Ronni’s Reprisal

February 7, 2009 at 3:50 pm (OU Pieces, Ronni's Reprisal)

This was my contribution for the second tutor-marked assignment on the OU course, for which I was awarded a mark of 76%.

We were asked to write a 1,500-word story which included the use of a time shift and some dialogue. 

An extra requirement was to base the piece around one or more of the following themes: a letter, passion, a knife, music, a musical instrument, prison, shame, abandonment, shame, honour, hair, a market square.


Dear Paula

Thank you for responding to my website ad. You are the only one that has so far and I look forward to getting to know you.  You could be my only friend for quite a while.  The picture you sent of you with your cat was very cute.  I like cats too.

I’m Veronica, as you know, though everyone calls me Ronni.  Well the judge didn’t but most people do.  I’m 21, same as you, got naturally curly black hair, piercings in my eyebrows, ears and nose and a tattoo of a guitar on my arse.   My fave TV progs are Little Britain and EastEnders.

Do you like music, Paula?  I do, I’m crazy about it.  That’s how this whole hell began actually.  You must be wondering what I’ve done to be in here, though I know the rules say you aren’t supposed to ask.   Well if I’m guilty of anything, it’s a crime of passion.

I’m not a bad person, Paula, you HAVE to believe that.  I’d never done anything like that before.  That’s love for you, I guess.  My world clattered around me when I found that bitch in our bed.  With my Jason.  I grabbed the easiest weapon to hand, which happened to be one of her stupid pink stilettos (she’s the type who wears pink stilettos, probably with no knickers) and gave her a few whacks.  Nineteen stitches she needed.  Wasn’t so pretty after.

You must be wondering what I’m banging on about here.  I’d best start at the beginning.  Jason was my soul mate.  Is my soul mate.  IS.  Still is.  He got to me like no other man ever did.  I’ve got nothing left of him now.    Even my photos were taken away as evidence.

Jason Kain, his name is.  Singer and guitarist, does pubs and clubs and that.  Plays all the classics.  Bon Jovi, Eric Clapton.

I met him in my local two years ago.  I knew straight away we were meant to be together and there would be no man for me except him.  Sounds corny, eh?  Don’t laugh, though, we’ll be back together one day, when I’m out of here.  Once he sees that useless slag has nothing to offer him and could never love him like I do, oh he’ll be sorry as shit.

He was beautiful.  Tall, with long wavy hair and this secret sort of smile that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.  Do you get what I mean?  He would often shut his eyes when he sang, like he was totally into the music.  He was magnetic to watch, not like some of these bloody X Factor types who go through the motions and just want the money.

That first time I saw him perform, we chatted about rock for hours after.  He was amazingly down to earth and easy to talk to.  You can imagine how chuffed I was when he said at one point: ‘You really know your stuff, don’t you?’
I do, you see.  Not like HER.  I still can’t bring myself to say her name (it begins with N).  She’s got nothing in common with him.  She just flashed him her tits and he was off.

Anyway, Jase gave me one of his gig guides, which I taped above my bed.  That governed my social life from then on.  I started spending all my shitting dole on tickets and drinks at his shows.  I set up a website for him as well.  They’ve even shut that down now.  I didn’t have much in life (more than I have now, though, obviously), he was all I had to live for. 

I went to all his gigs, every one, but became so much more than a fan.  I had never imagined it was physically possible to think about a man constantly, but he was there with me even when I ate my dinner or had a shower or got on the bus.  He lifted my self-esteem out of the sewer it had been swilling about in.

SHE started hanging round him then, like a bloody stalker or something.  Baby blonde hair, gigantic tits, blue eyes.  Being petite, she could look all vulnerable and blushy next to him, but I wasn’t fooled by the Bambi act.

Of course the jury were when it all came to court.  I might as well have tied a noose round my neck once they saw how her pretty face had been mashed up, and heard the lies she spouted about me in the dock and obviously made him spout too.  What a pretty couple they made, her and my bloke.  I’m sure even my barrister was taken in.  He certainly did a bloody useless job of defending me.

And cos I used ‘a weapon’ and made ‘threats to kill’ (I mean who wouldn’t be screaming ‘I’m gonna kill you’ at the bint her bloke was having it off with?) that judge was merciless on me.  I got five years.  I might be out in three if I behave.
Have you got a boyfriend, Paula? (Or girlfriend?  I’m not homophobic.)  If you do you find The One, hug and squeeze and never let him/her go.  I miss my Jase SO much.

I need him, I want him, I love him and I can’t get over him.  It’s hellishly lonely in here.  The days are bad, the nights are worst, that’s when I cry myself to sleep, trying not to picture him with HER.

He engulfs me.  Does that make sense?  The feeling is like something animal inside my body, kicking desperately.  Best stop, I’m getting upset now.  I’m actually knackered too.  I’ve written manically tonight, wanting to tell you everything.  Pen hasn’t left paper.

It’s nearly lights out anyway so I’d best wind up.  I’m sure you’ve heard all those jokes about women’s prisons – lights out at eleven, candles out at half past.  Ha ha.  Not quite so funny now.

Thanks for making it this far, Paula.  I hope you’ll want to write to me again.  Take care.

Ronni xx

******

The judge who sentenced Veronica Pyke told her: ‘You subjected this innocent couple to an obsessive, perverse campaign of abuse and wounded a young woman in a malevolent and entirely unprovoked attack.

‘You are a fantasist.  You wholeheartedly and disquietingly believe yourself to be in a relationship with Mr Kain, and moreover that something so superficial and transient as a mutual interest in music places your entitlement to be in such a relationship above that of his current partner.

‘Equally disquieting is your belief that you are responsible for no wrongdoing.  By openly breaching a Restraining Order, you have proven yourself persistent in your conduct.  I therefore have no option at this juncture but to impose a custodial sentence, to preclude future repetition of such conduct.’

The court learned how Ronni nurtured an embarrassing fixation with Jason Kain, after seeing him sing in a pub.
Inferring sexual encouragement from their first conversation about music, she began arriving obtrusively early to his gigs so she could stare at and photograph him while he soundchecked.

Impervious first to his ignoring of her and later his exasperated appeals for privacy, she amassed a veritable Jason portfolio, which included copious snaps of even his car and guitars.

She advanced to assailing him with progressively lewd messages on Facebook, logging in under different names to sidestep his attempts at blocking her.

It was her website, Kain Mania, which propelled Jason to the local police station.  In torrents of gaudy yellow text, Ronni wrote luridly of the sex acts she planned performing on him, and her unnerving contempt for his now girlfriend Naomi Wood.  Bizarrely, she also detailed Jason’s car registration number.

At Ronni’s first court appearance she was slapped with a Restraining Order.   It was this she breached when she intruded on Jason and Naomi in what she described to Paula as ‘our bed.’  In reality it was an old couch in a pub dressing room which she invaded, correctly suspecting they were snatching a pre-gig quickie.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, freak?’ Jason yelped, grasping at clothes to cover himself.  ‘You’re not allowed near us.’

‘Screw your injunction!’  Ronni’s voice was a death-metal screech of spite.  ‘I must have got to you, if you had to go to those lengths.’  Then tears jetted from Ronni; horrific sobs that sounded as though they were being torn out of her.  ‘You’re destroying me, being with her.  I’m gonna kill you, bitch!’

With inhuman speed she seized the fuchsia stiletto and slashed Naomi’s cheek open.  Jason wrestled the shoe from Ronni, though not before she inflicted wounds warranting nineteen stitches.  The gory uproar alarmed the landlord, who called the police.

Ronni wailed again as she was sentenced to one year in custody for breaching the terms of her Restraining Order and a further four, to run consecutively, for grievous bodily harm, harassment and threats to kill.

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The Key

December 15, 2008 at 8:02 am (OU Pieces, The Key)

This was our second tutorial.  We were asked to write a short story of between 500 and 750 words containing three characters and using two time frames.

To make things doubly fun(!) we were required to open the piece with the line ‘Did you see that?’ and pick one of the following as title and stimuli: The Cup, The Key or The Door!

I must admit I seriously struggled with this exercise and actually contemplated chickening out.  Being a chicken, though, is not my style!  After brainstorming ideas about cups, doors and keys for several days, I finally came up with this.  It is far from the best piece I have ever written, but I at least feel much better about myself for having had a go.

 

‘Did you see that?’

‘What’s that, Sean?’  I was playing for time, having just spotted what he had, winking by the gearbox in the tapering afternoon light .  Oh bugger.

‘Think someone’s dropped something here.’  Sean carefully picked up the tiny silver key and twizzled it between two fingers.  ‘Chloe’s got one like this on her charm bracelet.’  He smiled involuntarily soppily, the way he did at any mention of his new wife.

‘Oh that,’ I said inanely, flicking my eyes from the road for a split-second.

‘Didn’t think jewellery was your thing, Daz.  Bet I can guess what’s going on here.’

‘What, mate?’  I was actually holding my breath.  When I changed gear I left telltale clammy handprints on the steering wheel, which I swiftly covered.

******

Lucid scenes from last night zipped through my mind.  Chloe and me on the levered-back passenger seat.  She was on top of me; collectively we were on top of Barr Beacon, a hilly beauty spot always dotted with cars that have similarly steamed-up windows and sticky-bodied occupants.  The silver charm bracelet she always wore jangled throughout, in synch with her every bounce.

Chlo is a truly filthy cow, still my favourite, despite all the competition she’s had.  I had to admit I was stunned when my shy friend introduced her as his new girlfriend two years ago.  Seanie was flattered by her affection, and rapidly proposed.  He is her Mr Reliable, she told me the first time we were together, shortly after their engagement announcement, but she has needs he hasn’t it in him to satisfy.  I am hardly in a position to moralise.

 ‘I thought you were going to give me up once you and Seanie-babes were married,’ I panted, after we’d done the business.

‘You’re my addiction, Darryl.’  She looked bloody magnificent in the winter starlight, with those astonishing breasts half in, half out, and her platinum curls naughtily tousled.  ‘I lasted four months of monotonous monogamy with him.’

‘Must be a record for you.’

‘You can talk.’

‘The way I see it, darling,’ I grinned, ‘I have a special skill.  I, like you, am an absolute belter when it comes to the old horizontal poker game.  And I just consider it my duty to share this skill with as many members of the human race as possible.  We’re both providing a service really.’

She took my cigarette packet from the dashboard and pretended to slap me with it as we chuckled.  ‘How many women has it been this year?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘I’m sooo jealous,’ she mock simpered, popping a ciggie into my mouth and lighting one for herself.  Sean was unaware of that addiction too, so she always brought mints to our trysts.  She swivelled the fogged window down a small way.  We both shivered and pulled our errant clothes up around us.

‘Sean’s a lucky bastard, though, if he gets this every night.’

‘If only he wanted it every night.’  She expelled a furious spout of smoke.  ‘That’s the trouble.’

‘He still thinks you go to aerobics on a Thursday?’

‘Yup,’ she smirked, ‘so I’ve got an alibi when I go home all sweaty.’

******

The key charm must have broken off her bracelet without us noticing.  We usually try to be more careful.  Then again, I had no idea Sean’s car was going to break down and I’d be fetching him from the garage today.  He actually told me I was ‘a top mate for doing this.’

‘It’s a present for someone, isn’t it?’ he said now, squinting at the miniature key like the detective who has finally cracked the case.

I almost guffawed with relief.  Why had I even worried?  ‘Got it in one.  This is Chlo’s actually.  She lent it me because I want to get something similar for my mum.  I thought rather than try to remember and describe it in H Samuel, it would easier to take it along.  As you say, I must have dropped it.  You can give it her back now, if you like.’

‘Cheers Daz, I will.  I’m sure your mum’ll love it.’  He smiled and consigned the key to his pocket.  His little face was as trusting as a baby’s.  ‘Chlo’s so sweet, helping you out like that.’

My eyes in the rear-view mirror betrayed the briefest mirth.  Good old Seanie.  Only he would be duped by an excuse like that.

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Sretan Božić Bruno

December 9, 2008 at 1:08 pm (OU Pieces, Sretan Božić Bruno)

Part 3 of the tutor marked assignment asked us to, in 500 words, write a story or part of a story that fictionalised something mentioned on the radio.

We were asked to choose a setting, which needed to be described vividly, and tell this mini-story from the narrative point of view of a man or woman (a character) whom the story directly affects.  We could not use any dialogue.

The news item I chose was about the Croatian Prime Minister banning office Christmas parties and the exchanging of interoffice Christmas cards in the public sector due to the credit crunch and a need to balance the Croatian economy for the the first time since independence from Yugoslavia in 1991.  I must say I never thought I would ever have need to incorporate a Croatian phrase into a story!!

I am usually grateful my working hours afford me sunset walks home in winter.  This evening, though, I slogged along uninspired by our famously flame and indigo dusk vista.

I was sapped by today’s news from the boss and, more gallingly, the repercussions of my own woeful shyness last year.

Mr Dominikovich had called us in just after lunch to relay an announcement by our Prime Minister.  Ivo Sanader was this Christmas, due to the global credit crisis, banning all civil servants in Croatia from holding office parties or exchanging interoffice cards.

The other suits solemnly concurred that, with the Government freezing public sector wages, festivities were a reckless expense.  I nodded along with them, yet my heart was plunging.  I resented that to none of my colleagues was the regional Christmas get-together the highlight of a dreary year.  That this time around I planned boosting myself with Maraschino, our punchy native liqueur, and asking out Adelina from the Zagreb office.

Now I was thwarted from even sending a card wishing her ‘Sretan Božić’ – Merry Christmas.  The internal postal system was too tightly monitored, and I was not privy to her home address.

I rammed my hands in my raincoat pockets – it was a typically soggy Croatian winter – and masochistically recalled meeting the beaming blonde Adelina at the last do.  We were among the few unattached young people there, and together we blossomed.  That night I felt like so much more than timid Bruno Poljak from the Zadar office – yet I baulked at asking for her number.

Since then we have been in frequent e-mail correspondence – on a frustratingly official footing.  Civil Service communications are so regulated, I would never dare sneak in anything more personal.

As the flamboyant sky dimmed behind the ancient town, I jabbed my key into the apartment block door.  I noticed more sharply tonight the paint flaking around the doorframe; the communal bin erupting with eight bedsits’ rubbish.  As I trudged upstairs, the flickering strip light cast an eerie strobe effect on the dust-sugared banisters.

Fat lot I had to offer Adelina.  By the time Prime Minister Sanader lifted the party embargo, she would probably attend with a husband in tow.

My place was an icebox as usual, economising on heating bills being a universal exercise in these times.  I pelted my shoes under the bed and sagged on to its unmade sheets.  I eased off my glasses and lay rubbing my eyes, wondering whether I should change careers.

Then I spotted the answerphone winking.  I flopped a finger on to the play button, and heard Adelina’s vivacious tones.  She was disappointed not to be seeing me this Christmas but hoped we could meet meanwhile, in a non-work setting.

I knocked my alarm clock and several books off the bedside table in my joyous scramble for a pen.  I had no idea how she acquired my home number but, as I scrawled hers on a bookmark, knew I would find out soon.

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Reverend Ellery Crisp

December 9, 2008 at 1:02 pm (OU Pieces, Reverend Ellery Crisp)

This was part 2 of the tutor marked assignment.  We were asked to, in 500 words, write a mini portrait of a character, in either past or present tense.

I chose to revisit a character I developed a couple of years ago for my novel Gap Year and to whom I warmed hugely.

The old speedboat on St Matthew’s vicarage driveway was an oft commented-upon curiosity among Lower Bratchley residents who visited to book weddings or Christenings.

When they learned it had seen no water since the Reverend Ellery Crisp won it on the game show Bullseye twenty years ago, they wondered why he had never sold the rusting craft.

‘It’s sort of emblematic,’ he would explain, his eyes sprightly behind his giant spectacles, ‘that I’m living proof of the cliché about the Bullseye speedboat, the top prize, always being won by West Midlands contestants.  I can’t exactly race it up the canal, but I just love the idea of having an exhibit from TV history in the village.  It’s such a talking point.’

In his snug lounge to which he ushered parishioners, framed shots of Ellery with the likes of Bruce Forsyth and Dale Winton nestled amid the more holy paraphernalia and imagery.

‘Yes, I won a fortnight in St Lucia on The Price is Right ten years ago,’ he liked to regale, unprompted.

This Black Country village, known colloquially as ‘Lower B,’ had been Ellery’s parish for the majority of his long ministry.  The thousand residents, who all knew each other, be it by heart, sight or reputation, were the family he never had.  A great many had known Ellery Crisp right from when he put a Last Supper dot-to-dot in front of them at Sunday school, and were protectively proud of their ‘celebrity’ cleric.

He in turn embraced their idiosyncrasies and warmth.  When Gertrude the goose was stolen from old Mr Shorthouse’s garden, Ellery offered a hefty reward for the beloved poultry pet’s return.  He adored the fact not an eyelid batted when the neighbourhood transvestite ‘Gracie’ – previously Graham – attended every evensong in Ethel Austin pastels and full make-up.

While ubiquitous on quiz programmes and in the press, Ellery remained solidly a community figure.  Thus, besides being dear to his congregation, he was warmed to by even the more secular of Lower B’s population.  He walked everywhere, though his distinctive gliding gait made some question whether there were actually castors beneath his cassock rather than feet.  He possessed no evident neck either, so his perfectly ball-shaped face, which was invariably covered in a hearty smile, appeared to be dolloped on top of his dog collar.

His glides to the newsagents in quest of Sudoku Monthly or Test Your Knowledge frequently took all day.
‘Still trying for Millionaire,’ he would tap his quiz book cover while pausing to natter in the shop, outside a retirement bungalow or on the canal bridge, ‘that’s the big goal.  Just have to keep phoning, and swotting.  Been ten years now.  By the law of averages, I have to make it on there someday.’

Ellery had already earmarked his fantasy Who Wants to be a Millionaire winnings to the St Matthew’s Primary School fund, a holiday, Christian Aid and that perennial favourite, the church roof appeal.

The speedboat, meanwhile, would be staying put.

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Flying Like Superman

December 9, 2008 at 12:50 pm (Flying Like Superman, OU Pieces)

This was part 1 of our tutor marked assignment.  We were asked to, in 500 words, write a complete mini-story where the central character is a child.  Write it from the child’s narrative point of view (using ‘I’), and in the past tense.  Pay attention to the kind of language a child might use; and to the observations particular to a child.

Use as your setting: a busy city street, where something has just happened, before the story actually begins.

Use some dialogue.

‘Was that boy trying to fly like Superman, Mummy?  Is that why he jumped off the top of that car park?  Is he magic?  Why isn’t he moving anymore?  Mummy?’

The big boy was lying still on the pavement.  I couldn’t see all of him because there were tons of people crowding round him who seemed to rush out of nowhere.  There were cars everywhere, the drivers were slowing right down to have a look as well.  I thought they wanted to see if he was going to fly off again.  I wanted to see that too, but Mummy grabbed my hand very tightly and pulled me away.

‘Come on Katy.’

I kept trying to look back at the boy.  He seemed to be really peaceful, but some of the people were screaming.  To my horror, Mummy’s hand was shaking.  Suddenly I felt frightened and didn’t want to be there in the town anymore.  I wanted to get home and play with my new Bratz doll.

Mummy stopped in a doorway and fished in her big bag for her mobile phone.

‘Police please,’ I heard her say.  She sounded different, her voice was so squeaky and scared.  I couldn’t hear everything she said over all the screaming and traffic, although I made out a word I hadn’t heard before. 

‘Suicide.’  It sounded a bit like Superman.

As Mummy finished on the phone, a load of big boys and girls came running out of the multi-storey car park.  One of them was our neighbour Billie.  She smoked a lot, and my daddy once said her face was like a pincushion because of all the gold stuff she wore, but she was always nice to me and once gave me a packet of Gummi Frogs.  Today she was crying so hard the black stuff she wore round her eyes had leaked all down her face.

‘Wendy,’ she saw Mummy and threw herself at her, ‘that’s Aaron!’

‘Oh no!’  Mummy’s face turned the colour of sponge cake mix.

Aaron was a boy I’d seen Billie with sometimes.  I’d heard my mummy and Billie’s mummy talk about him once, when they thought I couldn’t hear.  It sounded like Aaron was poorly.  Mummy said something about him ‘going off the rails,’ though he didn’t look old enough to be a train driver.

‘He’d said he was gonna jump.  Most of us were begging him not to do it, but those bloody bullies were egging him on, shouting things like “How hard d’you reckon you’ll bounce?”  It was their fault the poor lad was so unhappy in the first place.  All your fault!’  Billie screeched the last bit at some of the boys as they came out.  ‘Aaron’s dead because of you.’

Mummy clasped Billie’s arms to stop her hitting the nasty boys, who carried on laughing and texting on their mobiles as they ran off.

Dead?  I finally understood that our Superman would never be able to fly again, and I started to cry too.

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Dawn Raid on Lidl

December 4, 2008 at 7:39 am (Dawn Raid on Lidl, OU Pieces)

In 250 words, write a mini-story that a shopping list might tell, including character(s) and place.

Example: Baked beans, bread, soya milk, chocolate, coffee, lettuce, cigarettes, hand cream.

You might begin: ‘It was 10am on a hot Tuesday in late August, and Jake was running across the park towards the corner shop …’


Dawn Raid on Lidl

‘Batten down those hatches,’ urged the excitable breakfast show DJ, ‘we’re in for a seriously chilly one.  And this snow that’s on its way looks set to stick for the weekend, so get your shopping done early folks.’

Dawn had a habit of acting too literally upon advice, and the onset of extreme weather constituted an emergency on her scale.

It was eight on a Saturday, and she was enjoying the first coffee of the day with the kitchen radio for company.  Within five minutes of the weather warning, though, she was in her woollies and waterproofs, coffee abandoned, car keys primed and a spontaneous shopping list squiggled on the envelope which had contained her latest gas bill.

The morning sky was a malevolent foil-grey, and by the time Dawn parked outside Lidl the promised snow was pelting down.

‘Can’t hang about,’ she said to herself as she shakily steered a trolley into the store.  She hurtled around the aisles, shopping for a blizzard, reciting her supplies list.  ‘Loo roll multipack, de-icer, bread, milk, two tins of soup, no best make that four, better stock up on Lemsips, in case I come down with something, tissues – ditto.’

When Dawn drove home, boot stocked with bulging bags, the snow had already ceased.  The radio warnings proved unfounded, no blizzard materialised, and Dawn bought no more soup or loo rolls for two months.

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Ruth’s Wedding

December 2, 2008 at 6:42 am (OU Pieces, Ruth's Wedding)

Write a story featuring two main characters, Jane and Elizabeth.  Jane’s daughter, Ruth, is about to be married.  Elizabeth is more excited about this than Jane, who has already seen four of her other daughters married already.  It’s the day before the wedding.

Using about 500 words, write a mini-story based around the two women described above, entirely in narrative, without using dialogue.

I must have cut a comical lopsided figure, with my vast but weightless hatbox swinging from one hand, the suitcase containing my new outfit, three backup outfits and the gift-wrapped coffee percolator leaden in the other.

Not that I much cared.  The spring sun was so uplifting.  I hoped, as I seesawed across the car park to the beautiful Georgian hotel, that the weather would hold for tomorrow’s noon ceremony.

I hauled my cargo into reception, and my second impression of cosy, oak-beamed Blake Court was even more heartening than the first.  The place seemed to stretch out and put its arms around me.  How could Jane be so blasé about it all?  She blamed it on ‘wedding fatigue,’ having married off four daughters already, compared with my one.

Once the bubbly receptionist had checked me in, and summoned a porter to aid with my luggage, I called Jane from my room, hopeful of convening in the bar.  She was over an hour away, in a motorway cafe, still sounding astonishingly apathetic.  Ruth had arrived, though, if I wished to catch up with her.  Ruth was the bride, my goddaughter, the youngest, and between you and me my favourite, of Jane’s quintet.

I flicked the toy-sized kettle on for a cup of tea first, and started to hang my medley of outfits in the wardrobe.

My room had a splendid view of Blake Court’s gardens which were a dazzle of budding colours.  How I wished my Helen could have chosen such a wedding venue.  Well, not that she chose any aspect of her day.  It was all his lot.  That clan swallowed her the minute she moved over there.

Oh, that wedding was a showpiece and a half.  The colossal Neo-Gothic church (like any of that lot are religious – unless you count betting shops and bars as places of worship), the regiment of bridesmaids and groomsmen, the reception so choreographed I thought I was at a recording of Strictly Come Dancing.

I knew nobody there, Helen knew few more.  The cream of Boston society were in attendance, but none of our family.

Despite losing my Colin the year before, I remained intent on upholding the ‘bride’s family pays’ tradition.  However, my funds were snubbed, and I was patronised as the charity-case English widow.

Helen was not able to make Ruth’s day, poor babe, being stuck in the States finalising the gruelling divorce procedure.

 

Next, again using about 500 words, re-tell the story using mainly dialogue, with only minimal narrative passages in between.

‘Janey, it’s me.’  Liz sat on the floral bedspread in her rural hotel room as her old school friend answered the mobile.  ‘I’ve just arrived.  Fancy a little G&T in the bar?’

‘We’re still an hour away, love.  In a motorway greasy spoon.  No ketchup for me, thanks Terry.’

‘Oh?  Thought you’d be here already.’

‘Nah, got all day, haven’t we?  Ruth’s about somewhere, though, with one of her bridesmaids, if you want to catch up with her.’

‘They might not want Aunty Lizzy cramping their style right now.  I might have a cup of tea first, and hang my outfits in the wardrobe, then go and say hello.’

‘Outfits, did you say?’

‘Oh, I’ve brought four.  Three backup ones, besides what I’m wearing.’

‘What are you like?’

‘You never know, I might spill coffee or my pen might leak.  Or it might rain.  Shouldn’t think so, though.  This weather looks like it’ll hold for tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s such a gorgeous hotel anyway.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Oh Janey, how can you be so blasé about all this?’

‘Wedding fatigue, my dear.  You forget Terry and I have already married off four daughters, compared with your one.’

‘I’d have swapped any one of your girls’ days with our Helen’s bloody showpiece.  A nice civil ceremony in a country hotel would have been grand.  Instead she has to go scooting off to America for her gap year, falling for a guy who thinks he’s second in command to Bill bloody Gates and getting wed with the cream of Boston society in attendance but none of our family.’

‘You can’t really blame Helen, though.’  Jane swallowed a forkful of bacon and beans, rolling her eyes gently at her husband Terry.  This was a timeworn topic, though she always humoured Liz.  ‘It was all his lot, wasn’t it?  They seemed to swallow her the minute she moved over there.’

‘Absolutely.  The way they do things over there is such a performance.  Everything was so choreographed, I thought I was at a Strictly Come Dancing recording.  That massive church – like any of them are religious!  Unless you count betting shops and bars as places of worship.  And all those bridesmaids and groomsmen – our Helen hadn’t met some of them twice.’

Jane swapped phone and fork from hand to hand as Liz went on.

‘My money wasn’t good enough for them either.  Despite losing Col, I had every intention of keeping up the tradition of the bride’s family paying.  But they snubbed me, said they didn’t need my contribution.  I ended up feeling like a charity case.  Anyway, enough of me rabbiting.  I’m so sorry Helen couldn’t come over for Ruthie’s day.  I’m sure she’ll be thinking of everyone.  You know how it is, though, it’s difficult at the moment, she’s had to stay over there to try and tie everything up.’

‘Yes, how is her divorce going?’

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Hackett Court

November 11, 2008 at 7:54 pm (Hackett Court, OU Pieces)

Write a scene in which a character is unhappy in his or her surroundings. For example, he or she might be:

• shy
• frightened
• disgusted
• trapped
• homesick

Show the feelings through the descriptions of the place, rather than by naming the feelings.

(Ooh, I was on a roll with this one!  Can you tell it’s autobiographical??)

 

Hackett Court

Naomi crossed her lounge to pull the curtains on another claustrophobic dusk at Hackett Court.  The floor was already pulsating with rave bass from two storeys below – only four in the afternoon, and another party under way at Flat 3 which would no doubt go thumping on through the night.

Outside was equally uninspiring.  Before shutting it out, Naomi noticed the communal drive was its regular chaos of selfishly parked cars.  She and the other more house-proud residents had tried complaining about their garages being blocked, the grass being parked on and churned to sludge – and about Flat 3 being seemingly converted to a nightclub every weekend.  In each case the offenders would behave for a spell, then lapse again.

The grounds were now under a slimy canopy of November leaves, which was hardly enhancing the aesthetic first impression either.  The horrendous credit crunch had already thwarted enough potential buyers.  Naomi had had just six viewings since the ‘for sale’ sign was nailed to the tree nearly a year ago.  Until light began twinkling at the end of the current economic tunnel, Hackett Court would remain her home.

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Mon and Woyfe

November 4, 2008 at 8:49 pm (Mon and Woyfe, OU Pieces)

Write 500 words in the voice of a character retelling a story from their childhood. Try to make the narrator come to life by showing their individual conversational style and mannerisms, their point of view.   Perhaps highlighting the different way in which children and adults perceive events.

(OK, I admit I cheated slightly for this exericse and used a passage – of which I am still very proud – from my first novel Classmates.  It just seemed to fit very well, and was conveniently close to the word limit too.  I have tweaked here and there, to improve on what I wrote five years ago.)

Mon and Woyfe

I married Karl on a July afternoon when the sky was the flawless blue and the sun the flamboyant orange my junior school paintings insistently depicted.  The crisp, salady scent of freshly mown grass wafted through the hall windows – a summer aroma that forever evokes that day.

Vacuum-packed into an organza frock as stiff and creamy as an Angel Delight, and clutching a posy of pink plastic roses, I bobbed from foot to jellybean sandal-clad foot, lisping my vows behind my net curtain veil.
Bradley Round, the pageboy, was intently picking his nose; my bridesmaid, Samantha Potter, was just as becomingly absorbed, extricating her billowy petticoats from her knickers.

Karl, tall, windswept of hair, snub of nose, in his waistcoat and velveteen shirt, was, as ever, the picture of impish self-confidence.  Nothing has ever fazed Karl Corbett.

There were titters from the enormous congregation as the vicar, Shane Ashcroft, pronounced us, in broad Black County, ‘mon and woyfe.’  (‘Yow may now kiss the broyde’ was an entreaty mercifully omitted from Rev Ashcroft’s sermon.)

To compound the indignity, one congregation member was a Dudley News photographer.  My mother still has his yellowing close-up of ‘the happy couple’ in her scrapbook.

The caption croons beneath it:

LESSONS IN LOVE: Holly Lane Primary School pupils Karl Corbett and Zoe Taylor, both aged six, in costume for their Royal Wedding project.

I have not seen it for years as I, sadly, can recall my piteous appearance without pictorial aids.  Absent front teeth; punkish hair, so incongruous with frills and posies; chubby little body straining for freedom from the chafing dress.

A confirmed tomboy, I abhorred dresses – especially ill-fitting ones exhumed from bottoms of dressing-up boxes.  I remember my wild longing to tear that cream monstrosity from my back in exchange for my usual uniform of either dungarees or a velour tracksuit.

It was 1981.  With Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer’s nuptials days away, Class 1F was in the grips of joyous, red-and-blue-streamer, commemorative-mug-and-tea-towel fever.  It was the delightful idea of our teacher, Miss Flint, that Karl, Shane, Sam, Brad and I re-enact a wedding in mildewy fancy dress costumes for the whole school (sardonic, comp-bound eleven-year-olds included) on the final day of term.

My casting as bride was down to Miss F also – influenced by my blonde pageboy cut which entertained vague Diana-like pretensions.  Or rather it had until the week preceding the mock marriage.

My poor mother had found me, on precarious tiptoes at the mirror, studiously hewing away with her nail scissors.  A flaxen pond encircled my feet, leaving a crest of anarchic tufts and fronds like a very early Bart Simpson prototype.

‘What – have – you – done?’  Mom yelped.

‘I thought it would look nice.’  Contrite tears were already gurgling up to mirror those dismayingly glazing her kind eyes.

My ragamuffin image did not excuse me from conjugal enactments, but that hideous newspaper snap proved a fantastic deterrent against DIY hairdressing.  I have never so much as lopped off a split end since.

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Cyril and Hilda’s story

November 2, 2008 at 4:10 pm (Cyril and Hilda's story, OU Pieces)

Write 500 words in the voice of a character telling a story either about him/herself or another person. Try to make the narrator come to life by showing their conversational style and mannerisms, what they find interesting or significant, what delights or annoys them, and so on. Post your story to the FirstClass conference for feedback.


Cyril and Hilda’s Story

I learned of my wife’s death via a newspaper obituary.

I actually overlooked it on first skim, Hilda’s children having listed her under Danks rather than her current married name.  To readers of the Dudley News family announcements, she was the ‘devoted widow’ of Leonard Rudge and Albert Danks, ‘adored mother’ of eight (all named), ‘cherished nan’ to thirteen (ditto), ‘treasured aunty’ to innumerable more.  I could hardly expect any reference to her latterly being the estranged wife of Cyril Nock.

I nonetheless digested the news in distress.  My pal Vern, with whom I had been staying since the locks were changed, poured me a hefty brandy.

‘I feel for you, old man, I really do,’ he put the glass next to me and patted my shoulder, ‘but that harpy deserves none of your tears.  She and that grasping clan of hers bled you dry.  At least you’ll never have to see what trumped up divorce grounds she had against you.’

My hands quaked as I tipped the balming drink down my throat.  The printed words whirled in front of me.  ‘I didn’t even know she had lung cancer.’

‘Bet that lot did.   Hence they saw their inheritance slipping away and couldn’t wait to turf you out.  Eight o’clock in the middle of December and they make a man of your age homeless.  Despicable!  I’ll never forget the tizzy you were in that night.  You’re still next of kin, though, Cyril.  You’re entitled to something.’

‘I couldn’t care less about the money, Vern.  I’d rather have Hilda.’

******

I drifted back two years to the ballroom class where I was first paired with one of its more recognisable members.  Hilda had a riotous laugh and always wore pink, often dyeing her hair to match.  She was seventy-one, like me, with three sons from her first marriage, two more plus three daughters from her second.  She seemed amazed I was a bachelor (‘Fine-looking chap like you,’ she nudged me with her cigarette-free hand, ‘go on!’), but then staying at home nursing Mum all those years had left me little time for ladies.

Seven months later, I was a bachelor no more – and as dazed by the wedding as anyone.

Hilda had talked me into selling my house, the old family home.  ‘Why hang on to a place with such sad associations, darling?’

I pictured my late mum in her straw hat, tending our beautiful rose bush, before going outside became too much for her.  Back in the present, Hilda’s blue eyes were on me: pleadingly, though not entirely soft. ‘OK, let’s start afresh.’

She hugged me, then chimed her gin glass against my mug of tea.  ‘To us.’

******

‘We had our ups and downs like any couple,’ I told Vern.  ‘She could be fiery with a few gins in her.  And she was fiercely loyal to her kids and grandkids.’

I involuntarily rubbed my forehead, though the bruise from the plate she hurled at me had long since vanished.  I’d told her about her grandson scraping my car with his skateboard, and she chose not to believe me.

‘When I moved into hers,’ I continued, ‘it was my choice to put the money I got from the sale into a joint account.  I didn’t begrudge Hilda spending it on holidays or furniture for the family.  They were part of her, although none of them took to me.  She wouldn’t hear a word said against them, understandably so.’

‘She was hearing plenty against you, though, Cyril, those nights you used to go out because her family visitors made you so unwelcome in your own home.’

It was after one such visit I arrived to find the locks changed and a suitcase of my belongings deposited on the lawn.

‘It’s over Cyril.’  This time I know I didn’t imagine the menace in her eyes.  My vibrant Hilda was suddenly a cerise-haired Rottweiler, arms folded, cigarette glowing demoniacally between two upturned fingertips, flanked by her regiment of offspring.  ‘You dare try contacting me again and I’ll be straight on to the police.’

I never learned what lies must have convinced poor Hilda I was a monster.

I had nowhere to go but Vern’s, where within days I received her solicitor’s letter warning me a divorce petition were imminent.  Hilda passed away before it was drawn up, though as I discovered not before changing her will to omit me as a beneficiary.  I had, as I said, no inclination to fight the family for any legacy.

******

That was six months ago.  I’m renting a flat now.  No point buying again at my time of life.  Vern assured me I could lodge as long as I wished, but I hate to exploit hospitality.  I never returned to the dancing classes.

I did drive past my old place yesterday, for the first time since selling.  Mum’s rose bush has gone.  I miss that house.  Despite everything, I miss Hilda much more.

 

You’ll see that for the purpose of this blog I’ve gone well over the 500-word limit.  I felt the need to expand the piece and attempt to do it a bit more justice.

I aimed to portray Cyril as a kind man – a doormat actually – who strives to please others and is sad but not bitter about his situation.

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