Text 1 Mowgli and Text 2 The car and the fly
Text 1
Writing a short story of 3000 characters in the form of a parody (imitation of a style or genre, in homage to an author) of a selected text: A Martian, Nouvelles Histoires pressées, Junior Bernard Friot, Éditions Milan.
Original version of "A Martian" :
Planet Mars, nine o'clock in the evening.
Dear Mom, dear Dad,
Well, here I am on the planet Mars. I hope you've been really worried since this morning and that you've searched everywhere for me. Actually, I observed you through my spy satellites, and I saw that you had funny expressions this afternoon. Dad even said, "It's not possible; something must have happened to him!" (As you can see, my long-distance microphones are ultra-powerful.) Well, I'm a bit embarrassed to say it, but I'll say it anyway because it's the truth: I'm really glad that you're worried. It's your fault, after all. If you hadn't forbidden me from going to the movies with François, I wouldn't have left. I'm tired of being treated like a kid! Okay, I shouldn't have called you old sadists, but Mom called me a big wimp, so we're even. Don't ask me how I got here; it's a secret, and I swore not to tell. Anyway, I really like it on Mars. The people may not be very pleasant to look at, but they're super nice. No one makes remarks when you happen to get a 9 in geography. You know who I'm referring to... But there are some rather strange things. I'm not talking about the beetles that Martians nibble on as an appetizer. On Earth, too, there are things that are impossible to eat. Brussels sprouts, for example. No, the weirdest thing is how they make babies. All it takes is for a boy and a girl to look into each other's eyes, and poof! They become mom and dad. I already have half a dozen children. I think I'll wear sunglasses. It's safer. I still have a lot of things to tell you, but I'd rather stop here. Take care, and I hope to see you soon.
P.S.: It would be nice if you could send me two salami sandwiches, a strawberry yogurt, and a bottle of grape juice. And let me know if you're still mad.
P.P.S.: Just leave the package and the letter in front of the attic door. Don't worry; it'll get here.
Text 1
"Mowgli" Parody by Cécile Rigoli
In the jungle, seven o'clock in the evening
My dear husband,
Yes, here I am, off to join Mowgli in the depths of the Indian jungle. I hope you've been quite worried since you got home because, against all expectations, I wasn't in the kitchen. Nor in the pantry. Not even in the bathroom. My sixth sense leads me to believe that you were slightly annoyed about having to venture into that dark corner known as the laundry room. And what can I say about your exasperation when you noticed that the washing machine had finished its cycle and I remained untraceable... I can only imagine your expression ! Inevitably, you must have shouted : "Catherine!!! It's time for this little prank to stop !" (It's your favorite). Even the neighbors must have heard you... I'm a bit embarrassed, but I have to confess that this situation amuses me greatly. After all, it's partly your fault. If you hadn't supported misogynistic and sexist remarks and discreetly smiled when that twisted Patrick talked about the "natural place of the weaker sex," we wouldn't be in this situation. You could have called me a maid, and it would have had the same effect! I know I shouldn't have thrown the remote control across the room, but your insinuations deserved one of your essential object to take a flying leap.
Now you've discovered that the fridge is filled with consumable products, and, oh surprise, no human robot is available to turn those raw ingredients into a hot meal ! It's a first, I know. But you're a big boy now, almost forty-three. Of course, you don't look like it. You're handsome, yes, I know. You're strong too, yes, I know. But despite all that makes you the exceptional person you are, you're going to empty the dishwasher tonight. You're even going to set the table and, horror of horrors, cook to fill your little furry belly that's hungry. And don't bother running the machine again to avoid the chore, it won't work this time because I won't be back right away...
Don't ask me how I managed to get here; it's a bit of my little secret... Anyway, this forest is incredibly beautiful, and Mowgli is as nice as can be. I think I'm really going to enjoy it here. I have to admit that peeing outside with creatures wandering around wasn't exactly on my bucket list, but it has the advantage of avoiding the battle to keep the toilet seat down. Can you believe that "little boy" has only one loincloth? Not even a spare one ! I have to confess, it took me some time to bleach that darn piece of fabric, but hold onto your hat, the kid had to wait bare-bottomed in the bamboo forest, and didn't complain about a thing ! There's someone who would have lost patience for much less, if you know what I mean... After that, I'll grant you, there are some rather surprising things. I'm not talking about the raw meat that Mowgli and his sharp-toothed friends devour with their bare hands. We also have things that can be eaten and make you want to vomit. Like your mother's lasagna, for example. No, the strangest thing is how we seem to get younger day by day! As soon as the sun sets, a wrinkle disappears. I shouldn't stay here too long, or you'll look quite old compared to me! (Don't let that idea keep you up at night...). Hugs, my darling.
PS: If you could open the door for the Menulog delivery guy around eight o'clock, that would be nice. And let me know if you managed to fix the remote control (I saw the batteries roll under the console at the entrance if that helps).
PSS: You can leave the package in front of the garden shed; I'll make sure Baloo picks it up.
Text 2
Writing a short 3,000-character "pastiche" of a selected text: 'The stage-coach and fly' from Jean de La Fontaine's Fables.
Original version of "The stage-coach and fly"
Up a steep hill and painful road of sand,
While to the sun exposed on every hand,
Six powerful horses drew a carriage on :
Women, old men, and friars all got down.
The horses smoked and panted—at a stand.
A fly came up, and seemed to take command ;
Thought to excite them by his buzzing song,
Stung them by turns to make them get along,
And every moment thought to see them go—
Sat on the seat-sat on the driver's nose.
Soon as he saw the carriage moving slow,
The travellers marching on—his pride arose ;
And to himself the praise he took ;
Went round with eager haste, and seemed to look
Like some bold battle-serjeant out of breath,
Pressing his ranks to victory or death.
The fly complained that in this joint affair
He acted singly, and had all the care—
None helped him in his work with kind accord :
The friar o'er his breviary pored ;
Fit time indeed !—A woman sang the while—
Was singing there required to soften toil !
The fly went buzzing to their ears his thanks,
And played a hundred, wicked pranks.
After much toil the coach arrived on high :
" Let's breathe a little now ! " exclaimed the fly ;
" I've worked so hard, we've got upon the plain‑
Come, my good horses, pay me for my pain."
Thus certain people, with important air,
Meddle with business they know nought about ;
Seem to be wanted everywhere,
And everywhere they ought to be turned out.
Text 2
"The car and the fly " Pastiche by Cécile Rigoli
In a steep, rugged, scorching road,
At high noon, the sun ablaze,
The Fiesta had just blown a spark plug,
Granny and the kids got out,
The car was sputtering, stalling, stuck in the muck,
A fly came along, landed on the gearshift,
And genuinely believed it would fix the whole affair,
She went from the gearstick to the steering wheel, T
hinking all along that she was driving the darn car,
One eye on the speedometer, a tap on the gas pedal,
As soon as the wreck hit turbo,
And she saw the kids, on foot, passing her by,
She thought her Zorro routine had won the combo.
She played it like the Patrouille de France, loops, rolls, dives;
You'd think you were seeing the boss, in the workshop,
Running like a madman, from one guy to another,
Squeezing the lemon to get the package delivered,
And win a star.
The fly genuinely believed she was the champ,
She couldn't stop whining, thinking she was doing it all,
No one was helping her steer the piece of junk.
The kids were reading the manual upside down,
Granny was butchering Céline Dion's "I Love You"
Since it was time to prepare for Saturday night karaoke!
Lady fly was going to shred their eardrums.
She wouldn't hold back, she had plenty of nonsense in her basket.
After all the racket, the cart finally reached the top,
I'm drained, gosh, can't wait to get away on vacation, thought the fly.
I've given it my all, these dopes are saved,
And there's no need to thank me. Without me, nada, you'd be stuck there.
Thus, it happens that people,
All caught up in their act of being in a hurry,
Wave their arms around,
Get involved in what's none of their business,
Make us believe that without them,
It's a disaster, the ship is sinking, the rats are drowning,
When in reality, they're just a pain,
They'd do better to go see if the sea somewhere else has a different colour."