Writer's Notebook

Prompt: A woman makes a New Year’s Resolution to make her husband/boyfriend break his resolution within a week. What’s the resolution, and why does she want him to break it?

I suppose you could call it a battle of wills. It's not that I've anything against Fiction Friday as such. And at least writing keeps my husband away from the pub. But when I get home from work on a Friday, then I like to be pampered a little. The last thing I want, is to have to play Rocking All Over The World or something similar, and do a wild strip-tease just to get my husband to look up from the computer and say, "Hello darling". No, I want him to welcome me home with a nice, sweet cup of tea and a chocolate eclair he bought especially for me on his way home from work. After that, a nice slow massage whilst he's running my bath and once I'm done... well, now it's his turn to do the strip-tease. That's what life used to be like until you guys poked your nose in. For the last three weeks when I get home from work, he's been busy writing. Wants to be author..., make a fortune tax-free..., have people come up to him in the streets and say, "Will you sign my copy please?" And all because you guys persuaded him that what he writes, shows promise. Well, maybe it does. I can't be judge of that. But it's ruining my Friday evening. And now he's resolved to participate every Friday for the rest of the year. "Every artist needs to practise, dear." What a load of...!

Well, I've had enough of it. And as desperate situations call for desperate measures, I've had an expert round to fix our computer up with a new password. I can imagine him at home right now, trying to work out what's gone wrong. He's like that. Teaches mechanical engineering but can't change a plug. And when it comes to the computer... Mind you, I'm no better. That's the beauty of it. It will never occur to him that I changed the password.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know why you won't be hearing from him any more. And who knows, if ever you become Fiction Thursday, then maybe, I'll let him in on the new password. You see Thursday is my evening out.

Allie stared at the text in front of her. Four words were underlined. The first three items she soon dismissed. True, they had not discussed them in class, but some students probably knew them anyway. Besides, they were not that important for an understanding of this text. But extreme...; she knew she was going to have to explain that. She checked it up in her dictionary:

extreme: –adjective

1. of a character or kind farthest removed from the ordinary or average: extreme measures.
2. utmost or exceedingly great in degree: extreme joy.

1. Does it describe somthing ordinary or not? (If so, it's not extreme)
   
2. Is there an expression even more unusual to describe what is being said? (This answer has to be no if something is extreme)

The doctor's message annoyed him, Not so much the content, nor the fact it had come by phone, That had, after all, been this idea, But why couldn't he stick to the facts. He had just one more month to live, So what! It could have been worse. Besides he'd had a fair innings And. there wasn't much he still wanted to achieve. Why couldn't John just leave it at that. 1 month... Why did he have to add his sixpence worth by adding: "use them wisely!"

Besides, everybody seemed to want to offer him advice when they learnt, he was dying. His two ex's had both reminded him of the importance of putting his affairs in order before.. He knew what that meant but supposed it only fair he did smoothing for them. At least, they 'd had the decency to stop after 'before'.

The priest he'd gone to see to try and get some comfort managed little else than getting a list of songs for the funeral out of him. ''It's good to plan ahead, you see. "At least, we don't have to think about the prayers and the lessons. They're all prescribed by the liturgy." Then stuffing some sort of religious tract into his hand, ushered him out with the promise to come and pray with him in hospital.

His brother's solution had, at least, been more entertaining, But taking his rampaging cancer on a two week luxury cruise was almost certainly not the wisest of ideas.

So what was left for it other than to carry on as usual? Yet maybe? A day had so many experiences, so much to reflect on. Maybe, he needed more time to profit from them: to think, to digest, to prepare, to mould what would happen each day. Yes, that was it. He simply needed more time.

Picking up his diary he went through each day crossing out any entry before 10 a.m. and sketching in a small Rodin like figure every morning.

There's a fun writing game going on this week over at Write Anything, so for ever in favour of killing two birds with one stone, my 3WW piece today is about those resolutions I refuse to take.

• I will refuse to tow the party line by being ambushed into staying up until midnight on 31 December, just because everyone else is doing it. If I'm having a good time and want to prolong that, so be it. If not, off to bed and up early in the morning.
  
• I will stop arguing with my friends who insists on buying me a drink when we go out. Indeed, I will refuse to differ with anyone who offers to buy me a drink.
  
• I will refuse to answer anyone who asks me, "Where do you find time to read all those books?" when they see me returning from the library. They have no business meddling in my affairs. A sweet smile will have to suffice.
• I will most definitely not refuse the car keys to my children once they pass their driving test. I shall be far too happy to have someone to drive me around whenever I need to go somewhere.
• I will not stand in front of a car which tries to park on the pavement. Principles are fine but cars are bigger.
• I will not succumb to the pressure to buy one of those hideous, sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour, 24 hours a day (ad infinitum) "just wanted to check up on how you're doing" control machines - otherwise known as cell phones, or portable telephones, depending on which part of the English speaking world you're in.
• I will not score the winning try for Wales in the 6 nations decider this year. At my age, the time has come to bow out gracefully. However, I cannot account for whatever may or may not happen in my dreams.
• I shall not succumb to my neighbour's pressure to not sing quite so loudly whenever I pass by his house. Indeed, if he mentions this again, I might raise the decibels ever so slightly.
• I shall not get vaccinated against a certain brand of animal flue doing the rounds at the moment, just because the French president is too mean to grant me a few days off to recover should I fall ill.
  
• I shall not resist peer pressure to publish the links to this piece on the 3WW and Write Anything sites.
  

Sunday Scribblings this weeks wants me to have a dare. And since I've been thinking a little about so-called good grammar rules, then I'm daring to slaughter a few holy cows.

It took some five minutes before the obvious dawned on her. She had all he needed in the words of his title. Until taking this class Penny had loved writing. That's why she had been one of the first, to register when the college syllabus appeared. Now some three weeks and several humiliations later her motivation was rapidly ebbing. Something had to be done, and now was the time to do it. "Grammar rules are made to be broken." It took her almost five minutes to write this as she glanced up after each letter to make sure, Mr. Goodwrite was not watching her. Mr. Goodwrite represented the old school; the school that knew beforehand how everything had to be done and never flinched from doing it. Looking at that opening sentence staring at her from the page gave her courage to continue...

"Grammar rules are made to be broken. Thus the question every self-respecting writer should be required to ask himself is whether to courageously dare or to cowardly not dare. Indeed, there are a number of examples of shoddy usage away from which every self-respecting writer has to keep. Should and she fail to do so, the wrath of her teacher down upon her will come. Were she to but realise the ridiculous nature of such rules, there might be hope for her yet."

She looked up. Mr. Goodwrite had started to move towards her. She trembled as she saw the lightening flash from his eyes and the words thundered out from his mouth:

Miss Penny, never forget...

1. Thou shallt not begin a sentence with a conjunction;
2. Thou shallt not end a sentence with a preposition;
3. Thou shallt not split thine infinitives.

This week's challenge is to include the phrase "the nervous grave digger smiled at the guard" somewhere in your story.

They had thought the governor's death would provide them with a welcome diversion. In the end it turned out to be almost the unravelling of everything. Word had reached them well over a week ago that everything was in place. The next burial to take place in the graveyard and they would be out of there. Of course, no one ever expected that burial to be the governor himself.

"What the bloody hell does he want to go and get himself buried within a stone's throw of his office? If ever you catch me out passing away like that, then you make sure they bury me far away from anywhere, I might know." Rocks had been the brawn behind the plan. Three weeks it had taken him and every spare moment, but he'd done it all single-handedly. And he wasn't going to let anything get in his way now. "We change nothing, we can't. That tunnel can't stay undiscovered much longer."

Grayter was more circumspect. He'd only been inside just undert two years, so could afford to be patient. Besides, life on the outside would be just as restrictive as in prison. He'd never be able to leave the island. Still, life on the Bahamas would be a damn side more agreeable than it was in this place. "I say, we stay put. It would be madness to try now. The place will be riddled with police."

"That's why I say we get out today, b e f o r e the police start poking their noses round. Kid's already had orders to dig the grave. He can be finished by five. We get out tonight."

"Are you ready?"

"What a bloody silly question. Ready, I been ready for five fucking years haven't I? And now I ain't waiting a day longer."

"Okay, we'll go." Grayter's voice still sounded nervous. There were still too many things that could go wrong, but he could tell that Rocks would spill if he didn't get out soon. Besides, the last thing he wanted was a showdown with Rocks. "Okay, we go out at eight this evening. Tell the others the coast will be clear from ten. Then get back here and keep and keep an eye out for your waving his jacket; that means everything's ready.

Meanwhile, in the cemetery the solitary grave digger was, for once, glad to be alone. Just a couple more minutes and I'll be through, he thought to himself. Then, give the signal, enjoy a nice beer and off home. The voice from above startled him. But not as much as the fact that the guy looking down was in a prison guard's uniform. Nervous as he was, he looked up and smiled at the guard.

"Not a pleasant business you've got there."

"Ah, I can think of worse. Be the ruin of my back of course, but it keeps me in fags and beer well enough. The digger climbed up and offered his hand to the guard. "Andy Dee. Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, hum Rick Winters, I aah, I work over in the prison."

"Can tell that by your uniform."

"I aah, I just came over because I'm off on holidays this evening. Going to the West Indies with my daughter. But I... I did want to see the old boy one more time before I go, see what I mean. Even if he isn't actually, umm here right now, you know."

"What was he like to work with? Oh, he was a very good boss. Always a kind word for us guards. And he wasn't beyond coming round with us to The Old Bull for a glass when the shift changed like. Yeh, he was a pretty good gaffer."

Andy saw a ray of hope. Well, I tell you what Rick. Why don't you just sit down here and take one of them bottles and drink it to the memory of your boss. I'm sure he'd love you to do that for him. And when I finish down there, I'll come up and join you and we can have one together."

In a flash Andy was back down the hole. He knew he'd have to work quickly now. The last thing he wanted was for this guard to start looking down into the grave before he'd finished. In five minutes, he had the staves and tarpaulin in place, covered them with just enough dirt so nobody would notice and was scrambling back up to join Rick, who in the meantime had taken Andy advice to heart and was already on his third bottle. Andy opened one himself and over the next thirty minutes became unusually generous as he allowed Rick to finish off the remainder of the six pack. As the two of them struggled to their feet Andy called out: "Look over there Rick, that's coming from your workplace, them people waving. That must be your colleagues waving to you, wishing you a pleasant holiday." And taking off his jacked Andy waved back and had the gratification to see Rick follow suit. They'd only known each other for thirty minutes but were already getting on like a house on fire. But somehow Andy doubted this new friendship would stand the test of time. He could already see the headline in the local ragmag the next day:

Geoffrey tore his tie off the moment he came in; the usual sign that he was stressed. Sally poured him his glass of sherry, anyway. Maybe...

"Sorry love, but no time for that now." He gave her a peck on the forehead. "You know we got placed in the top three in this year's league table. Well, the boss is laying on a big do to celebrate. Several people from the town hall will be there, and we're hoping even the inspector will turn up. Big publicity stunt for the whole school."

"Does that mean..." Sally didn't finish her sentence. Prospects had been always been bleak, and now this. She swallowed his sherry in one gulp and let out a hiccup. Geoffrey turned and began to scrutinise her. His piercing eyes went from the glass in her hand up to her face. She averted his gaze. Why should he see her disappointment? But the tell-tale tear made its way slowly down his cheek.

He moved towards her and watch it snake its way down past the metal frames of her glasses. His finger caressed her cheek. "I know I'm missing your club do, dear. But you can still go. I've asked George to drop by and pick me up. So you'll have the car. You know how sorry I am not to accompany you, but you know I don't get on well with that sort of company. I can never think of anything to say to them."

"You find enough to say to the people you'll be seeing this evening." There was an edge to her voice which warned Geoffrey to be on his guard.

"Come on, dear. We've been through this a hundred times already. I can't help being what I am, and I can't help needing some stimulating conversation when I go out. And your friends are just not up to scratch. Anyway, I have to run. Don't want to keep George waiting.

* * * * *

"Did you have a good evening, dear?"

Instead of a reply he gave her a vague, incomprehensible stare.

"Dear? Geoffrey!"

"What? Oh... You know, the most queer thing imaginable happened to me this evening. Have you heard anything about this crazy ministerial initiative to... 'improve our awareness of third world poverty'. At least, that's how the boss put it. Nothing but bureaucracy gone mad, if you ask me. There we were milling around the tables with all these wonderful things to eat, when the inspector came in and announced no one was allowed to eat using fingers. Then, she produced these bloody metre long forks which were attached to each of our wrists, and said could only eat using these."

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? How the hell do you expect us to feed ourselves with only metre long forks to put the food in our mouths."

"I'd have thought, it wouldn't have been the slightest problem for such an august gathering of intellectuals. I hope, it at least gave you something to talk about all evening."

"Now, there's no need to take that tone with me. Just be glad that at your party you didn't have metre long forks to eat with, or you wouldn't feel quite so cocky."

"Who said, we didn't have them. Ministerial initiatives concern us just as much as they do you and your merry band of geniuses."

"You mean you found a way to solve the problem."

"I'm not sure I'd put it like that. But we did find a way to eat using our metre long forks. We just did what came natural to us."

Geoffrey looked at her dumbfounded. His silence was an invitation for her to elucidate.

"Well, if you must know, all we did was to feed each other."