Psychometry by Dazzle

I did this edit for dazzle, after there had been some correspondence
about it on the threads.
He e-mailed me to say..

... have read your edit and I don't like it. I think it is well written
but I'm not keen on the style of writing. For me you've detailed the
'plot' of my piece but not the essence. I tend to write stuff which is
slightly
ambiguos and open to a bit of interpretation to the reader, I also am
very
descriptive and like to dwell on small details to try and create an
atmosphere and a sense of time and place, and, sometimes, to get into
the heads of the characters. I also think that character is more
important than
plot. There is no real 'plot' to 'Psychometry' which I why I think the
more
direct style of writing doesn't work with it.

i understand his point. but he then suggested we put it up and see what
people thought, so here it is.

I liked the story first time I read it, but felt the very clear subject
of the story was hidden in other stuff.
This is more than an edit, it's a re-write. and I don't claim its
better or worse - it's just my way of telling what I hope is the same
story. It is a draft only.

Dazzle and I would be very interested in comments. Opening a thread for
them......

This was the first comment we got:

alex-j (---.dsl.easynet.co.uk)
Date: 02-28-02 12:51

Interesting exercise... I like the use of different tenses to mark the
shifts between actual and remembered events in the rewrite. Although
it's much clearer what's happening, I agree with Dazzle that the plot
is actually very slight and what made the original story were the
details which gave it a great sense of place, and which have been
edited out. Prefer the original!

PYSCHOMETRY

psy?chom?e?try - The ability or art of divining information about
people or events associated with an object solely by touching or being
near to it.

She sat on the snowy platform where she'd fallen. Eyes open, staring,
fiercely gripping the rusting bucket. She was beautiful. Her blonde
hair had spread out as she went down, as if to slow her.

When she'd gone down there had been no exclamation; no scream, no cry
of surprise - just a thump as she hit the pockmarked cement of the
platform. Instinctively, as she fell, her arms reached out, hands
grabbing, fingers curling over the lip of the bucket. It came away from
the wall, its heavy bracket pulling from the crumbling brick, dropping
to the surface next to her with a metallic clang as she jarringly come
to rest.

A few old women looked on from the benches. Were they waiting to leave
or expecting an arrival? They were probably there yesterday and would
be again tomorrow, a routine undisturbed by a few foreigners milling
around.

The girl's lips were moving - a silent mantra. No one could hear what
she was saying. Her breath misted in front of her face, masking her.
One of the young Americans knelt beside her, putting his beer down,
leaning towards her. It was easy to guess that the American boys, still
carrying their beer and laughing as they approached, were being helpful
because she was attractive. The scene was almost romantic: the boy
placed his ear near her mouth. His friends stop laughing. Everyone
watches. Everyone waits. The boy looks up. "Water! She's asking for
water"

*****

The door slides open; weak light illuminates the railway car. Some
shield their eyes. Others peer outside, wanting to know where they have
stopped. Snow drifts down.
The officer squints into the railway car, trying to pierce the gloom.
He raises his hand, pointing at the first child, a small blonde-haired
girl. She tries to press herself against the woman next to her. The
officer's finger is already moving onto the next child. When he is
through, he beckons.

The children line up. All are silent. In front of them are uniformed
men, guns relaxed. The old women on the platform watch, not wanting to
get involved.

At one end of the platform is a line of red buckets and a tap.

The blonde-haired girl starts to walk towards the water tap. She stops,
turns, and beckons for others to follow. They leave a trail of
footprints in the fresh, white snow. When they get there, she helps the
children fill each bucket in turn.

She leads the journey back to the train - cold metal handle gripped in
red- raw hands, knuckles turning white. Water spills onto the platform
as she walks back.
The soldiers are lined up, waiting for their return, breath fogging the
air and masking their faces.

The officer moves forward towards her. She stops, too small to get back
into the train by herself. The other children, buckets in hands, begin
to line up behind her.

The girl looks at the officer, standing with her bucket. He stops and
looks down.

He lashes out with his boot, catching her hand. The bucket....

*****

...dropped from her grip. It rolled to the edge of the platform and
clanked onto the tracks.
She blinked, shook her head. The American boy stepped back, bending to
help her up. "Thank you." She said. He nodded and walked back to join
his friends. The old women stopped staring and went back to their
muffled conversations. The American boys picked up their rucksacks and
waited as the train approached.

Dazzles original is on his site.