'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.

Character Development Questions

These are the questions I have been using to 'profile' my main characters. I have borrowed them from all over the place, and cobbled together this monster list. I won't pretend that by the time I'd gotten half way through with each of my main characters, I was past caring. For each character, I had to stop, and come back the following day so as not to just give 'i don't really care' answers and to actually give some thought to what i was writing.

What I ended up with is a group of characters that I know really well, and whose stories I feel excited to start telling. If this list is of any use to anyone, then please do feel free to copy it - unlike the rest of the content of my blog, which is absolutely my own work and I retain all rights to!

Enjoy:

name

role

age

mental age

birth date

height

weight

ethnic heritage

hair colour

hair length

eye colour

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.

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.

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.

Emma said...

Emma said that I was imagining things. John said that there was nothing odd showing in his records. They were both clever, honest, reliable people. Friends as much as colleagues, I had known both of them for years and we had risen through the ranks together. But somehow they had missed this glaring, screamingly obvious gap. It was unsettling, and did make me start to question what I had found and why none of the other department heads had spotted it.

The Girl - Draft 3 #amwriting

I had, of course seen her earlier that day in the market, but I was so rushed to get back to work that I barely noticed anything beyond her short stature, and unusual accent and dark hair which marked her out as being decidedly 'not local'. Why was she asking about the Wardens? What had she noticed? Where had she come from? In the bar that evening I was kind of surprised to see her there. That she had read my note and accepted my suggestion to meet. Of course she didn't know who I was and as I ordered my drink, she was focussed intently on the notes in front of her, so utterly absorbed that she didn't notice me, staring.

The Girl - Draft 2 #amwriting

She was focussed intently on the screen in front of her, so utterly absorbed that she didn't notice me, staring. Thinking about it now, I was quite blatant as I sat across the office, drinking in the utter glory of her. She was flawless. Not a wrinkle or blemish dared to touch her warm, faultless skin. I wanted to reach over and run my fingers over her lightly flushed cheek, to know how perfection would feel, but my hands, which were as rough and splintered as a carpenter's by comparison, would have been an insult to her.

My eyes fell to her plump red pout, and it was like a cushion to my soul. Soft, full and the same deep claret as the blood I could feel stuttering in my veins. Unconsciously she was pursing her lips as she worked, like tiny kisses directed at the images I knew she was manipulating.

Her dark-lashed eyes darted back and forth from her note book to the screen, utterly absorbed in the task at hand. I wanted her to look up. To see me. To cast that dark gaze my way, but I knew instinctively that one look from her would be deadly, that I would be lost in those deep brown pools. Oh, but it would be like drowning in the smoothest, richest cocoa. Intoxicating and deadly, but delicious nonetheless.

She had no idea I was fixated on her long, slender, graceful fingers as she left- and right-clicked the mouse, making it dance across the desk. A frown flitted across her face, resting briefly like an agitated bird. She waved it away, bowing her head slightly, allowing a heavy wave of silken, inky black hair to flow across her hand, falling back to brush her narrow shoulders. She shook her head minutely, sending ripples through her mane which echoed the tingling feeling coursing through my body. The movement of her hair created a turbulence in the air that seemed only to reached me, but I felt it deeply, vibrating through my core and leaving me gripping the edge of my desk for stability.

I sighed and closed my eyes, resting them from the ache of watching her. Maybe I had imagined her? Maybe now I'd broken my trance I might have ended the spell and she would somehow become less luminous, she would suddenly blend in with the very ordinary fabric of the open plan room. I blinked. She was still there. I don't know what I had expected, but in the split second I had looked away she seemed to have gained gravity, taller now, more defined. She was suddenly more real than anything else in the building; as though someone had allowed a panther into the chicken coop and I was the only one who had noticed.

I should have paid attention, I should have sounded the alarms, called for help. I was beyond reasoning when it came to her. If only I'd listened as my amygdala cried out for me to run. Maybe I could have saved us.

The Girl - Draft 1 #amwriting

She was focussed intently on the screen in front of her, so utterly absorbed that she didn't notice me, staring. Thinking about it now, I was quite blatant as I sat across the office, drinking in the smooth perfection of her skin, savouring her plum red pout and following as her dark-lashed eyes darted back and forth from her note book to the screen.

So busy, she had no idea I was fixated on her long, slender, graceful fingers as she left- and right-clicked the mouse around the screen. A frown flitted across her face, resting briefly like an agitated bird, she waved it away before allowing a wave of heavy, silken, inky black hair to flow across her hand. She shook her head softly and sent ripples through her mane, echoing the tingling feeling coursing through my body. The movement of her hair created a turbulence in the air that it seems only I felt, but I felt it deeply, vibrating through my core and leaving me gripping the edge of my desk for stability.

I blinked. She was still there. I don't know what I had expected. Maybe I had imagined her? Maybe, by blinking, I might have broken the spell and she would somehow become less luminous, she would suddenly blend in with the very ordinary fabric of the open plan room. But no, as I sat there, just feet away, she seemed to have gained gravity, she was more real than anything else in the building; taller now, more defined, as though someone had allowed a sleek black panther into the chicken coop and I was the only person who had noticed.

I should have paid attention, I should have sounded the alarms, called for help. I was beyond reasoning when it came to her. If only I'd listened as my amygdala cried out for me to run. Maybe I could have saved us.