In order to strengthen my "writing muscle", I've taken part in this weeks #weekendwritercize; the weekly writing challenge over at Writercize.
This weekend's challenge is: Different Folks.
Put two people who you would not expect to see together in a room and see what happens. Write about where they are, their dialogue and body language.
Trying to come up with two polar opposites, I decided upon:
The Dalai Lama
Granted, it's no masterpiece, but it was fun to write! Here's my entry:
The flight attendant announced that seatbelts could now be removed. Paris Hilton never wore seatbelts; they crumpled her outfits. There was also the issue of who'd used the seatbelt before her. The staff on these common luxury air-crafts probably never thought to clean the seatbelts.
She regretted loaning her private jet to Britney Spears this weekend. “Poor Britney, having her Father control her finances,” she'd told herself at the time, awash with sympathy, “why do tragic things always happen to good, decent people?”
François, her PA, hurriedly knelt by her side, flushed with excitement. “Ooh. Emm. Gee, Parr! You'll never guess who's travelling in the next suite!” He grabbed her skeletal arms, blinking so hard his false eyelashes were threatening to dislodge.
Paris bristled. She hated other celebrities sharing air travel with her; stealing her publicity. She thought of Britney luxuriating in her private jet and resolved never to be selfless again.
Feigning disinterest, she examined her polished nails. “Who is it?”
Please don't let it be Kim Kardashian.
François placed one hand over his chest and gave a slight bow “It's... The Dalai Lama.”
Her entourage gasped and squealed with delight.
“The who?” Paris's delicate eyebrows tried to furrow, but the botox prevented movement. “Isn't that a statue in India?”
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head “No, Dahling... The Dalai Lama!! He's, like, some kind of Chinese God!”
Ruby, her make up artist, knelt next to François and whispered “I heard he blessed Jennifer Lopez's ass.”
François nodded “I also heard he blessed Lindsay Lohan, via Skype, the day before she was due to start her jail sentence. And what happens? She doesn't have to go into that stinky prison!”
“Eww!” squealed Paris and Ruby, simultaneously.
Meredith, Paris's financial advisor, turned in her seat to face them. With a sigh, she pushed her glasses down her nose to look at the trio of twits. “You Americans are hilarious” she said, in her crisp, English accent. “The Dalai Lama is the exiled spiritual leader of Tibet. He enlightens through peace, harmony and compassion, not by pandering to celebrities!” She laughed into their vacant stares. “But, please, do ignore his quest for Tibet's independence from China; Jennifer Lopez's arse cheeks are far more important!”
Paris scowled at Meredith. She would try and change Daddy's mind about firing her when she got back.
“Never mind Mere-bitch,” François hissed, “I happen to know 100% that he performs miracles. There's absolutely nothing he cannot do. Face it honey,” he placed a hand on his hip, “do you think we'd even know who he was if he couldn't?”
Her glacial eyes bore through his, contemplating what this opportunity could mean for her; how it could impact her life.
Meredith chuckled. “What can she possibly wish for that she hasn't already got?” As she turned back in her seat, she muttered “A brain cell, perhaps?” and buried her face The Financial Times.
Paris had an epiphany. She wanted eternal youth. “I want to meet him,” she announced, “set it up. Now!”
Dismissing everyone with her arm, she reclined in her plush chair, with her gel eye mask on. No more surgery. No more needles. No more hiding out in hotel rooms until the swelling subsides. “It's gonna be so hot!”
Before long, her entourage had pulled the desired strings and she found herself sauntering through a mass of smartly dressed businessmen. A small, bald-headed man sat at the helm of the suite, draped in orange and red fabric.
“Eww... that is, like, sooo gross!” she thought to herself “François and Ruby are liars! How can someone that... ancient looking know anything about eternal youth?”
“Sit” he beckoned in the chair next to him. Somewhat dejected, she did as instructed, her cold, dead eyes poring over him.
“You look familiar” she realised. “I know! You were on Masterchef Australia, weren't you? We watched the re-runs in Ibiza last week; it was the only English-speaking TV they had! It was just the worst!”
The Dalai Lama nodded sagely.
“I'm throwing a dinner party tomorrow night, for some very important people. Would you suggest I tell the caterers to make the Veal? Or the Foie Gras?”
François squealed and eye-balled her meaningfully. “His Holiness doesn't believe in eating meat, Paris, just like you, remember?”
Paris seized up “Of course," she lied, "the meat is not for me! I have to think of the needs of others.” She attempted to look noble.
“I am not vegetarian,” he said “however, I applaud your decision not to eat meat: Be kind, whenever possible. It's always possible.”
“That's sexy.” Images of Jennifer Lopez's buttocks floated in her mind. “So," she yawned, stretching then folding her bony arms, "can you bless me with eternal youth?”
His entourage tittered, and François blushed. Paris gazed at the bald-headed man unashamedly.
“What makes you crave eternal youth, my dear?”
Without a second thought, she replied “It would make me happy. That's why!”
He looked down for some time. She was starting to think he'd fallen asleep, until he faced her and said “Happiness is something not ready-made. It comes from your own actions.”
She clenched her tiny fists, her thin nostrils flaring. “Are you saying you won't help me?”
“If you can, help others; if you cannot do that, at least do not harm them.”
“What-EVER, old man,” she stood up in a huff, “let me help you then: red is sooo not your colour!” She stormed out of the suite. “And get a facial!”
The Dalia Lama looked at a mortified François, with an amused glint in his eye. “Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.”
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Have a lovely Sunday, everyone! x