@sandradavies
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‘Also known as …’
Early Thursday, DS Mike Kennedy, on her arrival.
‘Infirmary’s been on. Ursula Bothwell died three this morning. Peacefully, they said.’
‘Cause?’
‘Not known. Which means –’‘A PM. Not peaceful.’ DS Fran Lloyd strove to hide the threat of tears. Not normally a problem; had to be more than fifty times she’d heard the necessity stated and, for a women who’d lived nigh on her three score and ten years, could not be too much regretted. Not as much as she regretted, inwardly raged, at the bloody hormones that caused them.
She’d promised Madigan – aka Saskia Griffin, fellow writer, who’d known her as Sue – she’d let her know. With luck, Madigan could do the formal ID.
Against a background clatter of the fourteen month-old Charlie insisting on using fingers instead of spoon Madigan agreed. ‘Yeah, of course. Nine, at the mortuary?’But instead of the flame-haired Madigan it was her crime journalist husband Baz Rose who awaited her. A man Fran trusted far more than she did his fizzy, inclined-to-be self-centred wife.
His smile wide and warm as the man himself. ‘Mad said she hadn’t told you; five, six years ago I helped Sue research a local crime in the archives. For her first crime novel. Before that, as Cassie Silver, she wrote fantasy. Despite saying she hated Ursula she named her characters after stars in the Ursa Major constellation. Back in her colourful hippy days –’
Fran pictured the woman as she had last seen her. White hair, white gown, white sheets. Eyes, reportedly blue, never opened since found unconscious on Portobello beach, two weeks ago.Baz continued, ‘Sue also said – though that’s not why I’m here – she’d leave me her pendant..’
‘”Pendant”?’
‘She was never without it. Ebony, with the Ursa Major shape picked out in silver. Dots and lines. Wire, I suppose. About so big –’ Thumb and first finger of his right hand made a three-sided shape; first finger of left hand closing it.
Fran looked, ‘About five by three –’A momentary pause then, ‘Centimetres, yeah. Two by one in old money. Thing is, though, no-one’s seen it.’
A frown, ‘No. I didn’t see it in her house. Not that we did an exhaustive search, Not when we just thought she’d fallen. What the PM discovers, if anything, could change that. You don’t have a picture, do you?’
Since neither were family, they viewed without ceremony the woman who’d sought publicity for her books, but hidden her private self behind false names.‘You do know she’d more than one house? She’ll have photos there. And a birth certificate. I think we’d better go and look, before we can confirm her proper, legal name.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’[450 words. And a grateful continuation of last month’s tale, (though Bridie’s name has been changed) thanks to the ‘something made of wood’ and ‘contrariness’ prompts.]
Thank you Ath, both for comments and for setting the comp in the first place. As you probably guessed, I used it as a shameful attempt to find a way into a yet-to-be-written novel and was immensely glad of the opportunity to do so, though knew from the start I’d barely skated your original intent. And well done Libby – I look forward to finding out what you have in store for us.
With good intent
‘Let’s face it, it is one of our unadmitted secret pleasures!’
One eyebrow lifting in pantomimed leer, he turned his head away, allowing the wind to carry exhaled smoke along Portobello’s beach towards the Scottish capital.
Aware of the flaring of her too-carelessly clipped hair, she pictured them as opening sequence of some French detective tv series.
And yes, he was right, it was often a secret pleasure, on a par with their brief liaison some four, five years ago. Since when both had married others.
He trod the butt in the sand, picked it up and pocketed it. ‘Time for a bit of B and E. Let’s go.’Breaking and entering it was not – they had the key to the front door of the low-browed house. A key taken from an inside pocket of a handbag discovered alongside an unconscious woman found in on the beach in the early hours. A key to which was tied a worn-soft, ink-run tie-on label which gave address but no name. That they hoped to now discover.
Spirits rose as they approached the solid, buttermilk coloured wooden door set, like a child’s drawing, between two near-square windows, each framed in colour-matched concrete whose smoothness complemented the fossilised porridge of the harling. Then sank again. They’d assumed, since no-one had reported her absence, she might have no-one else to worry for her. Now they feared their job might be the far less enjoyable one of imparting bad – and possibly to worsen – news.
A knock. No reply. Silence within. So very likely her home. And their job not to tell but discover. Gloves essential; shoe-covers a wise precaution (Too many times they’d heard the wrath of SOCOs addressed to ignorant offenders.) Key fitted, door opened. They stepped in, she first, since the house, as he knew, similar in layout and vintage to where she’d used to live. Five minutes away.
He had, of course, exaggerated as to pleasure. Homes this small, this private and personal, it too often felt like invasion. Only in the houses of the those whose lives functioned courtesy of regular incursions of such as cleaners and au pairs was it okay to allow imagination to run free and comment on imagined lives.
That Bridie Bothwell shared her home with no-one was obvious from a single glance. But that she was alone; was lonely, neglected and lacking care or love immediately negated. Firstly from the drift of handwritten letters on a large pine table that also served as desk, signed with love and kisses. Second for the open laptop which, on moving the mouse, revealed pages of an in-progress …
‘Novel?’
He came to look over her shoulder, ‘Page 301 of 301, I’d say so’. He turned, pointed to a crockery-intended dresser whose shelves bore ranks of hard-backed books. ‘That must be her –’
They read the name on the spines.
Not that written on the letters, but one far better known. Worldwide.
‘Hope she gets better.’
‘Aye.’[496 words + title]
I’d not heard of Pete Roche, and much enjoyed these two examples, thank you for them.
It’s that sort of recognition/everyday honesty that draws me to certain songwriters (I’m thinking Aidan Moffatt in his Arab Strap days), and why Vicki Feaver spoke so loudly to me.
@Daedalus, I know exactly what you mean: most of my novels start with a conversation between two characters, me thinking they’ll be the opening chapter, then, as things develop, I find they’ve moved to the middle of the middle.
@Raine – exactly! When I first read A L Kennedy’s tale, I had to re-read to see how it was done. Then di my best to emulate.
@Daedalus: the story is in ‘What becomes’, the theme of which comes from the song, and is the tale of a man and a woman, previously unknown to each other, having sex in a hotel bedroom.
I’ve never tried an all-dialogue story, but have to say what were served up here showed similar skills to Kennedy’s.Hugely impressed with the variety of proper, fully-fledged and entertaining tales arising from that simple six word start, each then heading in its unique and individual direction; a process which I find fascinating and reassuring, i.e. there is no one and only right way of doing it and all are of equal merit.
Neil
Instant scene setting, attention grabbing, insisting the reader keeps reading ¬ What “the only way”? And Steph’s concern, Nath’s attempts at persuasion, while heartily stuffing his face – so many subtle, well-placed clues, yet the ending a surprise.
Seagreen
Another tale of betrayal, beginning with well-evoked confusion and the very strong voice of an avaricious grandson trying to sound reasonable. (That ‘pissy old crumblies’ less than tactful!) So glad that Gran has more wits about her than he bargained for.
Janette
A true ramping up of creepiness, this tale suggested it was going in one nasty direction before veering into another; less creepy and desperately sad.
Squidge
This a dream apparently spurred by forthcoming change, that became physical nightmare, with others’ dreams transformed into a variegated shower of weaponry, attacking and damaging. One that the dreamer must’ve been very relieved to wake up from.
Raine
Isn’t it wonderful how words, used well, so quickly create situations, people, and another world? This so different to the previous ones, but so efficient at transporting me into another situation. Weird, but entirely believable, the slightly ‘off’ stiltedness so well done, that I saw it all in monochrome.
Daedalus
Oh, that amorphous quality of a barely grasp-able sense of a dream! – so familiar. And then the realisation of a missed turning, the suggestion of the ‘thing’ they’re heading towards – which I read as a down-to-earth ending – likely literally – but might very well have been something else, but above all the dishonesty and or misunderstanding between the two. So much said but not spelt out. .
Athelstone
This subtly and so well evoked an unexpected meeting between one needy failure attempting to turn back the clock, and a fully mature contented-elsewhere wife and mother, initially amused and kind and then slow-fading tolerant irritation.
Xander
Another unexpected direction! Another rambling and incoherent dream told during a counselling session, ending with a brilliant tit-for-tat.
Doug
From dream to Dickens, another inspired twist. Ebenezer alarming Jacob with tales of his death and of the raising of Bob Cratchit’s salary, before insisting on summoning a doctor.
I have really struggled to pick any one above the rest; applying, then abandoning various criteria, when, as usual it comes down the one that resonated just a little more strongly than the others, to which end I’m declaring Athelstone the winner, and resisting listing the too-many others which qualified as honourables
Thank you all for participating.Seven stories already in this month’s competition – and seven days to go, so if you’re dreaming up a dialogue please don’t leave it too long. And if you are in need of inspiration, you’ll get it by reading those already posted.
Good question @Seagreen. I checked with the story that inspired it (A L Kennedy’s ‘Sympathy’) and the answer’s pure dialogue, please. The difficulty of it is part of the challenge.
Thank you Sea, not least for the challenge itself, which forced me to face and write a scene I had been putting off; I look forward to the time that bottle of wine is anything but virtual. And yes, I was glad not to be the judge this month, so many differing emotions to choose from. I’ll be back in the morning with a challenge for November.
0815 Wednesday 12 December (350 words, 1 an expletive)
I assumed … God help me, I assumed McCallan had come with news of arrests, of mitigation. Or at least reassurance of progress
Instead –
Instead – Rob.
Robbie my son, my first-born.
Dead.
Dead in her car.
She the driver. No blame … no blame for Robbie, McCallan said.Robbie, who Moira reported missing, had been found.
Robbie who, four days ago (McCallan had showed me CCTV) was driving her black car. Near Glasgow.
I’d not told Moira.
Not said I’d sent him to her. To make sure she was safe.Both dead.
Off-road in heavy snow, McCallan said.
Black car. White snow.
South of here. Two hundred miles.Robbie.
Seventeen.
About to burst into manhood
– will have done, in one way, the five days he’d been with her … (I’d be glad of that, for him, later … except why should she have shared his final days?)She dead too … McCallan said no way yet to say she to blame (and gave away to Moira I knew who and what she was) … but Rob –
I … folded. Heard myself groan, like I’d once heard the collapse of a part-axed oak. Me then Robbie’s age – no! I’d not long had my eighteenth birthday.
Rob would never reach eighteen –
I’d understood the tree knew it was about to die.
Now wished the same applied to me.
Had Robbie known?McCallan, dour-faced, watched. Ready to steady. To raise me up.
Like Lazarus? (And from where the fuck this biblical stuff?)
Moira frozen at my side. Turned to stone. To ice.
Neither of us took up their suggestion we sit to hear what they’d come to say. Their grave insistence told us it was bad. We … I … wanted to be seen as strong.From upstairs, voices. Sarah, bossing Ian to hurry up in the bathroom else she’d be late for school. In Moira’s absence she’d taken over …
Moira took a step towards the door then stopped.
I knew, because I’d thought it too, how could she find the words to tell them?
To say their brother’s dead.Well done, Sea – and also for the theme of next month’s competition.
Thanks Janette, for an opportunity to rehearse a scene, and for feedback.The marking of a life, or two.
This the second funeral in six days and the mourning very different.
Last week’s was of a mother. Not his, not biologically, but one who had nevertheless mothered him. Had generously included him, enabled him to share in the love she gave her natural sons. Much needed when his own family had been hard and spiky, sly and cruelly deceptive.
Last week his wife of just two weeks had driven them down, he still incapable. They’d spent the night at a nearby hotel, spare bedrooms at the family home being needed for elderly relatives. He’d not seen Baz, his honorary brother, until they arrived at the church. The assumption he’d walk beside him, behind Baz’s two brothers, shadowed support for their solitary father, a warming moment in the monochrome of the day. A not-inappropriate palette for Sarah Rose, who had never been a showy woman, but whose warmth was steadfast, quiet and reassuring. Giving rather than taking. And always, always there.
But, in person, never would be again.Today, seven days before Christmas Day, the sky once more played its part with a stage-set accuracy which gave rise to a momentary wondering whether God himself had been a client, before he realised, without question, Ed must’ve made a pact with the devil.
He shared the car with Baz and another who’d known her at eighteen. On the west-facing slope of a sliver of privately-owned moorland, they met with a fourth. Ed Hetherington had known her near exclusively in her early twenties. Had been her landlord, had identified her smashed-up body and was executor of her estate.The other men were there as individuals.
Black-overcoated men whose desire to maintain anonymity was made clear by turned-up collars, pulled-down hats and face-concealing scarfs, unmerited by the weather. Each standing well apart.
Not one of whom was related by blood.
Paying individuals.
And police.As Lucy Longland’s coffin was very slowly lowered (each man present holding one end of a black strap) into the peat-dark pre-dug rectangle, a chorus of rooks, in lieu of words, lamented the harshness of her ending as the scarlet pyrotechnics of the sky both mirrored and celebrated a life lived nigh on its entirety for the joy,¬ the skin-slid sweat-streaked crimson blush of orgasm, the end-of-day sharing of hard-worked blood and ever-present promise of more to come tomorrow.
Except for Lucy it would never come again.[398 words plus title]
Athers, I’ve not read Boyne, so took the passage you quote as from a fantasy novel which, in my understanding, means anything goes in the way of made-up words and facts.
On the subject of ‘proper’ research; at Newcastle Noir a couple of years ago, one crime writer told of being asked how many specialists he had on call to help him with research, the enquirer then listing some half a dozen. “Me,” he said, “I just watch old episodes of Taggart”. Ruth Rendall has been quoted as saying “I don’t do research because I’m telling a story,” and I confess to not researching the details of each and every happening (though I am currently struggling to discover the effects of various broken bones in order to convey what injuries my MC has received and be accurate about what he is and is not capable of.)Thanks Sea – not heard of the ‘7 Cs’ but it makes perfect sense. Perhaps it is that it can’t be immediately applied from the start, i.e. you (meaning one, and definitely I) have to write quite a lot of scenes involving character and events before the story line appears, after which tweaking into shape can take place.
I’m relieved to hear I’m not the only one to have been unable to find a theoretical how-to-plot scheme that works for them, and I really have tried because plotting is certainly what I find hardest, not being a natural story-teller.
Screenwriter Jeremy Sheldon did a brilliant presentation at a Festival of Writing weekend, (2014?) and I’ve been looking for his ‘Get started with screenwriting’ book ever since but it doesn’t seem to have been published – if he’s doing a Jericho presentation I’d advise watching it.
I tend to write chronologically, then see where the tension could be improved by changing the placement of reveals (Scrivener useful for that).I used to begin with a conversation between two characters and spread from there. One book I was ~20K in before I knew who would die, and a further 20K before I knew who did it. Even so it turned out to be someone else.
Now that those characters have become so familiar and the twists and turns of their lives compelling enough to become a series, they are easy to write, but for each new novel I need to have a new central story, with new characters. Now on the fifth one, and knowing how much lack of planning leads to it literally taking years longer than it ought, I have tried to forward plan and streamline, but my current struggles are showing me I am unable to improve.
Well done Squidge and thanks to all participants for the chance to read so many varied interpretations of Jill’s challenge – and to Jill for the comments.
What a brilliant set of answers and examples to a most important question, I’ve been writing fiction ten years now but still forget how this one works. Thanks for asking it, Andrew. And well done Jane for mentioning Emma’s blog – taught me so much.
Midsummer Madness
The ambush had been crueller for the glory of a wiped-clean sky, slowly coloured in by a northeast Scotland, half-four sunrise, just three days past the solstice. and side-swiping the pleasures of his journey down, dulling the pearly greyness of the North Sea which had sheened pink then gold as it prepared itself for day. The road empty before him; only supermarket wagons heading in the opposite direction, aiming to arrive in Edinburgh before the rush.
They drove down the narrow track to the pier soon after he did. Parked behind him. Not unusual. Sensible, in fact, because the later one arrived the better, less reversing round the corkscrew bends. (Despite knowing that, he was almost always the first to arrive.) Two of them, behind tinted windows, and not thinking to remove the shades which must’ve been necessary, travelling north. For discretion’s sake, Theo kept his eyes on the yacht, watching its ever-slowing progress, from sunshine to cool shadow beneath the cliff, its hull the colour of the flower the boat named for: Marigold III. Not exactly surreptitious.
First to step out, he ambled down to the jetty, gulls raucous above his head, and the tang of salt-wet wood telling him he should’ve thought to open his window while he waited. He caught the rope from the skipper and looped it. Accepted the invitation to step aboard, recalling Dougie’s comment on his first trip: ’No need to act illegal, is there? Even though that’s what we’re up to.’
Three others followed; the pair indicating the last-arrived board before them.
They must’ve then suggested he be dealt with first. Not a problem; Theo couldn’t leave until they did and, judging from the size of the bag produced, this man the bigger customer. All he himself was doing was a favour for a friend. A minor rebellion, escaping the weight of family expectation.To demonstrate ease and good manners, Theo in turn nodded to Dougie to serve the pair. Only then did he notice Dougie’s eyes. Trying to warn him what his mouth was not allowed to say. At the same time as he stepped outside, temporarily relinquishing his captaincy.
They had been precise in their explanation. Clever in their calculation of a tempting profit. At his similarly polite, pseudo-apologetic refusal, they racked up the level of their persuasion. To something beyond thumbscrews.
He had, with reluctance, said yes.[400 words excluding title]
Well done Jill – you came so close to winning on YWP that it is only justice you come first here.
And thank you Libby for setting a theme which sent me back to all of these ‘newspaper’ small stones and properly gather them in one place (now up to #94
Between 2011 and 2013, for some eighteen months, I participated in a ‘Small stones’ project; a daily moment of intense observation. Many were made during the twelve minute walk (six there, six back) to buy a morning paper. This is a 396 word selection.
Autumn
Stepping stones of yellow sycamore
stuck to the rain-damp roadAnd the sky this morning
wet on creamy-papered wet
Paynes Grey and a touch of Burnt SiennaSplendid pile of fungus:
griddle scones awaiting maple syrupTwo overhead geese, ten degrees apart,
noisy enough for a ‘V’ of a couple of dozenAbsence of blanketing wind
enables tiny, coloured stitches of sound
to be heard, as background pattern.Mediterranean colours:
the bonnet of a turquoise car,
scattered golden leaves
rime-edged and frost-adhered.A slew of eggshells
pale and slimy-stuck to tarmac,
adherence for a cast-off car keyHalf-light. Half-dressed woman
high heels and a towelling dressing gown
searches the boot of her car
for clothesWinter
Lilac clouds this morning
and I ponder on the possibility
of purple rain.For ten days now,
a mattress and a divan
brand new, polythene-wrapped
left uncollected
at the side of the house next but one.Not, as first thought, a man up a tree with a didgeridoo
but the scrape of a branch against the hat
of a close-standing streetlightClouds both pink and blue,
hedging bets:
sex not yet determined.When the wind is in the west
noise from the trains and planes get louderGiant strides (bigger than mine)
and an apparently levitating dog
allow me to play detective.The upward curving branches of the ash tree
clamouring hopelessly toward the uncharitable white skyGlorious pink promise
dish of dawn
spiced with a scattering
of silhouetted geeseAn asymmetric feather, light and lying in the road,
sent me searching for the names of parts thereof.
Shaft, web, calamis, brachis and barbDifficult to tell in the dark
whether blackness of sky
due to lack of sun
or imminent pouring down rainFrowning to stay upright
I dissuade all morning greetings
and omit to post the letters
I diverted forRecycling bags
straight-sided and close-packed
along the half-dark pavement edge
An instant, urban Giorgio MorandiA rough, tobacco-damaged, dirty chuckle,
conjured up a much-loved and delinquent aunt
who took me apple-scrumping when I was eightFallen small branch
lichen-striped
emulating adder
or some other poisonous snake.Fifty minutes late
and no-one says ‘good morning’
– we have not the two years plus
of graduated nodding
in acknowledgementDarker yes, but oh the joy of striding out
no longer feared of falling.Bringing a little light
I suspected, on reading the rules, if I did submit anything it would be something of a cheat, because there’s not a lot that’s actually old in itself in this room. Not much in the way of ‘things’ really, anywhere in the house (although I do have, in the loft, my great-grandfather’s two writing boxes such as Jill describes).
I searched my mind for something old which qualified as precious and giving pleasure. Eventually lighted upon not something I own but have photographs of; photographs which enable me to recall the huge and humbling pleasure of holding in my hands, turning the ragged-edge, discoloured, holed and stained vellum pages of a Suffolk parish register, in which the first recorded marriage, on 4th June 1559, was that of my twelve-generations back maternal grandparents, John Poole and Edith Ffitts. Further – and even greater – pleasure was gained from knowing that their great-great-grandson Thomas was for forty years the Parish Clerk and took it upon himself to ink and re-ink the baptisms, marriages and burials if his own family.
Much less of a cheat is another photograph. A carte de visite found in one of the nine photograph and postcard albums inherited from my paternal great-grandfather.
As with so many of the photos it was un-named. My eventual, confident, identification of the couple depicted – his parents, John and Susannah Sutcliffe – came only after many years of poring over other family photos, of dating and compiling histories from registers, censuses and family recollection. Of researching the history of photography, which enabled me to date it the 1870s.
But what jolted the first inkling that this crystal-clear image of two serious-faced people in a studio on Blackpool (when they lived in Halifax) was some instinctive jolt of recognition of the angle and appearance of John’s left arm, which matched that of the man much earlier identified as John Sutcliffe (because he was standing outside his recognisable house taken with Susannah, shortly before 1899, the year in which Susannah died.
Working all this out, seeing this couple so clearly, felt like the culmination of a twenty-year journey; an encapsulation of all that is valuable and exciting and life-affirming about family history research.
Two years after this I began writing fiction, and gradually, time for family history leached away.
[381 words]
