Playing with objects

So, in my creative writing class yesterday, my professor brought in four items: an apple, an orange, a piece of rope, and a pair of scissors. She had us spend two or three minutes with each item, detailing taste-smell-touch-etc, as well as the memories involved with such items. Afterwards, she had us spend about five minutes or so writing something with these four items, using our just-written notes to help us.

A last harvest on the farm, apples strewn like leaves in the Fall, sweet and soft. Oranges plucked in droves, a fresh treat, a last taste of summer, the soft innards sweet and light on the tongue like summer sunlight. Children running underfoot, laughing, stealing fruit out of poorly attended baskets. Young couples make a game of the apple picking, racing to see which pair can fill a basket most in an allotted time - he dashes up, scaling the branches with ease and dropping them down to her, or she, hiking up her skirts, pulls herself up to meet him.
Farmers in a nearby field roll up massive bales of hay and tie them 'round and 'round with twine. One of the young lovers laughs and nudges her partner, whispering a scandalous question about whether or not he would like to tie up her wrists tight like those bales. Another pair shares an orange under the shade of their tree, game forgotten. They lick their sticky fingers clean, careful not to miss a drop, and he leans forward to taste the juice on her lips.
Children sit in the sun, cutting up paper with child's safety scissors, making decorations for the feast that is sure to follow such a harvest and long day's work.

(To Gee - does it remind you of a certain scene in a certain book?)

Traded First Lines

We started talking about poetry in my creative writing class today. The professor had us write out seven possible first lines of a poem in three or four minutes... and then we had to switch one of these lines with a neighbor and, using their lines, write a poem in about five minutes.

I've been meaning to post something here for ages, and now seemed as good a time as any.

My line was: 'His face was stark and gargoyled'. This is what came from that -

His face was stark, gargoyled by the flickering light of the candles,
Shadows pooling queerly in the hard planes under his cheeks,
And around the tight set of his jaw.
A romantic dinner planned, bought, set for two
With immaculate, delicate care –
All in readiness but for the lack of his lady lover.
Four hours ago, time still for hope;
Three hours ago, dismay set in,
Two, and anger sidles to the surface, black and fierce,
One, and the heart sinks low.
Now, the clock chimes midnight,
The moon stands at its apex and the stars twinkle brightly, mocking,
Now, time only for resignation, and a back
Turned with finality on an eighth and last effort.