Source A: The table of broken things

An original contemporary non-fiction-style practice text, written for this question.

The notice called it a repair morning. I pictured a quiet room and a row of people waiting for someone useful to arrive. Instead, the hall was full of lamps, radios and kitchen clocks, each with a label explaining what had stopped working.

I had come to drop off a desk lamp. When one of the volunteers asked me to hold a torch, I agreed. The lamp was unplugged, and she showed me how to keep the light on the small switch she was examining. I tried to look as if I had been given a task before.

At the next table, a man was explaining the history of a radio to a volunteer who was trying to open its case. He spoke with the pride of someone introducing a guest. I found myself smiling at the seriousness of it all. Then the volunteer asked him to stop talking while she listened for a loose part. The room became so quiet that my torch seemed to be making a noise of its own.

My lamp was put back together, though the volunteer said she could not promise it would stay working. I thanked her and reached for it. She stopped me: the cable was still being checked. For a moment I felt foolish for assuming that a finished-looking object was ready to leave. I moved aside while she tested it, and watched the man with the radio wait without interrupting.

The lamp worked when I finally took it home. I had arrived expecting to hand over a broken thing and leave. By the time I went, I understood why people stayed to watch the work, though I was still glad not to be responsible for the torch.

Source B: The cue I missed

An original contemporary non-fiction-style practice text, written for this question.

The open-air cinema held a short film evening before its main feature. I had agreed to read a few lines from a local writer’s work, which sounded manageable when I said yes in a warm room the week before.

On the night, the screen rose behind the stage and the audience settled on folding chairs. I stood at the microphone with my page held in both hands. The first sentence came out clearly. Then the wind lifted the corner of the paper, and I forgot where the next line began. Someone in the front row laughed. I laughed too, more loudly than I meant to.

A volunteer held the page down while I started again. I could hear people shifting in their chairs. The words were familiar, but the pause had made them seem newly difficult. When I reached the end, the applause was kind. I bowed, though I could not tell whether it was expected or simply the quickest way to leave the microphone.

Later, I watched the film from the back. The audience laughed together at a scene I had barely noticed, and the sound made the field feel less like a crowd of strangers. I was pleased I had read, but when the organiser asked whether I would do it again, I said I would need to think about it.