Thursday, January 26, 2012

Timed Writing: 1/25/2012

Time: 10 minutes
Prompt: His words came out in a burble
Source: Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

His words came out in a burble -- not even words, actually, but a hideous phonic melee. An assault on the very concept of spoken language. It was that old woman. That curmudgeonly hag that he'd passed on the road. She must have been a witch. Damnation! Why hadn't he just stopped and given her the time of day when she'd greeted him? Why hadn't he offered, even, to carry her burden a ways? Because he hadn't had time, of course. He was a very busy and very important person. He could not be bothered to stop and attend to every homeless vagrant that crossed his path. But oh, if he had only done so this time!

The crowd before him was utterly silent. Two thousand or more crammed into the town square. All present to hear his words, to be instructed and guided by his counsel. And what does he give them? Useless rubbish! A multisyllabic heep of steaming manure. Perhaps if he'd even just ignored the witch, things would be alright. If he's acted as though he hadn't seen her at all -- hadn't heard her hailing him as he passed. But no, he hadn't been able to resist -- just had to throw a snide remark over his shoulder. Had to comment on her malodor and her bedraggled attire. What a fool he could be. What a fool!

(about my timed writing exercises)

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