Writing exercise: Gather some words and phrases, randomly, and make them into a story of some sort.
This quote is reportedly from JP Jones (Led Zep); some lyrics he came up with for “out on the tiles”: “I’ve had a pint of bitter and now I’m feeling better and I’m out on the tiles. We’re going down the rubbers and we’re going to pull some scrubbers because we’re out on the tiles.”
Oyster Fruit (pearls)
Silk (“all silk so far” – smooth)
Fortune Crammed Delivered Moon Mother Island Chime Clap Clang Rhythms Tryst Crypts Donkey Glue Eye
Thursday night is an odd night to have a date; not quite the weekend, too soon to relax, too late to reschedule. Was it good fortune or bad to be asked out on a Thursday? To have a hopefully enjoyable event crammed into a short evening. The moon has hardly had a chance to rise. Cordia caught the increasingly negative thoughts and glued them to a corner of her mind.
As the taxi crossed the bridge spanning the river, she could see the city floating like an island of light in the distance, reflecting off the dark water below her. She could hear the clang of the ships bells down on the docks.
The taxi delivered her to the majestic old hotel – the one her mother had always wanted her to be married in. Well, mother’s gone now, Cordia reminded herself. Run down by a herd of wild donkeys in Mongolia or something. Crazy woman. Her mother the adventurer; finding crypts and flying off mountains. Never home long enough to provide much-needed stability to her increasingly bewildered daughter, who ended up being raised by the hired help – dears though they were. And now, ten years later and a few thousand dollars worth of therapy, Cordia was on her own adventure; a Thursday night date at The Ritz Carlton Estorian with the dashing Henry Forneau.
The elevator’s chime rang like the bugle of the Kentucky Derby; the night was off! Henry Forneau escorted her upstairs to the dining room. The wine, elegant. The lobster, perfectly decadent. The dessert, almost too much.
“Let us dance,” he said. The band, some jazz ensemble influenced by Caribbean rhythms, had them clapping by the end of the first song. Henry knew how to dance, a rarity for their generation. His eyes held a question, the first time his hand rested on her waist. Would she let him? She decided she would. The next dance, his hand moved toward her back, pulling her closer, and the question in his eyes had changed to a challenge. Could she? She could if he could. And he did.
The tango led to the tryst – down the elevator, through the hallway, into Henry’s executive suite, shoes and clothes torn off by the howling wind of their passion.
Maybe her mother wasn’t the only adventurer in the family