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.

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.

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.

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.

Where Do You Write?

The Task:
Imagine two different venues for writing – one that seems most suited to you, and one that you would find bizarre or too difficult. Write a paragraph describing two writers at work, one in each of the venues.

'morning Jo! how are you my love?' calls John as I come through the door. 'good thanks! Can I have a flat white and a tuna melt please when you're ready? You good this morning?' I reply, and he smiles warmly nodding to confirm he is, indeed, 'good' as i make my way to my favourite corner of John's small but perfectly formed cosy cafe. The place is starting to get busy, mums and toddlers are gathering raucously around the large table in the back room, and a couple of the regular staff are ferrying babycinos back and forth, careful to avoid tripping over buggies or standing on tiny fingers. I settle back in my favourite arm chair, from here the whole of the cafe is a stage, and I can watch the flow of characters and appreciate each scene as it unfolds during the day. I plug my laptop in and set out my journal on the table, pushing the computer towards the back of the dark wood surface as my coffee arrives. mmmm, freshly ground. Now the day can start, now i can write...


****
A warm breeze floats across my skin, the sun is warm on my back, and the only sounds in the world are the birds chattering and the distant hum of a lawnmower in the park. I love the idea of sitting out here on the patio with a coffee and my laptop and just writing, letting the words flow from my head through my hands to the screen, but it just doesn't happen. The chair needs a cushion from indoors, and now it is too high so i need to put my feet up on the other chair. The laptop feels precarious balanced on my lap now, but I determine to continue. The sun comes out from behind a cloud momentarily blinding me. Where are my sun glasses?! I swap seats, but now the glare means i can't see a thing on the screen. The sun goes back behind a cloud, revealing not only my screen but a rash of goosebumps along my forearms. I have been out here for 20 minutes and so far, i have written two words. Time to head back in and back to the desk. I'll just finish my coffee, and pull that weed up...