The first of our ICW tasks. Here is the exceptionally generic text I generated in class:
A: You weren’t supposed to see that.
B: No. I didn’t...
A: You didn’t see it?
B: No, I didn’t mean /to
A: You didn’t mean to see it.
A: No I mean I’m sorry that I...
B: That you wrote it down?
A: That I did it.
A: Right. I certainly shouldn’t have left it in the bin...
B: Why would you write that down?
A: I don’t know
A: It won’t happen again! Ha.
A: It certainly wasn’t that I was proud of it or thought it was Ok to do that...
B: No I shouldn’t think so.
And here is my first draft of it translated into a third person narrative (and a lift.)
As A entered the lift, the predictable unpredictable happened. A gust of shaft wind, or an air conditioner's first gust, or the butterfly’s wings beating blew the piece of paper into the air. That despicable and ill thought-out note, written as an attempt to work out whether shame was really warranted, which it most certainly was, flicked in unpredictable wisps around the air of the lift, until the doors closed and the atmosphere stabilised and the paper tamely floated into the open hot drink, discernible by its smell as some bastard form of coffee, a fruitymachimoccalatte or something, of the only other person in the lift. B, a tall and pale but slight-figured girl, peeled it slowly from the liquid, pushing the flecks of shredded fruit from the now sepia paper, and ingesting the six words scratched onto it.
Ill advisedly but understandably, A did not snatch the paper from the fruity bastard drink immediately, thinking that perhaps there was still time to deny association. Realising that this was no longer possible, the paper having clearly originated from his breast pocket in the freak gust, A tried to explain himself.
You weren’t supposed to see that.
No. I didn’t...
You didn’t see it?
No, I didn’t mean to see it.
You didn’t mean to see it.
A short pause naturally occurred, neither perceiving anything further to be gained from the conversation but neither able to bear the silence.
The No seemed sharper than before. Perhaps B had become more sure of her personal indignation towards the new information she was privy to, A thought.
I mean I’m sorry that I...
This time she sliced through the sentence, quite uncharacteristically for someone so tall-yet-slight.
That you wrote it down?
That I did it.
Each time the word got longer, like dragging a whip before a lash.
I certainly shouldn’t have left it in my front pocket, vulnerable to freak gusts.
A thought that he’d thought that, but actually found that he’d said it.
Why would you write that down? And what’s wrong with this lift, why is it taking so long?
Pouncing upon an opportunity to express self-disgust and distance himself from his perversion, and confusing the answer of two questions into one, A loaded his next sentence with all the pathetic self-deprecation he could load three words with.
I don’t know!
The line became so overly emphasised that the lift shook and the exclamation mark took on its own sound. It actually only made A seem more maniacal. B responded in a manner she was beginning to perfect.
It won’t happen again. Ha!
A brief burst of horrific, echoing laughter that spilt some of B’s still-open-topped drink.
It certainly wasn’t because I was proud of it...
The lift doors didn’t open.
More groundbreaking literature and tired irony to come.