Ethelie’s doctors have sedated her with laudanum; her incessant rantings about how a dark and nefarious enemy pushed her down the stairs were disturbing the other patients in the infirmary. That leaves the task of setting your daily writing exercise to me. I shall endeavor to do my best.
Poor Ethelie! To indulge her, I did indeed go to the Beastmaster’s quarters, though of course I did not find any evidence that he pushed her. What on Earth did Ethelie think I would find? A to-do list with “Shove Ethelie” checked off? An overdue notice from the library for the book How To Shove Someone Down the Stairs? I trust that as Ethelie’s body heals from its injuries, her mind will heal as well.
A visit to the Beastmaster’s quarters is always delightful. I find myself surrounded by the familiar scents of my childhood: the warm animal scent of Maggie, the Beastmaster’s pet verbhound; the manly scent of leather and the oil he uses on the harnesses and other equipment; the mouth-watering fragrance of the raw meat upon which the Hounds feed; and a dozen other scents that all combine into one heady fragrance that transports me to my earliest youth.
Your Exercise:
Smell! Breathe deeply and notice the different scents which surround you. What can you tease out? How precisely can you describe it?
Or, perform this exercise on behalf of one of your characters. What does she smell? What does this tell us about her world? About her?
Dinner tonight was a veritable orchestra of scents to be enjoyed.
First, the frying onions; then, the pungent, mouth-watering, all but palpable scent of garlic skittering alongside them in the well-oiled pot . Add to this the earthiness of mushrooms, the creamy starchiness of diced potatoes, and the crisp, slightly bitter scent of spinach wilting in the stew-pot’s heat, and you have half the story.
The other half was an unlooked for blessing, gifted by a generous housemate. Déguste: cumin-scented rice enriching an air already thickening with ginger, pepper, roasted eggplant, paprika, turmeric, and chili powder in a tomato sauce; the half sweet, half sour smell of greek-style yoghurt…
I am making myself hungry again. I hope the verb-hounds like curry! I certainly enjoyed mine. Now I am to top it off with a cup of tea that will smell chiefly of dried orange peel, cloves, and cinnamon, and later, perhaps, there will be pancakes in honour of Shrove Tuesday. Mmmm-mm.
Whenever the bell dings and someone flings open the door, a pour of wind comes roaring in, full of sky and the promise of snow. Car exhaust and nearly invisible ice chips, but mostly the scent of cold.
Within, the smell of comic books, ink and gloss, muscles and monsters, a certain kind of glue. The dust of the 100 year-old New Testament taken off the highest shelf by a Polish girl. That old chair soaked with the perfumes of an 80-year-old lady in this morning to discharge a debt. Her lipstick was thick and coral. If she had kissed me with that mouth, I would have aged thirty years.
The Tom Clancys smell like adrenalin. The John Grishams, like the courtroom. The Twilight books smell like sebum and body glitter. The Bujold books smell like interstellar space travel and horses and rivers and the man you see across the room that you never think will talk to you, but you learn he’s written a book, so you read that instead. The sales carts have a lingering odor of firmly planted buttocks, from all the customers who sit there, staring at $1 bargains.
I smell like fresh laundry and the Kalamata olives I just ate. My fingernails smell the most like me, and my braids the sweetest – although in my opinion shampoo is deceptive. If you want the truth, smell the fingernails.
If she had kissed me with that mouth, I would have aged thirty years.
Genius, mine Ire-Claw. GENIUS. I love it.
Dear Labrys, YOUR particular genius (today) was to make me VERY HONGRY!
Applause! Well-done, my sweet-smelling Agents!