Writer's Notebook

Two for the price of one today as I've combined this weeks 3WW prompt (bait, jump, victim) with a writing exercise that appeared Monday one the Write Anything site to write a story in just ten lines as follows:

1. describe the weather
2. describe a sound
3. describe an object
4. update the weather
5. describe a piece of clothing/ accessory
6. update the sound
7. using the object, write something about the mood of the scene
8. describe an action or movement using the article of clothing or accessory
9. describe a physical trait of one of the characters
10. end with a single line of dialogue

The red of the setting sun almost matched that of his cheeks. A snigger went through the room as he desperately sought to evade those eyes directed at him, the victim. He stared at the large at the pebble in front of him: round, smooth, a little jagged at the edges; the worm-like writing and that one single word - which had him baited. The sun was growing ever paler; he hoped his cheeks matched. The gleaming, red pen, bought for the occasion, remained motionless in his hand. Around him the sniggering had died down, replaced by the sound of concentration and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. In front of each writer, a pebble evoking memories of carefree days at the beach, sunshine, laughter; the nadir of the prevailing seriousness. His pen touched paper, jumping down the side of the page forming the letters C A D U Q U E S. He began filling in the lines of an acrostic when he noticed her eyes settle on him, their sparkle offering a thousand excuses, all the time seeking absolution for the guilt brought about by chance. His smile returned, he managed to pluck up courage enough to mouth the words:

"How about a quiet drink together after class?"

This morning Jodi published an interesting writing exercise on the Write Anything blog. Here's my attempt to do it justice.

A glimmer of sun broke through the gloom of the drizzle as Ron rounded the corner; fourteen years and not a word from Mum or Dad. The sound of the train pulling out of the station slowly reached his ears. He raised his eyes seeking out the slightest hint of a once familiar rainbow over the family abode; the one he had not called home since the day of the announcement - the cries and the slamming still made him shudder. There it stood in all its splendour but as the rejuvenated sunlight slowly caressed its façade, he realised how much that splendour had succumbed to impinging time and ebbing attention.

A familiar vibration in his pocket: he flicked open his shiny, new cellphone and smiled. A second train rolled through the station - the express down from Swansea: it didn't stop. He glanced up and shivered... still no rainbow; where was he to get the courage from, not even Jan's words had helped.

He propped himself up against the oak tree half way up the road and his fingers began moving furiously. His tongue soon found its way through the pursed lips, much like the train emerging from the tunnel. With one short stab he hit the reply button:

This story is inspired by this week's Fiction Friday prompt: Use a McGuffin in your story. McGuffin: An object or person in a movie that has no use other than to drive the narrative forward. (originally coined by Alfred Hitchcock)

It wasn't much of a case. And the paycheck promised to be even smaller. But everyone has to begin somewhere. One day I'd be as famous as Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade, or maybe even all those aristocratic English detectives put together. When that day comes I'll be able to take on whateverc cases I chose. But for now, I take whatever comes my way. Not that this case actually came my way. It would be closer to the truth if I said, I went riding into it. But since I've always been somewhat econimical with truth, then we'll stick by that expression.

I first went riding into Sdoowkcab because one of my old school sweets had sent out what you might call an SOS. Seemed like Annie moved out there soon after she left Homeville and married a local dignitary with a lot of money. He died about a year back leaving her a very rich lady. Well, now she was convinced that someone was after her and she wanted me to come down and protect her. She said, she'd make it worth my while. And when I remembered the good times we'd had together, I figured I knew what she meant by that. But nothing ever came of it. By the time I rode into Sdoowkcab - and yes it was as hard to find as it is to say - Annie was one stone dead woman, and I had myself a case to solve.

I reckoned the best place to start was with the mayor out there. My problem was that I didn't know him nor his office and there was no one about to ask. At this hour, even the saloon had not yet opened up for business. But perched on a pole right in front was one of the strangest looking parrots, you ever did see. He gave a mighty screech when he saw me, but he let me approach no problem.

"Well now, you the only thing round here, huh? ... So, you ain't talking huh. Now if you were a human, I'd consider that somewhat suspicious, but I guess, you're just not a talking parrot. Wonder if you could show me where I can get to see the mayor."

Behind me a door opened and a bucket sloshed it's way onto the hardened earth. Whoever it was threw it had retreated but the door stayed open. I wondered over and just as I did so the parrot gave a sqauwk and flew off above my head. At the open door I called out and a lady appeared.

"Well Maam, sorry for disturbing you like this, but I was just wondering where I could get hold of the mayor of this here town?"

In reply, she signalled with her head above and behind me and I turned to see the parrot sitting on a balcony rail. So the damn thing had understood me after all. As well as that my luck was in because the mayor was in his office and received me at once.

"Well, what can I be doing for you, Mr...?"

"Braak, Sir. John Braak."

I showed him the letter. His eyebrows pulled together as he read.

"I was wondering if you could shed any light..."

"Yes, I can Mr. Whateveryousayyournameis. I can tell you that there's nothing suspicious here and if I were you I'd get out of town as soon as possible. Folks round here don't like people prying into their comings and goings, especially outsiders like you. Miss Annie's death was just an unfortunate accident. We looked into it thoroughly what with her husband having met such an unfortunate death and all that. But we found nothing. Besides, there was no motive. No one here wanted her dead. Why should they?"

Just then, the parrot gave another squawk and planted itself right in front of us on the mayor's desk, flapping its wings.

"Pretty fine fine bird you've got there. I guess a parrot like that could reveal a lot if it could say anything; kinda like a dumb witness."

"Dumb's the word, Mr. It's not uttered a word since I've been here. And it's certainly not mine. Just hangs around town. And now Mr. Ahhh, if you don't mind, I've got..."

But the parrot didn't give him a chance to finish whatever he had to say. With a whoosh and squawk, he went sailing away. It was waiting for me when I got out onto the street and immediately started fluttering away. This time I followed it through the streets and out onto one of the many prairies surrounding the town. He stopped at a small outhouse about a mile out of town. I hadn't a clue why it had brought me here but I figured it wasn't as dumb as people were saying. It had a flair for detective work, so if it brought me here, there must be some reason for it. I went inside and looked around. The place was empty but underneath one of the windows there was a dark blot that looked like it was blood.

"So that's why you brought me here. Is this where Annie died."

The parrot was on the sill and it looked me direct in the eyes. It didn't say a word. It didn't have to. I knew I was on the right track. Together we started to nosing around, digging up a few bits and pieces when the parrot gave another screech and I saw it was picking away at something shiney. I prised it from the ground and saw it was a gold ring. I cleaned it up a bit and examined it carefully. The name Joel was inscribed inside.

Another look at the parrot. "Do you know this guy, Joel?" I put the ring flat on my hand and he took it in its beak before flying back off to town without stopping. But I wasn't worried. We too had developped a rapport. That's the only way you can do detective work. Find yourself a helper and build up a rapport. The parrot was waiting for right in front of the saloon, the ring sitting on the top step. I picked it up and put it quickly in my pocket before anyone could see. I must be getting pretty close to my prey now, so I didn't want to give anything away. I went in, the parrot on my shoulder. All eyes turned on me as I shimmied up to the bar.

"Scotch. Make it a double. On the rocks."

"You, a stranger round here."

"Yeh, just passing through from the east."

"So you won't be staying long then?"

It sounded more like a threat than a question. I obviously must be on the right track. I took my scotch.

"Your health... and mine."

There was a screech from my shoulder and the parrot started hopping round on top of the bar and just as suddenly took off through the open window and out into the street. The barman gave a smile.

"Looks like your partner's cut and run."

But I didn't pay any attention. I was way too occupied trying to figure out what I should do now to hear the shot. And I hadn't a clue where it came from. Not that that really matters now. The shot certainly proved beyond doubt that I was on the right track. It was just a bit too late to do anything about it now.

gentle, praise, vulgar are this week's 3WW words. So settle back for a little allegory this week.

As Alabanzo grew older, he began to wonder whose praise his writing was meant to glorify. His first poems and stories reflected the innocence of the teenager he was: white characters against backgrounds whose shades but occasionally darkened his canvas. Doubtless, a reflection on the simple but loving upbringing Alabanzo had experienced in the small village which wasn't but which could have been called Paradiso. The world seemed so straightforward in those days.

Even when he left home to begin his studies, things hadn't changed much. The worlds he portrayed now contained big, black splodges. Even he could now see that the world of Paradiso was not to be encountered everywhere. Yet light was predominant in his stories, a vaccinating light, protecting and never failing to banish darkness.

At university, his reputation as a writer with talent grew. But, said his teachers, you need to look the world in the eye; most of this stuff is far too sentimental to be of much use. But the girls liked it. And Alabanzo began to like the girls. Passion, desire, and elation rose up from this heart of light lifting him to new dimensions. But alongside such feelings came those of envy, chagrin, anger and obsession as he had to fight to obtain a prize much yearned after. Yet, he couldn't write about any of these. They just didn't fit into any world he could imagine; he had no idea how to represent them.

Salvation came with Doucette. A fellow student she dripped her way into his life, dampening those passions which were threatening to tear him apart. Gentle was the only word he could find to describe everything about her appearance, her manner, her deeds, even the way she had invaded her soul. Not for her the passion others had provoked within him. Here was sweet assurance, benign light, placid contemplation. The world was whole again and Alabanzo wrote with a joy hitherto unfelt.

Their life together followed the regular rhythm of the drum accompanying the onward progression of a tortoise battling its way through the many obstacles on its upward progression. They themselves, however, had very few obstacles to overcome. Alabanzo's writing was received with enthusiasm by tutors and readers alike. And interaction with others made him realise that the world was not quite the paradise he had once thought. His work began to sell and people praised the optimism which shone forth from his pen. He was soon earning a small but steady income and he married Doucette. Once again, all was well in the best of worlds and continued so for many years.

Indeed, it might have continued so for the rest of his life, were it not for the monotony perfection brings. Alabanzo was growing tired of churning out the same kind of work day in day out. He wanted to widen his wings, take in something different. But whenever he went to the bookstore, all he could find was the type of vulgar novel from which he had freed all his life. "Who on earth would read such drivel?" he commented to Doucette one night. She responded with another of her saintly smiles. Monotony soon gave way to a broader dissatisfaction when Alabanzo discovered the drivel, as he put it, was actually selling a lot better than his own work. Not that they needed any extra money, they had more than enough and no desire for more. But the thought that readers were preferring vulgarity to the sublimity he had to offer them was too much. Envy soon found a small chink in his armour and began to lay siege to his thoughts. The resulting dissatisfaction was a severe test he fought hard to counter.

Then came the day of the village dance. Alabanzo and Doucette never spent more than a few minutes together at such occasions. They turned up to show they were not totally cut off from what was going on around them, but rarely gained anything worthwhile from the experience. This year, however, Alabanzo was alone, Doucette having returned to her native village to help prepare her younger sister's wedding. Ever since her departure envy was having a field day with Alabanzo's thoughts, conjuring up various promises of excitement against which Alabanzo had little resistance to offer. In a desperate bid to find some sort of peace of mind, he had considered not going, or, at least just putting in an even more token appearance than usual, or certainly not staying for longer than the first dance. And as he had never liked dancing anyway, the rest would be easy.

And it most certainly would have been, were it not for Tawdria. Tawdria was far from the most beautiful woman in the village. In the cold light of day, few would give her a second look. But done up in her finery with gaiety all around him she was the most hunted treasure

Hiding behind all the modesty she could muster, she held out her little finger to Alabanzo. Just the one dance he thought and then off home. They whirled around the floor and became the object of many tongue among those present. Alabanzo was spellbound when they stopped and was so glad when she leaned over and whispered into his ear. Never had words created such a tempest in his mind. She curled her little finger around his and led him away from the assembly, urging him on with promises of such enchantment. He followed her willingly and they soon came to the edge. She slipped his arm around her waist and soon they were looking out over the cliff into a future that sparkled with exhilaration. Just one more step. But would he go forwards or back?

Kaldeidscope

Lucy couldn't help wondering if a third of a bullet would kill. That would save her having to chose who would die. She stared at the newspaper lying in front of her. Now or never. The words began to swim around in her mind, the letters kaleidoscoping, creating in her mind new forms but always coming back to that law inscribed in stone which was to govern her day. She'd never been one to set much store in horoscopes, but today was different. Today, it spoke to her heart, urging her to action. The toss of the coin confirmed what she had to do.

The strains of Dany Boy poured out from the loudspeakers above the bookcase. Her eyes rested on Luke's photo, cropped into the top of her mirror. Those sparkling eyes which had sent her such a clear message. How she'd wanted to believe it was meant for her; the champagne of her heart overflowing when she'd realised, it was. The unbound joy as they whirled together across the floor gave way yet again to the letters swirling around before yet again settling on their final absolute form: Now or never. There was no escape.

That grasping bitch, Julie! Why couldn't she keep her hands to herself? What right had she to steal Luke from him? Now she would pay. Finding her would be easy. They'd be at tonight's ball. Where Lucy should have been... in his arms.

She studied the gun in her hand. "A lady's gun...," that's what the man had said. She was glad, he'd asked no questions. But she had just one bullet. "Luke! Live or die? The one bullet decides."

She lifted the gun towards the photo, took aim... and squeezed. There was a shattering of glass as the mirror disintegrated into a profusion of words spewing forth from his lips... worthless words, as unfaithful as his own.

Determined. That's how my parents knew me. From my early teens onwards I must have given them a pretty rough time. More than made up for my tepid big sister, who's still never kissed a boy or smoked a cigarette in all her 17 years.

But determination doesn't have to be destructive. I learnt that when I finally learnt that my parents weren't quite the bane I'd always taken them for. True, their ideas are somewhat archaic at times. My dad is still proud of the fact that he never made out with my mum before they were married. But sometimes what they say contains some slight modicum of sense. Actually, and I want to make it clear that I'm not admitting to this publicly, but if I put their advice on the scale of good or bad, it would very definitely lean to one side more than the other.

So, if determination does not have to be destructive, I'm issuing notice right now to all my teachers everywhere... you know who you were because of the acrid taste that rises up whenever you hear my name... I'm going to show you what I can do. Leave school with top marks, off to university and with my degree in the bag it's your jobs I'll be after.

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is 'me,' begging the question who am I?

She knew, he'd been working on one last project. She knew he'd wanted to keep it secret. "When it's ready," he'd say. There's just so many things going round in my mind, I have to sort things out. The next day, he was no longer. All that was left, were the letters and the safe where the manuscript was kept. At first, she'd wondered whether she should. But how couldn't she? Resistance had never been her forte. But what she saw surprised even her. Not one but five different manuscripts. Each one bearing the same title; each one bearing one single letter for the author's name. It was only when she went back to the letters that she realised what he had done. He had sold his memoirs to five different publishers; a manuscript had been prepared for each one. But this was no fraud; each manuscript was different. Each looked at the world through the eyes of the man she had called husband. Five answers to the same riddle.