CleverNick's Second Assignment

[Dragon's muse]

Craft a scene/chapter/story involving the following elements:

A single bowling shoe
A floorlamp with a burned out bulb
An antique teapot

(i promies, i am really not a sadist. These are pulled at random out of a large jar with tons of slips of paper in it)

[Clevernick]

I have started this story. It's fun.

[Clevernick]

Every morning on my way to work, I pass by an antique store without a name. It seems to sell things that aren’t strictly antiques, either – stuff you might find in your parents’ basement, or at a garage sale in a run-down suburb. I call it the junkshop.

I’m in love with the junkshop girl. She’s not the owner, so strictly speaking she’s not the junkshop girl, either. Sometimes I’ll go by and I’ll see the owner there, a squat older woman from some Southeast Asian country, and I’ll pass on by, avoiding her forbidding scowl.

But other times I’ll be about to pass by the window of the junkshop and I’ll just know my girl is there. Maybe I’ve subconsciously glimpsed her in one of the tarnished tablespoons in the window, or maybe her dusty-spicy fragrance lingers on the doorstep I haven’t even crossed yet. I don’t know how I know, but I’m always right.

When this happens, my face brightens and my step lightens, and I turn into the shop as if I’m planning to buy something, as if I have nothing better to do than a little junk shopping this fine morning. I stride into the place as if I routinely take old broken floorlamps or anonymous Korean-brand remote controls home with me, as if these things are important to me. The store is always empty save for the junkshop girl, and jaunty old me.

At first the junkshop girl used to ignore me as I’m sure she ignored all the tire-kicking customers. She probably doesn’t have many repeat customers though, or even repeat fake customers, and lately she has smiled shyly at me when I enter. She does not speak, and I don’t really know if we even speak any languages in common. Her long light brown hair is always pulled back into a loose ponytail, her generous mouth pursed shut.

Like the shop, my girl is assembled from random parts. She got her long, bumped nose from a Russian Jewess, her vaguely Asian eyes from a waiter in a Thai restaurant, her narrow stooped shoulders from an old Polish tailor who works late into the night. Her teeth, the few times I’ve seen them, seem to have escaped from a British situation comedy. But somehow, when she smiles, her face is more than the sum of those parts, and she is beautiful.

She is thirtyish, but her complexion is that of a child, fine-pored and creamy. She has no visible cheekbones, but her jawline is clear and hard, and will not dull with age. Her cheeks curve in just the right way with her smile. Her waist is thin and supple, and her derriere is exactly as you might hope. Someday I hope to see it.

My fantasy goes a little further each time I enter her shop. As I pretend to inspect the shop’s mysteriously useless wares—a single bowling shoe, a pewter mug with glass bottom engraved with the name and coat of arms of “The Loyal Order of Werewolves”, a dusty leather...—my eyes turn upwards and my fantasy rewinds to the beginning and proceeds.

I see myself glancing down from the burnished teapot on the shelf as I notice her reflection in the bottom half. She is behind me, bending over to reach something on the other shelf. I turn round and firmly grasp her folded hips, and she becomes perfectly still. Without speaking, I massage her buttocks powerfully with my large hands, and she remains bent over, slides her woollen tube dress up past her hips so I can continue unimpeded. She wears nothing beneath it. I massage her rump again, sinking my thumbs into the sensitive part between the muscles, and she jumps but doesn't straighten, doesn't speak.

I slide my hands up her sides, gently once, then a second time strongly, taking the dress up with them, running my fingers over her soft breasts and hard nipples as I do. She trembles and grasps her ankles firmly.

I remember that beside the teapot I was inspecting was a perfectly serviceable old riding crop.

[Dragon's muse]

Very, very nice. i like to conversational tone. Another jewel i would love to see continued. You made the setting very realistic. You have a real gift for description. And, like Cariad, i confess to a weakness for riding crops --antique or not. Excellent work, and few nits to pick.

i will get your next assignment posted this afternoon.

Every morning on my way to work, I pass by an antique store without a name. It seems to sell things that aren’t strictly antiques, either – stuff you might find in your parents’ basement, or at a garage sale in a run-down suburb. I call it the junkshop.

I’m in love with the junkshop girl. She’s not the owner, so strictly speaking she’s not the junkshop girl, either. Sometimes I’ll go by and I’ll see the owner there, a squat older woman from some Southeast Asian country, and I’ll pass on (delete) by, avoiding her forbidding scowl.

But other times I’ll be about to pass by the window of the junkshop and I’ll just know my girl is there. Maybe I’ve subconsciously glimpsed her in one of the tarnished tablespoons in the window, or maybe her dusty-spicy fragrance lingers on the doorstep I haven’t even crossed yet. I don’t know how I know, but I’m always right.

When this happens, my face brightens and my step lightens (Just a little sing-songy here. You want the reader to stay in the story, not focusing on the rhythm of the words.), and I turn into the shop as if I’m planning to buy something, as if I have nothing better to do than a little junk shopping this fine morning. I stride into the place as if I routinely take old broken floorlamps or anonymous Korean-brand remote controls home with me, as if these things are important to me. (You have quite a few "as if"s in this passage. Maybe find a way to rephrase.) The store is always empty save for the junkshop girl, and jaunty old me.

At first (delete)the junkshop girl used to ignore me, as I’m sure she ignored all the tire-kicking customers. She probably doesn’t have many repeat customers though, or even repeat fake customers, and lately she has smiled shyly at me when I enter. She does not speak, and I don’t really know if we even speak any languages in common. Her long light brown hair is always pulled back into a loose ponytail, her generous mouth pursed shut.

Like the shop, my girl is assembled from random parts. She got her long, bumped nose from a Russian Jewess, her vaguely Asian eyes from a waiter in a Thai restaurant, her narrow stooped shoulders from an old Polish tailor who works late into the night. Her teeth, the few times I’ve seen them, seem to have escaped from a British situation comedy (the word "sitcom" would flow better here, i think). But somehow, when she smiles, her face is more than the sum of those parts, and she is beautiful.

She is thirtyish, but her complexion is that of a child, fine-pored and creamy. She has no visible cheekbones, but her jawline is clear and hard, and will not dull with age. Her cheeks curve in just the right way with her smile. Her waist is thin and supple, and her derriere is exactly as you might hope. Someday I hope to see it.

My fantasy goes a little further each time I enter her shop. As I pretend to inspect the shop’s mysteriously useless wares—a single bowling shoe, a pewter mug with glass bottom engraved with the name and coat of arms of “The Loyal Order of Werewolves”, a dusty leather...—my eyes turn upwards and my fantasy rewinds to the beginning and proceeds.

I see myself glancing down from the burnished teapot on the shelf as I notice her reflection in the bottom half. She is behind me, bending over to reach something on the other shelf. I turn round and firmly grasp her folded hips, and she becomes perfectly still. Without speaking, I massage her buttocks powerfully with my large hands, and (replace with a semicolon here) she remains bent over, slides her woollen tube dress up past her hips so I can continue unimpeded. She wears nothing beneath it. I massage her rump again, sinking my thumbs into the sensitive part between the muscles, and she jumps but doesn't straighten, doesn't speak.

I slide my hands up her sides, gently once, then a second time strongly, taking the dress up with them, running my fingers over her soft breasts and hard nipples as I do. She trembles and grasps her ankles firmly.

I remember that beside the teapot I was inspecting was a perfectly serviceable old riding crop.

[Clevernick]

Very, very nice. i like to conversational tone. Another jewel i would love to see continued. You made the setting very realistic. You have a real gift for description. And, like Cariad, i confess to a weakness for riding crops --antique or not. Excellent work, and few nits to pick.

i will get your next assignment posted this afternoon.

Thanks, rose!

I am grateful for your fixes. The missing comma and semicolon are good. But some of your edits made me sad. Some of the things you didn't like, I still do!

The entire paragraph you tried to change, had a jaunty, bouncy feel on purpose. The "jaunty old me" at the end was an acknowledgement of that. Rephrasing to keep the sense without the poetry or the rhythm would be a disservice, I think.

The repeated "as if" phrases emphasise two things -- the narrator's pretense in being there, and the shop's pretense in selling things that no sane person would buy. Since there are two pretenses there, at least two "as if"s are appropriate.

What was wrong with "At first"?

I had had "sitcom" originally and changed it to "situation comedy" because a) sitcom's too American, b) it breaks the mood too much by bringing in lots of emotional associations, and c) it's too short after the descriptions of her other parts.

I am frustrated -- of course I could make those changes, but I wouldn't like the results as much as the first version. Can you elaborate on why I need them?

P.S. - I am still happy for the compliments!

This version includes your corrections. I'm still think I prefer the original in some ways:

Every morning on my way to work, I pass by an antique store without a name. It seems to sell things that aren't strictly antiques, either – stuff you might find in your parents' basement, or at a garage sale in a run-down suburb. I call it the junkshop.

I'm in love with the junkshop girl. She's not the owner, so strictly speaking she's not the junkshop girl, either. Sometimes I'll go by and I'll see the owner there, a squat older woman from some Southeast Asian country, and I'll pass by, avoiding her forbidding scowl.

But other times I'll be about to pass by the window of the junkshop and I'll just know my girl is there. Maybe I've subconsciously glimpsed her in one of the tarnished tablespoons in the window, or maybe her dusty-spicy fragrance lingers on the doorstep I haven't even crossed yet. I don't know how I know, but I'm always right.

When this happens, I smile and my step lightens, and I turn into the shop as if I'm planning to buy something, as if I have nothing better to do than a little junk shopping this fine morning. I stride into the place as if I routinely take old broken floorlamps or anonymous Korean-brand remote controls home with me, though it's hard to pretend after a while. The store is always empty save for the junkshop girl, and jaunty old me.

The junkshop girl used to ignore me, as I'm sure she ignored all the tire-kicking customers. She probably doesn't have many repeat customers though, or even repeat fake customers, and lately she has smiled shyly at me when I enter. She does not speak, and I don't really know if we even speak any languages in common. Her long light brown hair is always pulled back into a loose ponytail, her generous mouth pursed shut.

Like the shop, my girl is assembled from random parts. She got her long, bumped nose from a Russian Jewess, her vaguely Asian eyes from a waiter in a Thai restaurant, her narrow stooped shoulders from an old Polish tailor who works late into the night. Her teeth, the few times I've seen them, seem to have escaped from a British sitcom. But somehow, when she smiles, her face is more than the sum of those parts, and she is beautiful.

She is thirtyish, but her complexion is that of a child, fine-pored and creamy. She has no visible cheekbones, but her jawline is clear and hard, and will not dull with age. Her cheeks curve in just the right way with her smile. Her waist is thin and supple, and her derriere is exactly as you might hope. Someday I hope to see it.

My fantasy goes a little further each time I enter her shop. As I pretend to inspect the shop's mysteriously useless wares—-a single bowling shoe, a pewter mug with glass bottom engraved with the name and coat of arms of “The Loyal Order of Werewolves”, a dusty leather...—-my eyes turn upwards and my fantasy rewinds to the beginning and proceeds.

I see myself glancing down from the burnished teapot on the shelf as I notice her reflection in the bottom half. She is behind me, bending over to reach something on the other shelf. I turn round and firmly grasp her folded hips, and she becomes perfectly still. Without speaking, I massage her buttocks powerfully with my large hands; she remains bent over, slides her woollen tube dress up past her hips so I can continue unimpeded. She wears nothing beneath it. I massage her rump again, sinking my thumbs into the sensitive part between the muscles, and she jumps but doesn't straighten, doesn't speak.

I slide my hands up her sides, gently once, then a second time strongly, taking the dress up with them, running my fingers over her soft breasts and hard nipples as I do. She trembles and grasps her ankles firmly.

I remember that beside the teapot I was inspecting was a perfectly serviceable old riding crop.

[Dragon's muse]

Just to let you know i have seen this and will get to it first thing in the morning

[cariad]

Purrrrrrrrs, what a lovely build up, and I could feel just how possessive the narrator was of his girl, even though at that point she was only such in his mind.

(I also have a thing for antique riding crops, but that is another matter....)

cariad

p.s. thought of the word I wanted - predatory.

[Clevernick]

p.s. thought of the word I wanted - predatory.

I am NOT predatory in any sense. I only bite with permission.

Of course nobody's off limits in a fantasy....

[Dragon's muse]

Nick,

Anything that is not punctuation or spelling is only a suggestion. The final product is your work. Your name goes on it, so it is ultimately your call. You should be happy with it.

Having PC problems, so i will elaborate more when i get on a full size keyboard. i will also get your next assignment posted ASAP>

rose

[Clevernick]

Nick,
Having PC problems, so i will elaborate more when i get on a full size keyboard. i will also get your next assignment posted ASAP

rose

Ok, thanks! Let me know if I can help with the PC.

S

[Dragon's muse]

Thanks, Nick. All fixed now, and all it needed was a new hard drive. Hopefully this one won't be so hungry that it eats my operating system. There is no more depressing sight than a black with those green letters that say "Operating system not found."

Bouncy and jaunty are nice, but only if you walk that fine line between jaunty and sing-songy. Sing-songy detracts from the story. In a couple of places you crossed the line into sing-songy.

Again, whatever i put in that is not regarding pure grammar is a suggestion only.

rose

[moptop]

Thank you for this story, Nick, I enjoyed reading it, I liked all the little descriptive details like the tarnished teaspoon in the window. My ma was an antique dealer, so I was brought up down Portobello road and going on buying trips... this was very evocative!

I very much liked your style, and the section that Muse found sing-songy trotted along prettily for me. In fact, the very sing-songy-ness of it was evocative - I could picture him whistling to himself! Sorry, Muse.

I also find that I protest (often inwardly) at some of the criticisms/suggestions made about my stuff, as I just cannot see why I shouldn't be the way I am on paper. Then again, I also like poetry - maybe it is expected that style in erotica be simpler, less obviously 'literature', than non-erotica. Hmmm. Not sure - given that I'm being pushed to use more description, adjectives, metaphor, etc., that doesn't seem to be the case! Just different.

Are you English (I am)? I am beginning to notice a distinct difference with the British writers; and they do tend to use words for the pleasure and music of the words more, I think.

Goodness, this is a very disjointed post. Time to go to sleep I think.

[Clevernick]

Thank you for this story, Nick, I enjoyed reading it, I liked all the little descriptive details like the tarnished teaspoon in the window. My ma was an antique dealer, so I was brought up down Portobello road and going on buying trips... this was very evocative!

Thank you, moptop! I'm new to England-- I've lived in lots of places but I'm originally from Canada.

It's a great pleasure to hear that someone with your love of language likes my style of prose. Sometimes I enjoy bringing a poetry rhythm to it, and I like it when Tom Robbins does his descriptive bits too. I suspect his stuff wouldn't be popular here sometimes -- I have been criticized for doing Robbins-style self-conscious descriptions twice now, and both times I listened to the criticism and considered it, but decided to leave them in. Though I tried to improve them a bit each time.

I am a TERRIBLE student and I feel sorry for Dragon's Muse for having to do what she's doing here.

I took writing classes in my last year of high school and gained a grudging respect from the teacher there by deliberately saying the OPPOSITE of whatever theory he'd had in class, in my essays. I thought it would gall him that by his own, posted, objective marking scheme, that he had to give me top marks for contradicting him.

Actually he was a better sport about it than I expected, and I became one of his favorite students.

So no offense, rose, if I seem mouthy. I'm just trying to be endearing. Yeah, that's it. Endearing.

[anonymouse]

Hello CleverNick,

You've written a wonderful little story. As somebody has already said, you're style of prose is very musical. There's rhythm in the words, an ability for colorful turns-of-phrase, and most importantly a sense of movement in the flow of everything. Very well done!

Oh, and congratulations too you the recent publication of Zealot to Harlot! Bravo! :-)

[Clevernick]

Thanks, sweet and innocent anonymouse! I've been enjoying your fantasies lately too! Well-paced and well-painted!

And thanks for the congratulations! Hope it's not my last...