The noise of Qwendolyn Market sleeps like a dog on a sun soaked winter day: sprawled and oblivious. Approach too closely and that snoring pup will leap to the end of it’s chain and commence to tearing your head off. It’s the way its built sunken more than an average man’s height like a pit ringed with steep steps and surrounded by the vendors’ offices. All the noise goes straight up.
Newcomers and pilgrims will circle the entire market looking for a good entrance to the raucous dance because at first it seems that everyone there knows what he or she is doing. But they don’t.
Sure there are patterns the veteran marketeers recognize. Swells in the crowd they can exploit; lulls they can restock during. But every one of those will tell you it’s made up new everyday
Qwendolyn used to be something else. Everybody knows it.
Word count: 154
The market clamor rises the moment Sehra reaches the top of the step. From the wisps of loud conversation she can pick out it seems one of the fig sellers has done something of note. It’s not her doing, just coincidence. Still the crescendo feels like a cheer. She allows the event to calm her mood with the false sense of importance.She closes her eye to focus on the voices in the growing mid-morning heat. She’s searching for the once voice that can help her this morning. [aurally journey through a bunch of market stalls I can’t think of anything interesting for right now]. There it lies. [something characteristic about the voice I can’t seem to make up this morning–shit, should be even writing?].Carn leaps to the end of his leash when he in turn senses Gotline’s thin snore. He pulls Sarah off balance and down the steps.“Nah. Cheeb,” Sehra commands. She sinks to a squat to rub the dog’s head. “Not so fast Carn. He’s a sleep and I am hungry again…still. Tet. Let’s find some breakfast.”
Let’s do the Gwendolyn Market. I seem to write well when I describe physical settings–write effortlessly rather. An entry’s wellness is up to the reader.
First I’m going to stop fighting the typo I keep making to spell the name and just change it to that. So it’s now the Qwendolyn Market. Probably not so much a typo as my pasty little brain thinking that a G and a Q look alike enough that it won’t matter.
Next I check the name’s origin. One thing I like to do when I make stuff up is to not make it all up. Often I’ll include some sort of allusion to the meaning in the real world. It may not be a literal translation; it may not be obvious. In this case apparantly “gwendolen” is Welsh for white ring or white bow. To me those are two different things, but maybe not for the Welsh. In any case I can and will use it. Don’t worry about me being too subtle that you can’t find it.
Next I need to circle back to the whole point of this exercise originally. It’s one that I’ve been avoiding for a week now. I want to write a scene that has noise. People noise. Talking, chatting, walking, bumping, screaming, singing noise. I can’t imagine this kind of noise with out visual noise–lots of talking must mean lots of people to talk. Thus a market.
To accomplish this I’ll need to transport my brain to a place it fears. The State Fair. And then some how evolve that experience to a more professional venue like The Mall.
And then the day ended unexpectedly.
Word count: 473