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. 

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'.