Writing Groups – joining or running

Tonight’s ‘guest’ blog post, on the topic of writing groups, is brought to you by yours truly, Morgen Bailey.

As Lauren Bailey said in her guest blog on Tuesday, every author should have a second opinion. No-one should submit or self-publish their own writing without having someone else, ideally another writer, at the very least a reader, hear or read it. I prefer the latter, especially when equipped with a red pen (not sure why but red holds a certain power), and those who have listened to (or been the subjects of) my ‘red pen’ podcasts will know that I’m firm but fair.

Unless you live with someone who can give that kind of feedback, the chances are that you’ll have to go further afield. And where better to start, if you live in the UK, than the National Association of Writers’ Groups (NAWG). Click on ‘Writing Group Directory’, pick your area of the country and find the nearest meeting to you. Before you leave the site, you might like to read one or two of their bi-monthly ‘Link’ magazines (I’ve been in a few ). It’ll give you a feel for what goes on in the groups. If you live in the US there’s a great list here, for Canada there’s a page of allsorts and South Australia click here (Google wasn’t very helpful with Europe – I guess it’s too big).

So you’re ready for your first meeting. You have pens (always advisable to have more than one) and paper, and perhaps something to read out, if you’re feeling brave.

You’re nervous. You’re bound to be. You’ve either never written anything before and you’re convinced that you’ll be no good, or you’re ready to go with your first ever creation and are convinced… you get the idea. Just remember that we were all learner drivers once (those of us who drive anyway).

The group will be kind to you, you can listen to others’ writing, and don’t be put off by that. If it’s good, the chances are they’ll have been writing for years and you’ll be just as good (if not better) with practice. And that’s what writing boils down to; learning as you go along and actually writing something. You can’t edit a blank page.

I run a group and belong to two others (one of which I chair), the other I (sort of) jointly lead. The latter, Northampton Literature Group’s Writing Circle (NLG), meets once a month (the first Tuesday night), the others fortnightly… strangely all 7.30pm to 9.30pm although we invariably overrun.

The ideal format

You naturally want a writing group to teach you something, you want to write and you want to hear others’ writing.

The fortnightly Thursday night group (Northampton Writers Group (NWG)) is predominantly critique only. We write on the spot occasionally but we usually take it in turns to read out our latest projects, with some of us making notes (some, me, more than others). The fortnights alternate between a specific topic (poetry, 10-minute play, flash fiction etc) and free manuscript, these usually being short stories, autobiography, novel extract and poetry. The monthly group is a mix of writing and reading homework, usually 500 words on a specific theme, with the Chair of the Group, Alan Bryan, leading the first half and me the second.

My writing group is split into two with a fortnightly critique-only and fortnightly writing workshop where I set three or four 10-15 minute exercises. Critique in the workshop session is minimal and the pieces, like the NLG, are meant to be starters to continue at home, then brought to the critique groups if desired.

Running your own group

If there’s no group near you (or you don’t like the ones that are!) and you know a few people who write or would like to write, you could always start your own. You don’t have to hire a hall – you could either run it at your house or take it in turns. I charge per person £1 for refreshments so I don’t make a profit (especially in winter when I have the heating turned up!) but it’s not about that, is it. It’s about sharing your work with others, helping them when you have something constructive to say, congratulating (and being congratulated) when something’s published, commiserated if you get nowhere in a writing competition, having a moan about an editor’s rejection of your characters and being there for each other. But most of all, it gets you in your seat and gets you writing!

Thank you… er, me!

When not at her day job (a sore point – she’s been trying to escape since October!), Morgen Bailey runs a (this) ticking-over nicely (about 200+ visitors a day) blog which, like her, is consumed by the topic of writing. She shares her house in Northampton, England with an 11-year-old Jack Russell / Cairn cross who is used to her waving her arms about (as she tests how her characters do something) or clapping when she’s written a particularly wonderful line. Best with deadlines, she loves projects like NaNoWriMo and StoryADay (producing three novels / four and a bit collections of short stories between them) because she’s like a dog with a clichéd bone… give her a challenge and she’ll do her damnedest to get it done… sometimes with just minutes to spare. She’s sold to Woman’s Weekly, rejected by them and others, accepted by NAWG for their ‘Link’ magazine and other online establishments, and has two $1.49 eBooks (a 31-story anthology and a writer’s block workbook) and free eShorts available via Smashwords, Sony Reader Store, Barnes & Noble, iTunes Bookstore and Kobo, but once the day job is dust she plans to edit her four and a bit novels, let her editor rip them apart, then head for Amazon KDP and a bread and water lifestyle that is (often) that of a writer… and she can think of nothing more thrilling. Oh, and she has a new forum at http://morgenbailey.freeforums.org.

If you would like to write a writing-related guest post for my blog then feel free to email me with an outline of what you would like to write about. If it’s writing-related then it’s highly likely I’d email back and say “yes please”.

The blog interviews return as normal tomorrow morning with poet and literary fiction author Serge Lecomte – the three hundred and third of my blog interviews with novelists, poets, short story authors, bloggers, autobiographers and more. A list of interviewees (blogged and scheduled) can be found here. If you like what you read, please do go and investigate further. And I enjoy hearing from readers of my blog; do either leave a comment on the relevant interview (the interviewees love to hear from you too!) and / or email me.

 

A Story a Day May: May 31st – Into the wild blue yonder

The last day of the month. In a way it’s seemed longer but I’m very proud of what I’ve achieved. As I type this the counter on the StoryADayMay2011 Word document reads just shy of 25,000 words, half a http://nanowrimo.org novel. I’ve done NaNo three times so can write 50,000+ words in a month but in a way this has been more tricky as I’ve not known what the prompt is until the morning (sometimes afternoon / evening) but having written so many different things has been a wonderful experience (and affirmed my love for short stories) and having discovered http://creativecopychallenge.com along the way, I certainly won’t be short of inspiration.

So, back to today’s prompt: I’ve never written a western before, and it’s not a genre I read or particularly watch (although I enjoyed John Wayne’s True Grit) but I did look forward to a new challenge, especially has I have a fellow Radio Litopia friend who writes westerns professionally (http://jackmartinwesterns.webs.com) and I’ve wondered how it’s done. I’m not sure if I’ve answered that question but here goes:

 

“Bessie! Bessie!”

The young girl ran out of the dilapidated cabin to see who was calling her name.

A uniformed man on horseback with a small boy lying behind him, across the horse, pulled up. “Whoa there. Easy does it.”

“Sherriff? What’s all the hollering?”

“Take him from me, girl,” the man answered, jerking his head in the direction of the boy.

“Who… who is he?”

“Not sure. Found him on my way here.”

“Is he… dead?”

“Reckon there’s a bit of life left in him but not for much longer if you don’t…”

“Yes. Here… He’s so light. Skin and bones is all he is. Has he no family?”

“Hurry girl. Stop yapping. Look after him until your pa returns, you hear?”

“Yes sir. I’ll take great care. Sure I will.”

“You’re a good girl. Your ma would be proud of you.”

Bess smiled slightly and took the boy into the cabin. She laid him down gently on to the smallest of two beds in the single-roomed building, before returning outside.

The sheriff had already turned his horse and was about to kick his ankle to spur the animal on when Bess called after him. He turned back to face her.

“Sheriff. You said you were on your way here. Was it something I could help you with, sir?”

“No,” the sheriff smiled at how much like an adult she was already, “just coming here to check on you. I’d promised your pa.”

Bess blushed. “I’m fine. Really I am. And now I have company.”

The sheriff laughed. “I reckon it’ll be a while before he’s decent company for you Bessie but yes, you’re right, he’ll be good for you.”

She watched the sheriff ride into the wide blue yonder then hurried back into the cabin. Pulling a blanket from the other bed, she laid it carefully over the boy then went to the hearth, removing a pot hanging over the unlit fire which she took to the kitchen area then returned, lit the fire and boiled up some broth.

While she was stirring it, she looked over at the boy who was beginning to come round.

“Mama!” he called out, making Bess whimper at the thought of missing hers.

She spooned out some of the broth into a small wooden bowl and took it over to the bed, blowing on it as she walked. Sitting next to him, she smiled. “Can you sit up a little? Don’t want to make you choke now.”

The boy nodded cautiously and pulled himself upright, wincing as he did so.

“It’s OK,” Bess said, “we’ll take good care of you, make you all better.”

Until the sheriff found out who the boy was, and reunited him with his family, if he had one, Bess decided, she’d be his mother and reckoned that the sheriff was right, hers would have been very proud indeed.

 

Although I don’t think Jack needs to worry about me as competition, it was enjoyable to do if not perhaps totally accurate – feel free to let me know.

 

A Story a Day May: May 30th – The Lake at Dusk

Today’s prompt sounded easy enough until I read past the title. The blurb was a stanza from “The Lake At Dusk” by Robin Robertson (from Swithering, Harcourt 2006): Rinsed after the rain / The forest is triggered and trip-wired / When I pause for a bird call / The silence takes time / To reassemble around me / Like a dream retrieved / No-one will find me here.

 

As Hannah walked through the front door, she felt like she’d been through a washing machine only someone had forgotten to set it to spin.

“Stay there!” her mother shouted from the kitchen doorway when she saw the state of her. “I don’t want you dripping through the house.”

“But mum I’m freezing.”

“The heating’s on, you’ll soon dry.”

Hannah went to step towards the radiator.

“Don’t!”

“But…”

“No.”

“Can’t I at least…”

Her mother shook her head.

“But I haven’t asked…” Hannah looked down at her shoes.

“Alright then,” her mother conceded. “But just your shoes. You and they stay on the mat.”

Hannah was used to being spoken to like this but she thought that even this was harsh.

“Where have you been anyway?”

This was different. Curiosity bordering on concern. A flicker of compassion.

“The shopping centre,” Hannah lied.

“No you haven’t. They shut at seven on a Friday.”

Hannah said nothing.

“Well?”

Hannah knew she’d find out eventually. “The woods.”

Her mother shrugged her shoulders, truth clearly outweighing risk.

“And it was scary,” Hannah whispered.

“You’re dripping,” her mother grumbled, throwing the washing-up towel she’d been holding. Despite falling short of its intended target, she ignored it and returned to the kitchen, getting another tea towel from the drawer and continuing to dry the dishes from the evening meal that Hannah had missed.

The smell of the food still clung to the air making Hannah’s stomach growl. She stared at the towel then at the kitchen. Shaking her body like a dog, she figured she’d be dry enough to tread the few yards in socked feet to retrieve the towel but putting her right foot forward she heard a squelch so bent down taking off her socks.

Like a gymnast she leant towards the radiator and hung the socks over the top of the curved white metal; the metal that was now piping hot; the heat that would suck up her moisture if only it was allowed to.

“What you doing?”

Hannah looked round to see her brother, David, standing in the lounge doorway holding a yoghurt pot and licking the spoon.

“Trying to get warm. What does it look like?”

“You look stupid.”

“Thanks. Charming as ever.”

“You been seeing Jason again?”

“How do you know his name?”

“Everyone at school’s talking about it. The romance of the year.”

“Hardly.”

“Why? He dumped you?”

“No!”

“He has!”

“Shut up!”

“Did he tell you to meet him by the lake at dusk, all romantic like.”

“What?”

“He did the same to Emma, only he didn’t turn up then told everyone at school the next day that she was easy just by her being there.”

“Emma? My Emma?”

“Yes, your Emma. Bezzie mate Emma.”

“When?”

“Last week sometime. When you was…”

“Were.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“When I was visiting Nan in hospital?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“She phoned me. Crying. Said her uncle had died. I didn’t even know she had one.”

“Probably doesn’t. Just wanted you to feel sorry for her. So you went through Priory Woods, to meet him and he didn’t…”

“Change the record, David.”

“What?”

“Record. Round flat thing made of black plastic… oh, never mind.”

“And you went in the dark. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It wasn’t dark.”

“Not when you went, no, but… you waited that long? You are that stu…”

“I wasn’t waiting.”

He looked down then picked up the tea towel. “You want this?”

Hannah nodded.

“OK,” David said handing it out to her, just short of reach.

Hannah closed her eyes and sighed. David stepped nearer and nudged her hand with it. “Here. I’m not that mean. Not like…”

Hannah’s eyes bolted open then glared at her brother.

“Alright,” he said, “subject closed.”

They stared at each other until he spoke again. “Was it really horrible?”

“Please don’t.”

“I don’t mean being stood up, though I bet that was… OK. No, I mean going through the wood after dark. It’s supposed to be haunted.”

“Now you tell me.”

“You didn’t exactly ask. Didn’t tell anyone you were going, did you?”

Hannah shook her head.

“What was it like?” David continued.

“Quiet. No birds, nothing. Like death.”

“Who are you talking to?” Hannah’s mother asked as she walked through the hall to take her husband a cup of tea.

“No-one mum,” she said.

Her mother paused. “You did, didn’t you? Oh Hannah, please don’t go down there again. You know how I feel about that place. David made that mistake. We can’t lose you too. OK?”

“OK mum,” Hannah said and feeling warmer than she had in a long time, she even tried a smile.

 

Another uplifting story.

 

A Story a Day May: May 29th – Don’t

Although I saw the prompt (the word ‘don’t’ alongside a Lara Croft-type picture) early in the morning, but was out all day so didn’t get to start writing until nearly 9pm so it’s short and sweet/not-so-sweet* (*delete as appropriate).

 

“You’re not going out like that are you?”

“Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s a fancy dress party and I’m going as…”

“Lara Croft. Yes, you’re spot on.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You’re too spot on.”

“Eh?”

“The guns.”

“But they’re not real.”

“You know that, I know that, but if you get stopped by the cops they won’t know that.”

“No. But it’s fancy…”

“Dress. I know. But it’s still a gun. Black and shiny and you know them as well as I do; they’ll pounce on anything black and shiny… well, anything black.”

“Dad!”

“OK then I’ll drive you.”

“You’re not taking me there in that thing.”

“Can’t you just take off the gun belt then and put it in a carrier bag or something?”

“But I’m walking there with Emma and Nate.”

“So? They won’t be wearing guns too?”

“Probably not.”

“Then they won’t notice until you get to the house and…”

“The party’s in the park.”

“Then you’re definitely not taking them.”

“Oh Dad. Just because you’re the Chief Inspector…”

 

Not sure that works but it’s a first draft so I can be allowed… plus it’s late. I know, poor excuse but that’s what post-month end editing is for.

 

A Story a Day May: May 28th – Man overboard

The crowds cheered as the ship left Southampton, relatives and friends waving from quayside to stern.

For Sylvia though there was no-one waving to her. Her only living relative had already gone to their cabin. To unpack, relax, watch TV if there was one in the room. She’d forgotten to check when she’d booked, last minute, a Caribbean cruise to get him, Ronnie, off her back. It had been his idea for a holiday, hers though the cruise, knowing that he hated planes. Hated anything that moved, so it had taken some persuading to get him here and that’s why she’d left it late. So he’d have no choice. Turned it round so he’d thought it was his idea; congratulated himself in the end.

Long after the passengers had gone to their rooms, Sylvia was still standing on the deck. She’d leave him as long as she could, hoping he’d be too engrossed in a political memoir or thriller to notice she’d returned. Save what little conversation they had left for another time.

Timing her return just short of the evening meal, he was already dressed in his dinner suit when she opened the cabin door. “You look smart dear,” she said, despite thinking it more appropriate for a funeral.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry dear. I’ve been taking in the view, it’s…”

“You’re going to get changed aren’t you?”

“Of course dear.”

“Well, hurry up.”

“Yes dear.”

They took their places at a corner table, choosing to be away from the other passengers. Ronnie hated crowds and even more so glaring lights so anonymity suited him. Although they were two of the youngest people in the room, Sylvia would have rather be surrounded, part of the chatter but knew which actions made for an easier life.

With so much food on offer they were spoilt for choice although with Ronnie’s gammy leg, Sylvia did all the choosing and carrying.

“Bit plain this food,” was his first response so she’d gone for something more interesting the second round. “You know I don’t like spicy” then made her tone it down and by the time they’d had everything on offer, Sylvia noticed that the room was almost empty.

“Nearly midnight,” Ronnie announced.

“Is it dear?” Syvlia asked, images of the dancing still playing round in her head. She’d liked to have joined in but she knew he would have refused and even worse had she been asked by someone else. She’d had snippets of conversation at the buffet tables but then had to leave the talk half-finished when the plates were themselves full.

“Come on then,” he’d barked and got up to return to their cabin, leaving a wake of plates scattered around the table, having been neglected by the waiters who’d been concentrating on the fuller parts of the room.

Being late November, Syliva wasn’t surprised that the ship hadn’t been busy assuming that the summer would have been a different story.

“Let’s take a walk along the deck,” Sylvia suggested as she followed him out of the large dining room.

“What for?”

“To get some fresh air.”

“We live in the country, you’re surrounded by fresh air.”

“But this is the middle of the ocean.”

“Exactly. Nothing to see.”

“Please Ronnie. For me.” She didn’t play the ‘for me’ card very often because it didn’t usually work but he must have been in the holiday mood because he veered away from the direction of the cabin corridors instead heading towards the outer deck.

Keeping close to the railing, Sylvia breathed in deeply. “Isn’t this lovely Ronnie?”

Ronnie grunted.

“Come look Ronnie. At the sparkling water.”

“You know I’m not keen on water and that I can’t…”

“It’s alright darling, there’s a rail all round.”

“Well…”

 

“No, Ronnie! No! Help! Please someone! Help!”

A middle-aged uniformed man ran to Sylvia as she peered over the edge. “Madam! What’s the matter?”

“It’s my husband! He’s fallen in the water. Please, do something… please hurry.”

The man leant over the side of the ship looking in every direction. “Are you sure madam, I can’t see anything.”

“Yes, he did. Please you have to do something. He can’t swim.” Sylvia was now sobbing.

The man dug in his pocket, pulled out a tissue which he gave to Sylvia and a mobile on which he dialled a couple of digits. “Henry Stephens here, I play the piano in the… yeah. There’s a lady here on deck who says her husband’s fallen over the side… OK, thanks. At the back, by the tennis… please, she’d doing her nut. Cheers.”

Continuing to look out at sea and calling Ronnie’s name, Sylvia wasn’t paying much attention to what was happening behind her until she heard her name being called.

“Mrs Peters… Mrs Peters?”

Sylvia swung round. “Sorry?”

“I’m the Captain, Mrs Peters, you say…”

“Yes, it’s my husband. We were just standing here admiring the view when… he… he can’t swim and he was leaning looking down at the water when… I couldn’t stop him… it all happened so quickly. Please do something.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Peters but you say your husband?”

“Yes, Ronnie.”

“We don’t have your husband listed on the ship’s…”

“I remember you,” a woman said from behind the Captain. She stepped forward and looked at Sylvia. “We were chatting when you were getting the food from the buffet. You were filling two plates. I asked you if you were hungry but you said it was force of habit. That your husband had died recently in a boating accident. That you hadn’t adjusted yet and were still doing things as if he were still alive.

Silently, Sylvia nodded.

“Well, there then,” the Captain said gently. “That explains it. You must have seen something that reminded you and… the mind can play tricks you know.”

Silvia nodded again. “Thank you. You’ve been so kind. I’m just being a silly…”

“Nonsense Mrs…” the pianist started.

“Peters,” Sylvia replied.

“It’s quite understandable. It must be very raw.”

Sylvia smiled weakly.

“Take her back to her cabin will you…” the Captain said to the pianist.

“Henry,” Henry told him.

“Yes, thank you Henry.”

“And you must sit with me tomorrow evening,” the Captain said turning back to Sylvia.

“Thank you, that does sound lovely,” Sylvia whispered.

The group dispersed and Henry walked Sylvia back to her cabin. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asked as she put her key in the lock.

“I will, thank you. I’m sure it’ll just take a bit of time to get used to…”

Henry smiled then continued walking down the corridor.

Sylvia went inside their cabin, now hers, shut the door behind her then giggled like a child. “Who said there couldn’t be the perfect murder?”

 

This may be a well-trodden plot but fun to do nonetheless.

 

A Story a Day May: May 27th – Feeling like a child again

I wasn’t initially overjoyed with the prompt ‘Graduation’ (because in the strict sense of the word it’s more of an American tradition than English) but then I read on and the actual prompt was to ‘write a story that contains a transition, an ending or a new beginning’. That, I thought, I can do.

I grip the handle but can’t bring myself to open the door. Someone behind me coughs. Without looking, I step sideways, letting go. I’m good at that. Letting go.

I smile at the growling face which in turn grunts at me.

I puff a breath of air after he’s gone and tell myself not to walk back to the car park. I’ve played this scenario twice this month and hope it’s third time lucky. It has to be. I have no choice. It’s now or never… well, now or I don’t get a job. I’m not going on the dole. Never done that, so it comes down to this; glass entrance door to my right, car to the left.

I can hear someone walking up the stairs but I don’t want to look because if I turn left the car park wins. So I keep looking straight ahead. I have time. Bert gave me redundancy when he retired. Two thousand pounds. Three months’ rent, food, car bills. I’ve worked it out. I’m good with figures. Bunch of roses £4.99, Chrysanthemums £3.99, Carnations £2.99. My favourite’s Gerberas. 75p a stem.  Even a mixed bunch I’d add like lightning. That’s what Bert used to say.

It’s words I have trouble with. That’s why I’m here. Bert didn’t mind. He’s the only one who knew. Him and my mum but I don’t have either of them now. So I need to help myself.

It’s a man. I thought it was a man. Heavy footsteps. Large feet.

He stops at the door and turns round to look at me. It’s OK. I don’t mind.

“Going in?” he asks. I nod. So he opens the door and waits. I have no choice now. He doesn’t do anything when I don’t either. Then he smiles. He’s got a nice smile. Friendly. Comforting. Just what I need.

“The class starts in a few minutes,” he says, but it’s not accusatory, it’s advisory. Then I laugh at the big words I’ve just thought. He laughs too.

Then it dawns on me. “How do you know which class I’m going to?” I ask him.

He taps the side of his briefcase. “I have a rota,” he whispers as if it’s top secret. “Don’t worry,” he winks, “I don’t bite.”

I decided to go with an uplifting story because I’m inclined to do depressing beginnings / endings to life so went with a mid-life re-start instead. And yes, gerberas are my favourites too.

 

A Story A Day May: May 26th – Sparkly

When I saw the title, I thought this wouldn’t be a prompt I’d looking forward to doing but then as I read the description and saw it as ‘sparkly blue depression’ I thought it had ‘legs’. Here goes:

Being lumbered with the name ‘Sparkly Blue’ wasn’t the best start in life. And unlike her legendary father, rock musician Rick Maitland, who’d managed to avoid heavy drinking and drug-taking all his professional life, she’d not faired so well.

It’s difficult to tell whether ‘Blue’, as she preferred to be called, would have suffered with depression if she’d been given a different, more ‘normal’ name, but thus she was. Some days she felt non-human, mechanical, going through the motions of living a life. Only it was a life that she wasn’t sure she wanted anymore.

She’d look at one of the en-suite’s bathroom mirrors in the mansion’s east wing and not recognise the person staring back at her. She was fatter, older and not as pretty as the girl she’d expected to see. She’d lean in close, breathe, then write words in the mist. It would tend to smelly funny too. And not funny ha-ha.

 

“Are you alright?” Rick said one day, as he passed the open door.

“Dad, don’t fuss.”

“Not fussing. Just asking.”

“I’m fine.”

“OK then,” he said, hoping to sound more cheerful than he felt. She was his only child and since her mother had died he’d not really known what to do. He knew there was a problem and didn’t want to be a typical celebrity dad where they ship in a series of women to ‘mother’ her. Or shrinks. She was messed up enough already. So it was him and her against the world.

He waited along the corridor near the top of the stairs, still in earshot, but heard nothing. He hoped she’d at least be smiling, showing the white teeth that his last single’s sales had paid to restore. Seeing her smile, if only for a few weeks, had been worth it. Then she’d remembered… the accident… the one she’d blamed herself for, and gone back to her old ways. Worse. An enlarged version of her.

Rick was just about to go downstairs to speak to the housekeeper about lunch when he heard a scream from behind him, from the bathroom.

Running back to his daughter, he saw her peering into the sink, sobbing. He peered too and saw a mix of tears and red revolving down the drain. Grabbing her wrists, he pulled them towards him. Apart from old scars they were dry, untouched.

“It’s alright Dad,” she stammered, “it’s not blood.”

Rick looked in the sink again then back at Blue.

“It’s nail varnish Dad,” she explained.

“Why are you crying if it’s just…?”

“It was the last thing that mum…”

“Oh darling.”

“And I wanted to look nice for you, to make up for…”

Rick put his arms round her and hugged her until she stopped crying… until they went downstairs… until the end of time.

I was a couple of paragraphs in when an email came in from http://creativecopychallenge.com with their latest (#147) set of keywords (mechanical, close, breathe, tend, fuss, enlarge, scream, mix, drain and grab) so I decided to include them as well… and to do them in that order. I do like a challenge.

 

A Story a Day May: May 25th – She suspects

As soon as I saw the prompt was ‘ritual’, I knew the perfect story…

Angela has her rituals. The week timed to the minute; bed at 11, up at 8 then depending on the day, she’s collected to go shopping, a ‘do’ at the library or lunch at the village café. In between she gardens, watches a bit of TV or reads. She loves to know about peoples’ lives – one impression on TV, another in a book. Fiction doesn’t interest her, although she suspects there is some in the biographies, so picks autobiographies where she can. From the celebrities’ own pens, although she suspects that there is more than one person holding that pen.

If asked whether she likes living alone, she’d say a definitive ‘no’. Alone and lonely? Yes. She can’t understand anyone living alone to not be lonely. To her, humans are monogamous creatures; destined to live in pairs, although she suspects some are more successful than others.

Her pairing had been successful, for nearly 50 years. Until he’d died.

She suspects that her daughter is lonely. She always puts on a brave face when visiting but Angela can see her eyes dull when she thinks her mum isn’t looking. She, her daughter, hasn’t mentioned a man for years. Angela suspects there might be a woman and she wouldn’t mind if there was. She’s accepted the lack of grandchildren, dotes on her daughter’s dog, but just wants her to be happy.

Angela wonders whether her daughter doesn’t mention things because she, Angela, has stopped listening. It’s not that she doesn’t want to know. She thinks she should make more of an effort but then she’ll have forgotten to do so by the time her daughter next visits or phones.

Angela doesn’t phone. She thinks she’s disturbing. Her daughter’s busy, getting busier as the frequency of calls and visits diminish. Like Angela’s working brain cells. She suspects it’ll be a slow process. Hopes. No-one’s noticed yet, or at least not said anything. But then with a memory like hers… no, she’d remember that. She remembers the important things: birthdays, anniversaries, her anniversary… August 1st. It’s coming up soon and she’s dreading it. 50 years, two without him.

She’s tired today, more than usual. She decides to have a lie down, rest her arthritic knees and racing brain. She suspects they’ll still be active, reactive, when she wakes. She just hopes that it won’t be for much longer.

Another cheery tome from yours truly.

 

A Story a Day May: May 24th – A life-changing moment

Armed with today’s prompt, I took my dog to the park and ended up writing the whole thing in the hour it took us to walk round the old racecourse. Here it is…

I can’t bear it. It’s been… oh God, six hours. That’s not a good sign, is it? But she’s alive. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters.

I hate hospitals. That’s not strictly true. The last time I was… we were here, was when I gave birth to her. Six years ago. An hour a year. If they’re another hour… please let them be another hour… let her see seven.

Nick was here then. Holding my hand while I screamed at him, calling him every name. You don’t know what you’re doing when you’re… you know how it goes. Or not. Maybe you don’t.

Oh God, please don’t let me lose them both. I’ll go to church again, I promise. You can’t be that cruel twice. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m…

Nurse! Please, is there any…? Thank you. I’d be grateful… very…

I don’t know what I’d do if… no, mustn’t think like that. She’ll be fine. She has to be. She just will.

It’s my fault. Well, not totally. I wasn’t the one driving, speeding outside a school. Who does that? But I was late. A minute or two, that’s all. Stayed to listen to the end of a play. Put it before her though, didn’t I? Nothing’s more important, I knew that. Know that.

If I’d been early, on time, the car wouldn’t have been there yet. The road would have been clear when she’d chased the… yes, it’s the cat’s fault. No, mine. We usually hold hands but I’d let go so she could say “hello”. That’s all, just a hello.

Of course the road may not have been clear, it’s a school, but other drivers, parents, would have been going slower, legal, and they would have stopped. I hope they catch the son of a…

Oh no, he’s walking towards me. He’s taking his… what’s it called? The surgical cap thing. No, no, no, no… please don’t say…

“Yes, I am.” I don’t want to say anything else. I just want him to speak. Tell me quickly, get it over and done… one way or the other. Just say something. Why isn’t he saying something? He must have done this hundreds of times.

Good news would be easy, quick. So it’s… He’s speaking. Just don’t let him say, “we did everything we could” or “I’m sorry Mrs Everett…”

I don’t need every detail. It’s too complicated.

“Please,” I say out loud, “just tell me. I can handle it.” I’ve handled it before. Five years ago. Sudden, like this, couldn’t be helped. Of course it could have. Everything can be helped but we knew the risks. You don’t marry a policeman lightly.

Then he tells me. Magic words; “very slow recovery… will need your support… more operations” but I don’t care what it takes. She’s alive. Then it hits me; that her life has come full circle. Mine too. We’ll both leave hospital not knowing what the future holds but I know one thing for sure, she’ll never be more loved and I’ll be there… holding her hand, every step of the way.

Ah yes, quite pleased with that.

 

A Story a Day May: May 23rd – A story set in a small town

My first thought was “yay, I can do that” and set off on my dog walk. Then I got stuck. One of my Monday night writing groupies lives near me, on one of our longer walks and I dropped in a note (as I always do when I’m walking past) to tell her of today’s prompt and as it would happen she was downstairs and heard the letterbox go so called out after me, inviting me in for a cup of tea. We chatted about the prompt and she gave me the idea of having an external character to rock the boat. So, thank you Denny.

Broadville didn’t exactly follow the Trades Description Act. Perhaps the town planners were a little overoptimistic but in the 1900s when it was first laid out it consisted of one straight road, ten houses, one shop and 33 residents; 19 adults and 14 children. Now over a century later it is still one road, ten houses, and 33 residents. They do also now have a pub, run by the brother of one the newest female residents. It doesn’t make much money but they’re a self-sufficient community so muddle along nicely.

That is until a stranger came to town.

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

“I don’t think so.”

“On your way somewhere?”

“Not particularly.”

“There aren’t any houses for sale here.”

“That’s OK, I’m not looking.”

Fred Tindell was stumped. No-one came to Broadville unless they were visiting and being the oldest resident, he knew this guy wasn’t here for that. He also figured that asking more questions wouldn’t get anything but trouble so smiled, tipped his hat and went off to the pub for his evening constitutional.

As he approached the pub’s front door he glanced back and saw the man heading for the shop. With no way for the stranger to see Fred without turning round, Fred waited and watched him go inside.

Fred waited some more. And waited. And waited. He was a pretty patient chap, he’d nursed his wife through cancer, even endured the soaps while she endured the treatment. The pub’s opening hours were dependent upon who wanted serving so he had plenty of time to kill.

Thinking that he must have missed him, though not sure how, Fred was about to go into the pub when the man came out of the shop. Fred snuck behind a pillar and pretended to text on a mobile phone. He didn’t have one and was just tapping into his palm but the stranger wouldn’t know that. Fred laughed quietly at getting one over on him. Except he wouldn’t have known that either, because he wasn’t looking. He was chatting to Elver, the owner of the shop, Fred’s less-than-honest brother in law.

Fred watched them shake hands. That wasn’t good. He knew saying anything to Elver would prove fruitless but Elver talked to his sister so Fred would just have to bide his time.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The following evening when he returned from the pub, Doris put his favourite meal in front of him. Shepherd’s Pie. He loved the intricate plough-lines that she’d weave into the topping. Her smile was extra perky as she placed the dish in front of him.

“Had a good day dear?” he asked her.

“Oh, you know, the same as usual really.”

“That’s good dear. So nothing special happened then.”

“Not really,” she said hesitantly but then pulled out the chair opposite him and slumped into it. Fred stared at her as her eyes worked out how to tell him the news. Since she’d lost her hair, her pale green eyes had become even more noticeable and hadn’t lost any of their shine as her baby-soft blonde fuzz grew back.

“You know something, don’t you?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“You do, I can tell.”

“I saw a guy go into Elver’s shop last night and…”

“You did? What was he like?”

“Rude.”

“You spoke to him.”

“Briefly.”

“So what did your brother say he wanted?”

Her smile broadened to a grin. “You’ll never guess.”

Guessing was one thing that Fred was particularly bad at and Doris knew that, so from the look on his face she knew not to prolong her answer. “A film shoot,” she blurted out.

“Really?” Flashes of Cary Grant, Sophia Loren and Audrey Hepburn ran through his brain.

“Well, not film,” she added.

Fred deflated.

“The small screen.”

That’s OK, Fred thought, a lot of movies are shown on TV these days.

“Emmerdale,” she continued. “They want to use our little town to do a specific scene.”

“Really?” he asked, salvaging some enthusiasm and thinkin that he might even get a walk-on part.

“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically. “Elver thinks it’s a plane crash… or did he say train?”

OK great, Fred thought, as if I haven’t had enough drama in my life.

Mmm, not sure about mix of tenses near the beginning, will have to look at that. Actually not really sure about a lot of it but never mind, it’s a first draft and I finished just before midnight (I’d had no time between the dog walk start and the late night finish) so tiredness got the better of me.