The Powerbook by Jeanette Winterson.

Herro!
 
So, The Powerbook is a rather strange book accounting two people falling in love over the internet through stories which they write concerning themselves. Well, that's my interpretation of it anyway. It's described on goodreads.com as this:
 
'Adding to an already astounding body of work that explores the nature of love and desire, Jeanette Winterson (Sexing the Cherry, Oranges are Not the Only Fruit, The Passion) presents a stunning novel that probes the boundaries of the Internet. Ali writes stories on email for anyone who wants them. She promises “freedom just for one night,” but she does not do so without a warning: the story might change you. Ask for an epic love story and you will get one, but Ali will be cast in it, too, and the lines between the real and imagined may blur. Plucking characters from history and myth, Winterson journeys through time and stops in London, Paris, and Capri, all the while melding the language of love with that of computers. In The PowerBook she has found a brilliant conceit through which to showcase her increasingly bold voice.'

So, our writing prompt exercise this week was to right about a contemporary couple in a historical setting or a historical couple in a contemporary setting.

So I wrote about

In:

In the style of:

And here it is:

“Ok, now open your eyes.”

She looked around her, attempting to distinguish the objects in the gloom, they revealed themselves gradually. There was a barrel of fermented berry juice, a heap of mushrooms, some of those dried leaves which tasted like burning, a couple of dehydrated adders and more than enough lines of crushed beetle dust. A bloated toad croaked flatulently from inside his cage, cautiously eyeing a batch of frogs’ skins. They looked suspiciously...toad-like.

“Do you like it? I thought we could have a night in, you know, just the two of us, get a little sideways.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I even got some new stuff in” he added, producing a small leather pouch from his belt, “it’s dried toad. You rub it in your gums like this, see?” he demonstrated, revealing his crumbling teeth. The toad wheezed audibly. “It’s new, from the continent. It tastes like hell but it has a kick to it, makes my eyes point in different directions.”

She was disappointed. They were supposed to be having a relaxing night in, kicking back by the fire. The last time he had got this much gear in, she had spent half the night trying to coax him off the battlements, scraps of his trousers were still caught in the big tree outside. The villagers were beginning to talk. She sighed.

“Come on, just do a couple of lines of beetle. You know how I like it when you get a little bit loose.”

She looked at the toad, who looked back at her through narrowed eyes.

“Oh ok,” she said “but just one line.”

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