. He sighed. Perhaps he should give the kid a scolding for stealing his older brothers BB gun again, but given that the kid five being only, he simply returned to his tax papers.