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. 

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'.