A Pointless Life #amwriting

‘You don’t have enough Points, Sir.’

She watched the hope fade and new emotions vied for dominance. Anger, despair, frustration. Resignation. Fighting to keep her own expression blank, she risked a quick glance around. No one was watching; the guy hadn’t made a fuss. He was just slumped, trying to find the energy to head back to the Employment Office where he would be assigned more work to earn Points to pay for his treatment. She coughed and slid a hand across the desk. She slipped the paper to the man. As soon as his grubby, chapped fingers touched the note she called out ‘NEXT!’

And so the day continued.

Starting At The Very Beginning...

I've been giving some serious consideration as to where my story begins. 

I don't mean just chronologically. 

I mean the first sentence. 

How will I pull my readers in and hook them to carry on and read all of the sentences which follow?

All Out Of Words #amwriting

Task: Write a 500 word scene where the only dialogue is 'er' and 'mmm'

Response:
I could hear her, banging around in the kitchen. It was her passive aggressive way of saying she was up, and pissed off, that she wanted me to know it, but that she wasn't petty enough to actually mention whatever it was that had annoyed her this morning.
       I ignored the cupboard doors slamming, the mugs rattling as they were thrust into the cupboard, and concentrated instead in not cutting myself as I shaved. Contorting my face into a dozen ghoulish masks as I negotiated the chin, I briefly toyed with the idea of not rinsing the sink of hair and foam before I ventured downstairs, but decided it wouldn't be worth the grief. 
    As I opened the door, she had her back to me, and didn't look round as I made my way towards the kettle. Just to emphasis the point, I took extra care in opening the cupboard as quietly, fishing the teaspoon out of the drawer with the poise of a cat. I shook the coffee jar at her, my eyebrow asking the question. 'errr?'

Reap What You Sow #amwriting

Task: A character is holding a blue object. What are they thinking?

Response:
He shook it again. It gave off a low menacing hum which he felt deep in his bones - the kind that say 'stop ratting the damn ball'. Abruptly, the humming stopped and he realised he had been clenching his jaw, and his buttocks. He forced himself to relax and put the ball back on the table, looking up at his colleague.

'So, what is it, and why does it make me want to chew off my own arm to get away from it when I pick it up?' 
      'I don't know Paul, that's why we called you in. We found it attached to one of the drones we brought down last night. No markings on the drone either, and we haven't been able to track down the signal to find the operator yet. It's fucking weird though, right? We wondered if, maybe it was something... you know, one of the projects your team had been working on?' Amanda left the sentence hanging, hoping Paul might give something away - she knew his team had some advanced tech projects boiling away in their high security labs. It seemed a reasonable guess that this small blue ball might be part of their work, and if so, he might want it back before it fell into the wrong hands.
      'nope, not mine' Paul was hunched over the ball now, face just a few centimetres away, but not daring to get too close, trying to get past the luminescent glow which was coming off the surface to see if he could make out what material it was made from. 'Where'd you say it came down?'
      Walking over to a large map table, Amanda pinpointed an area about 3 miles from their base. That was bad news, the drones were getting closer every week, finding ways through their forcefield. Paul spun back to the object, horrified realisation written across his chiselled face
      'shit, Amanda, we have to get that thing out of here, now. It's how they've been breaking through our field - and now....'
      She realised immediately what he was implying and made a grab for it. Every muscle in her body went rigid as she fought to attach the object to another drone. The humming had becoming louder as soon as Paul approached with the controls, his fingers struggling to work the remote. As he lifted the drone and it's assassin passenger into the air, his nose started to bleed. Amanda started puking in the corner. The drone was almost at the open window, the humming had become deafening, the glass beakers and cupboard fronts were splintering, the fluorescent bulbs had blown, and the room was plunged into the gloomy light cast from outside. The ball and the drone had just made it to the window when Paul's body gave up, throwing him to the floor in convulsions. 
      The light from outside was being blocked now, and as Amanda fell to the floor, ears bleeding, bile still streaming from her mouth, she saw them. 1000s of them. Hovering menacingly on the drones which she had helped to create. And she had let them in. The irony wasn't lost on her as she passed into unconsciousness.

The Ransom #AmWriting

Task: Write a scene which starts with a ransom note

Response:
YOU HAVE UNTIL 3PM ON WEDNESDAY TO DELIVER. 

I read and re-read the note. It made no sense. I didn't have £1million. I barely had a tenner to spare. There was no money in my family, I didn't own property, and my savings had taken a real hit recently, but even before, wouldn't have stretched that far. I wondered who the note was really for - what kind of person could get that much ash together in 48 hours. 
      And then there was the question of the dog. Now, I would never want to see any harm done to an animal, but I sure as hell don't want one living in my house. I don't own a dog. Certainly not one worth a million! I'd have pass the whole thing off as someone's idea of a sick joke, but there had been a dog collar nailed, with the letter, to my door when I got home after work last night. And it had a name tag on it. 
And a phone number.

A Message From 2019 #amwriting

Task: Write your blog update for 2019

Response:

21st November 2019, London: So, it looks like this could be it for me. We have no NHS to speak of any more after the Government managed to drive out all the Doctors and Nurses, whilst simultaneously selling off infrastructure and services to private businesses owned by their families and friends. And today, after a fortnight of checking, hoping, denying, today I have to admit that I think I have a lump. Even if I could afford to get it checked, I couldn't afford to have any treatment. This is our Government's own version of genocide - they will let anyone who cannot afford private health care die off. 

'John' #amwriting

Task:
Imagine a character very like you but give them a dramatic external alteration. Write a brief character sketch, around 300–500 words. You might make the character the opposite sex, for example, or make them significantly older or younger. You choose. 

You could include:

appearance

feelings

current circumstances

occupation

voice

attitudes

hopes and fears.

My Response:

Never Judge A Book #amwriting

She hated going home on Wednesdays. Not because she hated being at home, but because the latest round of budget cuts had meant that they now closed at 3pm on Wednesdays. Apparently, no one wanted to read or research after 3pm in the middle of the week, and so the decision was made. Dullham Library was closed, literary pursuits were prohibited, on a Wednesday afternoon. Sylvia was initially worried about the cut in her pay, but they had been able to work around it. They had dropped a 'brand level' in the supermarket, and agreed that they didn't really need two cars. Sylvia's had been the car to go of course. Which meant that Wednesday afternoons were now a hellish 45 minute commute on the number 37 bus, which just happened to be the bus which was used by dozens of the local kids on their way home fro school. They were so... feral. That was the only word she could think to describe them, as yet another kick reached her kidneys through the back of the seat. She sighed. Only another 4 stops.

In Search Of Answers Draft 1 #amwriting

The World was deserted almost as far as the eye could see, save for the Wolf Flower brambles which covered every inch of ground, and grew as tall as the girl's chest. The Waste, as the region was known, was impenetrable thanks to the deadly toxins contained in the sap of the petrified plants - only someone with Kora's skills would have been able to move through this valley and survive. She had been travelling for six weeks now, and her only company, save for the plants, was the occasional mob of Smallhawks, like the ones hovering expectantly over head now, noisily encouraging her to part the scrub and allow them access to the tasty vermin which scurried oblivious to the danger waiting.

It was late in the afternoon and although there was a chill wind in the air, the sun was warm on her back, and she still had the cloak that Olwyn had given her. A tatty looking thing now the material was mostly patches over patches, held together with little more than hope. Kora wrapped it tightly around her slender frame as much for comfort as warmth.

The dry earth squeaked and crunched beneath her feet, and the Wolf Flower branches groaned like rusted hinges on long forgotten doors as they parted, leading her toward the town coming in to view on the horizon. She could see them now - the multi-coloured mishmash of buildings on the horizon. She had been warned of the dangers. No one could tell her what kind of reception she might receive here - a young women travelling alone, she may not be safe; almost certainly she wouldn't have been safe at home, but she continued on, compelled. The answers she was seeking, must surely be here somewhere. What had happened to make these people forsake her Home, leaving it to the dust? Why had they broken the agreement? Why had no contact been made and what would it take to rekindle the much needed relationship?

She didn't increase her pace now as the buildings drew closer. 'I'm just out for a stroll' she reassured herself, The wind was blowing her dark hair across her face in time with the waves she could now see breaking on the shore. She hugged the cloak a little closer, taking in deep breaths of the cool air as she tried to calm her frantic heart. She could make out details on the buildings now. The town stretched out long and thin along the coast, buildings reaching up to the sky. It seemed that she had found the far end of the town, with more buildings to her left than to her right. She was grateful for this accidental twist of fortune. Although she had ostensibly grown up in the Capital at home, the though of walking into the midst of a bustling metropolis in this unknown land had made her very uneasy. This way, she would hopefully be able to identify someone in authority all the sooner, so that she could begin her return journey and get back to some kind of normality.

There were as many as ten floors to some of the narrow structures. They looked like the clay building blocks the children played with at home, precariously balanced, leaning against each other for support. There were narrow gaps between some of the structures, giving Kora her first glimpse of the Lake she had heard about in her history lessons, but had never thought actually existed. And yet, to all intents and purposes, that was what she was seeing. A vast expanse of rippling, mirrored, blue.

She took another steadying breath, shifted her bag on her shoulder, and moved forward.

Write What You Know - Exercise 1 #amwriting

Close your eyes for a few moments and think of the room or place around you. Think of the details that you would include in any description and make a mental note of them. Open your eyes and, without looking around, write down what you thought of.

There is a a large white fridge freezer covered with magnets and notes, voting slips and shopping lists. The dark wooden worktops are covered in so many jars of spice and bottles of oil and tubs of utensils, that you'd be forgiven for wondering on which space any of the cooking which necessitates these items actually happens.  Surrounded by fice dirty blonde chairs, a pale wooden table fills the other end of the kitchen, which is fenced off by a tatty, cushiony old sofa which doubles as a cat scratching post. A dark wooden upright piano lounges against the end wall, used primarily as a plant stand and nic-nac display unit, but occasionally enjoying having its ivories tickled. The piano is bracketed by large white Ikea bookshelves, yawning too wide for their content, except the top left shelf which is stacked deep with gins, whiskeys and wines. To the right of the piano, beyond the shelf, is a flat screen TV on a permanently dusty black wooden table. This corner tableau is completed by a selection of instruments suspended from the ceiling - guitars and banjos, silent and waiting. 

There is a second, large, brown, L-shaped sofa, which is plush, and comforting. Quickly converting to a double sofa bed, it has been the sight of many a movie-night picnic, or hangover recovery nap. It has a slightly faded arm from sitting next to the room-width French windows, adorned by gap-toothed white vertical blinds. One of the cats is basking in the sun, gently releasing her hair to join the other stray strands floating across the floor, sticking to cushions and luckless guests.

Now look at your surroundings and write a paragraph (no more than 150 words) describing them, picking out at least three things that you haven't noticed recently – things you didn't think of when you closed your eyes.

On the kitchen wall, between the window and the boiler, in a garish red, there is a fire blanket mounted to the wall. Two small black straps dangling from the bottom like legs, ready to charge, to do its duty. On the top of the white cupboards, to the left of the window, rests a small collection of 'junk' for want of a more caring word. A box, which does not contain wine glasses, declares in violent lime green '£1 each, outstanding value. Wine Glasses'. To the far right, calmly hoping to be needed, there balances a white china teapot. No one in the house drinks tea - it is simply another remnant of the many waifs and strays that have passed through these doors over the years.

What Else Can Happen In A Second? #amwriting

'I'm just coming' he yelled. They were late, and Vee was getting agitated. She had been pacing the floor for 15 minutes. 'We're going to miss the train' she warned. It was 17.23 and the train was in 10 minutes and they needed to leave now. no. They needed to leave 5 minutes ago. But that's just how it was, how it had always been. He had teethed late, walked late, talked late, and he had been continuing in the same vein for the last sixteen and a half years.

Vee had grown accustomed over the years, and usually built in extra time, told him that they need to be somewhere half an hour sooner than they did, but the invite had come as a surprise and they had only just agreed to go last night. The opening night of a West End play wasn't to be sniffed at - not when you were mates with the leading actor and had been promised box seats and an invite to the after show party. 'Hurry up!' she pleaded, leaning round the hallway door to make sure he heard this time, her call echoing off the smooth wooden floorboards and polished bannister. 'Ok mum', dismissing her fuss, knowing she always made them arrive half an hour early to everything. 'Down in a sec'.

             

How could she have known he would be so true to his words. A sudden thundering, thumping roar filled the house, followed by silence. What the hell was that? 'You ok?'

Nothing.             

'Robbie?' Her stomach lurched as she rounded the corner back in to the hallway, her purple slingbacks skidding on the polished floor. A rag doll with dull grey eyes and a mop of brown curls was lying folded inelegantly at the foot of the stairs, limbs in the wrong order and an air of confusion around usually laughing lips. Its neck looked strange, like a slinky stuck mid spring. So out of place on this solid, rugby playing frame.

'robbie', she whispered, frightened to startle him. She knew, even before she got to him, she knew, but checked anyway. No pulse. her baby boy had no pulse. She crumpled, the floor rising up to meet her. What had just happened? And what was that noise?

She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, dimly aware of hitting the emergency call button. When the answer came 'emergency, which service', she realised that the noise had been her raw scream as her heart tried to climb up and out of her mouth. 'ambulance' she muttered.

'My son is dead'.

****

Almost 17 years ago, she had found this child left on her door step. There was no note, no clue as to who the child was or where he had come from. The poor bundle was freezing cold, and in desperate need of a clean nappy. She had fallen in love as soon as she had picked him up, and whilst she had distracted herself gathering essentials, feeding and changing him, she knew that this could only end badly.

She had waited, nervously for days, hours, weeks for someone to come and claim him, but as the months wore on, there was no not knock on the door. No missing person information in the papers, nothing on the news about a stolen or missing baby.

She had the skills and resources to create the documentation to make him officially hers as far as the authorities here were concerned. And as time had passed, she knew that against her better judgement, she could never give him up. She knew it was selfish of her. Knew that she was putting the boy’s life in danger, but in all of her years, she had never felt an aching in her soul like the one she felt at the thought of not being able to see these beautiful grey eyes staring out at the world like he knew everything.

He had grown so quickly. It seemed that in a blink he had transformed from a chunky little pudding with flailing arms and uncoordinated legs, to a strong, brawny teenager, complete with breaking voice until it evened out at a beautiful woodwind tone, strong and commanding, reminding her strangely of her own father’s so long ago. She had watched in awe as he developed into a real person. There had been the outbreaks of acne across his soft face and back. He had tried to take control, hitting the gym and bulking out, getting out in the sun as often as he could and guzzling water as though it was going out of fashion. She had spent a small fortune in acne creams for him during those tough few years, but since his facial hair had started to make an appearance, his skin cleared up as if by magic as soon as he started actually washing every day.

She remembered with a smile the embarrassing conversation about why his sheets and PJs were wet. She had caught him creeping around the kitchen early one morning, with a bundle of laundry tightly knotted in his arms, struggling to work out where the detergent went. He had always done his share of chores around the house; there was no way a son of hers would be a pampered layabout, but the washing machine seemed to have permanently confused him. Poor Rob, he was terrified he had wet the bed. As much as he was relieved to find that was not the case, he was still mortified to be having ‘the conversation’ with his mother at 7am. She had made them tea and toast, told him that they could talk any time he wanted to, and then left the subject.

She had told them they could talk any time. But not any more. Her baby, who was not her baby, had been taken anyway.

She knew that there was nothing more to be done here. That the life she had constructed so carefully to make sure Robbie had a normal upbringing, was over. She stood, finding the floor was solid under her feet once more although her heart weighed heavier than the universe, and made her way around the house, undoing the traces of her, erasing her existence. She put a few small trinkets in the pocket of her long tawny leather coat; Robbie’s last birthday card to her, emblazoned with ‘Happy 40^th Birthday To The Best Mum In The World’. If only he had known how far off he was. She would never be able to tell him now.

Digging through the pile of papers in her bedside cabinet, she gathered up a small photo of him as a baby, and his most recent ‘night out’ photo noting that he still had the same unruly brown curls, even now as his body lay broken. She turned, made her way carefully back down the stairs, stopping to look at her angel one final time, before walking back along the hallway. She picked up a small satin bag that had been gathering dust for longer than she cared to think on top of the coat rack, opened the heavy oak door and stepped out into the street. She left the door open for the paramedics, she knew they would take care of the body, that they would do all the things that needed to be done with his mortal remains to meet the requirements of the world she had been inhabiting when she had been ‘Robbie’s Mum’. As she marched down the street she could hear the sound of sirens heading towards the house.

She kept walking, not looking back, remembering who she had been before, becoming ‘Violet’ once more. She knew who was responsible for this, she had smelt their mark in the tiny patch of oil on the stair, had found their grimy prints on the otherwise immaculate balustrade. She had been dormant for far too long, she had grown soft and allowed them to get too close. And now, oh now they would pay. She would have blood.

The Woman On The Bus #amwriting

‘A woman on a bus today carried her Pekinese dog inside her handbag. It had a red bow on its head that matched her sweater.’

This short description of a real person could be the starting point for a fictional character. Imagine:

Who might she have been?

This was Tracy Reed. That's what it says on her birth certificate. It's not the name she uses these days though. Since she started climbing her way out of poverty, she has been known, via Deed Poll, as Ms Elouise De la torre. She thought it sounded 'noble' and was a nod to her family home in Tower Hamlets in East London. She felt being 'Ms' rather than 'Miss' made her sound somewhat exotic.

Where was she going?

She was heading to The Goring to meet The Girls. It was a 90 minute, two-bus journey, but she had plenty of time. Trixie, her dog, was happy to sleep on the bus and provided the perfect excuse for why Elouise hadn't had her Driver drop her off; Trixie needed a 'personal stop' so she had hopped out at Grosvenor Gardens before coming to meet Lucy and Alexandra for lunch.

What did her appearance suggest about her mood or state of mind?

Elouise had chosen a regal, red cashmere sweater for her lunch today. It was the colour of the royal guard, and was matched beautifully by killer heels on her feet and the bow in Trixie's hair. Her handbag, a large black Bottega Veneta leather tote was a rich textured black, just the right size for her purse, her phone and her dog. And a sneaky pair of flat black pumps for the walk home. She finished her look with an asymmetric, ribbed Stella McCartney pencil skirt, in a shade which perfectly matched her wheat-blonde hair and showed off her slim but feminine figure. She looked the part, and felt the part. 

How old was she?

Her birth certificate, again, does not match the 'reality' Elouise has carefully constructed around herself. Her painfully sculpted youthful looks would place her at around 29. Her birth certificate would whisper that actually, she is closer to 39. But, who's counting?

How did she live?

She had The Girls convinced she was part of 'The Set', and was hoping that today, she would be invited to Lucy's birthday party at the Sky Bar - it was a VERY exclusive guest list, so in addition to potentially a great place to meet her 'Mr Right', an invite would be the culmination of all of her hard work. The discrete auctioning of expensive clothes and jewels which were gifted to her by a succession of suitors, the initial scrimping and saving to afford a new wardrobe, the painful injections, the smoothing and filling and scrubbing to achieve the right look, the days and hours churning over on the treadmill, the creation and learning of her whole new back story, the clearing up after the damn dog - all of it would be worth it.

ENDS

Plant Restoration 101 #amwriting

'Relax, let your mind be open to the world around you. Find the root, breath it in, feel the pulse'. Instructor Lain was gently encouraging the class, helping them to find the Channel that belonged to the sad looking Winterberry tree on the low clay table in the middle of the room. 

      Olwyn had seen the droop of it as she had trailed through the mounds of pillows and low padded benches used to help students achieve the meditative state required to communicate with plants. She had found her usual spot towards the back of the room, and quickly settled into a comfortable position, long limbs stretched and fingertips softly skimming the floor.

      Having started a year late, and arrived three months into the current term, she still felt like she was playing catch up, but her entry test had shown her natural talent in Plant Whispering to be strong enough that she could go straight in to the age-appropriate year group. Olwyn fervently wished that she had been allowed to sit the first year.  She worried constantly that her fellow class mates either thought she was a know-it-all for missing the foundation level theory work that they had all been required to plough through - or that she was a dimwit for not knowing half of the basics of Whispering and couldn't remember the Names needed to address each plant when seeking an audience with them.

      Shaking the thought clear, Olwyn's long dark ponytail sent out creepers across the cushion below her as she concentrated, relaxing into position, letting the tension drain out of her muscles and into the plush fabric. She let her breathing slow, her eyes drooping, peering out through her dark lashes to see the world in between the light and dark. She could see them now, just on the edge of her vision, like tendrils reaching across the room to find a new place to root. These were the Spirit Channels of the plants in the room. Here was the Aemane, with its velvety black branches and lurid purple tips, its spirit was winding high and proud, tickling the tops of the other students' heads, ready to cure any headaches or nausea. 

      Pale-leaved and putrid, the deadly Sliyebore was there too, treacling low across the ground, slug-like, creeping over feet. Olwyn noticed distractedly that it seemed to be pooling around one of her class mates, bubbling, molten, spitting and made a mental note to gently remind the girl that Sliyebore was a well-known abortive.

      Once again, trying to focus on the task at hand, Olwyn found the dimmed Spirit of the Winterberry. It looked wheezy, rasping, stretched too thin. She was supposed to make a grand announcement of herself, bestowing honours and platitudes on the plant for receiving her. She couldn't remember the words. She couldn't understand why the Instructors insisted on such formality. She had never bothered with any of it at home, and her Whispers had usually been heard. 

      'Um, hi, my name is Olwyn. You look really poorly. I'd like to help you, if you will allow my presence?' Her voice, a thought carried as a Whisper along the Channel, found its mark. The exhausted plant confirmed it was dying. There was a parasite borrowed deep into one of its roots, starving it of water and nutrients. Olwyn promised to help her Instructor to find the parasite if the Winterberry could permit her entry and show her where the bug was lodged. 

      Acceptance. Permission. 

      Olwyn inhaled slowly and deeply, filling her body with the Spirit of the plant, allowing it to rest in her blood stream, to find shelter in her lungs and take strength and courage from her. Once the Spirit was calm within her, Olwyn breathed out, sending her own essence back along the path, touching the leaves, the flowers, the stem, gently embracing the plant until she was part of it. 

      She fought back the urge to panic as she once again felt the suffocating restriction she had experienced when she first entered the room. Drawing on strength from her dormant body, Olwyn reached out, sending energy and life throughout the plant, nourishing the leaves, working down past nodes, Whispering encouragement as she passed, down through the stem and into the primary root. 

      There. She could see the intruder, grown fat on the Winterberry's reserves. An ugly pulsating mess of translucent tubes and a gaping hole of a mouth, gulping down the rich nutrients as quickly as the Winterberry's lateral roots could draw them in. She felt a wave of nausea at the stench of rot surrounding the little beast.

      Gathering all of her focus now, Olwyn began working with the plant, Whispering, pulling together the fibres and sinews of the roots, bunching them, building a solid base. 
      Breath in; collect. Breath out; consolidate. Repeat. 
      A dozen breaths later and Olwyn had helped the plant to create a solid, coiled fist, and now, on the final out breath, they were ready. 'OK?' Olwyn checked. 
      Confirmation.

      As Olwyn and the plant released, the knot which they had been building was unleashed. An explosion of force expelled the parasite back out through the wall of the root, sealing the wound behind it and Olwyn was caught in a flood. Lifted violently in the rush, back up along the stem, past nodes and flowers, Olywn burst out of the terminal bud and was thrown across the room, slamming back into her own consciousness so hard her gums bled. 

      She felt as though someone had driven a hot poker through her temple. Rolling off the cushions to find the cold red tiles of the floor, she pressed her face against them, letting out a gurgled, exhausted groan. She was just aware of a 'thank you' in the air and a swarm of anxious faces hovering over her before she let the dark comfort of unconsciousness take her.

The Worst Thanks Giving #Amwriting

'How the hell was I supposed to know that?!' Emma was distraught. She had spent most of last night and all of this morning preparing a lavish feast for her new American boyfriend, to try and make him feel at home this Thanksgiving. I had received a panicked call from her at some ungodly hour, begging me to come over. Oh, and could I swing by the 24 hour Tesco and pick up the biggest turkey I could find, NOT frozen and definitely freerange.

It was at that point I realised that she wasn't in imminent danger of death or assault, and that I did in fact have time to have a wash, get dressed and pour some coffee down my throat before I ventured out in to the cold grey London streets. It was so early that there were no commuters around, just me and the naked trees which bowed in the wind as I passed, as if begging to borrow my scarf and gloves.

When I arrived an hour later, presenting Emma with a turkey which was smaller than my cat, she burst in to tears. 'Hey Em, um. This was all they had', I offered the sad little bird with an apologetic shrug. She let me in and as soon as I reached the kitchen my eyes and nose were confronted with the noxious chemical smell of burning plastic, my ears grated at the sound of the extractor fan on full blast. Despite the hot oven, there was a vicious chill from the wide open window, which seemed to be pushing the stink back in, determined not to let any of the ruined air out to pollute the Putney breeze. 'what the fuck Em, what is that smell?'

Still sobbing, she sank onto one of the fold up chairs she had set at the most elaborately decorated table I had ever seen. 'Kirstie Allsopp eat your heart out' I muttered. Emma shot me a dark look. 'fuck off. I just wanted it to be nice'. 'It IS nice' I offered. 'It looks like something out of Dickens!'

I sighed and went over to give her a hug. 'What happened?' 'I put the turkey in the over this morning. It needs 7 hours to cook.' Her voice was calmer now, but still a little shaky. I wasn't sure her maths was quite right, it was a turkey, not an ostrich. Now probably wasn't the time to mention that.

'OK, so... what is that god awfull smell?' 'Apparently there was a bag of shitbits inside the bird still. A plastic bag. Which is now melted all over the inside of the bird'.

'shitbits?' I had started chuckling as soon as she had said it. 'shitbits??' I said it again, this time not trying to hold back the laughter, 'you mean the giblets?' She looked at me, mouth starting to curl up a the edges. 'Yeah, whatever they're fucking called. They're all melted and gross and plasticky inside my bastard turkey, I mean, what kind of idiot fucking farmer uses a PLASTIC bag to line the inside of a turkey?'

Oh my. I was on the verge of loosing it. 'Um, Em, you're meant to take the bag out. The 'shitbits' are meant to be used to make the gravy...' A look crossed her face. A moment of recognition, of remembering. 'Shit' her head dropped to her hands. 'shit shit shittety shit.' She looked back up at me. 'how the hell was I supposed to know that?'

'Um... ' I had nothing useful to say, I was too busy wiping my eyes. I put the kettle on. All of the laughing appeared to have used up my caffeine stores. I took out a couple of mugs, and looked around for some ground coffee. All she had was nasty instant stuff. All this fuss over a turkey and she hasn't even got any decent coffee in. No sense of priority.

I handed her a cup and sat on the chair opposite. 'OK chick, what now? Let's get 'operation: save thanksgiving' under way so that Andy need never know what a terrible cook you are and that you nearly poisoned him' She gave me the V's whilst issuing the order to 'do whatever the fuck needs doing to that tragic excuse for a bird you brought me, so that I can actually get the bloody thing cooked before midnight' 'Right you are boss' and so we spent the next hour pottering amiably in the kitchen. It was just like old times, I mused as I handed her the turkey baster. Except this time she was using the baster for the turkey, and a boy for the baby.

What Can Happen In A Second? # amwriting

'I'm just coming' he yelled. We were late, and I was getting agitated. I'd been pacing the floor for 15 minutes. 'We're going to miss the train' I had warned. It was 17.23 and the train was in 10 minutes and we needed to leave now. no. we needed to leave 5 minutes ago. But that's just how it was, how it had always been. He was born late, refused to come out when he was meant to, no matter how much curry I ate, and he had been continuing in the same vein for the last sixteen and a half years.

I usually built in extra time, told him that we need to be somewhere half an hour sooner than we did, but the invite had come as a surprise and we had only just agreed to go last night. The opening night of a West End play wasn't to be sniffed at - not when you were mates with the leading actor and had been promised box seats and and invite to the after show party. 'Hurry up!' I pleaded, leaning round the hallway door to make sure he heard me this time, my call echoing off the smooth wooden floorboards and polished bannister. 'Ok mum', dismissing my fuss, knowing I always made us arrive half an hour early to everything. 'Down in a sec'.

How could I have known he would be so true to his words. A sudden thundering, thumping roar filled the house, followed by silence. What the hell was that? 'You ok?'

Nothing.

'Robbie?' A wave of dread roared through me as I rounded the corner, back in to the hallway. A rag doll with my beautiful boy's face on was lying crumpled at the foot of the stairs, limbs in the wrong order and a surprised look on its face. Its neck, I remember, looked strangely graceful, elongated, like a swan. So out of place on this solid, rugby playing frame.

'robbie', I whispered, frightened to startle him. I knew, even before I got to him, I knew, but I checked anyway. No pulse. My baby boy had no pulse. I crumpled, Rosie to his Jim, the floor rising up to meet me. What had just happened? And what was that noise?

I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, dimly aware of hitting the emergency call button. When the answer came 'emergency, which service', I realised that the noise had been my raw scream as my heart tried to climb up and out of my mouth. 'ambulance' I muttered.

'My son is dead'.

You Will Never See Me Cry - Draft 3 #amwriting

It was pre-dawn, just. The birds were gossiping outside the window. The gentle 'hhh-hhh' of breathing from the peaceful body laying warm and content next to her seemed to fill the gloomy room like a heavy blanket. Her head was churning with thoughts, ideas, plans, worries, regrets, ambitions, fears. She had been trying to quiet the rumbling and go back to sleep for an hour now, but like the birds outside, her mind had too much to say.

She knew that this could go on for hours. That she could lay listlessly staring at the wood-chipped ceiling for the rest of the day, hoping that the weight that seemed to be resting on her would lift. But she also knew that if she did nothing, the weight would get heavier until even her eyelids were too heavy to lift. She didn’t want to reach that point again. A flicker of determination appeared. She would make a hot drink, grab a pen and paper and start trying to get some of the noise out of her head.

Numbly, she sat up, wiping crust from her puffy eyes as they refused to fully focus on anything. She tucked drooping locks behind her ears, dropping her legs over the side of the bed, oblivious to the piles of dirty clothes and discarded crisp packets left to fester on the cold wooden floorboards. Pouring herself in to the tired old dressing gown, her sinewy arms too long for the sleeves, she shuffled noiselessly out of the room.

Where to start. When this heaviness invaded her, it spread through every atom in her being, deadening her senses from the split ends of her cardboard brown hair, to the neglected souls of her feet, curdling around her torso, pooling in her belly, making it hard to exist. The world seemed a dull and joyless place. The birds sang out of tune.

The kettle boiled with a chattering and clicking. She thought it sounded too proud, too excited to have performed its only function. She poured water in her mug and unplugged the kettle. Her peppermint tea, which, on a good day, filled her with a delicious cooling sensation, today tasted like murky green sawdust. The sun was peeping in through the blinds, checking in to wish her a good morning, but all she could see was the grey layer of dust gathered on the dark wooden slats. Another job that needed doing. She sighed. Not today. It was too much today. Today she would make a start by just... writing. The thought left her feeling exhausted.

Where to start. She stared blankly at the page. It was sticky where the table needed wiping from some forgotten meal. Another job. Later. Back to the page. She was holding a pen that she didn’t remember picking up. Her fingers looked wrinkled; sagging flesh dripping of stick thin bones. When had that happened? Had they always been like that? The remnants of last week's nail varnish stared at her without comment. Last week had been a good week. She had been out, washed every day, even painted her nails the colour of the summer sky. Now the remaining blue chips just felt sad, like the tips of her fingers had been covered by the same dusky pink clouds that seemed to fill her heart, leaving no space for feeling.

Where. To. Start. 

Still the page was empty, the pen leaning against her hand as if to prop her up. A tear rolled down her cheek. 'oh' she thought. 'That, again' as another followed sluggishly down the other cheek. This was too much, she realised. She had taken on too much today. She didn't have the energy to assemble the letters into words in her mind, and then tell her mind to tell her hand what those words were, to make her hand pick up the pen and put the letters into the shape of the words on the page. 

She would go back to bed.

She climbed the stairs. Careful not to disturb the slumber of her companion, she wiped away her tears. 'no, you will never see me cry' she thought to herself as she lifted the leaden duvet, and oozed limply back on to the mattress. 'you will never see me cry' she thought as a fresh wave of silent tears ran from her, escaping to the welcoming embrace of the pillow.

Hilary Had A Gun... #amwriting

The Task:
Take the original text and edit it to 2-3 lines.


Original Text Supplied:
'The heavy black and blue winter sky groaned awfully with rain clouds that at any moment were really about to fall crashing heavily down upon the street where, because it was rush hour, so many people, wearing all manner of different clothes, hats, shoes, boots, some of them carrying bags, suitcases, briefcases, scampered and strolled about the place as though oblivious to what was just about to happen over their very heads. One of these people was called Hilary and concealed inside her voluminous coat she carried the loaded, snub-nosed gun, and she also seemed to be the only one looking upwards into the tempestuous thundery heavens.'

Edited To:
Hilary turned her face to the sky, waiting for the heavy black clouds to burst and unleash their load on the busy street below. She gripped the snub-nosed gun concealed inside her billowing coat, as the crowds bustled about their business around her, oblivious of the storm about to explode around them.

You Will Never See Me Cry - Draft 2 #amwriting

It was pre-dawn, just. The birds were gossiping outside the window. The gentle 'hhh-hhh' of breathing from the peaceful body laying warm and content next to her seemed to fill the gloomy room like a heavy blanket. Her head was churning with thoughts, ideas, plans, worries, regrets, ambitions, fears. She had been trying to quiet the rumbling and go back to sleep for an hour now, but like the birds outside, her mind had too much to say.

She knew that this could go on for hours. That she could lay listlessly staring at the wood-chipped ceiling for the rest of the day, hoping that the weight that seemed to be resting on her would lift. But she also knew that if she did nothing, the weight would get heavier until even her eyelids were too heavy to lift. She didn’t want to reach that point again. A flicker of determination appeared. She would make a hot drink, grab a pen and paper and start trying to get some of the noise out of her head.

Numbly, she sat up, wiping crust from her puffy eyes as they refused to fully focus on anything. She tucked drooping locks behind her ears, dropping her legs over the side of the bed, oblivious to the pile of dirty clothes and discarded crisp packets her feet had landed on. Pouring herself in to the tired old dressing gown, her sinewy arms too long for the sleeves, she shuffled noiselessly out of the room.

Where to start. When this heaviness invaded her, it spread through every atom in her being, deadening her senses from the split ends of her cardboard brown hair, to the neglected souls of her feet, curdling around her torso, pooling in her belly, making it hard to exist. The world seemed a dull and joyless place. The birds sang out of tune.

The kettle boiled with a chattering and clicking. She thought it sounded too proud, too excited to have performed its only function. She poured water in her mug and unplugged the kettle. Her peppermint tea, which, on a good day, filled her with a delicious cooling sensation, today tasted like murky green sawdust. The sun was peeping in through the blinds, checking in to wish her a good morning, but all she could see was the grey layer of dust gathered on the dark wooden slats. Another job that needed doing. She sighed. Not today. It was too much today. Today she would make a start by just... writing. The thought left her feeling exhausted.

Where to start. She stared blankly at the page. It was sticky where the table needed wiping from some forgotten meal. Another job. Later. Back to the page. She was holding a pen that she didn’t remember picking up. Her fingers looked wrinkled; sagging flesh dripping of stick thin bones. When had that happened? Had they always been like that? The remnants of last week's nail varnish stared at her without comment. Last week had been a good week. She had been out, washed every day, even painted her nails the colour of the summer sky. Now the remaining blue chips just felt sad, like the tips of her fingers had been covered by the same dusky pink clouds that seemed to fill her heart, leaving no space for feeling.

Where. To. Start. 

Still the page was empty, the pen leaning against her hand as if to prop her up. A tear rolled down her cheek. 'oh' she thought. 'That, again' as another followed sluggishly down the other cheek. This was too much, she realised. She had taken on too much today. She didn't have the energy to assemble the letters into words in her mind, and then tell her mind to tell her hand what those words were, to make her hand pick up the pen and put the letters into the shape of the words on the page. 

She would go back to bed.

She climbed the stairs. Careful not to disturb the slumber of her companion, she wiped away her tears. 'no, you will never see me cry' she thought to herself as she lifted the leaden duvet, and oozed limply back on to the mattress. 'you will never see me cry' she thought as a fresh wave of silent tears ran from her, escaping to the welcoming embrace of the pillow.

You Will Never See Me Cry - Draft 1 #amwriting

It was pre-dawn, just. The birds had started gossiping outside the window and there was a gentle 'hhh-hhh' breathing from the peaceful body laying warm and content next to her. Her head was filling the silence with a ceaseless twittering of thoughts, ideas, worries, regrets, ambitions, fears. She had been trying to quiet the cacophony and go back to sleep for an hour now, but like the birds outside, her mind had too much to say.

Numbly, she got up, grabbed her tired, threadbare dressing gown and tiptoed out of the room so as not to wake her lover. She would make a hot drink, grab a pen and paper and start trying to get some of the noise out of her head. Where to start. When the depression kicked in she found it hard to think straight. The world seemed a dull and joyless place, the birds sang out of tune.

Her peppermint tea, which usually filled her with a delicious cooling sensation today tasted like murky green sand. The sun was peeping in through the blinds, but all she could see was the grey layer of dust gathered on the dark wooden slats. Another job that needed doing. not today though. it was too much to ask of her today. Today she would make a start by just... getting it all out of her head.

So. Where to start. She stared blankly at the page, noticing that the table still needed wiping from last night's dinner. Another job. Later. Back to the page. She was holding a pen. Her fingers were wrinkled. When had that happened? Had they always been like that? The remnants of last week's nail varnish stared at her without comment. Last week had been a good week. She had done her hair, washed every day, even painted her nails the colour of the summer sky. Now the remaining blue chips just felt sad, like the tips of her fingers had been covered by the same dusky pink clouds that seemed to fill her heart, leaving no space for feeling.

Where. To. Start. 

Still the page was empty. A tear rolled down her cheek. 'oh' she thought. 'That, again' as another followed sluggishly down the other cheek. This was too much, she realised. She had taken on too much today. She didn't have the energy to assemble the letters into words in her mind, and then tell her mind to tell her hand what those words were, to make her hand pick up the pen and put the letters into the shape of the words on the page. 

She would go back to bed.

She climbed the stairs. Carefull not to disturb the slumber of her companion, she wiped away her tears. 'no, you will never see me cry' she thought to herself as she lifted the leaden duvet, and oozed limply back on to the mattress. 'you will never see me cry' she thought as a fresh wave of silent tears escaped to the welcoming embrace of the pillow, revealing a fresh hollow inside her.

I Remember... #amwriting

I remember it well. It has been over 100 years, but still the image is burned in my mind, the day of fire and flood. Watching from the boat as the village disappeared, not once, but twice, and then forever. You could see the high-rises even as far from land as we were. They were standing to attention along the shore, side by side, like children lined up for inspection by their teacher. And so many children there were, playing, learning, sneaking out to play.

A few, like us, had taken the afternoon off to go fishing and we had just thrown our nets. As the ropes fell with a gentle 'shhh' across the still water, so they came. The flames. Cast with so little care, ensnaring our little village, from east side to west. The school, the flats, the shops, the fishing towers, the small quay. The trees, the scrublands, all instantly transformed into a jolly, dancing, waving orange torrent of heat and pain and screams. People ran from the buildings, like fleas jumping from a diseased rat, hundreds of people, some strangers to us, some family and friends, all trying to reach the shore to stop the burning.

No sooner had they reached sanctuary of their sacred Lake, the water rose up against them, a benevolent parent standing to scoop up a wobbling toddler, so the sea met them and took them. Within minutes our home, our little peninsula had been razed to the ground and then sunk. We caught not just fish that day.