3 a.m. Epiphany Project

Challenge 37: The Reunion

2011-09-26T20:25:00.004+13:00

The school compound was unusually quiet. It was unusual to me because the school which I remembered was always filled with the chatter of students, some sudden outburst of a teacher’s reproach or the shrill ringing of the school bell.

“Visiting it again made me realised how I much I missed my teachers.” I had found Sarah mawkish and unnecessarily sentimental when she said this. But as I was pacing along the corridor of the classrooms, I caught myself feeling exactly the same way.

I realised that I wasn’t alone when I heard a voice. “Come on, you can do it!” and followed by the laughter of children.

Out in the fields, there was a family with picnic basket, and picnic mat spread out over the grass.

Her hair sparkled with gold when the evening sun touched it for a moment. The curls, the colour, that hair, I recognised it immediately. Mrs. Sweetman taught us literature when I was sitting for my O’levels. She was the only Caucasian teacher in our school.

Her eyes were the most noticeable. They were blue, the same blue which Sarah and I had described as Smurfy blue. It was the same pair of eyes that had watched us intensely as we tried to write an essay on “The driving force behind Macbeth’s ambition.” It was the same pair of eyes that had seen us through the exams, and the same pair of eyes that was glossy with a little wetness when I got distinction for literature.

No doubt, it was the same eyes. But shouldn’t it be framed with a little wrinkles or some crow’s feet at least?

She didn’t seemed to have aged, which made me realised that it wasn’t Mrs. Sweetman. It wasn’t her. At least not exactly. It has been 14 years, surely no cosmetics could cover that trace so well?

Then I remembered the news about her returning to UK for her retirement. She can’t be Mrs. Sweetman. But those eyes, they resembled so much like hers.

When I was trying to figure that out, she had spotted me. She nodded and smiled, a friendly acknowledgment between two strangers. No sign of recognition from her at all.

I decided to unravel the mystery.

“Mrs. Sweetman?” and offered my hand for a handshake.
As her hand slid into mine, I noticed that her nails were painted orange. The Mrs. Sweetman I knew only stick to red or beige.

“I’m her daughter, Winnie.”

There and then, the puzzle was solved.

“I thought I had travelled through time!” I laughed “How is she? I hope she has been keeping well?”

“Oh you didn’t know?” Winnie’s eyebrows crinkled.

She looked down for a moment before she said “My mother died of cancer last year”

474 words.

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This might look easy, but it's quite a tough excercise! :P

Challenge 1: The Choice

2011-09-07T05:25:00.002+12:00

She was sitting on the couch, right leg slung over the left, arms crossed and her lips pouted in an exaggerated way. Her eyes stared fixedly, not taking them away.

The situation became very uncomfortable and it was particularly so with the silence. They had been silent for nearly 30 minutes. The last word said was “Suits you!” and Jason walked away to the kitchen. As Sharon watched him turned his back, she could do nothing else but pointed an accusing finger at me and said “It is all your fault!”

Jason might not give in this time. Nancy could be on the losing ground. The couch became her banishment, taking along the ‘accused’, the cause of the fight, as she had said. She didn’t need chains for the confinement, her piercing stare had replaced that and it was sufficient to instill fear.

Before Nancy moved in, days were happier. We shared the bed, the breakfast, the couch and the TV. We shared a life.

We had our daily morning walks where we would listen to his stories together. Jason would read them out while we were out in the park. As he reads them, he would make some changes here and there, and viola! He has a story to submit to the magazine again the next day.

Before Nancy moved in, days were simpler. Jason could concentrate on his writing, and do what he loves most. Writing was our bread and butter. It was also food for Jason’s soul. He could never feel more alive doing something else.
But Nancy couldn’t understand that. Nancy believes in driving expensive cars, living in big houses and good statuses in the society.

When Nancy moved in the first week, she tried to convince Jason to take his bar exams. By the second week, she succeeded. This should have sounded the alarm that trouble was lurking into our peaceful life.

The book Jason was working on was left unfinished. Soon, he got so caught up with the exams, the book was left forgotten.

Two months later, he passed his bar exams, which was a good thing that was packaged with trouble.

Nancy started suggesting Jason to get employment in a law firm. She started by suggestions, which turned into demands when Jason continued to say ‘No’. Writing was what he wanted to do, Nancy just didn’t get it.

She was relentless. One day, as the three of us were watching TV, Nancy pointed to Rowan Atkinson and said “Look at him, aimless and silly. Being sentimental at the wrong things! Come on, it is just a plush toy bear!”

Nancy always sees different things. She sees Mr. Bean, while we see Rowan Atkinson.
Jason knew that her comment was meant for him. He played along by saying “Well, looks like his bear understood him better than anyone else.”

That was how it all started. Nancy identified a new rival, a new threat.

“No, no dog pound!” Jason raised his voice.

“You have a choice, your wife or this bitch.”

Ouch, that hurts. It is a bad word in the human world.

Finally, Jason threw his arms in exasperation and said “Suits you!”. His words left Nancy’s question unanswered, a choice not decided.

The 30 minutes of silence extended till the night. We went to bed, with the anger, disappointment and frustration still hanging in the air.

The next morning, with the leash in his hands and penance in his eyes, Jason said to me, “I’m so sorry Vicky.”

585 words

Challenge 35: Picton

2011-08-30T08:29:00.006+12:00

I told myself that I wasn’t really expecting to find Simon. Even if he’d made it this far, there was no guarantee, ten years on, that we’d find any trace of him. But from the moment I passed the old airlock where he and I had seen my half-sister Sonia out, which he had himself come and gone through on his later travels, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. A horde of sandflies when I reached the West Coast, and I just remembered the time we’d sat next to the letterbox full of cobwebs. Dad would have cleared them off (if he hadn’t walked out the airlock for good the day before). Simon was just happy to see that something was alive other than us humans.

In my backpack, I have the album that his then-fiance, Jack, gave him for his birthday ten years ago. The first photo is of the two of them on top of one of the mountains in the Nelson Lakes. They’re wearing bulky jackets and you can tell it was windy because Simon’s hair is a complete mess. The last one is of them with (according to Jack) Simon’s mother and his little brother. I guess his dad must have been behind the camera. The photo’s been taken a bit too early. Jack’s got her eyes closed, and Simon’s got his arms draped over his brother’s shoulders, looking down at him with an expression that’s familiar to me. Jack says it’s the last time they saw each other, because the bomb came less than a year later. I don’t know why Simon left the photos behind if he knew he was leaving for good.

Apart from my supplies, I also had copies of the new maps of the South Island. Simon started venturing out to make them quite soon after Dad left – but when he’d done as much as he could, he moved on to the North Island – at least, that was the plan. When the bubble around Christchurch got taken down, they started copying out his maps for the settlement expeditions.

Anyway, I had told myself I wouldn’t find him, so I tried not to be disappointed when, following State Highway 1 and the diversions he’d suggested, I reached Picton without luck. What had I expected, that he’d have built himself a little hermit’s hut somewhere?

The settlers hadn’t come this far north. I’d been on my own since Kaikoura, and I’d been avoiding the towns as much as possible – I didn’t know how fast bodies decomposed and I didn’t want to find out. Simon hadn’t volunteered any information about it. As I wandered along the railway tracks, I got the idea of spending the night in one of the old trains, if I could get in.

As it turned out, it wasn’t hard – like most of the expeditioners I’d brought along enough equipment to break into a building if I had to.I chose a passenger train that was rusting away at the station and went at it until I could pry a door open and get in. There were just three compartments...and something seemed to be wrong – it was far too clean to have been abandoned for ten years.

I found Simon’s stores in the last compartment. There wasn’t much – a few bottles of water, a couple of batteries. Some shrivelled kumara, but I couldn’t tell how old they were.

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Word count: 567. This is another one I wrote a while back (over a year ago, actually) so it doesn't quite fit the challenge :P

Challenge 35: A Place to Call Our Own

2011-06-20T18:18:00.004+12:00

I can smell his musk on the breeze, a warm enveloping sense of calm. He is close. Through the muddy undergrowth, I run, savouring the kiss of afternoon sunshine as it pours down into the clearing I have chanced upon. Beauty is unspoilt in our wilderness. Here, anything is possible.

On the far side of the field of wildflowers, I pause beside a trickling creek. There are prints in the dirt, the shape of his toes as he leaped. The rain has just begun to drizzle down the back of my neck. In the distance, a hawk screeches as it swoops down to snatch up its prey. Where has he gone? The imprint of his passing begins to fill with water. Worms wriggle their way to the surface as the spitting becomes a torrent.

Sheltering in the hollow of our favourite tree, I feel like this circle, made by the umbrella of her drooping branches, is my whole world. I am safe and warm, wrapped up in his fur-lined leather coat and listening to the pounding of water outside. It was he who taught me where to go in a storm, how to build a fire of the dry twigs and logs we keep hidden here. I know I will find him, once this wild weather passes on. He can’t have gone far.

I drift into a gentle slumber, unfazed by the howl of the wolves. It is full moon tonight, but they will not bother me. I have my knife and know how to use it. Yet another thing he taught me.

My cheek resting against the rough bark, I dream of other days. Two miles north of here, at the base of the canyon, is a cave where we hid my new spear and a pile of nets I wove last autumn. He promised he would teach me to fish with it in spring, and Verdi’s eye is low on the horizon now, so winter is almost over. If I cannot find him by tomorrow, I will go there and wait. He always keeps his promises.

Dawn brings a frost. Blades of new grass crackle underfoot as I tip-toe out, not wanting to disturb the lively birdsong. Scanning the ground brings me new clues as to his direction. He’s headed west, judging by the lay of sticks beside the thorny brickle bush. It is a heady crawl, over a dead oak bough spanning the crevasse. He found it last year, after the big storm. It will be good as a bridge for many years to come.

He has left a bunch of wild blueberries on the other side, a reward for keeping up with him this far. I am eager to catch him up, though I know it is unlikely. I have never managed it yet, though he insists there’s a first for everything. Another day and my nose aches from the cold. My eyes are watering as I lie on my belly, peering over the cliff at the edge of the wastes. Is this what he wanted me to see? They are closer now than last I remember; dark, snaking pipes seeping black ooze as they suck the life from our wilderness. An owl hoots and I frown. It is not yet dusk, there should be no owls. I glance to my left and grin. There, tied to a low swung branch is a braided leather cord laced through a jade riverstone; a gift from my brother for completing his latest challenge. As I pull it over my head, I look for him, but there is, of course, no sign. I am a big girl now and there are many things I must do alone.

Wordcount: 619

Yay! I think this one is a bit closer to the brief - except for the part about using your own characters. I just made these two up on the spot.

Challenge 35: The Grace of Gods

2011-06-16T11:32:00.000+12:00

Space.

Between tiny moments of brilliance when I wonder at the art of creation, there is only the black. It has been a long journey for my ship and I. There are no borders out here, no sense that the hours or days are ticking by. There is only purpose.

You.

I see traces of you in the solar winds. Your eyes sparkling like the corona of that distant blue sun. Free, formless, you are dancing out here in the vacuum. Angel, I have lost you. You have gone where I cannot follow, my dearest.

Sister.

How long has it been since those days? We were so young, so naïve. We saw the fall of everything we held dear, watched our people tear themselves apart. You dreamed of a better life, of a new hope.

Immortality.

Together we lifted those we loved. You and I found the cure for death. Machines and technology, healing, repairing, rebuilding our shells, we were forever young, forever learning. We thought we had left all that sadness behind, but we were still so young. Not ready for the power that came with forever.

War.

I pass now and then, through old battlegrounds. I skirt around drifting debris, rocks that were once planets and suns, shards of great ships and weapons of death. There you are again, in my memory, weeping at the pain, the mad rush to possess, to be right. They were our children, you said. We did this.

Guilt.

You stopped them the only way you knew how. Machines could be turned off, could be modified. You held life and death in your hands and they were forced to listen. When it was done, you fled and I followed. Here, a small blue planet orbiting an insignificant star.

Hope.

The planet turned, the plates crashed and fought, forming mountains and trenches, but still you worked. I wandered those lands alone, waiting for you to find an answer.

Evolution.

Then one day you were gone, a thousand sparkling lights, expanding to touch every part of what is known. I have not the courage to follow. Not yet. For now I am content in my search.

Wordcount: 361 (Way too short i know, but then I don't think this is really a wilderness piece in the way the challenge describes it, so I will do another one anyway)

Challenge 35

2011-06-16T10:43:00.000+12:00

Put two characters you already know from your own fiction in a wilderness of some sort. It doesn't have to be a forest. It could be a desert of a big foreign city where the characters don't speak the language. Do not explain to us why these characters have landed in this wilderness. Stick to one POV. Slowly describe the other character, which does not want to be seen but leaves a handful of traces.

Word limit: 600 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 91: It's all in the literature

2011-04-26T22:14:00.004+12:00

I just killed someone.

I know you can’t quite tell, but that's because I washed all the blood off my hands. Like Lady Macbeth.

The knife was just there.

The person I killed was a useless old bum on the street - like me, only a bit filthier and with a knack for begging that I never had.

So the knife was just there and it was dark and you were all gone and I stuck it in his gut and pulled it out again, took his little plastic coke bottle with the top cut off that all his coins were in, and went to hang out under the bridge.

Like a troll.

My sunglasses are broken in the middle. They're not really my sunglasses. They're my girlfriend's. I borrow ‘em sometimes when she’s not looking, but she’s here now and she’s not so impressed.

‘Jeeze, Lee, what’ve you gone and done now.’

‘Killed a bum,’ I mumble. ‘Needed the dosh.’

‘You didn’t,’ she says angrily.

I’ve never killed anyone before. I’m starting to feel a bit guilty. Maybe I didn’t really need the dosh, you know?

‘I killed him stone dead and took his coke bottle.’ I start crying. ‘I’m sorry!’ I’m a bad person.

‘Well where’s the cash then, huh?’

‘Must’ve dropped it…’

Maybe there was no coke bottle. Maybe I’m confused like Raskolnikoff. Raskolnikoff didn’t take anything from the moneylender when he killed her. He had a fever afterwards, and he was confused. Maybe getting rid of the bum just made life easier for someone else, if not for me. It was the right thing to do.

‘Lee! There was no cash.’

‘No…but it was the right thing to do. Have I got a fever?’

‘No.’

She’s got her mobile out and she’s calling someone and I know she’s going to dob me in. I should kill her, but Raskolnikoff wouldn’t have killed Sonia.

They put me in an interrogation room. I look for the bottle but it’s not there. The cops must’ve confiscated it as evidence when they took me in. I don’t remember what happened to it, guess I got distracted by the siren.

Shit, now they’ll make me do a court case. I hate court cases. All that yes your honour and no your honour and an uppity jury who half the time made up their minds the minute they saw the defendant looked a bit scruffy.

A woman in a suit comes in, and my girlfriend is behind her. ‘I want to represent myself,’ I say. ‘I used to be a qualified barrister, you know.’

‘I see…’ she frowns at a clipboard. ‘He was working up until last month,’ my girlfriend adds. Her mascara has gone all smudgy over her face and she looks a bit like Alice Cooper.

‘I seem to have forgotten, but was there any cash in the bottle? Or did I do it for more noble causes?’ Am I Dmitri Karamazov? Or am I Raskolnikoff? Or maybe…

‘I was framed!’

‘And who do you think framed you?’ says the woman in the suit.

‘Smerdyakov, the bastard. Of course he’d have wanted the cash. I wanted it too, but I’d never have killed another homeless bum like me. He knew they’d pin all this on me.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ says my girlfriend. I guess it’s fitting that she starts praying. I know they don’t send people to Sibera these days but I imagine if they find me guilty it’ll still be the inside of a prison cell for months.

‘Where did you find him?’ the woman asks my girlfriend.

‘Find him? I didn’t have to find him. He’s been at home the last three weeks. I noticed he’d been a bit quiet but I’m at work all day, and he’d been really stressed at work before he quit. I know there’s some family history of psychosis on his mother’s side, but he’s never had an episode before, not in the four years we’ve been together.’

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Word count: 664

I admit to cheating because I don't think this really fits the challenge. Maybe I'll try again later :)

(Re)introductions?

2011-04-25T08:15:00.004+12:00

A warm welcome to our newest member, Melissa!

It's been over a year since the blog started, although things have been rather quiet for a while, so I propose another round of introductions - we had one last year (http://3amepiphanyproject.blogspot.com/2010/01/and-now-for-something-completely.html), but if anyone wasn't around then or wants to write something different, please comment away :)

Challenge 91: Losing Denver...

2011-02-07T14:27:00.005+13:00

"Hi sweetie, how was your day?"

"Fine," Denver grunted.

Mrs Lebowski pulled a tray of cookies out of the oven and slid them off onto a plate. Denver, who had been half way up the stairs, paused and sniffed.

"Smells good."

"Chocolate chip and raisin," she laughed. "I'll trade you a cookie for a story about your day?"

Denver slouched in the doorway, school bag heavy on one shoulder. "That guy in shop - Mitchell Lewis. He stopped Anthony Biggs from hitting me today."

Mrs Lebowski's eyes flashed. "Why would Anthony want to hit you?"

"I dunno, because he's a retard."

"Well it was nice of that boy to stand up for you."

Denver shrugged. "Not like we're really friends or anything."

"Ah." Her overly bright smile returned. "You should try a little harder to make friends, sweetie."

"I have friends." Denver said between mouthfuls of cookie. Half the tray was gone before Mrs Lebowski confiscated the rest "for your father."

"So why don't I ever get to meet your friends?" she asked with a pout.

Denver shrugged the school bag back on and said, "Most of them are on the other side of the world. Online gaming and all that."

"Do you have an online... girlfriend?" Mrs Lebowski took a moment to decide on that last word.

Denver's eyes narrowed. "You know what? That's none of your business, Clare."

She looked like she'd been slapped in the face. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a door slammed shut. Clare flinched, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Denver didn't emerge again until much later, after George got home.

"Mmm, roast." George gave Clare a kiss. "You know me too well."

Denver made a face behind shoulder length black hair.

"How was your day honey?" Clare asked as George carved the lamb. "Any new developments?"

"The Jefferson Estate looks like it might be a good catch, if I can get my hands on it." George put a slice of lamb on Denver's plate.

"That's lovely darling." Clare smiled.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Clare said, "Someone tried to hit Denver today."

Denver groaned. "Why did you have to bring that up? Makes me sound like a wuss. It's not like he succeeded."

"I wish you wouldn't keep getting into fights, Denny," George said quietly. "That's not how you were brought up..."

Denver scoffed a whole baby potato to keep from responding.

"Maybe you should go easy on the potatoes, Denny." George poured gravy over his own meat. "You are starting to look a bit pudgy."

Denver gave him a scathing look and shoveled another huge spoonful.

"Denver Lebowski." George growled. "Cut the attitude."

Denver stabbed a steak knife into the untouched meat and stood up. "Seriously dad, you call that attitude? I didn't say fuck you for calling me fat. I didn't scream at Clare for thinking I'm gay... even though it's written all over her face every damn fucking day."

"Shut your mouth before I shut it for you." George put his cutlery down slowly.

"George," Clare put a hand over her husband's. "I think Denver has had a hard day. Why don't we deal with this tomorrow after you both have had time to cool down."

George let out a breath and rested his head on his palm. Denver was already gone; motorbike screeching down the drive.

"I don't know what to do about that kid," he said.

"Being a teenager is rough," Clare said. "Losing a mother triply so."

"Denver used to be such a sweetheart though." George asked. "Other kids have lost their mothers and they don't go and... change that much. We should never have allowed that bike..."

"Wasn't our money," Clare replied. "Denver has been working in shop for three years to be able to afford that bike."

"I prefer the online games," George admitted. "At least then I know she's not out getting herself pregnant."

Challenge 91

2011-02-07T14:20:00.002+13:00

Leaving Out
Write a scene leaving out some significant detail about the character at the center of the scene. The character could have cancer or just have won the lottery. Don't make us guess - play more with the idea that whatever you are leaving out will naturally flow in around the edges of this description of character in action. Pay attention to the other important details about character than the largest and flashiest ones. Demand of them (and yourself) a range of other traits and confusions.

Word count: 700 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 179: The middle of Nowhen.

2011-02-07T13:23:00.005+13:00

I live in Nowhen, an attic above a clock tower. I stare out my window sometimes, watching the people of my city, frozen in the middle of their conversations - or supping cups of tea. Moments, like pictures, hover every 'where' I look, but the when is all up to me. It takes some practice.

Blink.

There is Mrs. Harper and her old black poodle Tabitha, wandering down main street.

Blink.

Oh, there she is at her house - Christmas Day - her daughter holds wee Tabitha as a puppy.

Blink.

And there is Mrs Harper at her daughter's funeral. Tabitha is only a few years old, head on her paws in the drenching rain.

Nowhen is a lonely place. Sometimes I wish I could return...

See, there I am. Over there in the school yard, waiting to go into bat. Or there, sitting at the edge of the school dance, hoping someone will notice me. And there I am, staring up at the clock tower, wondering why the hands have never moved. If only I could tell myself to turn around. Go home, Lily. There is so much of life to live.

I could have been like Kiera, down at the lake, head on Michael's shoulder watching the sun set. Or Susan, trading a frozen moment of pure agony in the hospital over by the theatre for a family full of smiling faces.

There are more than a hundred thousand paving stones in the street below my window. Go back far enough, it is mud. Go forward and it is overgrown with weeds. People leave and never come back. The clock tower stands all alone, hiding its secret. Hiding me.

Mama never knew where I went.

Blink.

There is Tabitha, sniffing. She barked up at the clock, once. Mrs Harper had stopped to buy tomatoes at the grocer in central park. That was when she lost her dog, and I stopped being quite so alone.

Tabitha and I will never get any older. She is a terrible conversationalist, but then I am not that attentive. Mostly we sit, and I wonder. Maybe I can leave. After all, this is Nowhen, not Nowhere. If I can be here, I can be not here, but how?

Perhaps it is as simple as walking out the door. But that would mean accepting that my 'when' will some day end. I don't know if I am ready... maybe I will watch just a little longer.

Challenge 179: Seal heads

2011-02-07T06:52:00.006+13:00

'Too many damn refugees, that's the problem.'
'I haven't seen any,' I said.
'Yeah, but they all get off the boats and stay by the port, of course. Since when do you go down to the port, eh?'
'Is it very different then, with them around?'
Regent adjusted his wreath and shook his head. 'It's crazy. You know they wear seals on their heads?'
'Whats?'
'Seals, of course. It's a small breed, they're not so heavy. Looks ridiculous. The kids have baby seals and the adults have grown ones – though when they die I guess you have to start from the beginning again, of course.'
'Is that why they stay by the ports? To feed the seals?' We reached the end of the street and turned around again.

‘We're in modern times, aren't we? Not like it's that hard to get fish.'
'How do they keep them wet? Tubs in the streets, and in their houses?'
'Yep. They don’t have problems here, of course.'
'Least you can tell who they are, of course. Can't hide with a seal on your head.'

'Actually, there's so many of them these days you'd be better off with a seal on your head than a walrus on your ankle.'
'Phew.' I adjusted my own wreath. ‘Can’t believe I haven’t seen any.’

‘They’ll be taking over the city soon. Already wanting their own schools, can you believe. Privately funded – not sure how refugees can even afford that.’

‘Crazy, I thought our schools couldn’t cope with the numbers as it was.’

‘Mmm, they’re putting pressure on everything…schools, housing, water…’

The other end of the street, and I paused briefly to adjust my trouser leg before turning. ‘Water?’

Regent looked a bit edgy. ‘I heard something interesting the other day. They’re saying…they’re not just here because of the war. Maybe that’s why they started coming, of course - I don’t know…but what I heard was that they’re here because of the seals. Not enough water where they come from, and it’s getting too warm.’

‘Er, eh? So they’re coming to take our water instead?’

‘Apparently it used to be like here – green all year – and now it’s practically a desert. Sad business.’ We’d reached the intersection again, and I took my wreath off, looking for a spot to drop it. ‘Time to go, I think. I’m late as it is - Rex needs a bath and I’ve got a load of housework to do, of course.’ Regent took his own wreath off and was about to trample it into the ground, but suddenly changed his mind and placed it on my head, then took mine gently out of my hands and put it on instead. ‘See you tomorrow.’

I smiled, and bent to give a tug at the chain around my ankle, pulling my walrus out of the shade of a bench and into the evening heat.

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Word count: 480

Challenge 111: Life in the polar regions

2011-02-06T08:39:00.000+13:00

The kitchen is where I'll sleep. It’s the kitchen because the main stove is in there, but we can't do much cooking.
Our first night is colder than usual, and we're gathered around the stove. Dirk reckons we have fuel for months; we shouldn't stint.
Food we're not sure of, unless we raid one of the caches left by a previous party. Perhaps when the storm lets up a bit.
Mac is leaning against the metal trying to warm his hands. Ten minutes ago, he climbed out the window and started shovelling furiously. I didn't understand until he emptied the big metal pot into the bigger metal pot on the stove. The temperature's dropped now that the snow is melting. I shiver, but Mac grimaces because his fingers are starting to thaw and it burns like hell.
'If I leave my gloves here, anyone can use them,' I suggest. 'Mac, that was a bit stupid, not wearing any.'
Mac shrugs and his indifference bothers me. 'Guess we'd better put our tents up, mate,' he says to Dirk.
Seana comes in from the 'pantry' - the semi-frozen antechamber connecting the main entrance to the kitchen.
'Dehy soup for dinner.' She chucks packets of split pea and of black bean on the table.
'Tents,' says Dirk. 'How about you stay and cook up something hot and delicious, lovelies?'
'Fat chance,' I say, and follow them out while Seana makes inchorent fake-angry noises.

Ekker and Pete are in the other hut trying to fix the radios. Tools are scattered everywhere and though they're both mild-mannered, now they're red-faced and snapping.
'Give it a rest and come put up tents,' Mac suggests nonchalantly, picking up a couple of tent-bags, but they ignore him. 'Where the fuck’s the red screwdriver?' barks Pete.
I cut in: 'Pole's broken in that purple one, I was going to fix it...'
'How can we borrow your gloves if you're coming out?' Mac replies. 'What if you stick around, fix up the tent; Dirk and I will put them up. We could even have a glove each...' he winks.
'I've been inside all day! I want real work!'
'If we weren't in a rush, hon, but we need to do this before the weather turns worse.' Dirk gives me a friendly shove away from the door and I shove him right back. Mac gives me a kinda shrug as he walks out with an armload of tents.
'Fucking patronising bastards,' I tell Ekker and Pete, who are looking for the screwdriver and don’t care. Going back through the pantry for duct tape I pass Seana, who asks me to keep an eye on the stove please and wanders to the other hut.
She spends a few minutes bitching (they're treating her like some kind of second-class wife ‘always on at me about the cooking'; she has to freeze in a tent while I ‘fucking trophy wife’ get the hut because I made puppy-dog eyes at Mac). Like Mac would fall for puppy-dog eyes.
Ekker eventually says 'Don't see you putting up tents,' and she tells him he won't get any dinner if he's like that, and he says there's room for two to sleep in the kitchen so why doesn’t she, though maybe she won't care to now since it'll make her look soft.
'Fuck you,' she says ('Sure!'), leaving the lid of the shit bucket off in the adjoining toilet when she storms off.

Dinner's as good as dehy can be (but don't try the black bean, it's vile). Mac brings out chocolate he must've carted all the way from home. Dirk opens a can of peaches 'so we don't get scurvy'. I didn't get the pole fixed, so they’re sharing a mountain tent. I don't want to sleep inside, after what Seana said, but with her in the other little tent and Ekker and Pete sharing the big one, there's hardly room elsewhere.
___________________________________________________

Word count: 655. I cut almost 200 words and didn't want to get any more brutal...so cheated instead :P

Challenge 179

2011-01-31T11:08:00.002+13:00

Imaginary Cities
Describe a city that doesn't exist. Concentrate on the food, or the houses, or the organization of the streets, the hand gestures that are somehow related to the geography of the place.

Word count: 500 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 111: Earthquake House

2011-01-28T17:27:00.001+13:00

This house is unfamiliar... eerie at night. Up here in the attic room, I huddle against the wall, sitting on a bed that feels like it was built in the eighteen hundreds. I listen to the wind blowing outside my window and wonder when the next shock will hit. Will I go running to him? Will the roof fall in on my head? I think of my sisters, asleep on the floor below. Will the floor cave in and crush them? It doesn't seem to matter that this house has survived the last three major quakes with barely even surface damage... I am still scared.

I slip out the window onto the balcony. Not the safest place, but I need air. I am suffocating in there. From here you can see the lights of LA, beautiful and yet also a stark reminder of what I left behind today. My own house is down there somewhere, red-stickered and scheduled for demolition. Power is still out in some suburbs - I can see the black patches.

My fingers pick at the peeling paint on the banister. The Howards obviously have not spent much time thinking about maintenance lately... That's cruel, I know. Their father works all the time and the boys have no reason to be thinking about the state of the paint job on the upper balconies. It's not like they ever come out here anyway.

The is a screech of wheels on the gravel and I notice that Dylan is home. I would recognize that bike anywhere. I duck back into my attic room before he notices me watching.

Back to the squeaky bed then. This isn't so bad. I could paint the walls... No. I am not going to get comfortable here. It's not my house.

There is a deep rumble. I tense, knowing it is coming... where do I go? Under the bed? In the doorway? I shrink back into the corner of my bed and watch the window sway in my vision. I will not cry, but I can't seem to stop shaking. Eventually, the house calms down, only shivering a little. I clamber off the bed and feel something akin to sea-sickness. Dammit, why can't you just stand still, you stupid house?

I make myself climb down the ladder. I am not staying up there tonight, I don't care if I have to sleep in Angelette's corvette. I don't want to be in the house any more.

It's on the second story that I see him.

Motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, his eyes lock with mine and I flush. I am not really dressed to be seen in public.

"Hey," he says in a soft, deep voice. "You okay?"

I nod furiously. Admitting that I'm scared to Dylan is unthinkable...

The tears on my cheeks give me away.

"You want to go out?"

I nod, betraying my own resolve before it has a chance to cement.

"Come on." He doesn't even smirk or try to make fun of me. "You'll want to grab a jacket."

Challenge 111

2011-01-28T17:07:00.002+13:00

Use a house in a story fragment. Think about the power of rooms (kitchens, basements, unfinished attics, walk-in closets) on psychology and conversation. In this fragment, make the house a unique, though passive, participant in the unfolding efvents.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 30: Whydunnit?

2011-01-15T01:14:00.004+13:00

He knocked very gently on the frail cottage door, as Dylas always had when they visited. “If she thinks it’s one of the neighbours, she won’t open it,” he’d explained. She was peering through the window, but he avoided looking.

Lanu didn’t see who it was, but it wasn’t one of the villagers, so she opened the door to see Santor on the doorstep, alone. “Come in,” she said, sickened suddenly.
“I’ve got really bad news,” responded Santor shakily.
She had some idea why Santor was there and her son wasn’t. “I know. Come in.” He followed her in and sat at the table. Lanu lifted a kettle from the fire and began pouring hot water into mugs. Santor sat in nervous silence, but she put the kettle down and dropped into a chair without making the tea. “We were trying to free the quarry workers at Haithek. Dylas fought well but he was attacked by two men and…and there was nothing we could do.”

Lanu sat in silence. Her son, attacked by brutal swords. Ever since she’d let him go – over three years now – she had dreaded it. Now it was almost a relief to let go; she need never worry again. But to be killed by those swords…

“I’m so sorry,” Santor repeated desperately. “I never thought this would happen, or I wouldn’t have asked him to come.”
She shook her head. “It was bound to happen. I should not have let him go.”
“You can hardly blame yourself.” But she didn’t blame herself – she blamed him, of course. The whole village would. The outsider, the recruiter, who’d sweet-talked their boy into a harsh – and apparently short - life in the resistance.
She rose and found a woven box of tea leaves, which she stirred into the mugs. “Please,” she set one in front of him. “Was it…was it quick?”
“Yes,” he said hastily, not knowing if it was true, “but he hardly had time to say anything.”
“You…you buried him?”
“At the quarry,” Santor admitted reluctantly. “We couldn’t afford to take them back, the others said. I wish there’d been some way…I brought his sabre.” He bent and removed the cloth-wrapped blade and dagger from his pack but Lanu, although she reached out to touch, didn’t take them. “You can have them.”
He’d rehearsed something while walking into the village, to tell Lanu that her son had been his best friend, that the friendship had kept him sane and human; but what came out was: “They’re all saying he was a real martyr...”
Because he took on the captain, who’d only been doing his job too.
“Oh,” said Lanu softly and it occurred to Santor that she didn’t want to hear it.

At his village, they’d sat around talking the day after it happened – Santor sunk in misery and not ready to do anything apart from huddle in a corner.
“Crazy, taking on their captain when he was already injured,” said Revan, who’d seen it too, with a mixture of admiration and confusion.
“Would we have been able to get out if he hadn’t?”

Santor thought they would have, but he didn’t say it. The others hadn’t talked to Dylas beforehand; they hadn’t heard the frustration in his voice, or the guilt at the violence the resistance perpetrated.

“No, it was definitely the best thing to do, but he never struck me as the all-or-nothing martyr type,” Revan pointed out. “Too shy...too thoughtful... not crazy enough.”
What if they realised Dylas hadn’t done it for them, but for himself?
Why couldn’t he have waited another hour or two until it was over, and taken the straightforward option of saying, “Santor, I’m going back to the peace mission”? But he’d tried already, and got Santor’s ‘It’s worth sacrificing your conscience’ routine.

“Hate to be the one saying it, but before we turn him into a martyr, isn’t it possible he just got impulsive and did something stupid? Maybe he was caught up in the moment and didn’t realise how dangerous it was.”
_______________________________________________

“You needn’t feel bad,” Lanu added, breaking into Santor’s reflections. “Dylas knew what he was doing. You aren’t responsible for him.”
Santor regained his composure enough to stand. “I should be going.”
“You’re welcome to stay here for the night.”
“No, I should go,” Santor insisted firmly, desperate to leave, finding his way out the door with a mumbled goodbye and an apology.

Lanu shut it behind him and sat back at the table, staring numbly at the mug still steaming on the table. She rubbed her eyes in bewilderment, about to get up to clear it away; then pushed it aside, unable to believe herself. She didn’t care whether it had been quick or if he’d said anything. It didn’t change much. She should have been upset – she was – but underneath it she could feel a slow, dreadful relief surfacing; her resilient will already recovering and being grateful that at least she would never have to worry again. Because, after three years, at least it was all over. As the warm sun crept down her back, Lanu fumbled for something unbreakable to throw, just to hear it thudding against the wall. She rubbed her eyes again, then, resigned, laid her head down on her arms.

____________________________________________________

Wordcount: 880

Affiliated site... sort of

2010-08-31T18:52:00.003+12:00

It has come to the decision of the management that this site would be more accessible if the content were not adult themed. But we do not want to stop people from being able to write the more... explicit... material if that is where a challenge leads them. so we have created an alternate site called, imaginatively Epiphany R-Rated (The management is willing to rename upon recieving more appropriate suggestions). If you don't mind reading R-rated content then sign up to this blog: http://3amepiphanyprojectrr.blogspot.com/.

So people don't have to watch two sites at a time, if you write an R-rated piece you will be expected to write a small entry on the main site with a link to your piece and some indication of the reason for rating - one word is sufficient. Over the next few days old R-rated posts will be moving over to the new site. When completed the main site will be changed from it's mature content warning.

Challenge 30: Absentee Father

2010-08-29T16:05:00.004+12:00

The sky is blue again.

A real blue, not like the shimmering electric blue we have lived with for the last three years. I look at it and breathe in the fresh air, savouring the taste.

Freedom.

Then I think of his absence and I have to sit down. There is a stout wall behind me, bordering the brown lawn that once was C-Block. People are milling there, staring at the sky and exchanging low whispers. His name is ready on their lips. They speak it in reverence still. Perhaps they haven't worked out that he's gone, they don't know that it is safe to speak their minds. Maybe they really feel that way about him, even after everything he did.

I can't stay here.

I walk away, push through the growing crowds, disappear into the old Biology building. There is an entrance to the tunnels there, disguised as a dangerous electrical maintenance room. I remember the day the bubble went up. My lockpick is not needed today. The door hangs open on one hinge. The tunnels are no longer his secret lair. I push past the rubble, not caring that it could all come crashing down on my head. I only go about fifty metres before it's all caved in. The bomb did its work well enough.

It's sad. I would have like to see his lab. He never did let me in there. He didn't trust anyone with his secrets. Not even the man who took mother's place... There are some things I guess I will never know about my father now.

I leave the tunnels, wander home in a daze. I haven't been here since papa kicked me out - or was it me? Did I sneak out and just never work out how to come back?

The front lawn is dead, just like C-Block. We have been without rain for three years and he wouldn't let us waste the water on things like grass. The front door is gone. Half lies in splinters in the hallway, the other half creaks in the unfamiliar wind as it swings open and shut.

Paintings lie on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. My mother's photograph is the only thing still untouched, framed above the unused fireplace. Maybe he forgot to take it down? I can't imagine he cared for it. When mother lay dying in hospital, he didn't even come.

The stairs creak, but that is not new. I always heard him coming home from work in the middle of the night, no matter how he tried to tread lightly. He didn't hear me leave. He was arguing with Simon, just like mother, just like all the others who tried to take her place. They couldn't see past his dream-filled eyes and words of hope, his way of making you feel like everything would be alright. They didn't wonder why my little brother cringed when papa raised his hand. No. They were all blind.

My room looks just as I left it. Strange, because I would have thought Simon... No, I suppose Simon slept somewhere else. Papa's room is torn to shreds. Clothing and furniture all scattered without definable pattern. His office too. Recycled paper everywhere - written on both sides in miniscule print. I pick up a sheet but cannot make any sense of the equations. The diagram looks something like the machine he built on top of the University library to project the bubble. On the wall, on the roof, everywhere, there is writing. On a whim, I turn and close the door. He has written on the back too - verses from the bible, only strange. I barely recognize them, despite being forced to recite them as pennance for my wrong-doings. Papa would not hit a girl.

The window looks out on the back yard, paved in one of papa's fits of home maintenance. We all slaved over those stones. It makes me smile to see the crooked lines, here and there. They were probably mine. Papa could not abide disorder. Everything was so clear, so well planned. There was not room in his world for dissention. Perhaps that is why we all flocked to become his sheep, trusting him to lead us through the darkness. Perhaps that is why, now that he is gone, we all feel so lost.

I leave the house behind, knowing I can never go back there. I have said my goodbyes. Still, every street in this small city bears his mark. Buildings, simply by standing, are a testament to his vision. I cross the boundary sooner than I expected. Outside the rim of what was once the bubble, the buildings are rubble, overgrown in only three shorts years. Skeletons still lie where they fell on the cracking streets. I cannot look back, because if I do, I will see him there, hovering far above us with a sad, knowing smile in his eyes. How I hated you. But you forgave me that a long time ago, didn't you?

Challenge 30

2010-08-28T13:20:00.003+12:00

Absent
Construct a character who is not present, offstage for the entire piece. People may talk about this character; you might choose to examine what this character owns, how he/she lives or use indirect approaches such as letters or documents that attest to the existence of this person. Examine the way we build characters in our minds.

Wordcount: 800 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 25

2010-08-28T13:14:00.002+12:00

For those of you who were wondering what Iconoclast was doing in that last post =P

Names
Take the full name (including any middle names) of someone you love. Write down as many words from this name as you can. You can repeat letters from the name as many times as you wish. Treat the letters of this name as the only letters in the alphabet. Once you have come up with a sufficient list of words write a fragment of fiction using them.

Wordcount: 300 (+/- 10%)

And We're Back

2010-08-27T13:04:00.002+12:00

After much time spent apart, our merry band of mad midnight writers has agreed to return to this project with a few modified rules. We still intend to complete every exercise - at some point - but now there will be a week between new exercise uploads. These new exercises may be chosen at random from anywhere in the book. This means we get to mix things up and I (almight dictator that I am) can do exactly what I feel like.

Mwhahahaha.

All rules about missing out on a challenge if you miss the deadline are scrapped (if there ever were any). We really just want this to be a fun project where people have a go and contribute no matter how crap their work may seem. No judges here, just fun!
So, you fellow members who think you've fallen behind, just pick an exercise at random and post something up. Let's get our momentum going again.

*hugs*

Love you all
- Ani

Challenge 25: An anthem to a Hannah

2010-06-13T13:23:00.005+12:00

She attracts them. As her stories tear a crater in the Creationism that is essential to most Christians in these times, the rest come (mice to cheese, teeming, toting their tricorne hats). No more Trinities and Creators – those asinine notions. No, she has science.

To some, she is the Antichrist, a test; those who hear her, the Creator smites. To others, it seems she remains sane in an Earth that is misaimed. Heat, rain, attrition, erosion, trash...Entire societies that hear her science treat her as a saint. Her notions are sacrosanct.

She crosses the seas, the oceans to share her stories: China to Romania, Croatia to Samoa...once there was Mass; now the masses come, in amazement, to hear her – some, to hear her accent – most, her notions.

Some in their area name her a terror. “Tame the Antichrist!.” She cares not. Her hair shines as she teases the Christians. “Rotters!”

Then, the tasers, the armaments come to the streets. There are arrests.

She zooms to Santa Monica, comes home – not retired. As soon as there is another chance...”Creationism is errant. I match their missionaries – I can has smart atheist teachers? To roam the American states and teach sciences?” She too roams the states, teaches the sciences and her notions.

Her sense is sooth; she is serene and certain.

Her science-thirst cannot remain in a state of satiation.

Her snazziness has no thesis.

None can harm or tame her.

She is Hannah. The Atheist.

__________________________________________________________

Word count: 243 (The challenge hasn't been posted yet...so this may need to be adjusted accordingly.)

This story is based on the name of one of my dearest friends, who happens to be an atheist (but she doesn't go around trying to convert people!!) Using the letters ACEHIMNORSTZ, I was able to come up with over 300 words before I decided to stop - I didn't end up using most of them! The most interesting thing was seeing how getting a particular idea into your head (e.g. religion and atheism) affects the sorts of words you come up with.

Challenge 24: If fear is an idiosyncracy, it's one most of my people have.

2010-06-10T01:44:00.010+12:00

If fear is an idiosyncrasy, it’s one most of my people have.

"There weren't cars or buses. I crawled here with nothing but my ID card in my pocket."
That's what the old man said. He probably wasn't that old, but to you he'd have looked it.

You know, I'm scared even to write this. I'm scared someone will come after me, or maybe him. That's why you'll only ever hear half the story from me.

“I lost some of my family in the big wave. The rest in the bombing. My town’s completely flattened. When you look at a destroyed city, you see the remains – the ruins of a building, or some trees, or a road. But in my town there are trees growing here the middle of a road used to be. I can’t tell where my house was.”

The old man who can smile and ask for some gum after telling you that story – who can freely, trustingly, invite you to visit his house next time you’re in town (‘just ask for the groundskeeper ’) – has far more strength than I ever did.

I was terrified. Barbed wire metres high – security checks and checks and checks. I’d promised to look for my cousin’s friend’s family. All I had were a name and two photos.

I should tell you now that I didn’t find them, so you aren’t disappointed.

I saw a body hanging from a tree. Grey and horrible, and I tried not to look. At the time, I thought about the risk of disease, but I guess one body in a tree wasn’t much in view of the raw sewage and the mound, against the fence on the far side of the camp, in which I’m sure I spotted rags and limbs.

Most of the time I focused on what expression to keep on my face. You shouldn’t look too scared, or they’ll see you’re an easy target. You shouldn’t look too cocky, or they’ll be suspicious. You shouldn’t look too anything in front of people with guns and batons.

Strange - surrounded by people starving and injured and orphaned and scared, you can’t stop thinking about yourself. Whether anyone would notice if they shot you in the head and chucked you on top of that mound by the fence, or if they refused to let you leave and kept you behind the barbed wire forever. You wouldn’t have anyone to take care of you. Do you admire the people in that camp for coping? Do you admire the one who hung him- or-herself from the tree?

But really, most of that thinking comes later because, in there, you’re focused on looking as disinterested and uninteresting as possible. (Maybe it’s different if you have a different skin colour). Maybe it’s just me...(maybe it’s different if you don’t speak the language and can’t hear their words, screaming, crying). What would you do? I’ve run out of adjectives. Superlatives. What would you do when you see or feel or know something superlatives can’t describe?

I can’t take you there. Whether or not I use superlatives isn’t important. This is only going to sound like what you see on tv every day or read in a book.

I wanted to write it down. When I was out from the barbed wire, was past the checkpoints, put my face back on, had the luxury of thinking about humanity and atrocities and that. I thought that if I write it down, people will read about it and they’ll care. Things could be the tiniest bit better.

I’m still scared. Tomorrow I’ll go to work - try not to think about it, like you. How else can I get through the day? Concession: a few minutes every hour worrying that they’ll come after me.

Voluntary apathy? Voluntary ignorance? Selective concern? Concern on tap, only when it’s required - unavoidable? Is that a crime or a right? Or are you just scared too?

_____________________________________________________________

Word count: 660

- This story is fictional.

Challenge 23: She lives here (R)

2010-04-20T12:43:00.004+12:00

The closet’s still full of my stuff. Although it’s dark I can feel my flannelette pyjamas, crumpled on the floor where I last threw them, beneath my bare feet. Hiding in the closet in the house we bought together, listening to them outside, the first thought that occurs to me is that I should’ve vacuumed inside more often. It smells disgustingly like camphor – I never used mothballs, so it must’ve been Donald’s idea. I made a pomander, with a lemon and cloves, but he must have thrown it out because I can’t smell it at all.

I admit it was risky coming back but I didn’t think he would be able to face it either – I thought he’d still be staying at his brother’s. I couldn’t imagine Donald living here without me…well, apparently he’s moved on and clearly, so has Ella. I can tell it’s her from the way she moves confidently around the room. Not surprising since she’s so familiar with it. She’s quiet and she’s left her shoes outside as she used to do when she visited. Donald’s clumsy as always – it took him long enough to unlock the door that I heard them and dodged into the bedroom. Then his footsteps got closer and I jumped in here.

I can smell Ella’s deodorant. Same one she wore when we went clubbing last time, though that was months ago. It was too strong and made me sneeze. I can smell her fruity shampoo. I told her it smelt like food and she was offended. And I can smell her dirty socks. Donald smells like sweat and socks and his work-cologne, though he shouldn’t have been at work today (and if he was, why isn’t he there now?). He was meant to have five days off. Maybe he did get them, though. I remember he wore his work-cologne to our first three dates.

Considering how noisy Donald usually is, they manage to keep the volume down, I guess so the neighbours won’t be scandalised. I try to ignore it – honestly – but it sounds like rushed sex, like Donald really wanted it and couldn’t be bothered waiting for a more appropriate time. Admittedly, he hasn’t had sex for months, or at least he’d better not have. I pinch my nose and look for the mothballs so I won’t smell it.

Ella’s meant to be at work too. She works full time mid-morning to evening, because she says she’s not a morning person. I hear her putting her clothes on – the shoulder strap on her bra flicking against her skin as she adjusts it, the elastic on her undies. She’s wearing that stupid purple shirt with a zip instead of buttons, and by the rustling sound, I guess she’s wearing it with her white gypsy skirt. I always told her it was a bad combination.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you though,” Donald says as he puts his shoes on. She waits. I know the expectant look she’ll have on her face. “It’s Kay. She’s hanging around.” I briefly contemplate drifting out the back of the closet, but I still haven’t got used to the idea.
“Donald.” Now she’s got the expression she had when I told her I was sick. I can hear it in her voice. “Kay’s dead.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

Word count: 550

Challenge 24

2010-04-20T11:56:00.002+12:00

Ways of Seeing

Imagine a person with an idiosyncratic way of seeing the world (for instance, an occasional drug dealer who is prone to seeing danger where there is none; an entomologist who tends to categorize the world dryly, as if seeing it through a microscope etc). Have this character witness a traumatic even that does not directly involve her. Narrate the event from a first-person POV, making sure that the perspective is carefully built around the idiosyncrasies of this personality.

Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 23: Closet Secrets

2010-04-20T02:06:00.002+12:00

Darren couldn't believe his luck when the lock clicked open. How many times had he come here? Never before as an intruder.
The wooden 'A' on her bedroom door was a little crooked. He reached out to straighten it, out of habit, but then pulled back.
A small pile of dirty washing sat on the chair, awaiting her attention. The thin silver laptop on her desk hummed and he flipped the lid up, hoping to find a clue to her decision. The desktop was dark with inky swirls. Like Sara's artwork, full of questions.
“I can't believe he did that!”
Darren's heart plummeted. Amber was home and not alone. He scanned the room. There was only one window, behind the desk on a security latch. The only one other option was the closet.
The sliding door clicked shut as Amber's rich laugh filled the room.
Darren's breath caught as he recognized the second giggle. His sister Sara. “Yeah, he used to be such a prat, but then we both were as kids.”
The closet door creaked open. Darren flinched. Amber shoved a coat inside as she said, “He isn't such a bad guy... maybe you should try talking to him again.”
The footfalls moved away from the closet again and the bed squeaked some more.
Someone sniffed.
“Oh hon, I'm sorry. You haven't told him yet, have you?”
“No,” Sara squealed. “He can't ever, ever know.”
“How do you plan to keep it a secret?”
Darren felt like he was suffocating on the pong of camphor. He thought only old grandmothers still used camphor in their wardrobes.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” Sara sighed heavily. “I missed you...”
A lump grew in Darren's throat as the bed springs echoed a new flurry of disturbingly familiar sounds. Amber would always moan, just like that, a little groan in the back of her throat, when he kissed her. He was powerless to block them out as the moans grew louder, interspersed with indecipherable whispers. His fist clenched around the hem of Amber's summer dress, head leaned back against the cool smooth wood of the closet.
Darren had no idea how much time passed, filled with creaks and squeaks and groans. His entire body had cramped up, but still, he dared not make any noise. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of the two young woman entwined, fingers tracing skin. His stomach heaved and his dick hardened in turn. Amber had never let him touch her below the waist, claiming she was saving herself for marriage. As for Sara, she lost her voice completely around boys. He thought she was just shy.
Eventually, the sounds crescendoed, then faded to puppy-like whimpers.
“I'm here, hon,” Amber whispered. “It's okay. You're safe.”
Safe? Darren almost jolted at the word. What could Sara possibly be afraid of.
“I get so close,” she sobbed, “but then that face rears up and I freeze. I'm sorry. I just can't do it.”
“Healing takes time... I would know.”
Darren's hand slipped from her summer dress and banged onto his knee, hard. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. They had both been drunk that night and she had looked so beautiful, his Amber. All he wanted was to feel those gorgeous tits, but then one thing led to another. Her dress slid so easily up her thigh. Her knickers were white and so thin. He could feel the heat of her butt through the fabric. God, he had wanted to much to touch her, he couldn't hear her crying for him to stop. Why wouldn't she let him.
His nose still ached from where she had punched him. Darren woke up the next day with the worst hangover and an even worse message on his cellphone. It was over.
Snores made him think he was safe, but then the closet inched open, silently, and Amber looked down at him, wearing only her pink fluffy bathrobe.
“You can come out now.”
Darren winced at the thought, as much as being discovered. It hurt too much to move. Amber grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet. He stumbled out of the closet and into her waiting arms.
“I'm so sorry,” he murmured into her neck. He wasn't sure if he was apologizing to her, or Sara.
“I know.” Amber patted the back of his head. “I know...”
The scent of her made him want to cry. He glanced up to see his little sister sprawled on his ex-girlfriend's bed, her messy black hair sprawled around her pale face. Cotton sheets discreetly covered her naked body.
“Why...”
“We need each other, Darren,” she sighed. “Maybe one day, she will tell you.”

Challenge 23

2010-04-19T22:20:00.003+12:00

The Closet

Write a story in which the narrator is snooping around an ex-boyfriend (or Girlfriend's) apartment because he or she still has a key. They whole story takes place in a closet in the bedroom that the narrator retreats to when said ex comes home with the narrator's best briend. The narrator must endure whatever this couple gets up to. Describe only what the narrator can see and smell inside the closet and what he/she can hear or guess is going on outside. Don't rub salt in the wounds, but rather focus on as much detail as possible of the outside world. You can present the narrators deep anger or sadness without having to describe it.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 22: Dreams of Ducks

2010-04-18T22:34:00.000+12:00

The little yellow duckling perches on the edge of the river bank, wanting to follow his siblings into the water, but too scared to make the leap. I know how he feels.

It's funny how, when you're little, people think you don't understand anything. They have to tell you what to do. That little duck's mother is chirping at him, telling him to hurry up and do as he's told. It's very naughty to hesitate. My papa says that if I hesitate to follow his commands, it might kill me.

Twittering, the duckling pleads with mama to help him, he can't push himself over the edge. He backs up and tries to take a running jump, but at the edge, he stops. Mama turns around and paddles away, the line of ducklings following, not looking back. That is all the encouragement he needs. He can stand the thought of being left behind. He jumps. A splash, a surprised cheep and he's swimming furiously to catch up. Tough love.

When I close my eyes, I can still see Sonja, my big sister, paying for her disobedience. She has fat tears sticking to her cheeks as she leans over me to kiss my hair, then they drag her away and toss her through the blue wall of safety to the wilderness beyond. She is engulfed by the clouds of ash. A big hole opens up in my heart, but I can't let on, or papa my throw me out with her. I'm perched at the edge of a huge gulf and I'm too scared to jump.

The siren wakes me and I sit up straight away. I'm really good at pulling my boots on, then my jacket. I'm standing outside the door before my mind starts wondering what's wrong this time. The next thing, Simon comes running up the corridor. That's pretty normal, actually. Papa is too busy to come get me in emergencies. Simon scoops me up without saying anything. His face is really white, except for the huge bruise under his right eye. I don't struggle, not me.

We go down the stairs, through all the busy corridors. Everyone is scrambling about. No one notices me and Simon. Out through the mechanical-engineering wing and up the road past the big building people call Erskine. I asked Jack why once. She said some old guy gave the University a lot of money, but Jack makes up answers when she doesn't know them, so maybe she's lying.

There is a motorbike in the stand which looks like it hasn't been used for a very long time. Simon heaves me onto the front and revs it up. I am really surprised that it has any fuel. Things like that are rationed these days. I can't hold back a squeal of joy as we zoom off down the empty streets. I have no idea where we are going, but this is the funnest adventure in a long time.

There is a big supermarket about half way to the edge of the blue bubble. It's always under guard, but it's where papa keeps all the supplies organized. It has more than just food there now. Jack goes shopping for computer bits in the underground carpark, since no one drives these days. Simon grabs me off the bike and goes over to the grate. She's in there, arguing with some dude with floppy brown hair. The guy by the switch stares Simon down. “Whatcha want.”

“I need Jack,” he replies simply, not reacting to the hatred I can see in the man's face.

The guy grimaces and the turns on his heel.

“Oi, Jack,” he yells. “Michael's whore wants to talk to you.”

Jack's head snaps up and her eyes lock onto Simon's face through the grate. Slowly, she crosses the carpark to stand on the other side, but she doesn't open the grate. She looks at me in Simon's arms and says, “Aren't you old enough to walk, kiddo?”

“I need to talk to you,” Simon whispers. He lets me down and I crouch, pulling at my jacket. It's really cold.

Jack folds her arms, but doesn't walk away. In grown up's talk, that means she's listening.

“I need you to take James for a couple of days.”

I stand up at that, looking between Simon and Jack.

“You need me to, or Michael does?” She is pretty pissed off. “You're the one that's practically married to the bastard. I don't intend to be his pawn much longer.”

“Good,” Simon hisses. “Then take the kid with you for God's sake. I don't trust Michael around him anymore.”

“Oh merde.” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “You should come too, Simon. Just walk away.”

“I can't, Jack.” His voice is barely a whisper. He and Jack used to be about to get married but then Simon started working for my dad and Jack threw her ring in the trash compacter. “He depends on me.”

“Fine,” she says, turning her back on him so he can't see how sad she is. “Leave him with me. Sonja and Robbie will be glad to have him back.”

My breath catches. My brother and sister are out there, waiting for me, but I still have to jump. I won't let anyone just drag me over that ledge.

Simon walks away without saying anything and I run after him, crying. “Why are you sending me away. Papa will be so angry.”

Simon turns and kneels in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I'm sorry James, but it's not right, what your daddy does. I am going to try and make him stop, but if I don't succeed, I need to know you are safe.”

Simon got on the bike again and drove away. He didn't even look back. Tough love. I sat down on the pavement in the cold and cried. There was no choice now. I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't go back and get Simon in trouble. I would go with Jack into the unknown and maybe there would be a family of Collins out there to snuggle up to and make me feel a little bit braver.

Challenge 22: The day after the bubble

2010-04-14T17:11:00.001+12:00

Jack was running up the stairs, but they just kept going. Michael and his team were in the room at the top, and that they had less than thirty-seven minutes to activate Project Genesis and pull the bubbles down over Christchurch and Lincoln before the missile hit. Her parents were at home, they didn't know. It didn't matter if the bubble didn't work.

When she finally got to the top, no one was in the office. She was alone with several computers, which should’ve been okay, and several other machines which made no sense to her. But when she turned to the first computer, it had no keyboard and all the monitor showed was a big red dot flashing on a black screen.

She dug her cellphone out of her large canvas bag and called Michael, but it was Simon who answered. "I’m just out of Lincoln – I’ll handle things here," he said. "You've got to work out what to do in Christchurch. It’ll be okay!" He was saying something about power sources but his mobile cut out and there was an engaged tone. Jack knew the missile must’ve hit, and the bubbles weren’t up. The beeping got louder, and Jack wondered if it was the interference from the missile.

She panicked for a moment when she woke up, but figured Simon must’ve messed with her alarm clock again. Jack never had crazy dreams when she woke up to Shaun and Geoff.

“Shit, Simon, I had the most awful dream you were dead,” she mumbled, rolling over, before she realised Simon wasn’t in bed and remembered she’d changed from the radio alarm last night because Shaun and Geoff and Radio New Zealand had probably blown up along with everything else. The bubbles didn’t connect, and most of the Lincoln team didn’t make it, and she hadn’t had parents for seventeen years.

Moaning a little, because it sometimes made her feel better, she extricated herself from the bed and stumbled into the living room, where Simon was sitting on the sofa with his arms around his knees. “You could’ve come to bed,” she said very quietly, so he wouldn’t hear, and perched on the other end of the sofa, watching him carefully. Simon unwound himself and stretched his neck. “I don’t mean to make it difficult – I know you want to help, but it’ll come right by itself.”
“Don’t you want to talk?” she settled back a bit.
“Not yet. Look, we’d better eat all the stuff in the fridge first. I think there’s a bottle of milk left – is that okay for breakfast?”
She ran after him, into the kitchen.

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Word count: 440

Challenge 22

2010-04-14T00:27:00.001+12:00

Alarm Clock Dream

Write a short story in which an alarm clock going off in the middle of the story plays some kind of crucial role. Half of the story will be dream and half reality.Try to construct a mirror image on either side of this alarm clock sound.

Wordcount: 400 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 21: Butterfly Shoes

2010-04-14T00:17:00.001+12:00

July 17th was the day I fell in love. Opening the box and peeling back those layers of paper, I caught my first glimpse of the soft velvety crimson, lined in black and topped with delicate little butterflies. Jimmy Choos spring collection had never been so heartbreakingly adorable. That entire day, I gushed to co-workers and customers alike. I sold fifteen pairs before closing time, which was a personal record, especially given their three hundred and seventy five dollar price tag. The next day was the same. Of course, people wanted them in different colors – blue, green, black and pink – but my heart belonged to the red ones. There was a box in my size sitting on the bottom shelf of our stock room and I had put an angel face on the label. Saving ten dollars a week from my pay, I would own those beautiful shoes in only thirty seven weeks.

The days went by and my love turned to a quiet obsession. I began to covet the display model. My smile was still wide and my enthusiasm genuine, but I found myself wondering what force of fate had given those doll-like girls such rich and handsome benefactors when I was all alone. My cheeks would heat at the thoughtless swipe of plastic, as if three hundred and seventy five dollars were as inconsequential as a three dollar bagel from Bagelman's across the street.

Weeks turned to months. Our supplies of the butterfly spring sandal dwindled to one pair of black size tens, a blue size eight and my red size seven. The supervisor came to me the morning before my birthday and said, “Emma, we can't hold these for you any longer. They have to go out on display.”

I nodded automatically, then hurried to the staff bathroom, still holding my breath. I stared at my face in the mirror, pale, eyes wide. Breathe, I thought. It's okay. I breathed, then a tear slipped out the corner of my eye. I brushed it away fiercely, hating myself for being so immature. I was twenty-four for God's sake! They were only shoes. Who cared if I had saved three hundred and twelve dollars, including interest? What did it matter if the shoes ended up on the feet of yet another faceless blonde bimbo with a rich sugar daddy? When would I ever wear such stupid impractical shoes anyway?

I dried my eyes and forced myself back out onto the floor. I smiled and nodded at all the right moments, even summoning appropriate enthusiasm when ladies eyed the last butterfly sandals. I couldn't stop the flood of relief, however, when the shop closed and the red ones were still sitting there, at the top of the plastic pyramid.

At home that night, I made myself a hot cup of peppermint tea. My cellphone went off just as I sat down on the couch to watch the news. My hand jerked in surprise and half a cup of scalding water ended up on my jeans.

“Hello?” I half-yelped into the phone as I searched for something to mop up the mess.

“Emma?”

“Jassie? I thought you were in the Himalayas. Do they have cell phone reception up there?”

“Oh god, Emma,” she sobbed. “I am in so much shit. The border guys in China caught me with coke in my bags. I swear I was set up, but if I don't pay them a lot of money, I don't know what they're going to do.”

“How much do you need?” I didn't even contemplate the possibility that Jassie was lying. My sister was a crazy thrill seeker, but she would never do anything to put herself or her friends in real danger.

“Two thousand, maybe more...”

“Do they take pay pal?” My joke sounded pathetic, even to me. “Look, I'll send a bank cheque or something. Let me check it out tomorrow morning and I'll have you out of there as soon as I can.”

Morning came and I realized I hadn't slept all night. My cellphone reminded me it was my birthday. I rolled out of bed and called my workmate Karla to tell her what had happened. About half an hour later, I trudged down the road in a zombie-like stupor to catch the eight a.m. bus.

“Two thousand yuan?” the lady behind the counter raised an eyebrow. “And this is to be sent to the China State penitentiary? Very well. That will be three hundred and five dollars including exchange fees.”

I just nodded.

At work that day, the red butterfly shoes seemed to taunt me. I knew I had done the right thing. I was even glad for my long obsession, because it had caused me to save some money, money that may well have saved Jassie's life. When I came back from my fifteen minute afternoon break, the shoes were gone. I figured it was better if I didn't know who had bought them.

My till balanced perfectly at the end of that day, though it had an unusual amount of small change. Seventy five five dollar notes, in fact.

The yell of 'surprise' startled me as I entered the staff room to collect my satchel. So many faces staring eagerly into mine. Birthday streamers and balloons lined the walls. Karla, my best friend, stood in the middle, grinning at me. The crowd parted then, and I could see the box sitting on the coffee table. It was wrapped with lacy red ribbons, but I could still see the angel face I had drawn on the label. Fresh tears came to my eyes as I pulled Karla into a fierce hug.

“It's from all of us,” she whispered.

“Thanks.”

I could feel their hands on my arms and shoulders. Suddenly I didn't feel so alone.

Challenge 21: Her shawl

2010-04-13T23:38:00.004+12:00

This is how a girl wraps her shawl: Draped over her head. One end next to her face. Once end around her neck and flung over the same shoulder.

A girl can't make do without a shawl. Particularly when it's raining, or when she’s walking at night and the boys lounging against a wall on the street might stare at her. When she’s wearing a shawl, they can't tell if she’s a ninety-year old grandma or a sixteen-year old girl.

What she didn't realise was that they can mug a ninety-year old grandma or rape a sixteen-year old girl, and it doesn't make much difference to them either way.

Her shawl was silky and blue on one side, and silky and pale purple on the other, and elegant and rectangular, (without frilly bits, because she insisted) and she bought it at the shop right across town when I gave her the money I'd been saving for weeks as her birthday present.

I knew about the boys lounging against the walls on the streets, because they stared at me too, and called out (though more often they threw rocks and old bottles). But I didn't realise either. I go out to work at six in the morning, and stack things at a warehouse all day. I used to come home just after dark, except when we were short of money and I had to find some. In the meantime she took care of herself, visit the neighbours, make up stories to tell me - and when she got a job at the grocer's she worked some days too. She was always home before me. The oil lamp would be lit, and we'd cook over the small gas stove, or eat some bread if I'd bought any, and laugh about her stories, the grocer, and the other guys at my work.

Except one day, when she wasn't home and I went looking for her, and saw a flash of silky pale purple trampled into the ground.

I saw her after she made her statement. She found her way to the station, after I’d already been there. I was at home, curled up in a corner of the room we shared, when they all knocked on my door and my heart started pounding so hard I didn’t think I could reach to open the door. She came in first, her shawl limp between two fingers in her left hand, and they went away. I wanted to give her food, and comfort, but I didn’t have either.

I didn’t go to work the next day, but I had to buy bread, and when I came back she wasn’t there. It’s my fault, because I didn’t ask her what happened or tell her she was always my sister and that I loved her and all of the other things I should’ve said. I still don’t know what I should’ve said.

I looked for her, but it was a long time before I saw her next.

I’m four years older than my little sister. She doesn’t know some of the things I did to feed her when I was sixteen. I learned how to call out and how to answer when the boys on the street call (and really mean it), so that she wouldn’t ever have to. I wish I’d told her about it though, because maybe that last night, when we each huddled in our corners and I pleaded with her, she saw herself through my eyes without knowing what my eyes saw.

Now she makes me see her through her eyes. Because I’ve seen her on the sidewalks too, with a short skirt and red on her cheeks, and a slinky bit of blue hanging around her hips. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she doesn’t recognise me any more – I know, because she called out to me once or twice.

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Word count: 649

Challenge 20: My wedding

2010-04-13T17:01:00.004+12:00

The sun shone out of the clear sky onto my yellow dress.

Everyone thinks their wedding should've been perfect. I've actually been to a couple that 'ere perfect, so I know they're real.

I even told 'im he could just turn up in nice pants and a shirt. Something that matched. The problem with Johnny is, he's too laid-back, and he took this as meaning blue jeans and a denim jacket.

I'm pretty pissed off at whoever said the bride and groom shouldn't see each other before the wedding. I'm even more pissed off at Johnny. And tha's quite something, because most people say I'm a cheery sorta gal.

I chucked me bouquet at him, ya know. After I walked up the aisle and managed to get me veil outta my face, and saw what my Johnny was wearing. All those daffodils and daisies raining on his head, and him standing there not knowing what he done wrong. Then off I stormed out of the church and nearly fell in the stream, crossing the bridge. Flopped down on the pebbles on the stream bank and stared at the sky.

Me mam came after me, and then Johnny. I threw Ma's hat at 'im and all them canary feathers or whatever she had in there rained on his head too, and serve him right. Then it was his turn to storm off, and mam after him scowling like anything at me - at me, when he's the one that turns up in jeans to 'is own wedding.

Ah, but me poor Johnny's just a sailor lad, and I guess he don't know any better.

So I'm lyin' there staring at the sky, and then at the church where I can see in the stained glass, th' Virgin Mary with her halo is lookin' at me reproachfully. Aw, ok, she's lookin' at Baby Jesus in her arms, but I don't mind admitting I felt kinda bad then. Mebbe the Virgin Mary brought out all my motherly instincts, like, and I felt sorry for 'im and 'is little sister - she was there too, standing on the other side of the bridge in her little baby blue dress lookin' after me and lookin' away when she knew I was lookin' - growing up without a mam. Who's to tell Johnny he oughtn't wear jeans to 'is wedding? Poor thing. If 'nything, this shows jest why 'e needs to be married to a good sens'ble wife.

That's when I ran after him - up to his car that he'd painted royal for the occasion, and jumped in the front seat and ripped me garter off and chucked it at 'im too - well why not, after I'd chucked flowers an' feathers? An' that's how we scandalised the whole church.

I don' think the Virgin Mary gives a toss though, or she wouldn'a thought of it.

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Word count: 481

I'm not sure what the colours contribute to the story - the original idea was that blue was more laid back and calm, while yellow was cheerful and exciteable. I think I gave up on that in favour of getting something written :P

Challenge 19: IN FILM - Fifty years ago today

2010-04-13T14:13:00.004+12:00

The following excerpt is from an early review of the film Can-can, published in this magazine exactly fifty years ago.

“Pol and his fellow Coca-Cola Canians have an accommodation problem.

Pol lives on a Coca-Cola can. A very, very large Coca-Cola can, which orbits around a star, much in the same way as our own planet Earth.

Unfortunately, a key industry in Pol's home planet involves drilling through the soft metal of the planet's crust to obtain and export the ever-popular fizzy drink. The redistribution of the Coca-Cola is resulting in a gradual loss of mass, a slowing of planetary rotation - and, eventually, the planet begins to drift away from its sun, cooling and becoming uninhabitable.

Follow Pol and his companions on their journey as they leave their solar system in a search for a new home.”

Can-can is an unusual exploration of outer space, with a hint of a late 20th- early 21st century environmental or social message hidden somewhere. The relatively understated acting and special effects, and the educational tone adopted, are particularly notable. Sadly, this film missed its own boat – released at a time when 3D movies and melodramatic science fiction were more popular than ever, Can-can was passed over by critics and moviegoers alike.

Much of the science in this film has now been disproven, and whatever environmental or social messages it hints at (far too vaguely, in this critic’s opinion) are of course far from topical now. However, Can-can’s failure is a valuable lesson – released a decade earlier, it could have been very successful, if not recognised as a classic.

While there is little use, or market, for such a film in the present day, Can-can should be included, as a counterbalance, in any study of 1990s – 2020s films, in order to better understand the mentality of filmgoers of the day.

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Word count: 307

'Can-can' is a story I planned to write back in my second year of high school. I even wrote two pages of it. My response to this challenge originally started off as just a synopsis, but tearing it to pieces seemed like more fun.

Challenge 18: Nursery rhymes

2010-04-13T10:49:00.002+12:00

Piggy on a railway, picking up stones
Along came a little train and broke Piggy’s nose.
“The news is going to start,” snaps the young man, throwing his cellphone down and fumbling for the remote.
Oh! said Piggy, That’s not fair!
“Oh, let her watch!” His wife turns from the stove and sighs as the toddler on the couch began to cry.
Well, said the little train, I Don’t Care.
The man puts an arm around his daughter, who ignores him, and watches the cartoon pig bending over again.
Piggy on a railway, picking up stones
“Just this one, and then Dad has to watch the news.”
Along came a little train and broke Piggy’s nose.
“This is a cartoon for children, and it has pigs getting their noses bloodied by evil trains?” he grumbles.
Oh! said Piggy, That’s not fair! - “It’s a cartoon for children that you brought from Singapore, and she likes it. Don’t ask me!”
Well, said the little train, I Don’t Care.

Without waiting for the train to disappear from the screen, he stops the DVD player and switches channels.
show has been a particular success this year, with over seventy dogs participating.
“It’s almost six-thirty, we’ve probably missed it,” he says, standing and stretching, turning to see what his wife’s up to in the kitchen. Then he hurriedly returns to his place.
results have caused widespread rioting in the capital. All flights in and out of the country have been cancelled. Travellers are asked
“Dinner’s ready! Come on, honey, shall we get into the high chair?”
The man grabs his wife’s wrist as she goes to pick up the child. “Wait a minute. Watch this.” They’re showing some fancy looking building.
High Commission. The travel advisory risk level is extreme.
“What’s happened?” she asks, sitting next to him, pulling their daughter closer. Now there are images of smoke and screaming people.
Fighting in the west of the country has also intensified, with bomb blasts in two towns causing an estimated one hundred deaths, and unverified reports of civilians being shot at checkpoints. The UN has
The woman jumps up, hugging the toddler tightly, and snatches the cordless phone from its cradle. “What’s the card number?”
“I don’t know, don’t worry about it, just call,” says the man, dialling a number on his cellphone. “Hey, have you seen the news?”
She dials too, puts on speaker phone so she can hear over the volume of the television. A loud, empty beeping noise is followed by a woman’s voice. Sorry, this connection is not presently available. Please try again later.
Beep.
Beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep, beeeep. Sorry, this connection is not presently available. Please try again later.
“I expect everyone’s trying to get through now. Let’s have dinner, and then you can try again.” He pats her on the shoulder and goes to the kitchen, opening and closing the dishes, finding cutlery. She stares at the phone for a few more seconds, then reaches for the remote and turns off the television.

The toddler starts crying again.
“It’s time to eat,” the mother coaxes her, but she shakes her head violently and snatches the remote. She kicks when her mother tries to pick her up.
“Let her watch her DVD then,” says the man, piling up his plate. The woman frowns, and watches while the child presses several different buttons, eventually finding the one she wants. A small cartoon mouse appears next to a towering grandfather clock.
Hickory dickory dock,

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Word count: 585

Challenge 17: The midnight visitors

2010-04-12T22:36:00.004+12:00

The soldier’s hands look like loud banging on the door, his boots the shaking of the ground when you’re lying on your mat on the floor and can smell blood on the inside of your nose, and footsteps on the outside staircase. He stands in the doorway, glaring at you as you clutch the baby and whisper aside to let him in, handing over your ID card and then your sister’s. Your voice is gravelly and bitter; his is sometimes soft like ochre, and sometimes disgusting, like faeces, sometimes it’s hard like a big block of wood, and sometimes it’s darker and far, far, scarier, like the rifle he swings forward, almost delicately, in a low glissando.

You switch on the lights for him and he opens the pantry cupboards first. Then the fridge. The fan’s going in the living room, where you were sleeping, but the kitchen has the uncomfortable heat of a rotten melon. It’s almost nice to let your sweat cool, but he doesn’t look at the fridge for more than a few seconds before moving on – the bathroom, the wardrobes. You’ve given up being embarrassed about underwear when he checks the drawers, although it’d be nice if your husband were home, because you don’t speak the language of the soldier, which is just as curly as yours but in a different way, and your English is as boxy and gap-toothed as his. Your sister is still standing in a corner of the living room in her quiet cotton nightdress – she’s not brave enough to follow him around but you know you’re lucky they haven’t kicked you out, that you can make sure he doesn’t steal anything. You’re lucky that the other three are standing outside the front door and not herding you into a corner with their screaming guns and army fatigues.

Looking more closely, you can tell the soldier is sweating too – little wonder, in that outfit. He didn’t take his boots off, and he doesn’t when he gets to the room where your fragrant statues of Gods and sticks of incense live next to the computer, though that would have been a bit much to hope for.

Looking more closely, you can tell he’s old enough to be out of school, which makes an improvement on the last time. His cap’s falling off a bit, and his hair is greasy like a priest’s.

You wonder if he’ll blare into next door with his little troupe and wake up the grandma with two legs and the grandpa with one leg. (He has a walking frame, though, and that makes up for a missing leg as far as all the kids in the apartment block are concerned).

Your sister wonders if he saw her underwear, and is terrified at the thought. She takes her ID card back without meeting his eyes, and she’s cocooned in her shawl, wrapped twice around her torso and her arms crossed over her breasts just in case. You never bothered telling her that her nightdress is see-through in the light, and edge in front of her before she (or the soldier) notices.

You see him out with an acrid look, one foot holding the door open, baby in your left arm and right palm open for your ID card. He studies it again, very, very closely, and then studies your face. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.

The soldier flings your ID card into your hand and takes his groundshaking, door-banging crocodiles next door.

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Word count: 582

Challenge 16: More than you think

2010-04-12T19:05:00.021+12:00

You think I’m just a statue on the wall, one of hundreds, but I know things too. Not just the temple. Oh, I know the other girls, the jink of silver belled-anklets echoing the thudding of heels on the beaten earth floor. The clunk of gold and glass bangles on our arms, the oddianam shifting around my waist, glittering ornaments gliding and catching on the silk below my hips. Hands, with tracings of red, blossoming out to draw you pictures in the air, pictures of my devotion and my God and his stories.

If you lean back far enough when you’re dancing, you can see the beautiful colours on the temple ceiling. When you straighten up, you can glimpse the image of God, there behind his gates. There out of the corner of your eye, and thakka thim, and there right in front of you - as your plait swings around and a bit of jasmine falls out of your hair, and a little round bead off your heavy anklet - and thakkida and there again. There’s a whiff of camphor burning, slightly rotten fruit, cows, bananas, sweat, wet soil and flowers.

Oh no, it’s not much of a life for a girl like you, if you want to live in a house and have a bit of land and children and a husband. All I want is my God.

I heard a story once.

It was about a young priest, young like me.

He was born to a not particularly well-off farming family, the fourth child among three sons and two daughters. He worked on the farm and looked after his little sister. He loved his family, and he loved his country, but he far more loved his God.

He may have become a priest anyway, because he was the third son and there wasn’t much other use for him. Perhaps for this reason, or perhaps because he loved his God even before he was a priest, he never thought twice about his vocation.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He prayed about it once when he was unsure, when he was fifteen. This didn’t cause earthquakes or apparitions – it didn’t cause candles to light up or even to go out – so he decided to go ahead and become a priest anyway. After that he never thought twice about his vocation. He went to a seminary and, when he was twenty-three, he became a priest. By then, both of his brothers were married. The first had one child; the second had two.

He wore a black coat and a little white square in his collar. On Sundays, and quite often on other days too, he stood up and talked to people

He made an excellent priest. He stood by his God and his people, but he never condemned someone else who stood by their religion or their people. This is, perhaps, what I admire most about him.

One day he was killed by some people who didn’t believe in people (and they probably didn’t believe in God either).

I forget what his name was, so that’s not much of a story, is it?

When I was fifteen, I went to live in the temple. I married my God. We girls didn’t stand up and talk to people on Sundays or on other days, at least not very often, but we danced.

You see a lot of things when you’re a statue on the wall. I know things beyond the temple, and dancing. I know things beyond the images behind the gates being thrown into the wells, and beyond the temple dancers being called prostitutes and thrown out into the streets. I know my God, and I know the priest with the little white square in his collar, who also knew his God.

_____________________________________________________________

Word count: 632

This piece of writing is meant with the utmost respect to the photos, their subjects, and the photographers.

The first photograph is from www.kamat.com/kalranga/art/sculptures/19071.htm. I am not sure whether the woman in the sculpture is a devadasi, as I have described her.

I'd also like to refer you to this article about Father Jerzy, the subject of the second photograph (who 'the priest' is loosely based on): http://stjeromeparish.ca/fr_jerzy.asp.

Challenge 21: The Jacket with Wings

2010-04-12T17:28:00.010+12:00

Just got my very first 'yes' from a publisher ever!! The Jacket with Wings will be appearing in the Summer edition of Black Lantern (http://blacklanternpublishing3.blogspot.com/2009/12/jacket-with-wings.html). For that reason, it is no longer available here.

*hugs and grins all round*

- Love Ani

Challenge 15: The carving

2010-04-08T16:00:00.007+12:00

The dark patches of shadow have retreated and the dusty street is lit up. The carver shifts on her green plastic chair and moves closer to the dirty plaster wall, out of the sun. In one hand is a damp grey rag; in the other, a square piece of wood. The shopfront across the street is dangling wood and coconut-shell cutlery, wooden statues, and little wooden pencil holders or key holders or sets of hooks meant for holding something (no one knows what) or sets of holes meant for holding something (no one knows what), with images of palm trees and boats, and thick, gleaming varnish. It is nearly identical to the shopfronts on either side of it. In fact, if one were to wander down the street (the only street that is apparent in this village) it would be clear that all of the shopfronts are nearly identical - apart from one which sells everything else; that is, packages of biscuits and fizzy drink, jandals, bulbs - even though no one has electric lights, batteries, matchboxes, plastic toy cars, metal boxes, figurines of gods (and that's just the front of the shop). Fruit and vegetable stalls have sprung up this morning just outside of the village.

The carver has made a knot across the front of her skirt, so it hangs just above her knees. The soles of her bare feet rub indulgently against the soft, pale grey dirt on the ground. Tiny dark wood chips are scattered where her chair was before. The wood in her hand is a proud but warm brown, the brown in a cuckoo's feathers. Out of the wood comes a bird with tiny carved feathers- not a cuckoo - a bird with alluring, womanly eyes; elegantly curved tail; a beak like parted lips from which emerge swirls (water, or flame, or ribbon).

-----------------------------------------------------

Sunrise has revealed a strong blue sky and a warm day. It's still early - there's no one else about on the wooden walkway as a girl in boots, tartan blanket under arm, strolls beside the wide river, gazing into water that doesn't seem to be flowing, but must be because the ducks are moving fast and they aren't paddling. Trees droop into the leaden water, and around the boardwalk is a little forest of ferns and vines.

She stops at an embayment where the walkway juts out close to the river. Angular letters are scratched into the weathered handrail, forming names or initials or swearwords. There are trees next to her: one tree with small white flowers and small green leaves. Another tree with bigger purple flowers and no leaves. A third tree with no flowers and shiny, dark green leaves the size of her hand. The spiralled head of a fern is growing through a gap between the boards. There are fantails and sparrows flitting amongst the trees. Across the river is a paddock on a hill, with horses and grass and a faint smell of manure. There is a vague rumble of a jetboat which doesn't appear. The girl runs her foot between two nails, back and forth, switches the blanket to her other arm.

A flowing brown bird with swirls in its mouth swims through the air in the distance.

____________________________________________________________________

Word count: 543

Challenge 14: The bedroom

2010-02-27T19:49:00.004+13:00

It is a medium-sized acrylic lacy shawl with strings coming loose. Pale blue. A plastic doll with curly, bright gold hair, is inside it. Together, they are on the an old-fashioned quilted bedspread, white cotton with orange and brown leaves and cotton frills on the edges and dark brown legs poking out the bottom. On the scratched wood dresser which has four drawers, black plastic and silver metal handles, is a tube of crimson lipstick, curved at the top with a plastic lid, the inside of which has red smears. A pale pink compact with the paint rubbed off and vaguely visible writing; an orange brush with a black ridged handle, ridges following the square cross-section.

A woman holds the brush, its ends frayed, studies her face. The mirror on the left, on top of one drawer, – tall and rectangular - has stains on it, white-fuzzy stains, bits of plasticine, a pair of colourful shiny birds with squished faces on a yellow plastic perch, and a paper cutout of a too-big head attached to a minute neck attached to a skirt attached to skinny legs attached to fat shoes, coloured in with felt-tip scribbles. The mirror on the right, on top of three drawers, is round and rotates on a brass rod when she pushes it.

The woman puts down the brush, sits on the bed. Moves the shawl, finds a thick black textbook lying open. “Case study. John is a 23 year old...” It goes onto the pile between the dresser and the bed, after the yellow highlighter is flicked out of the way. There’s another bookshelf on the other side of the bed, full of novels and poetry. Two shelves, dresser-height but coloured darker. One of the white-painted wardrobe doors at the foot of the bed is held open by a tiny baby rubber duck. There is a girl, in amongst the clothes, stroking a pale green satin-and-lace nightgown.

_________________________________________________________

Word count: 321

Challenge 21

2010-02-23T16:06:00.001+13:00

Clothes

Use a particular and fairly vivid piece of clothing to tell a story: a sweater worn by two sisters who sleep with the same man while wearing it, or a loud sports jacket someone buys at a Goodwill store before realizing the jacket has three bullet holes in the back... What does clothing say about us? How does it select us, as opposed to being selected by us? Who tells us to buy this or that thing (other than salespeople)? What is the most alluring piece of clothing you've ever seen or worn and why? Why do some people seem to fit their clothes and others not? What do clothes hide? What do they reveal?

Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 20: Leaving home

2010-02-23T15:53:00.000+13:00

“You don’t understand, I have to be packed and ready to go inside the next hour!”

“But Jimmy will be home by himself otherwise.”

“Mom! I’m going to Australia so you’re going to have to figure that one out for yourself in future.”

Her eyes went all sparkly, like she might start crying.

One, two, three ruby roses on her necklace. Don’t think about making mum cry. They looked expensive, probably a loan from work since she definitely didn’t earn enough to buy something like that. Just turn around and walk away, she’ll be okay. Mum looked amazing in her slinky scarlet gown and ruby slippers. She probably would have been the prettiest one at the company Christmas party. Well it wasn’t my fault she couldn’t go any more. I had already warned her three weeks ago that I was going to be spending Christmas with Dad and Grandma in Aussie. She could have arranged a babysitter for James, but instead she did what she always did, pretend that the things she didn’t like weren’t happening at all.

I left her standing all mute and gummed up in the lounge and retreated upstairs to my room. Sitting on the edge of my underwater bedspread, I wondered if I would miss her when I moved to Australia more permanently next year. That was another thing she was pretending wouldn’t happen. I hauled my aqua Barbie suitcase out from under all the junk in my wardrobe and made a face, promising myself a new suitcase as soon as I got a descent summer job. It was just embarrassing, trundling this thing behind me through the Sydney Airport every time I wanted to visit dad. I think it was mum’s punishment for my betrayal, every time I went over there.

I pushed that thought aside. Focus on packing. There couldn’t be that much to take. Christmas was in the middle of summer in Australia and people wore as little as possible. I chucked in my navy swim-team one-piece, hoping dad might shout me a new, flashier bikini as a Christmas present, but wanting to be prepared just in case. A couple of pairs of blue and white boardies and a t-shirt advertising diet Pepsi and I was pretty much set in the clothing department. I remembered my phone charger and toothbrush, but I didn’t need much more than that. Grandma’s philosophy around my visits was to come with an empty suitcase and go home with a full one and that suited me just fine.

I trundled the bag out into the corridor, tensing again as soon as I left my room. Crossing from my soothing steel-gray carpet into the fiery red of the hallway was like giving away any illusion of having my own space. I was in her world from here to the front door. I just hoped the taxi wasn’t late.

Wordcount: 480

Challenge 20

2010-02-22T18:36:00.003+13:00

Colors

Write an exercise in which you repeatedly use two different primary colors. Describe these colors without naming them too often - and try to find effective synonyms for the colors without being too obvious about this disguise. Repetition of anything alien to the human elements of a story is bound to influence the way the story sinks into the readers mind. How would red and yellow, appearing over and over again in drapes, carpets, clothes, hand-made ashtrays, or toilet bowls, affect you as a reader? If you know anything about the meaning or symbolism of colors, choose your pair of hues well to play off emotions against each other (red for anger; blue for passivity). Apply this exercise to a situation with which you're already frustrated.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 19: Queen of the Desert

2010-02-21T17:48:00.002+13:00

In the dark heat of the Tyrian summer’s evening, a gang of black-clad desert raiders slip over the border to wreak havoc on the sleepy town of Rika. The sky is lit up by their fires. A cacophony of screams follow in their wake. By morning, they are gone, along with twenty-four new slaves, bound in chains and led out into the blinding white of the desert. Bloodied bodies and a single whimpering babe are all that is left of a once happy village.

Years blur like the hazy desert mirage and soon the Rika orphan is a young woman, Emmy (Sienna Guillory), struggling to survive in the bustling slums of the House Capitol, Varna. When she learns of her tragic past from a craggy old man claiming to be her uncle (Jeremy Irons), she gives up everything to follow him into the desert in search of revenge for a stolen childhood and a mother she never knew.

Beyond the barren sands of the desert, she goes undercover, allowing her uncle to ‘sell’ her to the royal harem for a handful of blood rubies. Now all that is left is to find out what happened to her mother, without falling foul of either of the volatile Princes of the Desert. Unfortunately, her beauty and stubbornness has made her the subject of their latest competition. Her attempts to escape them lead her to making a wrong turn and coming face to face with the Queen, a meeting just as shocking for Emmy as it is for the other woman…

A gripping fantasy film directed by Natasha Arthy (Fighter, Mirakel), Queen of the Desert is a dark and powerful tribute to the bonds between mother and daughter and the things we will do for the ones we love.

Wordcount: 296

Challenge 19

2010-02-18T13:33:00.002+13:00

Canned Film

Write a very short synopsis of an imaginary film, as if writing for one of those video anthologies - perhaps 10,000 Films in a Nutshell. Concentrate of images as much as you can in this summary of a plot or an interesting combination of images and time.

Word count: 300 (+/- 10%)

An Example (David Thomson's summarizing of Howard Hawk's career)

Men and women skirmish in Hawk's films on the understanding that an embrace is only a prelude to withdrawal and disillusion. The dazzling battles of word, innuendo, glance, and gesture - between [Cary] Grant and Hepburn, Grant and Jean Athur, Grant and Rosalind Russell, John Barrymore and Carole Lombard, Bogart and Bacall, [John] Wayne and Angie Dickinson... are Utopian procrastinations to avert the paraphernalia of released love that can only expend itself. In other words, Hawks is at his best in moments when nothing happens beyond people arguing about what might happen or has happened. Bogart and Bacall in The Big Sleep are not only characters tangled in a tortuous thriller but a constant audience to the film, commenting on its passage.

Challenge 18: A brother's jealousy

2010-02-17T15:22:00.004+13:00

Sorry this one is way over the word limit, but it didn't make much sense otherwise.

“Where the hell have you been, Dylan?” James said. “Do you know what time it is?”

Dylan looked at his bare wrist and said, “Nope.”

Charlie was curled up, asleep on the couch and the television was still blaring in the corner.

James folded his arms, leaning back against the archway between the dining room and the lounge, just staring at his younger brother. Dylan was a mess. His school uniform was torn and grimy and half of the buttons were missing. James could smell the smoke as Dylan stormed past him towards the stairs.

“Hold it,” he growled.

“Fuck off, James. It’s none of your business.” Dylan stopped but he didn’t turn around.

"J’taime amour," a silky smooth voice purred from the television set. Distracted for a moment, James glanced at the screen to see a young French woman whispering in the ear of a much older business man inside a smoky club.

“Dad left me in charge, so yeah, it is my business,” James said, trying to ignore the way the woman on the television set reminded him of Danielle.

Dylan did turn around then, his eyes stormy as he said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

He glanced at the television just as the older man walked out of the bar, leaving the young woman by herself.

“Look,” James said. “I know I’m not dad, and you don’t have to tell me anything, but you are scaring me Dylan… I don’t want you to be the latest dead kid on the news.”

Dylan snorted. “I can look after myself.”

James tried to consciously relax the tension in his shoulders. The French woman disappeared into the bathroom, her mascara staining her cheeks. If Danielle cried, she would look a hundred times worse. Goth chicks always wore way too much black eyeliner.

Dylan noticed. He was always the more observant one.

“You were a bastard today,” he said softly. All traces of his normal anger were gone as he sat down on the couch, shifting Charlie so that the kid’s head was on his lap. “It’s funny, I thought maybe you had changed.”

James sat on the other couch, staring at the television. Toothpaste and coca-cola competed with Viagra and the Ab-buster 2000, but all he saw was the look on Danielle’s face as he told her she had overestimated the strength of his affection for her. He had been trying to be chivalrous. That was what he told himself. No point letting the poor girl fantasize that there was any chance… Perhaps he didn’t have to do it in front of so many people… but it was just the truth.

“You really were just messing with her, eh.” Dylan shook his head. The French woman dialled someone on her cell phone but no one picked up. She slammed the phone shut and splashed her face with water.

James clenched and unclenched his fists. This was none of Dylan’s business. “What does it matter? If I screw up my relationships, you can laugh. It’s not like you are doing any better.”

“It’s not just you you’re hurting though, is it?”

“What do you care? You hate her.”

“I never said that.”

James blinked, trying to remember why he was so sure that his brother had hated the Goth girl in his class.

“I said she hates me,” Dylan clarified. “Until today, I hadn’t bothered having an opinion.”

The French woman put on some more lipstick, puffed up her hair and pasted on a vindictive smile. She opened her shirt a few buttons and hiked up her mini skirt until the bottoms of her stocking suspenders were visible. Out in the bar, she sidled up to one man after another on the dance floor, searching for someone who would take the bait.

James made a face, unimpressed with her sluttish behaviour. Dylan leaned over Charlie and grabbed the remote, turning off the television. James glanced at him, surprised. Dylan extricated himself carefully and then lifted Charlie into his arms, heading for the stairs. James followed like a lost puppy. When had Dylan, the troubled teen delinquent, turned into the mature one in this family?

Once Charlie was tucked up in bed, Dylan said, “There is a reason why Goths are a minority group.”

“Huh?” James followed him down the hall. “Did you see Dee tonight? Is that why you were out so late?”

Dylan walked into his room and shut the door in James’ face. James just stood there, stunned, trying to process his brother’s words. Minority group. Goths. Suicide. SHIT. He turned the handle, but Dylan had locked the door.

“Is she okay?” he hissed, not wanting to wake Charlie up with a yell.

Dylan didn’t answer. James turned away and began to pace the hall. Surely someone would have told him if Danielle had gone and done something stupid. Angelica would have… No, Angelica only thought about herself and Kitten didn’t speak at all, so she was hardly going to use a telephone. There was nothing for it. He would have to call her.

James pulled out his cell phone and then realized he had deleted Danielle’s number. Idiot. He tried the phone book, but they weren’t listed. Of course not. Their mother was the Head of Security at the Bank of America, she wasn’t going to have a listed number. It was three a.m., but James knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without knowing that Dee was okay. He raced down the stairs, two at a time, and hauled his Tiger motorcycle out of the garage and then glanced up to see Dylan watching him from the second story with a smirk. Damn him. He knew just how to push James’ buttons. Danielle was probably fine. For all James knew, she and Dylan had cooked up this story to make him feel guilty. Despite that, he knew he had to check on her.

Wordcount: 987

Ode to my Nokia 5310

2010-02-17T13:42:00.000+13:00

You arrived all wrapped up,
a special birthday present.
He did all his research,
Tried to ask my opinion, but I wasn’t listening.
“Surprise me,” I said.

I remember that birthday,
Everyone came, dressed up to the nines.
I felt so loved,
but not more than when he stood up and said,
“She may be weird, but she’s mine.”

You had a perfect memory,
dates and names and numbers I was always forgetting.
You woke me up in the morning,
and your little screen reminded me to smile.

He spent so much time,
picking you out of all the choices.
In the end, he bought one of you too…

That night I was foolish,
Past midnight, watching scary movies
Curled up in the cinema seat,
Texting - “Wo ai ni” … I love you
“Wan an” … Good night

I can’t believe I left you behind.
I’m so sorry.
I miss you.
Thank you for being such a good, reliable phone.
(P.S. If you do find your way back home, I promise I’ll give you lots of cuddles and always keep you safe!)

Challenge 18

2010-02-12T09:54:00.002+13:00

TV

Write a short interior scene during which a TV is on. Let the words and images on the screen interact interestingly with the activity going on in the room. Your characters can be watching the TV, or it can be background noise. Choose your TV show carefully to reflect an interesting aspect of the human situation you're also describing. You might do some research, taking notes with the TV on. Think about the kind of people who have a TV on all the time and don't seem to know about the mute button. Maybe you could play with the notion of TV reality interfering with your characters' reality.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

7 - Family Consciousness: The Flat

2010-02-11T15:49:00.000+13:00

We looked up at the façade of the building, and Jinna spoke for all of us.

“Ugh.”

There wasn’t much else to say. It was grey and cold and concrete, and the idea that we were to live here… I coughed, the infection in my chest a lingering reminder of why we had had no choice.

Momma smiled bravely. She could see exactly how much of a struggle it would be to adjust, but that was not the point – never the point, with Momma. She knew we would manage, and manage with grace, if she had to fight every hour of every day to make it happen.

“Come on, let’s go inside.” There was a slight brittleness to her voice, but otherwise no one who didn’t know her would have known she was sad about this at all.

Jinna, despite her sulk, led the way. It was obvious she planned to swipe the biggest bedroom, but as it turned out she didn’t manage it. None of the bedrooms were big. All the same size, tiny concrete oblongs with cold grey walls and cold grey ceilings and tiny oblong windows with double glazing that was painted shut. If there had been heating, the rooms would have been warm enough to stifle a person. As it was, the glass seemed to shut out the light of the sun as well as its warmth. Jinna looked around and thought about complaining again. There was no point but at thirteen that didn’t usually stop her. Instead she heaved a sigh, and started planning her escape. She ran away with clock regularity, and even if we hadn’t have moved to this hole, she would have been making maps and finding hidey holes anyway. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for her, and saw her making a mental note to keep out of my way as much as possible.

Momma went to work at once, and soon rugs and mats were laid over the tile floors and the chill rising through the soles of our shoes became a little more bearable. Tommy fell and bruised his knee, the role of little brothers one he fell into quite naturally, and the time we spent fixing him up and offering the cheap, too-sweet candy, and cuddling and kissing better made us feel like a family again.

Momma’s face fell when tummies started to rumble. She had seen the kitchen before – we had not. She knew what was coming.

A look passed between us, and without a word I followed her out into the dank hallway. It took a moment to realise that all the bedroom doors had locks, and that we would share the kitchen and the bathroom with others. Momma saw the horror in my face at the idea, but there was no use either of us saying anything.

The kitchen was clean, and there were no cockroaches that we could see. That was the best thing we were able to say about it, and that was said without words. Swiftly we cut the dry rye bread and hard, sour cheese, and found a few mismatched plates. I piled up six, unthinking, and then put two back before Momma saw. I wasn’t quick enough, and the tears pooled in her eyes for a few seconds.

There was no time for sentiment with two hungry children to feed. We strode back down the corridor and plastered smiles on our faces. Jinna saw straight through our insincerity, but she appreciated the effort all the same. Tommy barely even saw the fake smiles. When there was food available he had no eyes for anything else, and we three girls had learned to be grateful for it during this eventful week.

Momma and I took the smallest plates so that our meagre portions would look the same size as Jinna and Tommy’s. I pretended not to see when Momma gave Tommy half her cheese, and she pretended not to see when I gave Jinna an extra slice of bread.

Voices rattled in the corridor, guttural words we didn’t understand and didn’t want to. They made Momma jump, and put a shiver down my spine. Jinna wanted to go out and see, try and speak to the folks who were making such a racket, but she stilled when I glared at her. Momma quietly walked over to the door of the tiny room we had crammed into and turned the key in the lock. My shoulders untensed from their position up by my ears.

Momma swallowed and braced herself to spout the propaganda we all needed to hear to get through the day.

“When Daddy comes back from the front, we’ll find somewhere nicer.”

No one said anything. None of us believed he would ever return. But none of us would ever say it out loud, for then it might be true.

Challenge 10: Ink blots

2010-02-11T15:08:00.002+13:00

OOC: It's too long and possibly not what is meant by the challenge but here it is.

I like living here. You meet so many people when you live in a hotel. “Kitten, you're going to need to hop out from under the desk sweety.” says the receptionist, Mandy. Mandy doesn't actually mind me being under the desk, but that is a code to say that my dad is looking for me. Daddy owns the hotel, but he's still nice to the people who work here. “Ok.” I say as I go look for Daddy. He's always in one place when he's looking for me. Mostly because he mentions to one or two people who work here on his way. They tell other people who work here and then one will know where I am and will tell me. It doesn't waste his time 'cause he can do his work there anyway.

“Ah, Katherine.” says Father.
“Hello Father.” I say.
“You remember Mrs Danvers?” he says as I notice that there is a woman in the office with him.
“Hello Mrs Danvers.” I say politely.
“Mrs Danvers has a few questions to ask you.” says Father. “You can use the room just through that door.” says Father to Mrs Danvers indicating the Conference room that is occasionally my play room. “Katherine you are to answer Mrs Danvers questions, don't leave anything out.” says Father. I don't think he likes Mrs Danvers. That sentence is one we use as a code to say 'make everything as difficult as possible for this person. I don't think I have heard Father use that phrase before... I look at him, he is trying to smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I may only be six but I know when someone is trying to pretend.
“Yes Father.” I say.
“Well then, come along girl.” says Mrs Danvers.
“My name is Katherine.” I say. “Not 'girl'.” I add. Mrs Danvers does not look pleased.
“Just follow her Katherine.” says Father.
“Yes Father.” I reply following the evil lady to the conference room.

In the conference room I sit down on a chair across the table from the evil lady. She looks a little annoyed but does not protest.
“Well girl.” Begins the evil lady, looking in her bag for something.
“Yes lady?” I ask, she looks even more irritated but I see her contain it.
“What do you see on this card?” she asks holding up a card. She looks a bit smug now. On the card is an 'ink blot' I know what it is because Mandy had a prject for her course on them. She had to show them to people and I did it for her at one point. I look through the 'ink blot' like Mandy told me to.
“A Dragon.” I say. The evil lady looks surprised and a little annoyed again. She pulls out another card.
“And this one?” she asks. I look through it again.
“A unicorn.” I reply. The evil lady looks even more annoyed.
“Last one. What is on this card?” she asks, I can see her wanting me to get this one wrong, I think she picked a really hard card to be sure, she looks almost smug, so I look carefully.
“A Zodiac?” I ask, I'm not sure what a Zodiac is but the card seemed to tell me that was what it was supposed to be. The evil lady almost seems to pale when I give that answer.
“How did you know that?” she demands. I don't think she meant to ask that she seems a bit annoyed at herself for having asked it. But Father said to answer her questions, so...
“The card told me that was what it was.” I tell her.
“The card told you...” repeats the evil lady seeming stunned.
“Can I go now?” I ask.
“Yes... Tell your Father that Maveric blood breeds true.” she says as I am almost out the door.

“Katherine!” says Father happily as I exit. Suddenly I am caught up in a big hug.
“The evil lady says to say that Maveric blood breeds true.” I tell him. I knew I was magical.

5 - Journalism: The DCI's Diary

2010-02-11T14:13:00.000+13:00

Diary 2010 Week To View

If found please return to DCI Swallow

25th January

The subject continues to keep to his usual routine. It’s difficult to tell whether he has any awareness of us – although we endeavour to be discrete, the rumour mill will work against us if neighbours become aware of our presence. Given the size of the flat and the thinness of the walls this seems inevitable, but we have several cover stories and counter-rumours to turn to if necessary.

Jones continues to insist that we refrain from mentioning the subject’s name or those of any of his associates even in our written communication. I’m monitoring that situation, too – Jones appears to have a strong case of paranoia where the subject is concerned, but this is understandable in light of his previous postings in the breakaway republics. The subjects links to the republics remain unproven, and all evidence points towards his being a local small time drug dealer who is trying to get a reputation as something more.

Sneyder, the police psychologist assigned to our unit, assures me that she thinks Jones is stable, and there is no doubt that he is an able officer, but all the same it troubles me that he attributes a good deal of power and influence to one petty criminal.

As the subject is well known and this case well documented, I have acquiesced to his wish that we refer only obliquely to the subject. In the long run it will not harm our case.

10th February

Jones’ behaviour continues to concern me. He has taken to muttering words which rhyme with the subject’s name, and were it not for his excellent work deciphering the coded messages we have picked up from our friend on the other side of the street I would request he be taken off the case. Unfortunately he is one of the few code breakers we have available, and as such is indispensible to us here.

After two weeks’ observation the subject still appears to have no intelligence of our presence. The messages we have intercepted have largely been of no consequence, but some of them have given us new leads to follow up. At the end of this month we should certainly have enough to move onto the next stage of the investigation, and I have no doubt that the records we are keeping will help lead to a conviction.

18th February

After some unusual activity from the subject, we have requested back up, which should be with us in a few days. Our suspicions grow that he has finally realised he is under surveillance, and although he will not make a move before the High Tide festival, which he will need as cover to launder the cash we believe is stored in his flat, we are concerned about our safety after that time.

Fortunately this unpleasant development has allowed us to shoot several dozen high resolution pictures of the subject and his associates with firearms which are certainly not legally owned, and can only add to the strength of our case.

25th February

The increased security has certainly given us all some measure of peace of mind, although I fear Jones will need transferring to another unit before the festival is finished. The strain of waiting for a possible attack has lead to increased paranoia, and his increased use of his asthma inhaler particularly concerns me. I am certain that his dependence on the drug is far beyond what is normal even in severe asthmatics, and he would not have been allowed to serve on this team if his health had been judged lacking.

I confess it will be a relief to leave this wretched flat and get back to the office to analyse the information we have collected.

29th February

Jones is dead. The flat is surrounded and we don’t know exactly what is happening outside. It looks like Jones was correct after all. If this record is retrieved, then let our deaths count for something; whoever is assigned to this case in future must be warned that the subject possesses powers that defy description and that the only chance to defeat him is

The diary extract reproduced above was recovered in early March when survivors and bodies were pulled from a destroyed building which was an apparent victim of a terrorist attack.

Mysteriously, police records give no reference to the case, or the officers involved, and even the unusual surname Sneyder gave us no link to any known police force either nationally or on Interpol.

The body from which the diary was retrieved was unrecognisable, having been badly burned in the fire, and no matches were found of any of the victims of the explosion in the dental records currently available to us. Only a small portion of the diary was unharmed, and tests reveal that the security lock had been breached several times before the time of the explosion, although the DCI makes no record of any attempt to break into it.

No other written material, recording equipment, or similar items and devices were recovered at the scene.

We respectfully suggest that the information contained in this report stays confidential until such a time as the subject is identified and neutralised.

- Bacon County Federal Coroner’s Office.

Challenge 17: Moving in

2010-02-11T10:13:00.010+13:00

It was strange to think, as we pulled up outside the Howard mansion, that I was actually going to live here. I clambered out of mom’s Ferrari and waded through the heat, hoping the place would have air conditioning. A butler hurried down the stairs to greet us, but I insisted on hauling my own luggage out of the trunk. My little sister Kitty needed more help with her bags anyway.

“Danielle?” There he was, standing in the doorway of his very own palace. Prince Charming himself – James Howard. His voice tasted like chocolate and strawberries. I squinted up at him, an awkward half-grin on my lips.

“What are you doing here?” a second voice said.

My smile fell. Dylan had just joined his older brother and I could almost smell his scorn. Barbara, my mom, tackled the stairs with a bag in each hand. By the top, Dylan looked like a frozen crème puff, sweating in the knowledge he was about to be eaten.

“Not a chance,” he said desperately. “They are definitely not moving in!”

My mom lifted her massive sunglasses and gave the bastard her best ‘I’m going to be your new mother,’ smile. Arthur emerged then and gave mom a massive hug. They actually kissed in front of all of us… Ew!

Mom and Arthur had suddenly sprung their engagement on us all about a week ago and now here we were, saving money in this recession by moving out of our four bedroom house right next to school and shifting into a bloody 10 bedroom mansion in the middle of nowhere. Great.

When I finally made it inside, I was taken aback by how clean and shiny everything was. This place even smelled white. As a dedicated Goth, I officially considered myself to be in hell.

James’ fingers whispered over my hand, making my heart wobble excitedly. Oh, this was so wrong. James took my bag and I didn’t even think of stopping him.

“Come on,” he said, winking. “I’ll show you your room.”

Gods above, I almost melted on the spot. I followed him, doll-like, up the wide colonial staircase and away down a corridor.

“I made sure you got the darkest room in the tallest tower,” he said with a delectable, syrupy laugh. “If you ever open your curtains, you’ve got a great view of the estate.”

He put my bag down on the bed, the duvet cushioning the impact. I didn’t even hear the clink of my crystals crashing into each other, but then I had packed them inside five oversized socks each. I crossed over to the window and peered outside, breathless with the awareness of him, still there, sitting on the edge of my bed.

“So ah…” I said, not brave enough to look around. “Where is your room?”

“On the other side of the house,” he said, a slight tang of regret in his voice. “My dad’s not a complete idiot.”

I did glance at him then. His smile was a sunbeam, breaking through all my shadowy walls.

“I’m here now,” was all he needed to say. In the next moment, he was standing and I was wrapped up in his arms, losing myself in the aria of his kisses. How could I have been so lucky? He should never have even noticed me, hiding in the shadows everywhere I went. How could I be so unlucky? Sure, now we were living together, which was great, except that in three months, when mom and Arthur married, what we were doing was going to be so very illegal.

Wordcount: 607

This is a continuation of New York Girls (my challenge 7), and is part of a story Nightfire and I are developing which has been code named 'The Brady Bunch'

Challenge 17

2010-02-11T09:13:00.002+13:00

Synesthesia

Use synesthesia in a short scene - surreptitiously, without drawing too much attention to it - to convey to your reader an important understanding of some ineffable sensory experience. Use sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell.

Synesthesia is a description of "One kind of sensation in terms of another" (A Glossary of Literary Terms by M. H. Abrams). An example from Bruno Schulz reads "Adela would plunge the rooms into semidarkness by drawing down the linen blinds. All colors immediately fell an octave lower..."

Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 16: Snow globe

2010-02-10T22:29:00.004+13:00

There is a shop in Romania that used to sell homemade children’s toys. It is closed now, boards over the windows and graffiti on the wall. The owner died many years ago, shortly after the disappearance of his daughter, Rosanna.

The toys, so carefully crafted, lie in boxes now – gathering dust. On a shelf in the back room, sits a snow globe, about the size of your palm. Look beyond the tired, frosted glass and you will see a miniature world, built with such detail that it might just carry you away. Everything is painted in soft blue hues. There is a little mist and you can see a single tree, coated in snow on the mountain closest. Further back, a citadel is nestled among the ranges, a basilica sitting proudly above the rest.

The door to the basilica almost seems ajar. Look a little closer. Closer now, until you are sure of what you are seeing. The clouds swirl, light flickers behind the windows, you can almost hear the howl of the fierce wind. Pull open that door and step in, out of the cold. The church is lit with candles and a choir of boys sings ‘Ave Maria’ though they are nowhere to be seen.

Look to the altar; a young woman is kneeling alone. Approach if you like, admire the way her curling brown hair sits perfectly and her white dress fans out, framing her like a flower. She will not move, no matter how close you stare. She is a doll, handcrafted, just like the rest. See her glassy green eyes, her painted red lips, bare shoulders like porcelain, face frozen and empty. She waits for a groom who is not coming.

It was nearly fifty years ago that I crept down the stairs, careful not to wake father and disappeared into the night. There was a little church in the forest, only rubble now, where I waited for my lover and the priest who would marry us. But father found me first. You should have seen the fury in his eyes…

The glassy-eyed doll turns her head to meet your gaze. You can try to flinch, to look away or drop the snow globe, but it will not work. Her blood red lips curve wide. She has been waiting for so long.

“Rosanna?” you might say, and it would be a wise thing to try. The name of the beast is sometimes able to tame it. Sometimes, but not today. Would I be so foolish, to bring you here and then tell you how to escape? I need you, traveller.

It wasn’t a lie, before, so much as a careful omission. I was to be a bride. In fact, I married. I revelled in the sting as my husband’s teeth pierced my flesh, in the cooling of my blood as I died and was reborn. My father, religious fool that he was, believed my sin to be his own fault. He built this palace of ice in which to imprison me, to keep me from my beloved. For fifty years, he succeeded. But now you have come, traveller, and your soul is exactly the price of my freedom…

The doll-bride is gone. Walk to the door of the basilica and look up at the sky. See the single beam of sunshine, touching the stone paving before you and melting the snow. Look beyond the light, through the frosted glass and see me looking back. I will put you back on the shelf and perhaps, in another fifty years, you will call to an unwitting traveller of your own. If you are very lucky, she will answer…

Wordcount: 611

Images

First is Lady_of_Night__II by zemotion (Deviant Art) and the second is Adamant_Citadel by alexiuss (also Deviant Art)

Challenge 9: The Blood Countess (R)

2010-02-10T17:23:00.002+13:00

WARNING: This contains highly offensive content. Because someone asked for Vampires :D A little over wordcount. I think I disturbed myself...

“The girls are here, Mistress.”
I smile, “Virgin?” I ask. One of the last ones wasnt. Her blood didn't work as well as the virgin ones.
“Yes Mistress. We took them younger this time. To be sure.”
I smile. “And my guests?” I ask.
“They are waiting for you in the parlor. I have arranged a carriage to take them home when your meeting is over.”
“Well done.” I reply. He truly is deserving. Perhaps I will ask my beloved to turn him. My lover does not like it when I play with males, so I don't. Just as he does not play with females because I don't like it. “Is there anything for my Lord?” I ask.
“Yes Mistress. I was not sure whether he would be joining you so I got something for him just in case.”
I smile again. I will definitely be talking to my beloved Lord. All of my favoured servants want the embrace of myself or my Lord. Immortality is not something to be given lightly. And the careless wold betray us with their stupidity. Eternal youth is a little harder. Well, it's harder for you to get younger than you were when you became one of us. It requires virgin blood. And I'm not just talking about drinking it. Bathing in blood is the most sensuous experience I know of. It is almost as good as sex with my beloved. Ah, but that will have to wait. I have annoying buisness to take care of.

“Countess.” They greet me. I nod.
“Gentlemen.” I respond. There are three of them. Pathetic mortal men. I long for the day when my lord will bathe in their blood, the soft and warm flow embracing his perfect body. I must stop thinking of this or I will not be able to contain myself. I sit. “What can I do for you gentlemen today?” I ask.
“Countess Bathory, it has come to our attention that young girls are going missing on our borders.” Begins one man.
“In my lands?” I ask, pretending to be appauled.
“No...” begins another
“Then why are you here?” I ask looking confused. “My lands are not missing anyone?” I ask.
“No Countess.” says the trusty servant.
“Countess, the only places missing people are the boarder towns of ours. Towns that boarder your own lands.” explains the third gentleman.
“So you have come to warn me that my lands might be next? How thoughtful.” I reply with a smile. “What are we doing about this?” I ask
“We are aware of our neighbours plight and have guarded our own towns with a man-at-arms for every young maiden in our boarder towns.” replies my trusty servant.
“That is what we are doing gentlemen, and it seems to be working. Perhaps you should do the same?” I suggest politely. “When you have tried that, if it still does not work, then you may return for more of my advice.” I tell them, rising from my seat and leaving.
“I will see you gentlemen out.” says the servant. And he will. He is very good like that.

He is coming. I can feel my beloveds approach like fire warming me to the core. “Master and Beloved.” I whisper. He is coming. The wolves in the forest beside my Castle feel his approach too they are singing in welcome. I enter my chamber, there is a girl, naked chained to the wall. A boy too. Someone else knows that my beloved approaches. I take off my gown, my maidservant approaches as I start unfastening, she is another that wishes for my embrace. Soon. Now I stand, naked awaiting the arrival of my beloved. I feel his hands on my breasts, I feel his skin firm and soft against mine. The maidservant and a manservant are placing the boy and girl on the hooks above the bath. “Come my beloved.” my Lord says as he guides me to the bath, we embrace and I feel him pressing agianst me, seeking entrance. Without looking I slash the throat of the girl above me, her blood pouring over me like an exuisite red blanket as the virgin blood arouses me as much as the touch of my beloved. As the blood of the boy joins the blood of the girl my beloved enters me. The rich blood of the virgins envelops me even as I envelop him in my velvet sheath. His body and mine, combined in bloody harmony the erotic sensation of the thick blood as it drips down my body and my beloved as he thrusts himself into me combine into a rush of ecstasy and passion. “My beloved Elizabeta.” he whispers. “My Lord Dracul.” I reply.

Challenge 16

2010-02-10T09:47:00.002+13:00

Two Paintings

This is another version of two images separated at birth: Write a story that is an attempt to bridge two very dissimilar photographs or paintings. Include the images or links to them in your post.

Words count: 600 (+/- 10%)

6 - The Royal We: Best Friends

2010-02-09T08:05:00.006+13:00

too long again - need more practice!

Also, totally forgot to do number 5...

Frank laughs when mother calls us in from the garden. It’s just as well she didn’t notice. We often get into trouble when we are together, but it’s better than playing alone. We have some good times. Frank doesn’t really have anywhere else to go, so he usually stays over. We don’t mind sharing our things, and we don’t like Frank’s house. It’s old and cold and quiet, with a high roof and stone walls, and no one who lives there ever seems to be at home when we visit. It scares us and so we’ve only been there a few times. Frank had to move there, and is supposed to stay there all the time, but no one checks. It says Frank on the wall and so everyone thinks he must be there.

“Coming!” We get up quickly and run indoors.

“Have you washed your hands?”

“Yes.”

Jacob talks more loudly. Frank is mischievous but shy. We get on well because we can help each other out that way.

We go indoors, and mother greets us over her shoulder then starts dishing out dinner. As usual she’s only set us one place, but we don’t mind sharing – we’ve been sharing for months and we’re used to it. If we mentioned it she’d get upset, and we hate it when that happens.

Mother never seems to notice, and she always gives us a big portion anyway. She says Jacob is a growing boy, and we suppose Frank must be too.

We finish in double quick time. Frank eats the cabbage, as Jacob doesn’t like it all that much. Mother is very impressed and we get a big slice of chocolate cream pie. She won’t let us eat it in the lounge – she knows that Frank will leave a mess. Jacob is tidy but when Frank is around you can’t tell that. We cancel each other out.

After dinner we go and play in the garden. There’s a miniature swing-boat, but we’re not very good at making it go. We used to be good at it, but somehow we can’t manage it any more. Mother says that life will get more difficult as we get older, and we think this must be what she means.

The swings are fun, though, even if it’s not the same as sitting on the swing-boat together – Jacob offers to push Frank, but Frank prefers to watch. Frank gets sick easily, and we don’t want to waste any of the pudding.

Our next door neighbour’s cat Smoky jumps over the fence. He hisses at Frank, and won’t let Jacob near him much either. He’s a miserable old animal – we used to feed him from our secret stash, but when we ran out of things he liked he wouldn’t forgive us. Frank tries to pick him up, but the cat slips through his fingers. At least we didn’t get scratched.

Later on we go indoors. Frank wants to stay outside, but really it’s too cold. Jacob is tired and shivering even if Frank never notices the frost. We used to be scared of the dark, but we’re not any more. If we stay together, then we’re both braver.

Frank thinks of a surprise for mother, and we creep upstairs. Frank is best at creeping, and even Jacob can’t hear his footsteps. Frank starts to order Jacob about, but Jacob doesn’t mind. We imagine the look on mother’s face and grin at each other.

“Sweetie, you tidied your room!” Mother is surprised when she comes up. We think she might cry, but she looks happy too. We look at each other and shrug. Neither of us understands parents.

“We both did,” we say, and smile proudly. It’s not really true. Frank had to sit still while Jacob picked up his toys, because Frank makes a mess everywhere he goes. He’s terrible at picking things up. But Frank did tell Jacob how to sort them out, so we did it together really.

Mother looks a little sad. “You’re a very brave little boy,” she says. Jacob thinks she is talking about Frank, but later on Frank says she meant Jacob. Maybe she meant both of us, though neither of us really understands what she means.

4 - The Unstable Self: Pain

2010-02-09T04:25:00.002+13:00

with thanks to Gerard Manley Hopkins from whom I have begged, borrowed, and possibly stolen! - The Caged Skylark

I don’t want to be here any more. I wonder if I can escape. I wonder if I can fly away.

She winces even in her sleep. I look down dispassionately at my earthridden, bedridden self. In that bone-house, mean house. But not resting. No mounting spirit here. She’s caged. Trapped. Not a skylark, but a dodo.

What, then, of me? Sprung like a rhythm out of flesh. Flying high. She battered against barriers and gave in. I soar free. I can’t explain.

It’s strange to watch her face contort and to feel nothing. To see my limbs twist with pain. To see her teeth grind together. And to feel nothing.

I look away. The view from the window is green and pleasant. She looks it every day but she doesn’t notice it. She looks, the light enters her eyes, the image is processed by her optic nerve and transmitted to her visual cortex. She looks at it. But she does not see it. I have not seen it before, though I have looked at it every day.

A noise makes me look back to the bed. Eyes have opened. Vision is blurred. She can’t see. I can’t see. I have no eyes. They’re there on the bed and they’re misty and clouded with pain. I wonder how, then, am I looking down at her? At me?

I don’t want to. I float away. She is trapped by her bones, flesh-bound, imprisoned. I am free as a bird, as a dare, as the breeze over a meadow. I can soar. I can sing.

She groans. I sink, pulled down. Don’t! Let me go. She won’t let go. She can’t. She doesn’t know how. She needs a sign.

Rain. A drizzle, falling like tears. She did not look. I did not notice the clouds. I am floating above it all, far away, and lying in this bed, a prisoner of her body.

She can’t escape. The sky is weeping for her and she is trapped here, in chains. The chains bind me tight and she cannot move. The bed is not rest but torture.

I fight back. I rise, slowly, slowly. Looking for a light in the darkness. Looking for sweet release. All she wants is not to be in pain any more. Legs too weak to hold her scramble for purchase on the smooth sheets. Machines beep. Regular. Monotonous. Beep. Beep. Counting away the seconds of a life no longer being lived.

The sun falls on her face and she smiles as I feel the warmth. No pain, just warmth. Welcome. Release.

Sudden fear. Is this what I want? Her body tenses, one last effort against the inevitable. How does she know that this is the right time? Who will promise that what is to come will be better?

A rainbow outside the window. She looks. I see it.

Her spirit sings like a bird released, flying high over the meadows. Her body relaxes back into the pillows, quiet. Pain drains away. I cannot feel anything.

At last at peace. Breathing stills, stops. Heartbeat stills, stops. I soar onwards, chains released.

3 - Unreliable Third: True Love?

2010-02-08T16:03:00.005+13:00

it's a bit too long really, but I'm trying to get a few done... I'm going to go back and have another couple of goes at some of them, but I'm posting my first efforts anyway!

Helen smiles at George and tries to ignore the little frown lines around his mouth. He is trying to make her a better person, and it is working – slowly, but it is working.

She turns back to her ironing, standing up straight, ensuring that her back is elegantly poised and her shoulders are not slouched. He hates slouching, but only because he doesn’t want her to get backache. He only slouches himself because of his own back trouble, and he doesn’t want Helen to suffer the way he does. After all, he couldn’t afford for them both to visit the masseuse.

He turns the television up a little higher. He’s forgotten that she hates this show, hates the presenter. He wouldn’t have put it on if he had remembered, but she forgives him, because he’s just trying to relax. He’s been working late, it’s not his fault his job is so stressful. She’s grateful his secretary is such a sweet girl, always so obliging, staying late at work so he doesn’t have to make the phone calls himself. Jeannie. A lovely girl. She even calls Helen herself when George is working late, so that George can get on with things and be home a little earlier. Jeannie is such a pretty thing, she could be a model, but George says she prefers to do something useful with her life.

Helen folds up the last shirt with care as the programme finally finishes and places it in the pile of ironing. George harrumphs and hauls himself up from the settee. There’s a faraway look in his eye that reminds Helen of their honeymoon. She’s about to say something when he catches her eye and frowns again.

“I’m going to bed.” His voice is gruff, but that’s just his way. She knows he loves her. She’s sure that tonight when she goes up he’ll be waiting for her, not turned away and snoring as he has been recently. He’s just been tired, and she can’t blame him for that.

“Can you…?” She gestures towards the pile of ironing, but he puts a hand in the small of his back and grimaces.

“Can’t. Back trouble.”

His terseness can’t cover up the fact that he’s still miles away, looking past her at some memory that softens his expression and reminds her of the man she fell in love with.

She’s sure now that he’s remembering their honeymoon, and once he’s gone up the stairs she starts to bustle about, getting everything quickly tidied away so that her beloved won’t have to wait for long.

She tries not to move too quickly when he is in the same room – she knows he gets irritated when she makes a noise. It’s not his fault – he has sensitive ears. That’s why they rarely have music on. It’s something to do with the beat or the pitch or – Helen doesn’t really understand, but she loves him and she can listen while he’s at work. The neighbours won’t tell.

There’s more to do than she had thought, and she doesn’t want to leave anything untidy. George probably won’t be up before her in the morning, but if he is he won’t want to be tripping over things. It only takes a few minutes, but George is so tired, and when she pushes open the bedroom door he’s snoring. She sighs. She’s disappointed, but not surprised. He’s been working late. Jeannie told her so. Maybe at the weekend he won’t be so tired.

He’s only doing it for her, working himself into the ground so that she can stay in all day and not have to work. He loves her. She knows he loves her. She’s sure of it. She is.

2 - Imperative: The Headmistress (R for mild profanity)

2010-02-08T15:30:00.005+13:00

“Stop! You there, stop running immediately. Come here. Tell me your name.”

Steel yourself. Don’t imagine this will be over quickly.

“Call me Fonzie.”

Try not to roll your eyes as she inspects you more closely, and don’t be surprised when your clever remark doesn’t get a laugh.

“Don’t be funny with me, boy. And don’t be fooled that you won’t be punished for your impertinence. Call yourself what you like, but don’t imagine it’ll make a difference.”

Hide your smirk beneath a frown. Try not to imagine the kudos the others will give you for making her turn that delightful shade of puce.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you. And don’t scowl. If you think that’s clever, well, think again!”

Don’t rise to the bait. Remember that one day you’ll leave.

“And while I’m on the subject, bring in your homework tomorrow. Don’t be late, and don’t keep the class waiting. Have some respect for your fellow students!”

One day – oh don’t forget that one day the harridan will be old and grey. Imagine it.

“I could be talking to a brick wall – if there’s anything going on in that head of yours, knock once for yes!”

Ignore her cruel laughter. Bite your tongue, it doesn’t do to answer back, so think – but don’t say it out loud.

“Go on, dream away. Dream your life away! Look at me and try to work out if I care whether you succeed or not.”

Oh, go away and die!

“And tell me, boy, what is your mother thinking sending you out looking like that? Let her iron your clothes, at least.”

Try to forget that you have no mother to clean up after you. Try to forget that this woman knows it as well as you do. Ball your hands into fists in your pockets, dig your nails into your palms, do whatever it takes. Just don’t show her she can hurt you.

Wait… wait… be sure the harangue is over before you try and step away. Watch for the sharply indrawn breath. Heed the narrowing eyes. Don’t be fooled by the short silence. Don’t think it’s over when it’s hardly begun.

Wait…

“Come with me.”

Follow her down the corridor and shrug. Pretend not to notice the looks of pity from the older boys. Pretend not to react to the gestures of encouragement and defiance your friends make as you pass. Pretend not to care.

Follow in silence as she enters the office. Sit down, and act as if nothing’s wrong.

“Stand up. Don’t sit down unless I tell you to!”

Stand up as slowly as you dare. Act nonchalant. Try to ignore the implements of punishment and the glow in her eyes as she stares at them.

“Bring me the birch cane.”

Ignore the hiss of triumph in her voice.

Die, bitch.

Wait for the hiss of the cane as it whips through the air, and brace yourself as best you can.

Resign yourself to the inevitable, and comfort yourself by plotting her downfall.

Challenge 15: Dead walking

2010-02-08T12:36:00.002+13:00

White is the colour of purity, the colour of my dress, tight with too many pearl buttons. Red is the colour of passion and of sin, the colour of his blood on my hands, wet from the tears as he dies in my arms. Black is the colour of death, the colour of the gun in my hand, loaded and cocked as I turn away to hunt down his murderer.

My almost-husband died that night, the moon shining through the windows of the church where none but the angels of God should have been able to touch us. I thought I had left that life behind me, but now its siren song was calling me back. Out into the cemetery where the bones were whispering, yearning for me to hear their stories, to grant them peace. How could I give something I have never known?

On, into the night, tripping on the hem of my lace gown, stained with his blood and the mud. I rip away as much as I can, discard the useless shoes, run with the ground pressing between my toes. I reach the beach and do not pause for the waves. The one I hunt is barely a shadow in the moonlight, drawing me out, onto the ocean. What a fool I was, thinking to marry in Bermuda; there are too many ghosts here.

Deep beneath the surface lie the wrecks of ancient ships, forgotten by people, hidden by coral and seaweed. One of those shipwrecks is called the Cyclops and the brave men who once crewed her lie now as smooth white shards of bone between her many rotting decks. I can feel them stirring, my foe calling them to his aid. The light of the moon, touching the sea at just the right angle, those bones begin to knit together and the dead walk once again.

Long ago, in the heady perfumed night of Paris, I made the mistake of giving my love to a man, powerful but dark – a necromancer to my ghost whisperer. Such a pair we made, he said, as we danced through the wild streets, defying death and laughing in his face. But my punishment fit the crime. The Black Plague ripped all humanity from my once-lover but I was not so lucky. My heart shattered, seeing the suffering of children, the loss of whole families, lives wasted, dead whispering, blaming me. Incapable of dying, I walked like a ghost through the streets, desperate for any offer of redemption. I could hear the voices. But the dead were always silent to him, pawns in a game without heart, only lust.

Now he had ripped me from the illusion that I could escape my mistakes. My pretence at a normal life was gone, along with a man who loved me in innocence. The dead were walking again and I was the only one capable of sending them back to sleep.

Black is the colour of death, the colour of the inky sea, bubbling with the rising dead. Red is the colour of passion and sin, my life laid bare before God, a small price to end this madness. White is the colour of purity, the colour of the moon on the quiet Bermuda waters as the dead return to the depths and our souls committed into God’s keeping.

Wordcount: 558

Image 1 was:
White is the colour of purity, the colour of my dress, tight with too many pearl buttons. Red is the colour of passion and of sin, the colour of his blood on my hands, wet from the tears as he dies in my arms. Black is the colour of death, the colour of the gun in my hand, loaded and cocked as I turn away to hunt down his murderer.

Image 2 was:
Deep beneath the surface lie the wrecks of ancient ships, forgotten by people, hidden by coral and seaweed. One of those shipwrecks is called the Cyclops and the brave men who once crewed her lie now as smooth white shards of bone between her many rotting decks. I can feel them stirring, my foe calling them to his aid. The light of the moon, touching the sea at just the right angle, those bones begin to knit together and the dead walk once again.

Challenge 15

2010-02-08T11:33:00.003+13:00

Two Images Separated at Birth

Think up a vivid, haunting image. Work hard to construct this image so it is not only visible to the reader but exciting and thought-provoking. Then think up another unrelated but equally vivid image. The key to this exercise is to work at composing two unrelated images, two scenes or situations you do not think are part of a story. Now write a story fragment out of the two images.

Wordcount: 600 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 4: Peeking through

2010-02-06T23:28:00.004+13:00

A secret is dark and shadowy, slithering itself into new shapes and sizes, new costumes, new guises. I live inside mine the way I live inside my skin, covering myself as best I can but always ashamedly naked underneath my clothing.

I am covered by clothes even in my dreams, even in my subconscious where it does not matter. The uglier secrets deserve more heavy and intricate fabric. Embroidered woollen sock to cushion cracking sole. Padded lace bra to cover taut pink nipple. Layers of stockings and petticoats over gaudy veined thighs.

He lifts his palm to sleeve. Releases a layer. Looks at skin, contemplates clothes and body. One moment. Separate from, secret from the time-world. She breathes his breath.

A modest and lonely window sets sunlight glancing off their dust.

In my dreams I do not feel my own weight, I am not aware of nail or hair or teeth or aching eye. I am not always conspicuously there - a silently fleeting image.

This is not a dream. Underneath his hands there are scars. Scars on soft, intricately creased skin.

Everything I knew of myself was here, within my own private community of secrets and lies, and to strip these layers from me is to betray truths I do not recognise. You catch my breath and hold it there, so that the air inside my lungs might seem familiar even in this newly exposed surreality.

Breath like a fish hook catches in her throat and draws her upward towards his scattered sunshine irises. Dissolved, there is no small puzzle piece of herself she can clutch on to now.

I stand as I am, bare of anything but this moment.

Wordcount: 281

Challenge 3: Morepork

2010-02-06T22:59:00.009+13:00

Noah shut his eyes, squeezing his eyelids so that his broad nose wrinkled and his lips curled wide into a half-grin, half-grimace. He listened intently, stretching his ears as far as he could. Out under the open window into the hazy Moana night Noah listened, as the wind hissed at Uncle Jeremy and hushed Mum to sleep.

More… Pork… he stretched his bony middle finger to count the third time he’d heard the ruru craw tonight. His two littlest fingers did grasshopper jumps on his palm, desperate to join the others. Five times, Hinekiri had said.
‘I’ll do the morepork five times at the gate, when I go out to the train tracks after tea.’

Hinekiri didn’t live in the little blue house with Uncle Jeremy anymore. She'd left on the train to go stay with her old aunty Nga in Greymouth. Noah missed his friend achingly. He still counted the ruru calls, and if there were five before the train came, he was sure the next day would be cool. The best, like her.

More…Pork… there it was again. Noah wriggled, and listened more earnestly.

Tomorrow would be Noah’s birthday. Before he’d wormed his way under the sheet to listen so desperately, Mum had wrapped his skinny elbows round her neck and planted a dry kiss on his wide cheek.
‘Happy last night of being nine, Noah’ she’d grinned, but she’d sounded a little sad. Noah had flashed his charmingly crooked teeth at her anyway.

More…Pork… his little finger jumped up to count five and Noah listened, urgently now, hoping for the distant rumble of the train.

Hinekiri was good at doing the morepork. So good that Uncle Jeremy couldn’t tell it was her. Hine was good at everything. She could run down the tracks so fast her thick hair would get all tangled.

She’d made a brilliant hut out of dead branches and toitoi. It was out past the bend in the tracks and over the deep, gouged-out ditch, and you couldn’t even see it unless you got really close to the steep edge. You had to jump over it. Inside the hut there was a blanket and a magnifying glass, and once, Noah had brought some gingernuts for them to share. It was a real pity Hine wasn't here now. There were three gingernuts left and he didn’t want to eat them on his own.

Noah wasn’t sure if – was that it? Was that the train? Perhaps his thoughts were just getting noisier.

Sometimes Hinekiri was late to school after they’d been out across the train tracks to the hut. She’d come to school with red eyes and say her leg hurt and that’s why she couldn’t ride her bike fast enough. After the bell had rung and Noah had scuffed his way back home, Uncle Jeremy would call Mum and grumble he was sending ‘that kid’ round because he needed her ‘outta his hair awhile.’ Then he’d sit in his overalls and turn up the volume on the TV.

Hinekiri would drink a milo at Noah and Mum’s place. She would discover ants with the magnifying glass and let Noah ride her bike, and stay up until her eyes were drooping and her voice was thin. Mum used to bundle her up in a rug then, and take her, soggy with sleep, back to Uncle Jeremy’s. Just before Hine went away though, Mum started putting her to sleep on the couch.
‘Your aunty Nga asked me to look after you,’ she’d say, and plant a dry kiss on her pointed cheek.

Then Hine wouldn’t do the morepork calls for awhile, but Noah always knew that she’d been out to the hut anyway. When they did go flying back out over the ditch, more of the gingernuts were gone.

Noah’s eyes leapt wide open for the rumbling, rushing, urgent train. It had crept up on him again! He took a thick, thrilling breath as his thoughts dashed out into the hazy Moana night, following the clinkety-clink and the whirr and the disappearing hiss. He closed his eyes, more gently this time. Tomorrow would be his birthday and it would be cool, the best! Out under the open window Noah dreamed, as the wind spat at Uncle Jeremy, speeding down the train tracks to soothe sweet Hinekiri to sleep.

wordcount: 721

Challenge 14: Adoration of the Cat

2010-02-05T22:59:00.002+13:00

He walked into the room and smiled. A black cat lay curled on the couch beside the window. He sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the ball of fur. The cat stretched, yawned, turned around on the spot, digging at the leather with his paws before plopping himself back down and closing his eyes. The young man continued to watch, eyes soft and smiling.

A woman came into the room and, catching sight of him, frowned. She did not disturb him, but walked out again. A minute later she returned with a wine glass in either hand. She sat down beside him, slipping one of the glasses into his hand. She took a sip of the sparkling red liquid, looking between him and the sleeping animal. He wrapped his fingers around the stem of his glass, but did not drink. His tongue slid over his top lip as he let out the barest whisper of a sigh. The woman put glass aside, kneeling forward onto the carpet before the couch. Her long pale fingers smoothed fur, stroking always in the same direction, from behind the cat’s ears around to its curled up tail. The cat woke, purring, stretched and then pouched off the couch, disappearing beneath the bed.

The young man took a sip then, meeting the woman’s eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. She hurriedly peered beneath the bed, cheek pressed against the carpet. He laughed and touched her shoulder. She stood up again, taking another sip of wine. They kissed, apology in her eyes. Beneath the bed, the cat had gone back to sleep.

Wordcount: 270

Challenge 14

2010-02-05T22:38:00.001+13:00

No Ideas, but in Things

Write a very brief story told only in images-concrete, simple, visually efficient movements and details. This exercise does not ask you to eliminate people, just to watch what they do and what objects they crave and caress rather than what they say or think about these objects and actions.

Wordcount: 300 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 13: Uh oh...

2010-02-04T17:26:00.002+13:00

Do you know what it is to know everything at once and to have everything exist at once, to be writing this message in one moment which goes on for eternity? For every instant spent writing this message to continue for eternity? To be projecting this message in one language but thinking it in all the languages and all the possible permutations of languages, all the non-languages and all the ways of thinking that have and have not existed? To be projecting this message at the start of your world and the end of your world, the start of your universe and the end of your universe and every place in between and outside of it?
Your time is linear. Mine is not.

Do you know what it is to exist, and not exist, in every possible permutation? For everything to exist, and not exist, in every possible permutation? Do you know what it's like? No. You never will.

You think, therefore you are, or perhaps you aren't. That's your problem, and not, and mine, and not. To me, you are, and are not. I am, and am not.

I could spend eternity caring about everything and everyone. I could spend eternity caring about nothing.
Since I am 'God', I do both, neither, everything in between, everything not in between...

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Word count: 220

Challenge 13: Ants in the cupboard

2010-02-04T17:17:00.000+13:00

Amy and Gerald are arguing. They are human, so they do this quite frequently. There are ants in the cupboard beside Gerald’s foot, but he is not aware of this. The air around Gerald’s face is getting hotter and hotter as he thinks, I can’t do this anymore. There are images in his head also, pictures of another woman he would rather be with but has never actually met. Her face is staring back at him from the television set atop the fridge behind Amy’s head.

Potted flowers on the window sill are unable to extract any moisture from their rock hard dirt; they are drooping and Amy blames Gerald for their death. She says she was away on a business trip and he cannot do anything without her. She remembers how good it felt to be immersed in the warm waters of a place she calls Bali. She feels pain that she is no longer there. The beat of her heart continues steadily, one contraction after another, like the way her body will contract when she squeezes out his baby, still growing in her womb.

Gerald picks up the flowers and puts them into a plastic bin. Amy touches his shoulder, a salty mix hydrogen dioxide on her cheeks. “Sorry,” she says. I need you to grow up, she thinks.

Wordcount: 220

Challenge 13

2010-02-04T16:42:00.002+13:00

God
The spectrum of narrative perspective goes from benighted, flawed, unreliable first-person narrations to godlike omniscience - all-knowing understanding of everyone's thoughts and deepest motives. But God's POV is also, presumably, a first-person narration. What would God see? How would God know a very ordinary set of events - or how could mere human readers see all that a god (let alone God) sees? Since God should know how to be efficient and get right to the point, do this exercise in only 200 words.

Wordcount: 200 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 12: Chaos

2010-02-04T16:01:00.000+13:00

Tom put his hand in the hat, fishing around for a moment while the others egged him on.

“Come on, man,” Luc said. “Pick one already.”

“Yeah, tell us who it’s gonna be!” Andy seemed overly excited, like a little kid shaking his presents on Christmas Eve. He was actually bouncing on the edge of the broken desk.

Tom took a deep breath, his fingers closing around a single slip of paper. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it out.

“Well?” Andy almost squealed.

Tom just kept staring at the paper, his cheeks going a bit pink. Marian, who had been standing by the grimy window, keeping watch, now snatched the flimsy scrap from Tom’s hand. “Anna. That’s what it says.”

Andy burst into peels of laughter. Luc smirked, saying, “This is gonna be interesting.”

“I dunno, guys.” Tom folded his arms, leaning back against the bare cement wall. “Can’t we pick a different one?”

“No can do, brother.” Marian flicked a lighter from her sleeve and set fire to the now scrunched up ball of paper. “You know the rules.”

Tom shrugged, pretending he didn’t care, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes either.
“So how are we going to do this?” she said.

“I reckon we make the hit as she’s coming out of class tomorrow,” Luc said, his brow creasing as he scanned the map they had laid out earlier on the dusty floor. “If we set up on level three of the St. James Library, we’ll have pretty good line of sight for the cameras.”

“We definitely want to maximise publicity, so let’s say around lunchtime?” Marian agreed. “This will be our first hit for the year and if it goes down well, membership will skyrocket.”

“Oooh, can I do it?” Andy grinned like a maniac. “I could run in there, guns blazin’ and shoot her in the head.”

“No!” Tom said immediately. “That’s a stupid idea.”

Andy pouted, looking to Marian for support. She shook her head.

“Sorry,” she said. “I agree with Tom. We need something with a bit more intrigue, more style. Maybe a sniper?”

“Mmm… mass panic.” Luc gave a wide, charming grin. “Sounds brilliant, but I would argue for something a little more theatrical.”

“Oh?” Marian looked at him, hands on her hips.

“I say we give Tom this one. We all know his hits provide entertainment for the whole family.”

Andy snorted at that. “Whole family,” he repeated, looking like he might give Tom a big ‘Barney-the-Dinosaur’ hug or something.

Tom crouched down to get a closer look at the map and then shook his head. “You guys realize this is the worst possible hit we could have pulled from the bag, right? Anna is black-belt in my Karate club. If you send me after her, there is no guarantee I’ll be the one that walks away.”

Marian gave an ambiguous, toothy sort of grin as she said, “Either way, we’ll have a nice spectacle and if she wins, she can have your spot.”

“You’re so fucking sadistic.” Tom stood up and headed for the door.

“So you’ll do it?” Marian called after him.

He slammed the door behind him and they could just hear the echoes of his ‘Fuck you’ from the hallway beyond. Marian grinned at the other guys, saying, “He’ll do it.”

Luc sighed, carefully folding up the map and slipping it into a brown manila envelope marked K.A.O.S.

Wordcount: 570

Congratulations!

2010-02-03T22:58:00.003+13:00

Our Anistasya, in addition to working away on this blog and her writing exercises, has been sending off query letters to prospective agents for 'The Silver Hawk'. Those of you who haven't yet heard will hopefully be delighted to know that she's received her first request for part of the manuscript.

It's been a most exciting journey so far, and looks to be continuing in the same vein. Congratulations, Anistasya, and good luck!

1 - Reluctant I: Don't Get Caught

2010-02-03T14:28:00.004+13:00

Don’t get caught. The best advice an old thief can give, and the old thieves are the ones to heed. It’s easy to say, less easy to do, especially when the guards are coming and the lock picks just aren’t working. It’s a time to consider whether this is a good life path. The door is very ornate, very imposing, and very solid. Wood may seem old fashioned, but when it’s centuries old oak it might as well be cast iron. Coupled with an unexpected state of the art lock it is impregnable to the opportunist thief.

A kick only results in a sore toe and a muffled swearword. Being found isn’t an option – this is not the time to get caught, that’s for sure. The windows on either side of the corridor are starting to look more tempting; falling twenty feet seems a better alternative than having my kidneys used as bongos.

The imposing pillars that line the corridor also provide a little cover for anyone trying to open the window. It’s a small comfort, but in this situation it’s better than nothing. The latch is, naturally, sealed shut, but it is less of an obstacle than the heavy wood of the uncooperative door.

The task is a fiddly one, but doable. The voices are getting closer, but obviously these guards are more easily fooled than some. Doubling back or hiding in a cupboard would seem amateur to an amateur, but in the right situation it can provide those few extra moments to evade capture.

The window finally opens with a noise that could be interpreted as a sigh of relief by those of a fanciful nature. The night air is cold but welcome, like a scent of freedom on the wind.

The drop is enough to give pause, but only for a moment. Whoever designed the gardens planted a shrubbery for this very purpose, or at least never considered a flower bed under the window a security risk. They were foolish, but they earn a quick murmur of gratitude.

Edging out through the window and onto the ledge is the easy part: closing the window again from outside is more difficult. Clearly the architect was less fond of criminals than the gardeners are. It’s necessary, another ruse to give a few moments before the escape route becomes clear to those in pursuit. All those moments add up, eventually equaling a successful getaway.

It’s impossible to close the window entirely. A rush job will have to do. So far these guards have not proven the most observant, and it might just be enough.

Decision: wait and hope they don’t notice the window is ajar, or risk them hearing the rustle of the greenery below? The chill breeze makes the decision – even the stupidest guard will have more trouble ignoring a draught.

At arms length hanging from the ledge the ground still seems a long way away, but it is too late to second guess. Footsteps which have been getting steadily closer for five minutes are now too close to ignore.

A deep breath, a reluctant unclasping of fingertips, and the deed is done. A bush doesn’t provide much cushioning, but it’s better than the cold hard ground. Bruises will have to be ignored for now, a stealthy creep through the shadows stands between me and freedom. The gardener has earned his thanks with an avenue of trees that provide excellent cover, and the outer walls are no barrier to one experienced in burglary.

A moment to brush off the leaves, and a thief becomes an ordinary citizen emerging from an alleyway into the light. Hiding in plain view is another trick the old thieves will teach the young. It’s one of the best ways of following their favourite piece of advice. What was that again? Don’t be afraid to ask – a proud thief is a dead thief in this city.

But always remember. It’s simple. Don’t get caught.

Challenge 12: How predictable can the iconoclast get?

2010-02-02T19:00:00.004+13:00

"I think it's a stupid idea," says the boy with the 'Trainee' badge.
"Well, it's got to be someone." This is the woman with sunglasses, who's lounging on the stool.
"Hold on, I'm coming," says a voice from the main building somewhere.

The boy kicks the door to the back room open. "I can't believe you people do this!"
The green-haired man who's shelving in the 400s has emptied his shelf and wheels his trolley back to the issues desk, where he leaves it to join them in the back room. "It took me a while to get used to it too, but management orders, y'know? We really need the stocktake - look what a mess the place is!" He gestures at the ground floor. "It's even worse upstairs. The last two times the university let us close for long enough were both over Christmas, and I was away."
"The students start complaining if you close for no reason," the woman says. "So, who's it going to be? I'll arrange the people for next week."

The green-haired guy pulls up a swivel chair. "I still think Carter Brier. That kid has lost more books this month than everyone else all year."
"What about that woman, uh...you know, the old one. She's always doing the shelving wrong, you've had me redoing it."
"No," the man says sharply. "Not one of us."
The woman sighs. "Get on with it, please!"
"Next time, come when the rest of the staff are here. Particularly the Chief Librarian. We need to talk this through."
"Yeah, yeah...and then the place would be full of 'patrons'." She makes little quote marks with her hands when she says 'patrons'. "Well?"
"That book reviewer guy in the student magazine," says Trainee. "He puts his apostrophes in the wrong places."
"Oooh, yeah, him," says green-haired guy. "Can't stand those apostrophes."
"Does he come into the library, though? Do you know what he looks like?"
Trainee folds his arms. "Surely your people can deal with details like that!"
"Ha. We're not that sophisticated. C'mon, don't make this more complicated than it needs to be. Someone who'll be in here Monday, that's easiest. Who's on duty Monday evening?"
"Us, again," says the green-haired guy. "We'll stay down on the ground floor. There will be people shelving on floors two to six on Tuesday morning, and seven to twelve on Tuesday afternoon."
"I'd do all the work I could on the eight floor on Monday, then. You won't get a chance to be in there until you open again. They'll make you open up again as soon as they can, you know. Wouldn't be surprised if you only get two or three days."
"We got a week, last time!" protests the green-haired guy.
"Well, time's've changed. We do what we can."
"We may's well wait till Christmas, at that rate!"
"Can't make everyone put off their holidays. You said yourself, the place is a mess. Besides, can you afford another seven months?"

"It's got to be Brier, then. He's been in Monday nights. And his name came up last round, remember?"
"Shit, remind me never to lose a book," says the kid.
"Lost, damaged, late, ugh! It's disgusting. And he's been here for five years. If he treats his degree as carelessly as his books, we'll have to put up with him for another five."
The woman looks happier. "Right, and would he have any reason for the eighth floor?"
"Hold on..." he goes to the nearest computer and logs on. "I'm looking up his record now...hm, his books are more on the sixth."
"Oh, I think that can be managed. Let's have a look?" she studies his photo on the screen. "I'll make sure they check his ID first anyway. Don't want to kill off one of your well behaved patrons."

---------------------------------------------------------------

Word count: 639
The moral of the story is: read the prompt properly before you write anything. I may be coming back to this later :P

Challenge 12

2010-02-02T18:55:00.002+13:00

Gather together three or four ordinary people. Let them meet in a businesslike environment—a conference room, a grade-school classroom after school hours, a hotel room that is part of a suite so the bed is out of sight. These three or four people are going to decide to put someone to death. They are not government officials, rogue CIA agents, Mafia lieutenants—they're just plain folks. And the person they choose to execute is also a run-of-the-mill person just like them, except he is slated for death. Stay in this room. Don't follow through on the death sentence. Simply watch the group decide who needs to die and why. Choosing the victim is going to be hard. Keeping the group from simply going after someone who has angered them or cut them off in line or slept with their spouse—that is going to be your problem. This group of executioners should know one another but not terribly well. Don't tell us why or how they've chosen to do this; just accept the situation and try to let them accept it, too. POV—the executioners', as well as the intended victim's in a sense--will matter a great deal. One POV will predominate. You probably want to tell this scene from a dramatic perspective, allowing only spoken words to come out (don't show the executioners' thoughts)

Wordcount: 700 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 2: dirty babies

2010-02-02T12:49:00.001+13:00

Wake up nauseous in the night and find blood in your panties, just a little. Go back to sleep, dream about dirty babies. Pull on your favourite skirt and take a panadol, go about the day as though everything is normal. Think everything is normal. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew.

Watch the dirty babies at the park and in the prams. Hitch up your favourite skirt and splash in a big puddle when you’re sure no one’s watching. Skip class to tell Emma all about Axel, and Jessica all about Emma, and Karen all about Jessica… and Axel all about you. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew.

Find blood in your panties, a little more. Wipe it away and take a panadol. Tell your mum you’re staying at Emma’s, tell Axel you dreamed about him. Dream about dirty babies.

Wake up nauseous and take two panadol. Try to go about the day as normal. Hope everything is normal. Pull on your favourite shirt and leave the top button undone, just so. Skip class to babysit Karen’s dirty baby. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew. Tell Karen all about Axel, find Jessica when class is out. Tell Jessica all about Karen and how big her breasts are now.

Do up your top button and go home to get a panadol. Find blood in your panties, more. Tell your mum you have your period and take the packet of panadol. Watch her carefully, with her cigarette and her magazine and her beady eyes. Don’t look her in those eyes. Take a few tampon packets too, so she doesn’t know you haven’t used any in two months. Kick the puddle when you’re sure Mrs Yeates is watching. Look away from the dirty babies at the park and in the prams.

Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew faster. Find Axel. Don’t look him in the eye. Tell him you dreamed about him. Dream about dirty babies and blood. Squeeze into your favourite jeans and go to class where there are no dirty babies, try to go about the day as normal. Don’t look the teachers in the eye when their voices trill with sarcasm and they snark how lovely it is to have you back.

Find blood in your panties, lots. Skip class to sit in the lavatory and rock yourself, and eat panadol, and flush the lavatory so you don’t have to see what’s in it, and flush it again, and catch your breath like a knife in your throat, and use the strongest language you know when Emma pounds on the door. Let her in. Shake, but don’t sob, and don’t look her in the eye. Let her sit with you, and rock you, and then let her find Jessica and let Jessica find Karen. Let Karen take you to her doctor.

Half listen to the doctor as the words roll out. Be dejected as he pokes you in your belly, resent him as he asks you gently to unzip your jeans. Want Axel. Feel sick as he inspects parts of you that you never wanted to show him. Do up your top button and go home.

Watch Karen’s dirty baby gurgle and her breasts grow. Jump in the puddle when you’re sure Mrs. Yeates is watching. Buy tampons. Spend a dollar on gum at the petrol station and chew. Find Axel. Don’t look him in the eye.

Wordcount: 587! OMG

Challenge 11: Fin's world

2010-02-01T19:00:00.002+13:00

The evacuation started around midafternoon. Cowie took me with her to their little hideout - an open alleyway between tall brick houses, which was blocked up by detritus on either end. Bits of wood, a rotting garbage heap, a dead dog and piles of sacking. She was most worried about her man, who still wasn't back. "We're good here," she told me. "They're all caught up in their own business."
"What about Fin though?"
She acknowledged that this was a problem.
They'd had an argument the night before. She thought he wasn't there enough for the boys. He thought the boys wouldn't have anything to eat if it weren't for him. The boys - Et and Ley - and I sat aside in the bedroom while they argued. "They want Ley to get married," Et told me, "but he doesn't even get to go out and work, so I dunno what he'd do with a woman."
Ley said, "It's only Cowie. Since when does Fin care? He'd take me to work if he could."

"We'll never agree," sighed Cowie as we lazed in the corner furthest from the dog. "Fin's such a linear, practical view of the world. Work, marry, children. I want them to grow up in an exciting world!"
"It seems pretty exciting to me," I said wryly.
"But Fin doesn't see it that way! This is my point. His world is just there to be dealt with. He sees a difficulty, he deals with it. Ack, this is not like him." She climbed onto the sacks - not clambering, although she should’ve been. She just climbed right up no problems, peered over. "He sees a difficulty, he should turn up. We're gonna miss the evac, is what. Oi, boys."

Ley put aside the wind-up clock he'd been playing with. "We going?"
"No sign o’ Fin yet."
"We've only been here seven minutes, sheh!"
Minutes don’t mean much here, and I’d never heard any of them asking the time before. Cowie sat next to me again, wrinkling her nose as she moved aside a bit of soggy newspaper. "I want them to experience everything. To enjoy it. To absorb it. To see it through different eyes every day!"

I wasn't sure what to think of this, because Cowie didn’t have a job, and given that attitude in this place, if it weren't for Fin she probably wouldn't have anything to eat either.
Ley and Et started to hit one another. Nothing major – Cowie just ignored it. “Their names are short for Finley and Finnet. I was hoping they’d look just like him.”
“Well, that’s not so exciting, you’ve already got Fin,” I pointed out. “Didn’t you want your boys to be something different?”
Cowie didn’t answer this. “How long’s it been?”
“Eight minutes. We really have to wait in here?”
“No, I want you boys to go down to the ‘port. Me’n Fin will come when he gets back.”
Ley puts his clock in his pocket. “Ya sure?”
I know just as well as Cowie does that they won’t go down to the ‘port. They’ll go uptown where Fin works – it’s a couple of kilometres from here – and try to find him.
“No...you boys stay here and I’m’na look for Fin. You can come if you like,” she added to me. “But, Cowie,” protests Et. “What if neither of you’n Fin come back?”
“Well...you got that clock. Give it...uh...an hour. Give it an hour, ‘n if neither of us back you should go for the evac.”

I didn't know how far away the 'port was, but Cowie didn't know what an hour was. In our mutual ignorance, we left the boys behind and climbed – well, she climbed and I clambered – out of the alley. The city was dead quiet, apart from occasional yells where someone was still home. We had to duck out of the way a couple times to make sure we weren’t spotted. “I wonder if Fin’s gone to the port without us.”
“Leave the boys behind?”
“He’d take them to work if he could!”
I shut up then, because it was cold and she was upset. We went along like that for a while. And that’s how I ended up being with Cowie when she got to where Fin worked and found all of his stuff, scattered around. All the furniture upside-down. “They must’ve come through here already...”

“Hey Cowie, we’d better head back to the boys,” I say, grabbing her arm. I don’t know what it means, and here I was thinking the walls were holding during the evac, but Cowie’s shaking and sits down on the underside of the upside-down table, staring around like she can’t see anything. I’ve never been here, but I recognise Fin’s favourite pin-cushion with the stuffing coming out. “He’s got it too...my Fin!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Word count: 805

Challenge 1: Paramour

2010-02-01T18:05:00.003+13:00

“Lucas”, he laughed, “you are what the sun will always sing.”

A moment ago, el sol sat in the sky wearing his purple wedding dress, the one with the orange vale. He doesn’t know that the aisle he walks goes around and around, or that he’ll be back here in a day. Timeless waiting takes timeless patience and often, in frustration, he burns with anger, or hides and sobs. But still he walks.

El sol is not the only ignorant. Long ago, nobody realised the earth was a sphere.

Now, las estrellas are beginning to arrive. Too late to hem their lover’s fiery dress with silver lace, or to set his bright blue hair glancing with gemstones; still, timelessly, they seek a trysting place.

The street is hushed, expectant. A young woman saunters into the lamplight, she drags a giggling man. He pulls her against him and tilts her neck to bite collarbone and now she is giggling, he arrect, they trace their shadows around a corner.

“Lucas”, he assured, “you know I will be there.”

Waiting like el sol is enduring and empty. But expecting is urgent and full of him. Full of his moonlike features, his gaunt and silvered bone-hollows. Full of his shadowed breath and the way he cuts the universe in half with his eyes. Full of his bold thrill.

The streetlamps know he is coming and flicker their mockery.

“Lucas”, he insisted, “their slurs, their spit, they don’t matter. Always remember to leave them behind.”

The wind knows he is coming and hisses its disapproval – para-hhaha-mour, para-hhaha-mour.

In this way I am the luckiest man in the universe, luckier than a sunbeam: he will keep his tryst. He is coming.

There are moths under this lamp and they know he is coming before he is here. They scatter sideways. I scatter at the sideways scowls of moths who have never before seen two men in a lover’s embrace.

With full, insistent lips he kisses collarbone.
“Lucas,” he craves, “it’s no different, it’s no more shocking. Long ago nobody realised the earth was a sphere.”

wordcount: 348

Challenge 11: My Mistress' Secret

2010-02-01T17:07:00.001+13:00

My mistress is not sleeping well. Many nights, she murmurs, rustling sheets and beads of sweat on her brow. Sometimes, she wakes with a cry, eyes wide, heart pounding like a skittish gazelle.

This morning, she emerges from her bedroom, dressed in loosely fitting robes that only emphasize how thin she has become. She puts on her best ‘normal’ face and sips her tea, leafing through the mail. She has a visitor, Emily, and before going into the lounge, she checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, hating the face she sees there.

I arrange the platters of fruit and cheese just so, while Emily waits, long red nails tapping on the glass topped table. There are tattoos all over her skin, dark and twisting, like vines with thorns. My lady emerges, cheeks flushed, muttering to herself beneath her breath. We are all used to the way she does this and think nothing of it, mostly.

“Sister,” Emily says, rising to embrace my mistress. They are not blood sisters, but they share one tattoo in common, a serpent encircling the sun. Emily’s is on the back of her hand. She is not afraid to show who she is. My lady’s is more disguised. It sits at the base of her spine, a place only a maid or a lover would see.

My mistress smiles, kissing Emily’s cheek. “Welcome, sister. You have news?”

“I do,” she glances at me and my lady dismisses me at once. I bow and take my leave.

The girls huddle in the kitchenette, swapping rumours. Jenifer kneads bread for our lady’s evening bread, whispering, “Emily is an assassin. She tattoos a thorn for every kill.”

Diedra is preserving fruit from our lady’s garden. “Her Holiness would not allow a servant of the Dark God into her home.”

Our mistress is a priestess. I am her student. I listen to their theories and let my mind wander. One thing my mistress does not know about my abilities – I can project my vision.

“I will confirm my suspicions tonight,” Emily says.

“And if you are right…” my lady takes a slow sip of her tea. “You know what you must do.”

“Of course,” Emily stands, kissing the silver ring on my mistress’ finger.

The day passes slowly. My mistress spends much of it in meditation. She prays more fervently than ever and the voice in her head will not give her peace. She mutters over and over, fighting with herself in the privacy of her cloister.

There is soup for dinner tonight, caught by our island’s own fishermen. My mistress does not emerge to join us. We pray for her, and Emily, whatever she may be.

Night and sleeping, screams in the distance, though too faint to wake any of the girls. I am just sensitive. I am gifted. The shutter in the hall bangs in the wind, almost masking the sound of feet, whispering over marble tiles. Ghostly eyes without a body, I watch as Emily slips through the shadows into my lady’s room. She has spatters of blood on her skin and her white, knee length dress is torn. She puts her bloodies knives down on the bedside table and wakes my lady with a kiss. Eyes flutter open and the words, “It is done,” echo faintly.

My lady arises and stares for a moment out the window, her eyes full of conflict. Then she guides Emily into the adjoining bathroom and strips off the torn dress, sponging away the dirt and blood with her own hands. In return, Emily slips the thin straps of my lady’s dress off her shoulders, helping the silk slip to the floor. They embrace and kiss, tenderly at first, then with more and more violence as recollections of their guilt overtake. Somehow, they make it to the bed again, a mess of hands and passion and groans of frustrated pleasure. I feel a heat in me, wishing, perhaps, that I could be a part of their world.

Eventually, there is nothing left in them and Emily falls asleep. It is only then, that my lady lets the tears flow. It is her secret self who grieves for fallen friends and a cruel betrayal. I know this side of her, this woman, trapped inside the body of a tyrant. She looks at the naked woman beside her, face cringing in disgust. She arises and goes to the window, watching for the dawn. She lifts one of Emily’s knives and positions it over her breast, hands trembling at the thought of driving it home. But then my lady returns to her senses, voice harsh as she says, “Keep your hands to yourself, you bitch.”

Wordcount: 782

Challenge 11

2010-01-31T22:30:00.001+13:00

Create a narrator intimate to the story but outside it as well. The wonderful effect of a narrator who is intertwined with a story but also essentially unimportant to its outcomes is that you have more leisure to explore the complexities of the plot, the kinks in it, and the gaps of knowledge this cheerful spectator is going to have. Don't make her omniscient or even close - though she can guess expertly at the problems she is observing and can even be wrenched by the emotional logjams she is witness to.

Wordcount: 800 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 10: Mr Umber's dinner party

2010-01-31T17:15:00.003+13:00

Mr Umber was having a battle with the housekeeper.

It had started even before the dinner party. In fact, it's been going on for years. It's just a bit more embarrassing when everyone's there. The current theory: the reason Mr Umber never has dinner parties is because he's terrified of the housekeeper. They are talking about it (when Mr Umber is downstairs trying to find out where the cheese has got to). It's clear that everyone (who's fashionable) is having a battle with their housekeeper.

Sadly, no one seems to have told Mr Umber. He came up the stairs looking forlorn, and doesn't say anything about the cheese when he sits down.
"Darling, don't worry about it," says Mr Umber's cousin, Lady Aspic. "You know, everyone has trouble with the hired help."
The cheese, and the housekeeper, wander in about ten minutes later. They've brought two maids with them: one looking sullen and half asleep, and the other looking slightly pregnant.

Mr Umber, with much nudging from Lady Aspic and her companion, instructs the housekeeper to remain in the room. "You can't go running after them. If they won't respond to the bell, then they should stay where they can be of use."

"He needs a woman to look after him, that's what," whispers Mr Hartle to Mr Osman. "She'd know what to do with the servants."
"The problem is this unionisation business they keep going on about. They think they can get away with anything these days." The housekeeper moves half an inch closer to the table.
Mr Umber hears this part of their conversation too. "Actually - " he's interrupted because Lady Aspic spills wine on her dress and shrieks.

This is considered the signal for the ladies to retire. The housekeeper follows us - the sleepy maid is left with the men - and Lady Aspic is brought water and towels.

Another reason why Mr Umber should find himself a wife is that she would be able to lend Lady Aspic a dress to wear. Lady Aspic has already told her carriage to come at eleven, but she must sit 'til then in her wet, wine-stained gown.

The housekeeper fetches a little wooden chair for the slightly pregnant maid, and fusses over Lady Aspic's dress.

"That man is utterly scatterbrained," Lady Aspic tells the room. "One of these days he'll forget his own hat!"

She turns to the housekeeper. "I hope you don't let him forget his own hat."
"No, m'm."
"But you forgot his cheese."
"It was late being delivered, m'm."
"Tradespeople. You can never trust these shopkeepers to be on time. Now, why don't you take that girl away."

The housekeeper takes the wooden chair and the maid takes the extra towels.

"Letting a girl in her condition see to the ladies! Appalling." Lady Aspic's companion inspects her gloves as if something could have soiled them.

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Word count: 481

Permission!!

2010-01-31T16:48:00.003+13:00

Iconoclast suggested that we check that we are allowed to be writing this blog, so we sent the following email to Brian Kiteley, the Author of The 3 a.m. Epiphany:

---

Dear Professor Kiteley,

We are writing to you about your book 'The 3 AM Epiphany'. We are a group of amateur writers who love your book, and enjoy sharing the exercises. To this end, we have recently started a blog - http://3amepiphanyproject.blogspot.com - on which we regularly post a challenge from your book, and our responses.

We have linked to your book on Amazon.com but it has just occurred to us that there may be copyright issues with posting the exercises, and we would like to find out what your feelings are on this.

Yours sincerely,
[Anistasya and The Iconoclast]

---

We were excited to recieve a response within hours:

---

Dear [Anistasya and The Iconoclast],

I am delighted you're doing this. I don't believe there are any copyright problems with the blog and using the language of the exercises, as long as you keep the link to the Amazon page fairly obvious.

Thanks for the kind remarks.

Best wishes,

Brian Kiteley, Professor and Associate Chair
English Department
University of Denver

---

We are very excited and more enthusiastic than ever. Here goes the next 190 exercises!

And now for something completely different

2010-01-31T14:26:00.010+13:00

The blog is in its second week now, although I'm sure it feels like longer when you're doing the challenges! This seems like a good time to give a bit of background on the contributors, so that we each have some idea of who we'll be sharing our writing with over the next few months.

Those of you who wish to do so, please feel free to leave a comment telling us about your interest in writing, why you're undertaking this challenge, and any other information you'd like us to know.

As a general note, we're a group of enthusiastic New Zealanders, scattered around the country, with varying degrees of experience and interest in writing, brought together by the beautiful Anistasya, who has already completed her first novel and the talented Nightfire, winner of more Nanowrimo's than should be allowed!

Fan girl moment...

2010-01-31T14:26:00.008+13:00

The book (The 3 a.m. Epiphany) is at my house at the moment and I have been reading around the posted challenges. This is seriously the coolest and most challenging writing book I have ever come across. The tagline reads "Uncommon Writing Exercises that Transform your Fiction" and it is so true. Even after having only done 10 of these, I am feeling so much more confident about the actual process of writing (as opposed to story creation). I really recommend that you guys get your own copy of the book when you can, because it's simply inspirational.
*hugs*
- Ani

Challenge 10: Mama's Smile

2010-01-30T09:27:00.001+13:00

I remember when I thought mama was happy. She would smile and dance in circles around the ball room with my brother standing on her feet and I would laugh and clap. Papa would take over after a few songs, asking for a dance. He would take mama into his arms and kiss her cheek.

Do you think he loved her?

That would be sad. He always had a nice smile for her. He would tell her she is beautiful and she would sort of smile with that marble face and I would think ‘mama is not happy any more’.

The walls are listening to every word you say, so be careful when you visit. Mama isn’t happy any more. She paces the polished floors, scuffing them with her bare feet. Papa is gone too. Dead. That made me cry, a long time ago. Still makes me cry; when mama isn’t listening.

I remember when I liked Mama’s smile. When my brother showed her his painting, or when she tiptoed out of her bedroom in the middle of the night, down the cold floors, shivering in only a silk slip. The garden out the back of her palace, the one overlooking the golden falls. She would smile for him.

It’s not really that bad, is it? Dana said a lady can have as many special friends as she likes, as long as she is discrete. I asked if I could have a special friend, but she said, ‘absolutely not’. I asked my brother later, why not. He looked at me funny and then laughed. He said it was because I am crazy and no one would want to bed a crazy girl, even if she is pretty. I cried. Then later, I tried to kiss the gardener and he ran away. I cried some more, but mama didn’t care because she was busy. I went looking for her, trying to show her how sad I was. I found her in the hall with all the faces on the wall, staring down me.

Have you ever had a hundred wrinkly old stone women glaring at you at once? It is very scary. Especially when mama was yelling and papa was yelling and that other man was watching with a white face. He was saying, “Please’ a lot, but mama wasn’t listening. And then papa pulled out his sword and I thought he was going to kill the other man and to tell the truth, I was happy… and sad… because then mama would smile quite the same.

But he didn’t, did he?

I’ll never forget the way the metal of his blade went right through Papa’s own stomach and came out the back, like my morning knife in the cheese – except Dana will never let me hold a knife. She says it’s not safe.

Mama thinks she’s safe. She told me Papa killed himself because he was angry. She thinks I am a child and I will believe her, but I know magic and I am not a child. Mama told Papa to fall on his blade and that is what he did. He had no choice, did he?

Now Mama’s smile is wider, it has more teeth.

Wordcount: 537

Challenge 9: Black July

2010-01-30T01:48:00.008+13:00

The petrol stations gave out the gasoline. It was to burn the dogs and their houses, after all – a donation to a good cause.

Imagine a teenage girl who lives with her brother and her parents in the top floor of a house, in a relatively nice area. She’ll be glad there’s no school, until the tension started building and smoke appeared on the horizon. Her brother should be sitting exams, only they’ve been cancelled.

Their father’s friend will turn up with blood on his face – “They’ve got the voter’s lists!” – and still, their parents will tell them it’s okay. They don’t own the house – their names aren’t on the list. No one will know what ethnicity they are, or what language they speak. They’ll stay inside and shut the doors.

That’s what they do, when the mob starts up the end of the street with their torches and knives and sticks and the stuff they’d already looted. Her mother will start packing her jewellery, just in case.

But that guy they’d been living next to for the last seven years? The one who’d bought the children sweets, who came over for cups of tea? He will find himself a big stick too, and go out to join the mob. Our girl might see him as she peers through the window - as he points at their house.

She’ll never see her mother run so fast as when they race down the inside staircase – the one they never use – and out the back. She won’t get a chance to see her house again, because there won’t be time to turn around. Two streets over, they will find the family who takes them in – five hours huddled underneath furniture when the place is searched, and then out because the family has small children and they’re scared too.

Somehow, she’ll lose her family as she wanders around on the streets, looking for refuge. Someone will ask her father a question - she won’t understand that they’re asking where the dogs are. He knows their language, but he can’t fake the accent, and she runs when she sees the sticks come down on his back. Maybe she won’t get a chance to see her family again, either.

Maybe she’ll be lucky enough to find a quiet moment, a new hiding place. A street that hasn’t been ravaged, that doesn’t have charcoal for houses and corpses across the road. She’ll wonder if that makes it any safer. She’s not street-savvy, like her brother or even her parents.

Somehow, she’ll end up at a school. There are priests. They can’t give her food. But her heartbeat will slacken a little. She can wipe the sweat from her face and sit. There must be hundreds of people in the school – people she knows, too. None of them will have seen her family, and she won’t have seen theirs. She can be relieved, hearing their stories, that she hasn’t recognised any of the bodies. She didn’t linger long enough to look. A friend’s mother will find her a corner to sleep in.

In two days, they’ll be put on a bus, then an overcrowded cargo ship. It’ll be another three days without food before they reach the north.

This is where the government sends them, to be safe with their own people. She will never have been here before – many of her friends haven’t. They’ll put her in an orphanage, before she finds a distant aunt. Days without school are most days here. She’ll get used to the sound of explosions and gunfire - used to the feeling of terror every time an aircraft passes overhead. The checkpoints. The soldiers.

This is the land they’re fighting over.

The riots have happened before. They’ll happen several more times in her life, assuming she gets another decade or so. She’ll see fighting on the streets, and three armies battling for control. She’ll plead for her life at a checkpoint because a soldier didn’t – or did – like the look of her.

She’ll lose another family to the war.

Maybe she’ll call herself lucky to leave the country, and raise her children to speak a different language.

Maybe she’ll never leave the country. Sometime within the next twenty-six years, she will end up standing behind a barbed wire fence in a plain full of sewage and sickness and starvation. More corpses, but they won’t bother her any more. Her teeth will number sixteen and she’ll be half the weight she was as a teenage girl. She may not call herself lucky then, but she’ll still be luckier than some.

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Word count: 768

Challenge 10

2010-01-29T18:29:00.001+13:00

The Ironist

Create an observer of events outside his/her own experience, someone who knows more than she lets on, who jokes with us (the readers) but who also indirectly reveals a complex reading of the events she is describing. In Greek comedy, the character eiron was a dissembler, who spoke in understatement and pretended to be less intelligent than he was. This will be like the unreliable narrator, except that this character is aware they are telling 'tall tales'.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 9: Empress Zhangsun

2010-01-29T16:05:00.000+13:00

In the year 613, somewhere in the north of China, the young Lady Zhangsun peers through the shutters of her study at commotion in the courtyard below. Her uncle is home, and he has brought guests. She does not recognize them, nor does she expect to, but rumour among the servants for several days has been ripe. Uncle is impressed with one of the young men training under him. He has given her to him as wife.

She watches the men dismount, the servants leading away those fierce looking stallions. Four men, besides her Uncle, are left. The older is at least her uncle’s age, large around the middle with an easy laugh. He is surely the young man’s father. The next is a man, tall and proud. He has seen more than twenty summers compared with her mere twelve. Her hands clasp together, hidden beneath the sleeves of her silk shawl. The sight of him sends a tremor of fear through her and she pulls back from the window, scolding herself under her breath.

“You must be a good wife to whomever Uncle picks.”

She returns to her desk and retrieves a piece of paper from the drawer. She smoothes it down, holding it in place with the special rods, and then, slowly, dips her brush into the well of ink. Holding back her sleeve, she practices her words of the day.

僩

Xian. Courageous and valiant.

孝道

Xiao dao. Filial piety.

She looks up from the page when one of her ladies, Xiaoyu, arrives, curtsies, and announces that the Lady has been summoned. Lady Zhangsun gives the girl her warmest nod, carefully setting down her brush and leaving the words to dry.

The pavilion she has been summoned to is vast, floors of polished wood, walls open to the surrounding garden and lakes. Beautiful lakes with herons and golden trout are the pride of the Gao household. Before she arrived, Gao was concluding his negotiations with the general Li Yuan, his honoured guest, and entertaining Li’s three sons. Now, they are gone and the young Lady Zhangsun and her mother kneel, prostrate, before Gao Shilian, awaiting news of his decision.

“I am impressed by Li Yuan’s boy, Li Shimin,” Gao speaks, almost to himself. “He has shown great courage and piety. He has the heart of a leader. You will marry him, my niece. Bring honor to your family and please him, and he will care for you well. He is an honourable man.”

Zhangsun bows, her head pressing against the floor, heart pounding, but no one can hear it. What does he look like? Is he kind? It will be a month, perhaps more, before the wedding is held. A long time to practice patience.

Mother and daughter rise, bowing their way out of the pavilion. Alone again, Zhangsun prepares tea for her mother, holding back the questions burning within. When she is ready, the Lady Gao says, “My brother has been kind to us and you have blossomed under his roof. Continue to act as I have taught and you will bring great honor to your family. Always obey your husband and respect him, and he will treat you well. Respect and treat your servants well and they will love you. Live within your means, and no one shall have power over you or your house.”

Zhangsun pours the tea, focusing on the flow of liquid into the cups, allowing the scent and the steam to fill her lungs.

“It will be as you say, mother.”

The wedding comes far sooner than she expects, a blur or anticipation, colour, music heard through veils and curtains until that one final moment when she sees him for the first time. He is not the man she was expecting. This boy is fourteen, fifteen perhaps, with shimmering, deep brown eyes, terrified, just like her. All at once, her back straightens and she allows the hint of a smile.

It will be all right. She says with her eyes. He almost smiles back, slipping his hand over hers, claiming her as his own. It will be another thirteen years before they rule China. He will have many other concubines, gifts from families and countries paying tribute to the Golden Empire, but he will never love them as fiercely as he loves her. No other death will devastate him as much as losing her.

Lady Zhangsun was, and still is, one of the kindest and most loved Empresses of China.

Wordcount: 752

Challenge 9

2010-01-28T16:17:00.002+13:00

Historical omniscience

Write about an event set well in the past. Write from above, as if by means of researched opinion (doing a little actual research can't hurt). By this, I mean write about several historical characters or an interesting event, imagining any POV you want.

Wordcount: 700 (+/- 10%)

* Note: Historians often have access to letters, emails, journals, memoirs and interviews. They sew together fragments of information into a whole cloth, hence becoming as subjective as any novelist.

Challenge 8: Tourism

2010-01-28T13:46:00.002+13:00

(Yay a chance to look through my Box of Randomness! I think this one is from third form or so...)

I have lived here for as long as I can remember. The only useful memories I have are of learning my way around the city. I know shortcuts everywhere. It is how I survive. This city gets tourists every day, even in Winter! I may not know why the places they want to see are so important but I know ways to get there. There are the ways that the Fancy folk take, I don't go those ways, Guards are paid to keep people like me out of those fancy streets. I don't bother them, but the poorer ones, those that claim they want to see the 'real city'. Them I can get a coin or two, or food, out of for directions, better if I guide them to it. The other thing I know is which of the inns are cleaner, which will cheat tourists and which are downright thieves. I get something for recommending inns sometimes. I get my revenge on those that don't tip at all, or are miserly without needing to be too. I send them to the worse inns, the ones where they will 'loose' things. I am working on getting some sort of job at one of the better inns, even if it's only something for showing customers to the premises. The owner knows I send folks to him. Well, he knows that one of us street-rat-come-guides is directing customers his way. All I need is for one of the Fancy-in-hiding's to want directions to an inn and then maybe I can get it sorted. I don't plan on being nothing for my whole life after all!

I am early this morning, there aren't many tourists yet, most won't get here till after noon, but everyone knows that, it's why I'm here now. Now I won't have to fight to show someone around, later I might. Now though, because they are rare, I have the pick of them. It makes my day longer, but what else am I going to do? I don't get to eat unless a tourist decides I am trustworthy. Horses! But these ones aint dressed as Fancys! “Would you be needing directions to an inn?” I ask as clearly and properly as I can manage. The man glances at the Lady, “That I do lad,” he says. I do not bother to tell him that I am a girl, on the streets it can be better to be thought of as a boy. “Any inn in particular or would you like me to suggest one Sir?” I ask. “You can suggest one boy.” says the Man. This is perfect! Exactly what I need! “I could take you there if you like Sir, the inn I believe would suit you is called the Dragon's Den.” I reply, careful not to sound too self-important. “That'd be good lad, do you know your way around the city?” he asked. “Yes Sir.” I reply, careful not to sound too hopeful. “Well, then I will have another job for you after this. I have some things I need to deliver.” I am going to get to eat tonight! “I will be happy to guide you anywhere you need to go.”

Wordcount 544

Challenge 8: Japanese Dreams

2010-01-28T10:36:00.002+13:00

Walking through her nightmare was like tumbling back into a scene from one of those old Japanese movies. Standing atop a barren hill in the moonlight, she wore a long, tattered dress, white once but now so thin it fluttered in the soft breeze. Her straight black hair tumbled forward, over her eyes, slightly damp. Her sword was long and thin, lethally sharp.

I clambered up through mud, feeling it squash and creep beneath my nails. The fog was rising. By her side, we were surrounded by moans, the crack of bones and scrape of feet dragging in the dirt.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I whispered.

Glancing back, her large almond eyes were so innocent and trusting. “Charlie? I thought you were dead.”

That part was true. I was dead. How else would I be invading her dreams? But now wasn’t the time to be discussing something so trivial.

The zombies began to climb up, out of the mist, heads twisted to unnatural angles, tongues lolling, dribbling black saliva. There were her parents, faces just like in that faded photograph she hid at the bottom of her bag. Their skin was grey and clammy with blood oozing slowly from the bullet holes in their heads. Behind us, were other familiar faces; my own included - a long deep gash down the side of my face, crimson red eyes staring back, hungry.

“You sure have a morbid imagination,” I muttered, scanning for anything to could use as a weapon.

“I know.” She gripped her sword with both hands, closing her eyes. “Tadano himawari, dakedo watashi wa tsuyoi!”

I’m just a sunflower, but I am strong.

A sudden wind blew warm, dispersing the mist and leaving a faint scent of cinnamon in the air. Akiya opened her eyes, no longer sad, or innocent. Lifting her blade, she danced through the throng, each slice leaving only dust in its wake. Only at the end, did she stop, frozen. The shake of her shoulders was all that betrayed the buried emotion. I scrambled down, through the mud, to reach her. Sword thrown aside, clinging together, holding and kissing, her eyes were wide and shimmering.

“You will be gone with the morning.”

“But I will always be with you, I have been watching,”

She looked at me then, that almost forgotten humor on beautiful, pouting lips. “You’ve been watching me?”

I grinned, knowing what was coming and racing to forestall it. “Except in the shower…”

She stared, the silence widening.

“Or when you are getting changed,” I added hurriedly, when her expression did not change.

There was another silence as she examined my face, a slight crease above her brow annoyingly indecipherable. “Why not?”

Wordcount: 450

Special Challenge for the Iconoclast

2010-01-28T09:23:00.002+13:00

Due date: 28-01-10
Due time: Midnight

Assignment: take a break, relax, do something you think will make a difference.

;)

Challenge 8: The imagination knows no bounds

2010-01-27T19:00:00.004+13:00

I laughed, watching the small cat meowing and trying to catch the wool, which was rapidly unravelling. It tripped over a string, became distracted by a bird, and chased off, leaping up the wall.

The jade lawns stretched ahead, broken only by the tall brick fence and occasional cherry trees scattering snow-petals over even leaves of grass. I sat down gingerly on the long grey wooden bench. Below, where chair legs dug into the turf, sprang sprays of fresh daisies, bluebells, unknown strands of green clustered with dusty white clumps. The mid-afternoon’s sun donated a patch of light to my repose and refreshing warmth to the garden, peering with vague interest through sheets of steel clouds.

Silence; no movement disturbed the serenity until the approach of twilight, which was followed by a young man. “Mother says please come in before you catch a chill, dinner is ready if you want it, and she has heated water if you would like a bath instead,” he said, dropping a fluffy plaid blanket lightly on my lap, leading me inside to a room lit by a healthy fire.

A frying pan was hissing on the stove and an array of food laid out, just leaving room for the four places around the circular board. My brother sat in his place and the chubby cat perched on his plate. He lifted the feline, passing it to the man who entered the room through an inside door. The newcomer was middle-aged, solid in a plain, loose shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and baggy pants. The cat curled up in one of his arms, and the woman near the stove smiled. “How was your day?” The man washed his hands at the sink and sat. “Not bad at all. Looks like a good harvest this year. We can repay that loan soon. Good news,” he added, turning to us two. “We’ll be able to send you to study whatever you want. You can even be a lawyer if you insist,” he finished, with a curious look at his son.

***

I’d been watching my sister. She was surprisingly quiet all day; sitting on the broken plank stool in the untended backyard; laughing when the wind brushed through the flower-cadavers, rattling the vestiges of leaves, flinging them over the cracked railing; remaining there when the rain came tumbling down. When called to finish the household chores, wet washing dumped on her lap, she went to the cold kitchen and sat at the wobbly table without doing anything about dinner. Father arrived from the fields where we were working, and Yolande cheerfully ignored his protests at the lack of food, his tirade of “Your mother would never have let this happen!”

Finally, weary of father’s complaints at being unable to find work, his whining at my ambitions, I left. Perhaps, when mother was alive, things would never have gone this way, but I’ll be hanged before staying and listening to him insulting me and my sister. I walked out the back and stood a moment studying the broken tree trunk that adorned the buried garden path before jumping the fence and sitting dejectedly in the yellow sward.
I would be hanged before going in there again.

***

I smiled contentedly as mother sat next to me and asked, “Shall we eat?”

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Word count: 550
Based on a story written in 2003.

Challenge 7: Summer

2010-01-27T18:24:00.003+13:00

Pete soon catches up, wiping crumbs off his grinning face.

“Did they take ‘em then?” Mattie throws an arm around his shoulder.

“Sure, and they gave me chocolate cake besides!”

“Nah!” Hemi doesn’t believe him, but it’s true! He opens his mouth to show them the chocolate stains on his teeth. “Did!”

“Man ya coulda brought us some back.”

“Nah, yous made me take the fish.”

“That’s fair,” Mattie announces, and they shut up. Dad and Mum are waiting up the road a bit. “What’s the story then, boys?” Dad’s looking pleased with himself.

“Tide’s comin’ in,” Mattie says. “Did pretty well though.” He’d been carrying his kete and Hemi’s bucket, and shows them off. “Got a bit carried away, so I sent Pete around to a coupla ladies on the beach, give them some.”
“Well, auntie says we just need to be back for dinner, so we got the whole afternoon to ourselves. Any plans?”

Pete’s a city boy, really. He gets all excited on holiday. “Let’s go for a walk, Dad! Let’s go up into the forest.” Hemi’s not protesting the idea yet, so Mum says “I’ve got lunch packed, why don’t we drive into the national park and see what walks there are?”

Mattie’s not so keen. He’s met a girl at the dairy where he’s been going to buy the morning milk. He’s been hanging around there talking to her all the time, any excuse. But he does a pretty good job hiding it. “Make it a short one, eh guys? I’m tired from running around after you kids.”

Mum and Dad exchange a smile at their eldest acting all grown up.

“But I want a long walk,” wails Pete. He’s been watching too many reality tv shows about people losing weight or something.

“Maybe coming down with a bug,” Mattie adds. A frown is developing on Pete’s face.

Mum tugs the car door open. “You take it easy then, Mattie. Dad’s got some work to do anyway, so he can stick around here too. I’ll give you boys your sandwiches and take these two up into the park.”

Dad gives her a look. “Go on,” she says with a wink. “You’ll get your work done and Mattie can rest. We can go for a walk later.”

“You owe me, Mattie!” Dad tells him pointedly.

“Oi, no, you go. I’m good on my own.”

“No, no. Auntie’s home, we’ll drop you off at hers and she’ll look after you.” Mum knows this is an even worse prospect for Mattie than staying back with Dad.

Hemi’s been a bit too quiet. The reason becomes clear when Mattie says, “And Hemi shouldn’t get a walk. He’s been trouble all morning. Running off past the rocks and trying to get into the deep water to swim.”

This is amusing. Mattie hasn’t realised his parents know exactly what he’s doing, saving up information so he can nark on his brothers at the right time in the hope his parents’ll forget about him. He’s not lying, though. Mattie doesn’t lie about his brothers, only about his love interests.

“Hemi, what do you feel like doing now?” Mum finally gets in the car and the others follow
.
“Wanna go for a walk...” Hemi doesn’t want a walk, but it would’ve been worth keeping quiet and going along if it meant Mattie didn’t remember to tell on him. Now he’s hoping his punishment will be to get left behind.

“Right, we’ll talk about this over a walk.” Hemi already knows what the talk is – he’s heard it often enough. The theme is about listening to his big brother, and today the plot will be about drowning.

Mum starts the car. “It’d be nice if Mattie could come too, of course.” She looks back at Pete, who’s squished in the middle of the back seat between his brothers. Mattie went through a phase when he wouldn’t let anyone else in that seat because he was scared the seatbelt would chop them in half if there was a crash. Now he’s too big to fit in the seat, he just starts complaining when his parents drive too fast. Not that it matters here, where the roads are unsealed and no one wears seatbelts anyway, apart from Pete, only he doesn’t today.

“You okay there, son?” Mum doesn’t turn around, but she can see him in the mirror. Dad turns around, though. Some days, they wonder if Pete’s the best schemer of the bunch. With great big tears like that in his eyes – well, let’s just say Mum drives straight to the park and doesn’t even ask Mattie what he wants to do. Oh, she doesn’t mind. Pete’s parents can put up with his tears. Even Hemi says “You’re such a baby, Pete.” But Mattie keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t say anything about feeling sick or misbehaving siblings or even wanting to see his auntie. He’ll just make everyone big milkshakes the minute they get back. Really big milkshakes.

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Word count: 835

Challenge 6: Ma's birthday party

2010-01-27T17:34:00.003+13:00

Ma thought it was a bit strange at first. It is strange if you think about it - one living being growing inside another. But she got over the weirdness - perhaps the slight bit of disgust - soon enough. Same old story, right? We look into each other's eyes, we fall in love. Ma had heard it all before, but it was something else to experience it for herself. The kid? Well, she did the usual. Eat, poop, scream. We got along so well, even when Ma thought the kid would bust both our eardrums screaming. It wasn't five days before the kid was little Lou (Ma only became Ma when little Lou was born, she was Annie before that, then everyone got so used to Lou hanging around asking for 'Ma!', they started calling her that too) and Pa had vanished again. Lou, growing up without Pa, barely noticed - that's how well we get on.

We're at the beach today. Ma's wearing her old sundress and Lou's wearing her new one. Actually, Ma gave Lou hers but Lou gave it back when she got the new one. It's Ma's thirty-fifth birthday, so we thought we'd go out, only Ma's drinking has taken a bit of a toll on our finances, so we took the bus to the beach. Lou got the day off, and made a picnic. The only reason we do birthdays now is because when Lou went to school, all the other kids had birthday parties and cakes and lollies. Since it was rare we had more than canned tomatoes and cheap bread to eat, Lou never got a birthday party until she was thirteen and had her first part time job, and figured it was a good investment to buy a cake if she got presents in return. Took her a while to realise that meant she'd get invited to parties too, and would have to come up with presents of her own.

Once Lou left school it was easier for a couple years - we had two incomes, and we started having our own little birthday dos, just us two. That was before Ma started drinking - but we're working on that. We always support each other. When Lou got into trouble with the cops, Ma told them our sad story about how that bastard walked off and left her holding the baby and they felt so sorry for us they just said don't let us catch you dealing pot again. And Lou can be pretty smart when she wants to be - she hasn't let them catch her again.

We're happy just to walk along the beach. Some boys are playing around on the tidal flats, finding shellfish or something. Neither of us likes seafood. Ma doesn't even like the smell of the sea, though Lou doesn't mind it. She’d a boyfriend who smelt like the sea once, because he used to go fishing all the time. Actually, that was her only real boyfriend and he was a tough one. Ma would’ve scared him off if he hadn't got himself into trouble already because of the weed. Ma’s a bit put off lunch by the smell, so we wander back towards one of the benches and sit down. Lou starts eating, makes a face. “Good to see your sandwiches ain’t changed,” says Ma, “go put some salt in it, that’ll make it taste better.”

A boy runs up to us with a big grin on his face and a kete in his hands. The others are straggling back to the shore. This one can’t be more than six or seven. “’Scuse me.” He drops the kete and we can see it’s full of mussels and something else. “Mattie says we got too much, and would you like some?”

We don’t know what to do for a moment. Ma’s eyes’re full of tears.

“Oh, darlin’. ‘Course we would. Would you like some cake?”

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Word count: 659

Challenge 5: A few days in our time

2010-01-27T17:30:00.005+13:00

Dear Tuck,

I promised I’d keep a diary for you, so...here. It’s a beautiful book. I hope to do it justice! It’s strange to be writing by hand rather than a transcriber. Nevertheless, it’s nice to think things out, to ensure they are phrased well – to not have to focus only on thinking the right thing in the right order! I suppose – and I suspect it to be a common problem –we become accustomed to restricting our thoughts, structuring them such that a first iteration from a transcriber is comprehensible. I anticipate it will take some time before I can think a hundred things at once and structure them in writing, but I do look forward to it.

19 January 2010
Four days in, my fear is that someone will discover my diary. I shall tell them everything – this included! is some fiction I’m writing. But, dear Tuck, I must tell you about this fantastical world. Even here, a paper journal is anachronistic. They use the ‘computers’. They’re not quite as I imagined – somewhat larger – though smaller communication devices (do you remember the word ‘phones’?) and variations thereon, are widespread.

In other news, there was an earthquake – can you believe it?! – in a little country in the Carribean. I’m not sure where it is (you know my geographical knowledge is lacking!) & we shall have to look it up when I return. The Captain mentioned it, but I haven’t been in communication with the others since arrival. The earthquake was devastating – I’ve never seen such awful happenings as they show on the ‘teevee’ (abbreviation, ‘television’). Back home, we never think about fault-lubricating systems or whatever they use to keep landmasses moving smoothly without these dangers.

Sometimes I wonder how I ended up with a scientific team! However, I’m privileged to be the student assistant. As for the others: Captain and partner are travelling. Yts (I should say ‘she’, as Captain is female for the purposes of this mission) is, of course, familiar with this routine. Samy (female, historian), is buried in a library nearby; Innley, (biologist) has gone off on his own – apparently that’s typical, though he’s the one with the other DEVICE so hoping we have no problems! The rest are crazy – the two geologists have found their way to the earthquake, and the chemist went in search of a warzone! I wish I could have accompanied the others, but, Tuck, don’t call me immature – I understand they can’t risk inexperienced members getting into trouble. I’d like to tell you more, but I have a sore hand! And it’s time for dinner – my host family is kind, and the ‘father’ is an excellent cook – besides which you’ll get to see most of the other details in my report.

21 January 2010
I promised to write everyday, didn’t I? It’s easy to become carried away in absorbing this world - seemed a shame to spend a moment sitting here writing. Had a ‘phone call’ from the Captain –meetings all going well and hoping to be back within two days. No word from the chemist – who knows what yts wanted with a warzone – or Innley; the geologists are enjoying their studies but not the devastation. Samy met me for ‘coffee’ (hot, caffeinated drink of which there are many varieties) before leaving to visit another university. She’s thrilled by all this.

23 January 2010
The computer’s not functioning! Something to do with angry ‘farmers’ and ‘power cuts’. So back to writing. No communication. Is this normal? I don’t remember, though I’m sure they were to check in with me daily - so far all I’ve had is that one ‘phone call’ and the meeting with Samy.

24 January 2010
No word from anyone – the Captain at least should’ve checked in by now. Samy’s back and worried too. Departure tomorrow!

25 January 2010
Dearest, dearest Tuck. I wonder if I’ll see you again. I wonder if you’re even still real. The Captain came back alone, a mess. They won’t share the details but someone attacked yts and now they have the DEVICE, or so she says. If Innley returns perhaps we can return to the 22nd to stop it, but what if we screw things up further?

28 January 2010
The three day leeway’s gone - the gateway will be closed. Maybe one of you will come for us after the twenty year rest period. If the world is still here. If the future is still there. There’s talk of high-tech weapons – they’re banned in our time! – and war. Captain says her monitor recorded DEVICE flux last night. Someone’s up to something.

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Word count: 769

Challenge 4: Feed the birds

2010-01-27T17:28:00.001+13:00

There’s a girl, sitting under the willow tree, with a plastic bag of dried up old bread getting wet on the leaf litter and soil next to her. For that matter, she’s getting wet too.

That girl is me. I wonder where the ducks are. This time of year? There are meant to be ducks everywhere. Duck shooting season, etcetera, etcetera, I know. But they haven’t killed all the ducks. They can’t’ve.

She makes a pretty sad sight, in the bright sunshine with hands clasped around knees and that forlorn look as her eyes search the river. Is that a hint of tears?
Normally, I wouldn’t cry about ducks. It’s just not been a good day, and the ducks are always here. I spend an afternoon here with the ducks every week. My family can be counted on to be that careless with their food supplies. When they haven’t been, I sneak a few slices of the fresh loaf away, hoping no one will notice.

Sometimes I take the good stuff anyway, because I feel sorry for the ducks.

She’s crying now. Leaning against the bug-laden tree trunk. Burying her face in her knees.

I’m hoping like hell no one will walk past and notice. Or maybe I'm hoping they'll come and ask what's wrong.

I know there’s a construction site further upstream. Maybe the ducks couldn’t handle it. Maybe they’re all lying there poisoned by construction effluent. What a horrific sight that would be!

Don’t go to look.

I can’t. It’s not far, but it’s on the other side of the park, and there are lots of trees, and I’ve been warned about walking through lots of trees! There’s a fundamental rule about not walking through trees that all girls get taught. It’s the same as the one about not going out in the dark and not getting into strangers’ cars and not wearing short skirts, though I suspect the latter was only fundamental in my family.

I would like to see where the ducks are, though.

She gets up and wanders further into the park. I want to tell her not to. I know what happens when a girl wanders around in there by herself. But he can’t be in there. Surely he can’t, because I’m already dead and the ducks have already gone.
But she comes running back again. Running back so fast she scares the ducks away, only where did the ducks come from? They were scared away last time. I don’t know how they keep coming back. I never see them come back. She doesn’t see them either, she just sits down and dies and I wake up again with blood on my skirt getting the bread bag soaked and the ducks are gone. Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I don’t. I still don’t know how it started. But first I have my cry, and then I know I've got to go and look for the ducks.

The bag gets a little bloodier and the bread gets a little drier every time.

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Word count: 475