@sandradavies
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Setting a writing prompt then watching the array of exciting interpretations — six in all!! — flood in as they did this month, confirming there are always many times more than one ‘correct’ answer, I consider one of life’s especial pleasures, but I have to say actuality exceeded expectation by some considerable margin – thank you all!
Seagreen’s observations were wonderfully poetic; mesmerising , in a dreamy sort of way that lit my mind.
Janette’s black magic theme in ‘Turning of the wheel was similarly unanticipated. Large in scope, other-worldly, and all the more intriguing for being way beyond my imaging capability.
Libby’s ‘Picture Gap’ is solidly down to earth in its setting but mind-blowing in the breadths of possibilities of the story it tells – one to stay with me, untangling, over and over, it’s message.
To have prompted Squidge’s rare appearance a particular pleasure, despite (and also because of) the nastiness of the inherent threat.
Athelstone also pounced upon an opportunity to unsettle; the subtlety of the woman’s reactions, her confusion evokes sympathy, and then applause for her discovered strength.
Alex’s ‘Innocence’ twists an already-nasty and familiar tale, forcing us to see the woman in a different light, at the mercy of false porcine accusations.
Obviously, such riches have made it hard to single out one winner, since all strongly merit that title, so I am declaring Squidge the one to take the top spot, and I look forward to discovering how she intends to challenge us.
Monthly comp: there’s already three thoroughly inspirational entries this month … I’m heading for the Hull ferry later today, will be back on the 3rd September, hoping to see how others interpret this prompt.
Some years into my writing journey I began making a list of writers who, as I read them, immediately sent me to my current wip, recognising the breed of magic, of tone, I needed to add to mine. (No idea where that list has gone) I’m not at all analytical, so fail miserably at the ‘read like a writer’ exercises, but was mildly shocked, on re-reading ‘Gone with the Wind’, at how much I’d unconsciously picked up, in terms of sentence structure. Most recently, Louise Kennedy’s ‘Trespasses’ imposed an entirely new structure on my current wip. Needs much re-writing but fingers crossed has added much-needed impetus.
@ Libby – yes indeed to Tessa Hadley, and to ‘composting’.
Thank you for this treat of a blog, Richard, which addressed my total ignorance of chanson. I’ve long preferred lyrics which say something (hence my liking for Arab Strap and The Floating Men, discovered via my youngest son.) I’m thinking I can repay him with Pete Atkin.
Perhaps I should make it clear this is just one line intended as a prompt to build a story on, from a collection of poetical, random lines, in a pocketbook entitled ‘Distance and Proximity’.
Wow, Libby, and thank you, a big surprise, especially as I’d already identified winners 1,2 and 3 and, my laptop having died and been taken away, and only having my ancient, over-full and steaming one, I wasn’t checking as often as I have been. I’ll try and come up with something as interestingly challenging as the last few have been.
Right man for the job!
Half eight, overnight ice on the inside of the windows, me already double Aran-wrapped, my phone rang:
‘Missus Blake? Morpeth Builders. We’ve a cancellation. Can come and have a look at your chimney today.’
‘That’d be great. There’s some sort of, of … blockage. The boiler’s broke, so lighting a fire the only way to keep warm.’
‘No problem, Flower, we’ll sort it. Be there in half an hour.’
‘Thank you.’
I presumed they had the address. My teeth-chattering message on their answerphone a bit incoherent. I was pissed off. Every time I’d suggested lighting a fire, Kev, my husband, said to wait: ‘It’ll need checking first. Bird’s nests … whatever … Could set the chimney alight .’
I’d reminded him a couple of times. There’s snow forecast. And you’re away next week –‘
‘Soon as I get back. Promise.’Well. Snow had fallen and, as I’d warned, the radiators stayed cold. No chance the boiler’d be looked at for a fortnight. Okay for him, in a hotel (and his bed likely all the warmer for whoever he shared it with.)
I’d not rung the builder Kev usually asked – a mate of his whose work was shoddy – but gone for one a neighbour recommended: ‘Owned by a retired cop. Through injury. But his team are all experienced.’Turned out ex-cop experience more relevant than brick-laying.
Took two minutes to reach and retrieve the blockage: five one-kilo blocks of cocaine, wedged tight. My shock evident enough to declare my innocence. Kev’s blustering attempt to blame me; the cop, whoever, for framing him, cut no ice. Not that there was any now. [271 words]Congratulations, Libby, and thank you Seagreen for such an enticing theme – I had a dozen possibilities in my head, and it was obvious others did too, strong voices all and I was glad not to have to do the judging.
‘O dolce mano’ another opera
Coming out of the theatre, in the carpark, beeping the car unlocked, you say ‘If we’re dropping Judy off, she’d be best in the front –‘
Because it’s SO difficult to get out of the back seat? Nevertheless, I say nothing. It was Judy – a work colleague –that offered him the tickets. I bought the third on seeing the involuntary twitch of his mouth, explaining. Neither checked the numbers, so two together and one four seats along surprised them. Judy slow to realise I’m not as stupid as she hoped – as Peter perhaps implied? – I made sure he went along the row first and I followed. Closely.‘Tosca’ was superb. Sad to say, Judy ‘didn’t see the point of all that foreign singing so you couldn’t tell what was going on’.
It was slow getting out the car park, traffic clogged. Cleared towards the edge of the city so we sped up, all the way to hitting the pitch dark, no streetlights stretch from here to home.
I’m no more deaf than I am stupid; hand alighting on thigh easily deciphered. Hers on his. His eyes, in the rear view mirror, fixed straight ahead. His breathing increasingly fast.Then, ahead, a scarlet and orange muster of brake lights. Hazard lights. Cars slowed to a stop.
Ahead, a stationary double-decker bus. Hand continued stroking as we crawled towards it I pulled my cigarettes from my bag. Slid one out and lit it, unsurprised by her coughed complaint; her glance at Peter to see if he’d tell me about her allergy or whatever. He’s not that stupid, either.
Someone ahead was directing traffic, allowing four cars one way then four another. As we edged out to overtake the bus, lights from its upper deck illuminated the front of the car, its occupants as able as I to see her hand creeping upwards.
I took my cigarette out of my mouth. Reached through the gap between seats, saying to Peter, ‘Want a drag?’ Then, silly me, my arm slid downwards and the lit end of the cigarette landed on the back of Judy’s hand.
A bit of voice control and she could’ve auditioned for ‘Tosca’.
[360 words excluding title]Well done Sea, for an intriguing tale, and thank you Kate for a topic that had me seeking a tale I KNEW I’d written on this theme, then, not finding it, having to concoct something else. Thanks also for all the other entries; I still haven’t solved Alex’s anagram.
There’ll be kites [497 words]
It isn’t often that seeing an envelope on one’s doormat transports one back some forty years through time.
Took me long enough – the wrestling of the key in the lock ever more painful thanks to the curse of arthritis; the nudging open of the door with my shoulder just enough to know I’d be able to push it wide enough to step inside after I’d bent and picked up my shopping bags – to recognise it was an envelope; colour and shape not what I usually received and, face down, no hint as to where it had been sent from.Once inside I went along the hall to the kitchen, set the bags down on the worktop and, because I’d been reminding myself to do so all the way home and knew I was in danger of being distracted, removed the too-easily squished tomatoes from top of the bag, took out the chocolate ice lollies and put them straight into the freezer. On offer but still too expensive to let go to soggy puddle waste because of my own forgetfulness.
That done; the conjunction of shape and colour tugged for my attention, I looked back up the hall. The envelope – square and scarlet – had landed on the doormat – biscuit-coloured sisal with narrow black stripes – in such a way as to emulate at least the style – conjunction of urban incongruity with lace and rainbows – if not the actuality of a painting by an artist I’d once revered.
Still did much appreciate, of course, but since I no longer painted, to less practical effect.
I bent to pick it up, conscious, as I did so, of voices outside. Shut them out as I turned the envelope over and saw that it was unaddressed and contained no more than a single sheet of paper. As I did so I registered a darkening caused by someone outside my front door. Voices more distinctive; a woman and a child. Then a knock, and a giggle, but in a way that had me doubting they meant mischief.It was mother and daughter of the family who’d just moved in opposite. The daughter immediately reached to take the envelope from me, her mother warning, ‘Emily …’ as the child said, all in a rush, ‘It’s an invitation. To my birthday tea. This afternoon. All my friends now live too far away so there was going to be no-one and I thought you might like to be a new friend. But I didn’t know your name to put on the envelope.’
Quickly, I checked the mother’s face. She was proud of her daughter’s initiative; apprehensive I might not feel the same. Under other circumstances, I might not have done, but the reminder of a time when, like Emily, I’d been young and eager for new experiences, urged me to accept with what was, I realised, unfeigned delight. Which multiplied when I saw the crimson kite Emily had drawn.‘I’m Matilda, and I’d love to come. Thank you.’
Well deserved win Kate, not only for the entrancing fairy story but for the impetus reading it gave me. And thank you Alex for the competition theme – the sort of challenge which stretches and inspires.
@ Athelstone – would it be possible to put that red reminder banner up more regularly? I confess I’d forgotten about the monthly comp and was glad to be alerted to it.
Tickled pink
Let me say straight away, it wasn’t what you – or any of my workmates – would think. Soon as I got over my … anger, I suppose, and looked at her, saw her, I heard my wife say, clear as if she was beside me, and we’d passed this lass in the street, “Asking for it!” She didn’t always bother to lower her voice, and inevitably I’d look to see what particular invitation sparked her ire.
And I have to say, to begin with, Jodie certainly irritated me.Early April, first day it was warm enough, and the sun rising higher than the houses opposite my usual parking spot. I’d unlaced my boots enough to toe them off, pulled my socks off, pulled the couple of cushions I keep behind the seat, set one for my head and the smaller one over where the glass emerges from the door, so as not to dig into my ankles when I positioned them, pointing out the window.
I was practised enough at catnapping to be well away when she started. Sensation crept into my dream as the slither of a snake; shocked me awake when I heard its warning rattle, prior to sinking its fangs into me.
I yelled, sat up. Her face laughed at me through the open window. She held up the feather as explanation. Blonde-streaked hair, strung with beads, rattling against the bodywork had provided soundtrack.She was quick to read my fright; its morphing to fury. Amusement bled into apology as she backed away, becoming embarrassment. Seeing me shift forward, she halted. Watched me open the door and slide out, bare feet wincing on the gravel.
‘I, I’m sorry, I only wanted to ask you …’She stopped and I found myself judging her as would my wife. Trying to guess what she was asking me for. I’d put her at half my age, and me no Adonis, so couldn’t kid myself it was what my wife implied, despite the shortness of her skirt, black tights and … nicely-filled low neck T shirt, (if I’m allowed to observe such things.) Her embarrassment was growing. To help her out I smiled. ‘Ask me what?’
‘If you could tell us if the burning smell in our flat is because the wiring’s dodgy. ‘ She gestured along the road. ‘We’ve only just moved in. The landlord says it’s fine, but my parents would want me to make sure.’
I put on my best frown. ‘You do realise there’s a £70 call out charge?’ and watched her face fall. Quickly – we’ve seen our daughters through uni – I added, ‘But I’ll waive that for a glass of water. Jump in and tell me where we’re going.’
[451 words]
Far TMI!! Our first autumn spider in the kitchen sink this morning (usually they wait until Steve’s away and I’m stark naked before ambushing).
Well deserved, Athelstone, and thank you Clebs for the topic which at least sent me back to the primary sources to size up the task again. Thanks to all entrants for a feast of post gathering events.
Not quite fulfilling the brief but it’s this or nothing.
The post-gathering I should most like to write the aftermath of, did time and ability permit is the one which took place following the reading of the will of Thomas Hutchinson Goodfellow, my husband’s great-grandfather, following his death in Tottenham in 1891, age 73.
That it was disputatious is evidenced by the fact that his three eldest sons (one of which is referred to as “reputed son”), named as trustees, were challenged about their handling of the conditions the will, the rest of the family bringing a case to be heard in the High Court of Justice, Chancery Division against them.In Birmingham, he’d established himself as an Electro Plate Manufacturer; when he moved to London his address was given as Hatton Garden where he employed sixteen and was at times described as “silversmith”.
The will begins conventionally enough, suggesting “all my jewels trinkets plate linen china glass books pictures prints wines liquors furniture and other household effects” be shared amongst his eight children as equally as possible. Shares in the family business were to be similarly divided.
But when it comes to the rest of his estate, he gives the trustees the power to delay the sale of his large portfolio of London properties should they deem the money necessary for the running of the business. Understandably, his married daughters, whose husbands were not employed in the family business were reluctant to have the receipt of their portion in the hands of the three eldest sons, and I imagine that post the reading, once the implications had sunk in, conversation might have got heated.In the end, the trustees lost their case, and the properties were ordered to be auctioned at the Wood Green. Assembly Rooms, High Road, Wood Green, in the county of Middlesex, on Wednesday and Thursday, the 5th and 6th June, 1912, at 7 o’clock each evening, in 51 lots.
I’d love to find the time to research – and the imagination to write the drawing room conversations; daughters urging their husbands to act, and the joy of success. 9342 words)Congratulations, Clebs, a well-twisted tale. And thanks Alex for a prompt which produced such variety.
A ‘critical reading course’ sounds exactly what I need, (and I’ve a couple of books on the course list) but despite several books on ‘How to’, and the Future Learn course using the James Tait Black shortlists, I’ve realised my brain doesn’t work that way. Hope you get what you want from it. I’ve several books from the Festival added to my wish-list, including giving Maggie O’Farrell a second chance (having disliked ‘Hamnet’) and spent ~£130 on tickets. Can say that listening to writers discuss the ‘How’ of their writing was insightful.
And now that Edinburgh’s book festival is over, I need to thank you again for the heads up – so many hours of pleasure, not to say inspiration.
Since I started this topic I might as well update it with the news that from today ‘Drink with a dead man’, book 4 in the ‘Love triangles with murder’ series, is now available on Blurb, as 400pp print book and ebook.
Eight years ago Kit Talamantes faked his own death. When he receives notification of a wedding which cannot be allowed to proceed he has no choice but to return to England to correct mistakes made in his previous life. But who has summoned him? And why?
Similarly unexpectedly Edinburgh crime reporter Baz Rose hears of a proposed, and potentially problematic, reunion for four ex-uni friends who fled apart on graduation.
DI Luke Darbyshere receives a tip-off more interesting for its provenance than its content. In pursuing that he finds himself in professional conflict with the woman who, having given him six months to convince her they should marry, is struggling to solve a murder.
And Drew Bishop is determined on revenge.
https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/10608196-drink-with-a-dead-man
https://www.blurb.co.uk/ebooks/750448-drink-with-a-dead-man
Just come across this while procrastinating and would firstly say I found it fascinating. I know I lack analytical skills and rarely watch films, finding them lacking compared to books, so your post, Daeds, and subsequent comments, have opened my eyes to a new way of viewing – I’ll come back and re-read several times more – so thank you.
Change for the better?
I was born in Dovercourt, Essex, in my paternal grandparent’s house, to which they’d moved when my father was five years old. He, being still in the RAF was told of my arrival by telegram. The house was small; too small for five adults (my father’s sister lived there too) and baby, but we lived there for several years; the one attempt, after the arrival of my brother, to afford a house of their own ending in failure. My mother’s family, just down the road, in Harwich, were similarly skint and over-crowded.
Although aware of tensions, and of sorrow (my grandfather was ill for several years while we were there, (eventually dying soon after my sixth birthday) none of it added up to an ‘unhappy’ childhood, since throughout I felt myself both loved and very sheltered, since everywhere I went, every path I took, everyone I met – both grandad and aunt worked in a local stationer’s shop and all were active within their church – was known to whoever accompanied me.
In 1952 by some means, never explained to me, involving my grandad ‘pulling strings’, my parents had been able to buy what my mother called her ‘dream house.’
Then the library, where my Dad was librarian was closed down. A new job was sought and found some eighty miles away, in Hertfordshire. It necessitated leaving family and heading into the unknown.
For some months, he searched for somewhere for us to live, The one house he thought enough of a possibility to afford the fare for my mother to view, she turned down flat, Then news – and a copy of the plans! – of a still being built bungalow. I pored over them, thrilling at the chance to choose the colour of my bedroom walls. My mother stayed silent.1953, towards the end of July, a big green removal van came and packed up all but our beds. Next morning, we all sat in the front of the cab, me too excited to allow my mother’s mulish misery to spoil things; aware of my father’s foreboding.
Arrival, at the back gate, bungalow brick-built and raw, but fresh with paint and echoey uncovered floorboards, the surrounding ‘garden’ rough-dug earth and rubble, but new and exciting!
Not for my mother who took her time to accept the tiny, two- shop village, where she knew no-one.
For me it was sudden, heady freedom: While Mum was occupied with settling in, I was left to wander, timeless. To explore, lanes and alleyways, farm tracks and a recently-evacuated airfield, a whole range of architecturally interesting houses. All new. Never seen by anyone who knew me; something I’d never had before. From my ground-floor bedroom window I watched an entire new cast of unknown folk; overheard my mother’s suspicion-loaded questions about the smiling, black-curly-haired man who swept the roads and chatted to me, and decided that at the age of seven I could make my own mind up as to who I trusted.Only three entries depicting Andrew’s possible future, but each of a quality and breadth of imagination that makes the judging, the choosing of a “winner” extremely difficult.
Knicks opening sentence an instant hook, her choice of verbs ¬– “breathing hitched”, corner of mouth “kicked up” – is inspirational, and Andrew initially appears to have come a long way from his boyhood.Alex’s inclusion of a police officer with “sardine breath” and a toupee, and the description of Andrew’s “penny-brown eyes “ add to the detail of his mis-spent youth, giving him the ability to slip into and out of trouble in the course of a life of precarious living
Athelstone tells of the influence of Andrew’s father on his current thinly-surviving circumstances . Heartbreaking, but the final sentence has me hoping for another, more up-beat chapter.
And so, I have to choose. Not easy, but I think Alex’s slithery, conflicted small-fry villain deserves top place, and look forward to hearing what August’s challenge will bring.
Just realised, quite a few of my Challenge stories are written in first person present. I think to give myself an extra treat!!Would definitely deny they are static!
Brief, and not necessarily well-thought out reply, (nor am I 100% I’ve got the terminology right), but Elly Griffith’s ‘Ruth Galloway ‘ series is told in present tense, with sentences/Pov as “Ruth watches as C and C get into the Rolls” (second person??) Every time I start a new one I think “Oh no, forgot how much I dislike this” then very quickly cease to notice. Jane Casey’s Maeve Kerrigan is present tense, all from her PoV and superbly done.
That said, I am increasingly aware how poor I am at analysing writing.
I too echo Kate; I was trying to remember how the Cloud functioned in terms of activity; hadn’t considered the influx of new members. finding their confidence to participate.
And, yes, yes, the annual challenge and also to a blog about e,g, fiction (I was wondering last week about what makes ‘Good Writing’?) And at least the Activity column shows the folk who look in (though there are some who do so frequently but never write)
Just a thought, and maybe not entirely welcome, but would not the opportunity for members to expand their profiles, just a little, be more welcoming? Give newbies the opportunity to read, make contact and say (for example “I’m interested in that too”
btw I’ve posted July’s comp but don’t know if the link will function as hoped. If not can you tell me how, please.