Jumping right in

12 10 2008

For this exercise we were given a starting paragraph and a list of possible names for the piece.  By using the name we could create a piece in a variety of different styles. I had to look up what Peyote was (duh!) but once I did I imagined a Hunter S. Thompson style story.  The crying baby was a side-note in the original starting paragraph but (perhaps because I’m a mum) this stood out to me and so for my story I was thinking Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas meets Three Men and a Baby. Obviously it’s not a finished piece of work, I might develop it for later use in the course though.

My Problem with Peyote

The church clock struck eight, so those villagers who were awake knew without checking that it would be six. I think there was a cock crowing somewhere far off and there was me, strung out across the church doorstep, fedora over my face. Everything was peaceful, my world still same as it ever was. Alls I remember was a whiff of someone gliding past the church wall and then the silence broke hard by the baby crying.

I didn’t see him at first, just heard that noise. I read somewhere, or maybe Frank told me, when they worked out the noise for them ambulance sirens, well it’s exactly the same frequency.

Wheeah! Wheeah!

The sound felt like a truck roaring into my head. I sat up and adjusted my hat; squinting into the Texan sunrise. As I did so my hand caught on the edge of some sort of basket and I saw him.

Tiny purple face, all mouth screaming, “Wheeah! Wheeah!”

Now, I’ve woken up in some strange situations in my life. I mean there was that time me and Frank ended up in Fort Worth with them oil-baron heiresses. We guzzled champagne and hoovered coke like it was an end of the world party. Serenity or something she was called, peachiest ass in all of Texas but we’d went for a walk, you know how these things go, and in the morning she was gone and I was naked, surrounded by red-necks in her daddy’s oilfield. Never ran so fast in my life. But this… This time I knows I’m in proper trouble.

The little fella finally stopped bawling. I’m still only guessing at this point that he’s a he. Babies all looks the same don’t they? But he was looking up at me with them big blue eyes and his tiny hands all balled up into fists. That’s when I saw the note…

Dear Edgar,

I’m sorry to do this to you but I’ve got no choice. I’ve had to leave town for a while, just until things calm down. Please keep Dylan safe for me. There’s a bottle and all his diapers and things in the bottom of the basket. You’re the only one I can trust, and also, I should have told you this before now, but Dylan is yours.

Christie.

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3 responses

15 10 2008
Jen

Hello, fellow A363er. It’s really interesting to read another take on this exercise – love the way you’ve evoked the southern drawl of the narrator.

Hope you’re enjoying the course so far – I susepct it’s not going to be an easy ride!

15 10 2008
Jen

PS – may add an A363 blog roll to my own and add you if that’s ok?

18 10 2008
MoM

What sort of upbringing did you have that you didn’t know what payote was!! I must have read “those” books when you were very small.

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