Writing exercises or…

Everyone’s imagination is different: fascinating.

Last year at some point I made the trip down to my former housemate’s flat in Southern France for a bit of R&R. She is a writer, a published writer, (http://donnalanenelson.com/) and one of our friends who also lives in the village and she get together for writing exercises. When I’m there I love to join either one or both. Someone picks a person walking by (we sit in an outside café) and we then have 10 minutes to come up with a story. This time however we were simply sitting at the table in her flat with a carton of tomato spread.

This is an example: first my version, then hers

JSL

Why am I here?

I am a plastic carton with tomato spread, supplied for a hen party to go on toast. Is that the sum total of me? What is my purpose in life? Do I have a goal to fulfill? How was I made?

So many questions, so little time. I will attempt an answer to these deep philosophical questions so that all may come to learn of my importance.

Let’s start with the end: how was I made? No one knows exactly although my father supplied the main ingredient, i.e. a tomato. Is my mother the creamy substance? Are my brothers and sisters in the same sauce – as spices – as herbs? In any case I was told that the total of me is delicious. What’s that? I’m short on emotional intelligence.

Do I have a goal to fulfill? Well the obvious one would be that of enhancing a meal (a word I have heard, but for which I have no understanding as I don’t “eat”). And I also have very limited knowledge of goals, although I have heard my maker say that his goal was to please people: a totally unknown concept to me.

What is my purpose in life? Is it only to be spread on those toasts? Do I enhance them, do I simply exist on them? Maybe it is my colour, one to give warmth and cheer although I believe that it wasn’t that cold the day that I was ordered and given to the woman who picked me up.

What is the sum total of me? I am not even sure how many ingredients went into my making and as I have no emotions I am sure I can’t answer that question. I did, however,

overhear one of the women who consumed me say that I leant a certain ambiance to their party. Oh, I know, my importance lay in the fact that I attended a meal shared by women who are friends.

Donna-Lane’s version:

“Red pepper.” Janice spoke in a low voice so Peter wouldn’t hear. He claimed he hated red pepper. If he hadn’t gone out that afternoon, she would never have been able to roast the peppers and peel the blackened skin, add the tomato paste and blend it with crème fresh. Peter loved the result on toast

“Red pepper?” Darlene said not in a low voice.

“Red pepper, I hate red peppers,” Peter said. He’d been talking with Clive on the other side of the fireplace.

“Your wife says that the secret ingredient.” She pointed to the plastic container. Remnants of the spread clung to the side. Peter must have eaten half of it.

“Janice!” His tone matched the time she had washed his boxer shorts with her red blouse dying them pink.

Janice wanted to strangle Darlene. Why had she risked telling Darlene her secret ingredient when Peter was in the room. “You love the spread.”

“You lied,” his frown brought his eyebrows together in the glower she knew all to well.

“I never lied.”

“By omission.” He slammed out of the room.