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.

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.

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.