“Life’s too short to be bothered with cooking” muttered Melvyn Spencer as he dithered about his supper. He had been thinking a lot about his supper. This would not be just any supper, this was to be Melvyn’s last supper.
Clad in his habitual uniform of fawn slacks, campari coloured shirt and sports jacket Melvyn re-arranged his comb-over and turned his gimlet eyes to face the day. He may not have personified hunter/gatherer but he assumed the role with relish.
True to form, it did not take long for him to be steered into Marks and Spencer as “Dine in for £10” beckoned. His eyes widened
Whole trout with tomato and basil butter
Mushroom & Stilton Risotto
Honey glazed gammon
Ginger, Lime & Coriander Chicken…
The list went on and then he noticed adjacent chillers equally stuffed with side dishes and desserts – his digital blinking focused onto Belgian chocolate soufflés and then there was another display of wines to accompany the home dining.
It did not matter for once that he had not heard of these contrived concoctions – Hasselback potatoes for goodness sake, Zinfandel frizzante. His resolve began to crack the more he stared and salivated. A trolley was soon loaded with enough props to dine in for some time. He had selected far more than could be required for a final meal however gluttonous.
Melvyn scratched his head and undid his blazer whilst he re-considered his plans – for the moment he would think of it as the penultimate supper. He was keeping his options about tomorrow.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Friday, 27 August 2010
Weighing it Up
Slow autumn light stumbled through the curtains across Stella’s wrinkled features – signalling decision time. Should she stay or should she go? Through the tenebrous hours she had been weighing up her options. She turned into the magnet of Eddie’s warmth observing his breath rising and falling, sleep enveloping every familiar feature whilst she lay shrouded in her regular insomnia. She laid her hand across his back and sunk into a few more precious moments beside him before she began today’s leap of faith.
She had met Charles at work. He had come with his team to present to the board. By the time they won the contract, Charles had insinuated himself into Stella’s life. She had not been looking for love but after that first heady evening together she had not been hard to reel in. They fell into an easy habit with one another and the year had begun to slip away when he startled her.
“When I’m with you Stella, my life feels complete, stay with me, come and live with me”
He had reached for her, gently covering her hand and brushing it with his lips
“I love you” and as he pulled her close and held her tightly she whispered, realising, that it was true
“And I love you too Charles”
She pulsed with desire for this striking man with the velvet voice. His words vibrated through her. But all along there had been Eddie. Handsome, loyal, gorgeous Eddie, who always stood by her. How could she choose?
Charles knew about Eddie and despite the living arrangements did not consider him a serious rival but Eddie can only have guessed about Charles from Stella’s long absences. When Stella was home he silently inveigled himself into her affection with ease. He wriggled into Stella’s arms and she stroked his head, embracing him as if nothing could possibly change their close bond.
Stella pulled back the bedclothes preparing to rise and Eddie stirred. She swallowed and sighed. The maelstrom in the pit of her stomach raged as she picked up the phone beside the bed. Eddie was suddenly very awake, his sage coloured eyes expectant. She replaced the receiver.
“Eddie…I have to talk to you”
They looked at each other for a moment and Stella’s heart melted. She couldn’t leave Eddie, what had she been thinking? She would have to break it off with Charles. She got out of bed and with the relief of having made a decision smiled at Eddie. He wrapped himself around her legs purring as his tail caressed her. He had no regrets, if sensitivity to cats was a deal breaker for Charles, so be it - after all faint heart never won fair lady!
She had met Charles at work. He had come with his team to present to the board. By the time they won the contract, Charles had insinuated himself into Stella’s life. She had not been looking for love but after that first heady evening together she had not been hard to reel in. They fell into an easy habit with one another and the year had begun to slip away when he startled her.
“When I’m with you Stella, my life feels complete, stay with me, come and live with me”
He had reached for her, gently covering her hand and brushing it with his lips
“I love you” and as he pulled her close and held her tightly she whispered, realising, that it was true
“And I love you too Charles”
She pulsed with desire for this striking man with the velvet voice. His words vibrated through her. But all along there had been Eddie. Handsome, loyal, gorgeous Eddie, who always stood by her. How could she choose?
Charles knew about Eddie and despite the living arrangements did not consider him a serious rival but Eddie can only have guessed about Charles from Stella’s long absences. When Stella was home he silently inveigled himself into her affection with ease. He wriggled into Stella’s arms and she stroked his head, embracing him as if nothing could possibly change their close bond.
Stella pulled back the bedclothes preparing to rise and Eddie stirred. She swallowed and sighed. The maelstrom in the pit of her stomach raged as she picked up the phone beside the bed. Eddie was suddenly very awake, his sage coloured eyes expectant. She replaced the receiver.
“Eddie…I have to talk to you”
They looked at each other for a moment and Stella’s heart melted. She couldn’t leave Eddie, what had she been thinking? She would have to break it off with Charles. She got out of bed and with the relief of having made a decision smiled at Eddie. He wrapped himself around her legs purring as his tail caressed her. He had no regrets, if sensitivity to cats was a deal breaker for Charles, so be it - after all faint heart never won fair lady!
Thursday, 1 July 2010
10 Word Crime stories
The Harrogate Crime Festival tasked well-known crime authors to write a crime story in 10 words. The best ones went on their sponsor's beer bottles over the period of the festival.
I tried this exercise which was incredibly difficult!
• Complicit looks over the table as they murdered the bottle.
• Unbalanced, she teetered and stabbed – they really were killer heels!
• DNA be damned, they had been twins, no incriminating evidence.
• Patsy had finally perfected her drop dead look. Problem solved!
• She lived – he died – perfect! What could possibly go wrong?
I tried this exercise which was incredibly difficult!
• Complicit looks over the table as they murdered the bottle.
• Unbalanced, she teetered and stabbed – they really were killer heels!
• DNA be damned, they had been twins, no incriminating evidence.
• Patsy had finally perfected her drop dead look. Problem solved!
• She lived – he died – perfect! What could possibly go wrong?
Bits & Pieces
Not quite stories yet - pieces I have written for writing group that may (or may not) be developed!
For Afters
(We were tasked with writing a 500 word story on the topic of shopping)
Ila’s face began to crumble around the edges as she stared at her list. She was finding that maturity and decorum were not necessarily natural bedfellows. She had been told, by a reliable source that it all happened on Friday evenings, so Friday would be the day. Any supermarket would do but she had already ear marked Waitrose. In her mind a better class of punter was inevitably to be found in Waitrose.
She went back to her list and began to laugh, a muted snuffle growing into a raucous bellow and the overflowing taste of tears.
“A list? Give me strength, what am I like?”
The week edged by. Friday finally dawned. Usually Ila had something to eat before setting off on the supermarket run. She then bought what she needed and was less inclined to shop with her eyes. But surely this particular foray required just the opposite - eyes were exactly the order of the day. The panic that had prevented her trip the previous week threatened to descend. She phoned Bonnie again
“Will you come with me?”
“Would love to do darling but rather ruins the point of the exercise doesn’t it? You and I can and do shop any day, I think the whole point is going ON YOUR OWN, it’s someone single you are looking for not someone and their friend. They will think the same. If you are with me, you won’t get picked up on anyone’s radar…”
Bonnie tailed off, both of them wondering about this radar and how you got on the right one at all. Maybe it would all become obvious, maybe the moon...
Ila pulled her blue Micra into the car park. As she swung into a space she wondered if parking was part of the routine and if there was a designated area of the car park to which she should be attentively parking. Everything seemed much the same as usual. Scant regard to the marked bays, the screaming hordes, the groups of students with case loads of beers, austere husbands and wives who were in the groove of their well worn routine, neither veering from their designated scowl, argument or position in the car. Somehow she had expected everything to feel different, maybe it would inside. Maybe she had come at the wrong time, how on earth did you know?
The regular cacophony greeted her as she pushed her trolley through the door. Hell! Trolley? Should she have chosen a basket or one of the slimmer, compact trolleys? She went back to the entrance and swapped receptacles. Bonnie had told her to just be her usual, happy-go-lucky self. Ila tried to ignore the gathering perspiration on her forehead and upper lip and be bright and breezy. Some chance!
Half an hour later and Ila felt a whole lot better. Her mind was on the delicious feast she was going home to prepare - sustainable, line caught and guilt-free tuna. She would sear it and serve with the fresh, crisp, locally sourced asparagus tips and gently roasted sweet tomatoes. Then a little something sweet - pear crumble with chocolate and hazelnut hunks, maybe not the hunk she had in her mind earlier but she could do worse! With a light heart she wandered back to the car singing under her breath thinking about “today’s catch”.
Dead End
(We were writing a story based on a photo/picture)
I was, by nature, a cynic, (in my view the perfect credentials for a local hack) but I found Monica amusing and had readily agreed to join her Ghost Walk. I sat by the fire in “The Old Swan” and cast a glance at my fellow conscripts. They all looked fairly regular folk, downing their drinks before they all ventured out after the break for the Witching Hour finale with their guide, my friend, Monica.
Monica was one of life’s more gullible people. She would believe anything. Whilst she admitted that she had only taken on this job of ghost walk guide to supplement her meagre part-time income she had proved very good at it. She really believed the tales of lost souls living a parallel existence to our own, sometimes to be seen (or heard) by those willing to look. She thought a journalist, like myself, should be more open-minded and wanted to show me her pitch.
“Time, ladies and gentlemen..please!”
The landlord’s increasingly persistent cries encouraged us into our coats and out the door.
I wanted to get a feel of the sense of expectation so I lagged behind as the group inched forwards. Monica whispered encouragement for us all to suspend belief, she felt sure we would feel the spirits in College Alley. There was some giggling as we all turned off the brightly lit High Street into the dark lane and there was College Alley at the end. Despite having lived in the city for over a decade I could not remember seeing this turning or this street before. It was obvious that other locals were similarly disoriented.
One lone street light stood at the corner, one small lit area in the midst of shadows. The group was suddenly very quiet as Monica began her story. I kept apart, curious about where this street led and why I had never noticed it before.
I followed the old stone wall to its end – the street appeared to be a dead end so I turned back to the sound of Monica’s voice – a sudden chill spreading through me. I could hear the well rehearsed monologue of unexplained disappearances down the ages, but I could not see Monica. In fact I could not see any of the group. I wrapped my arms around myself and increased my pace, returning to the glow of the street light but there was nobody there, just Monica’s voice calling the group together as they were moving on.
“Monica” I called
“Monica, Monica” my voice became increasingly desperate as I realised the street was empty and each end appeared to be closed off. I was shouting but I already knew nobody could hear.
No Cure for curiosity
(We were writing a story that included the phrase - "she knew she shouldn't be there")
Yesterday Dora went to London. She had caught the 9.22 (the first train of the day that qualified for day saver rate) and, as a result, it was crowded. She stood pressed against a clammy man in his easy-care shirt and wafting his heavily disguised body scent with his polyester blazer and a pallid youngster who was in a world of his own, oblivious to the fact that he was sharing the heavy beat of his music with the rest of the carriage. Thunderous faces glared at him whilst he kept his eyes shut, nodding his head and tapping his foot.
Dora stood there, as if in a bubble. She had been filled with a sense of anticipation that had been growing more rampant and destructive over recent weeks. She thought she was in love, she was in love. She had met Don on Guardian Soul Mates last March and their correspondence had moved quickly from lively banter and discovered shared interests to the revelation of ever more intimate details. They had planned to meet up many times but at the last minute one or the other pulled out, fearful of breaking the spell.
Don was the manager of a small hotel in Bloomsbury. He described it and its clientele to Dora regularly, the dark wood fittings and the leather upholstery forming a backdrop for the high standards of personal service that Don boasted. She saw it as on a par with New York’s Algonquin hotel, albeit it on a less grand scale. Don had a way with words and he conjured up an alluring picture of hotel life in Dora’s mind. She relished the excitement of this keyboard romance but she also longed to meet Don and see if the magic held true.
She had enjoyed the walk through London. She was familiar with the main routes but clutched her A-Z anyway and turned from Bloomsbury Square into the small side road. Her pace slowed as she looked along Pemberton Terrace. The hotel did not compare favourably to the images in her head. She checked the number for a second time then walked into the dark entrance hall, lit only by the flashing neon figure in the windows, her eyes widened, she knew she shouldn’t be there…
Dora thought of her hero Dorothy Parker and her perverse glee in human weakness and sighed.
“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity” Dorothy Parker
For Afters
(We were tasked with writing a 500 word story on the topic of shopping)
Ila’s face began to crumble around the edges as she stared at her list. She was finding that maturity and decorum were not necessarily natural bedfellows. She had been told, by a reliable source that it all happened on Friday evenings, so Friday would be the day. Any supermarket would do but she had already ear marked Waitrose. In her mind a better class of punter was inevitably to be found in Waitrose.
She went back to her list and began to laugh, a muted snuffle growing into a raucous bellow and the overflowing taste of tears.
“A list? Give me strength, what am I like?”
The week edged by. Friday finally dawned. Usually Ila had something to eat before setting off on the supermarket run. She then bought what she needed and was less inclined to shop with her eyes. But surely this particular foray required just the opposite - eyes were exactly the order of the day. The panic that had prevented her trip the previous week threatened to descend. She phoned Bonnie again
“Will you come with me?”
“Would love to do darling but rather ruins the point of the exercise doesn’t it? You and I can and do shop any day, I think the whole point is going ON YOUR OWN, it’s someone single you are looking for not someone and their friend. They will think the same. If you are with me, you won’t get picked up on anyone’s radar…”
Bonnie tailed off, both of them wondering about this radar and how you got on the right one at all. Maybe it would all become obvious, maybe the moon...
Ila pulled her blue Micra into the car park. As she swung into a space she wondered if parking was part of the routine and if there was a designated area of the car park to which she should be attentively parking. Everything seemed much the same as usual. Scant regard to the marked bays, the screaming hordes, the groups of students with case loads of beers, austere husbands and wives who were in the groove of their well worn routine, neither veering from their designated scowl, argument or position in the car. Somehow she had expected everything to feel different, maybe it would inside. Maybe she had come at the wrong time, how on earth did you know?
The regular cacophony greeted her as she pushed her trolley through the door. Hell! Trolley? Should she have chosen a basket or one of the slimmer, compact trolleys? She went back to the entrance and swapped receptacles. Bonnie had told her to just be her usual, happy-go-lucky self. Ila tried to ignore the gathering perspiration on her forehead and upper lip and be bright and breezy. Some chance!
Half an hour later and Ila felt a whole lot better. Her mind was on the delicious feast she was going home to prepare - sustainable, line caught and guilt-free tuna. She would sear it and serve with the fresh, crisp, locally sourced asparagus tips and gently roasted sweet tomatoes. Then a little something sweet - pear crumble with chocolate and hazelnut hunks, maybe not the hunk she had in her mind earlier but she could do worse! With a light heart she wandered back to the car singing under her breath thinking about “today’s catch”.
Dead End
(We were writing a story based on a photo/picture)
I was, by nature, a cynic, (in my view the perfect credentials for a local hack) but I found Monica amusing and had readily agreed to join her Ghost Walk. I sat by the fire in “The Old Swan” and cast a glance at my fellow conscripts. They all looked fairly regular folk, downing their drinks before they all ventured out after the break for the Witching Hour finale with their guide, my friend, Monica.
Monica was one of life’s more gullible people. She would believe anything. Whilst she admitted that she had only taken on this job of ghost walk guide to supplement her meagre part-time income she had proved very good at it. She really believed the tales of lost souls living a parallel existence to our own, sometimes to be seen (or heard) by those willing to look. She thought a journalist, like myself, should be more open-minded and wanted to show me her pitch.
“Time, ladies and gentlemen..please!”
The landlord’s increasingly persistent cries encouraged us into our coats and out the door.
I wanted to get a feel of the sense of expectation so I lagged behind as the group inched forwards. Monica whispered encouragement for us all to suspend belief, she felt sure we would feel the spirits in College Alley. There was some giggling as we all turned off the brightly lit High Street into the dark lane and there was College Alley at the end. Despite having lived in the city for over a decade I could not remember seeing this turning or this street before. It was obvious that other locals were similarly disoriented.
One lone street light stood at the corner, one small lit area in the midst of shadows. The group was suddenly very quiet as Monica began her story. I kept apart, curious about where this street led and why I had never noticed it before.
I followed the old stone wall to its end – the street appeared to be a dead end so I turned back to the sound of Monica’s voice – a sudden chill spreading through me. I could hear the well rehearsed monologue of unexplained disappearances down the ages, but I could not see Monica. In fact I could not see any of the group. I wrapped my arms around myself and increased my pace, returning to the glow of the street light but there was nobody there, just Monica’s voice calling the group together as they were moving on.
“Monica” I called
“Monica, Monica” my voice became increasingly desperate as I realised the street was empty and each end appeared to be closed off. I was shouting but I already knew nobody could hear.
No Cure for curiosity
(We were writing a story that included the phrase - "she knew she shouldn't be there")
Yesterday Dora went to London. She had caught the 9.22 (the first train of the day that qualified for day saver rate) and, as a result, it was crowded. She stood pressed against a clammy man in his easy-care shirt and wafting his heavily disguised body scent with his polyester blazer and a pallid youngster who was in a world of his own, oblivious to the fact that he was sharing the heavy beat of his music with the rest of the carriage. Thunderous faces glared at him whilst he kept his eyes shut, nodding his head and tapping his foot.
Dora stood there, as if in a bubble. She had been filled with a sense of anticipation that had been growing more rampant and destructive over recent weeks. She thought she was in love, she was in love. She had met Don on Guardian Soul Mates last March and their correspondence had moved quickly from lively banter and discovered shared interests to the revelation of ever more intimate details. They had planned to meet up many times but at the last minute one or the other pulled out, fearful of breaking the spell.
Don was the manager of a small hotel in Bloomsbury. He described it and its clientele to Dora regularly, the dark wood fittings and the leather upholstery forming a backdrop for the high standards of personal service that Don boasted. She saw it as on a par with New York’s Algonquin hotel, albeit it on a less grand scale. Don had a way with words and he conjured up an alluring picture of hotel life in Dora’s mind. She relished the excitement of this keyboard romance but she also longed to meet Don and see if the magic held true.
She had enjoyed the walk through London. She was familiar with the main routes but clutched her A-Z anyway and turned from Bloomsbury Square into the small side road. Her pace slowed as she looked along Pemberton Terrace. The hotel did not compare favourably to the images in her head. She checked the number for a second time then walked into the dark entrance hall, lit only by the flashing neon figure in the windows, her eyes widened, she knew she shouldn’t be there…
Dora thought of her hero Dorothy Parker and her perverse glee in human weakness and sighed.
“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity” Dorothy Parker
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Cloud Nine
It was the sort of blue sky day when anything seemed possible.
The doorbell rang at number 47.
“Only one today, Mrs A, you’ve been slacking! You know the routine - sign here …”
She closed the door and switched her mind to the new arrival. Silk trimmed, scooped, cropped – the clothes all looked fabulous on the virtual model, whose smile when sporting the ‘flattering for any body shape’ outfit was sterling duplicity. Lime, crocus, fuchsia, aquamarine, hibiscus, vanilla – the names were so seductive… She would be one of these women. She would go to the ball and Larry would be proud.
Cuddling the promise held in the parcel, Gail’s excitement gathered. Released from the confines of its packaging the fabric floated, its rich shades vibrating in the sunlight. Gail stroked it, purring with anticipation. Wriggling from her own strictures, she willed herself not to glance in the mirror.
Braced, she stepped into the skirt whose price tag was surely insurance of perfection. Marshmallow thighs exposed she teased the skirt upwards. At least she tried to but it took more than a determined shimmy to get it over her bottom. She hesitated between on and off, not ready to let go of her dream of the perfect outfit. She reached for her glasses, ensuring that the fastenings were unfastened. They were. Gail then checked the size on the packaging - 16 regular – her size – they must have put it in the wrong bag. She coaxed the satin pools of aubergine around her lower body, hoping for the skirt to settle perfectly. She shot a look at the label truly imagining it would reveal a size zero or at least a 14 but no, 16 it was…And she had chosen the relaxed fit, bias cut, dark coloured option suggested for her size.
“I wish I was slim...… if only I was thinner…”
Her hollow entreaty faded and Gail could now barely tell if it was sweat or tears across her ruddy cheeks. It would have to go back. Her eyes skimmed the decimated packaging and a silent maroon howl let rip.
As Gail flung the window open, her jaw tightened sensing not a refreshing breeze but grasping arctic tendrils wrapping themselves around her neck. There was someone else in the house. She warily rose from her summer pudding slump.
“Hello” called Gail “Larry – is that you...Larry?”
“No Gail, it’s not Larry, it’s me”
She scanned the room, seeing nothing.
“Surprise!” squeaked the voice “your wish, my command…you know how it works…don’t you? People generally do. Damsel in distress, I come to the rescue. You are a damsel in distress, right?”
Damsel? – Wish? Command? What was this?” As she moved from the window she saw an unfamiliar reflection. She looked remarkably like the catalogue picture of the model in the mirage flippy skirt. Her shoulders relaxed and she strutted. With a twirl she gave a sultry pout to the imaginary camera.
Good heavens…the perfect fit, THE PERFECT FIT…
The doorbell rang at number 47.
“Only one today, Mrs A, you’ve been slacking! You know the routine - sign here …”
She closed the door and switched her mind to the new arrival. Silk trimmed, scooped, cropped – the clothes all looked fabulous on the virtual model, whose smile when sporting the ‘flattering for any body shape’ outfit was sterling duplicity. Lime, crocus, fuchsia, aquamarine, hibiscus, vanilla – the names were so seductive… She would be one of these women. She would go to the ball and Larry would be proud.
Cuddling the promise held in the parcel, Gail’s excitement gathered. Released from the confines of its packaging the fabric floated, its rich shades vibrating in the sunlight. Gail stroked it, purring with anticipation. Wriggling from her own strictures, she willed herself not to glance in the mirror.
Braced, she stepped into the skirt whose price tag was surely insurance of perfection. Marshmallow thighs exposed she teased the skirt upwards. At least she tried to but it took more than a determined shimmy to get it over her bottom. She hesitated between on and off, not ready to let go of her dream of the perfect outfit. She reached for her glasses, ensuring that the fastenings were unfastened. They were. Gail then checked the size on the packaging - 16 regular – her size – they must have put it in the wrong bag. She coaxed the satin pools of aubergine around her lower body, hoping for the skirt to settle perfectly. She shot a look at the label truly imagining it would reveal a size zero or at least a 14 but no, 16 it was…And she had chosen the relaxed fit, bias cut, dark coloured option suggested for her size.
“I wish I was slim...… if only I was thinner…”
Her hollow entreaty faded and Gail could now barely tell if it was sweat or tears across her ruddy cheeks. It would have to go back. Her eyes skimmed the decimated packaging and a silent maroon howl let rip.
As Gail flung the window open, her jaw tightened sensing not a refreshing breeze but grasping arctic tendrils wrapping themselves around her neck. There was someone else in the house. She warily rose from her summer pudding slump.
“Hello” called Gail “Larry – is that you...Larry?”
“No Gail, it’s not Larry, it’s me”
She scanned the room, seeing nothing.
“Surprise!” squeaked the voice “your wish, my command…you know how it works…don’t you? People generally do. Damsel in distress, I come to the rescue. You are a damsel in distress, right?”
Damsel? – Wish? Command? What was this?” As she moved from the window she saw an unfamiliar reflection. She looked remarkably like the catalogue picture of the model in the mirage flippy skirt. Her shoulders relaxed and she strutted. With a twirl she gave a sultry pout to the imaginary camera.
Good heavens…the perfect fit, THE PERFECT FIT…
It Will Kill You or Make you Stronger
The ringing phone pierced the brittle darkness as they lay side by side. Mike reached over the chasm between them and picked up.
Estelle heard a demanding voice
“Yes” mumbled Mike “Yes, yes…I do realise that, Friday…this Friday…I understand”
He put down the receiver.
As seconds yawned into minutes Estelle turned to her husband
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as it can get. If I can’t seal the deal on Friday then that’s it Estelle, we’re sunk.”
Estelle Franklin believed in her husband. He might have got them into this mess but he was an accomplished chancer and she remained confident that he would get them out. However Estelle was no shrinking violet, and maybe after all their years together she could draw on her reserves and show Mike that she too had valuable skills.
As she lay there the anxiety spread across Estelle’s back and her forehead settled into deep furrows above her red-rimmed eyes. It was critical that Friday was a success. If there was no reconciliation then the future would be bleak for all of them. The house would definitely have to go along with the lifestyle. Despite her reassurances she knew Mike was dwelling on whether his misjudgement would shatter the foundations of their long marriage.
“It’ll kill you or make you stronger” had always been Grandma’s teasing riposte to any crisis, large or small. Her family was made of strong stuff and the cure for all ills - medical, emotional or practical was well known to them. Granted, none of them had been married to Mike but they would get through this in the way they always did, Estelle would blindside them with some culinary magic and Grandma’s chicken soup was just that.
Inspired by memories of her grandmother the next day she went to work. “Dig deep Estelle” she told herself. She moved through her kitchen gathering the ingredients from her arsenal. The ground was familiar here and whilst the stakes were too high to feel that she could settle into her comfort zone, the tension started to ease.
She took the expectant chicken from the worktop (no good straight from the fridge, it needed to be at room temperature) and placed it into the large pot. She covered the flabby white flesh with water and brought it gently to the boil. First stage over she was in the groove, Estelle deftly peeled off the scum (without shuddering as she once did) and added carrot, turnip, celery, leek and parsley (the crisp vegetables all finely chopped) a good dose of salt and white pepper and she sighed. Her shoulders sank, beads of sweat mushroomed on her blushing face as the familiar smell wooed her. Game on. She had 3 hours at least for the alchemy to happen, adding only her love as the pot simmered. There were no precise timings the gift of generations guiding her to know when to turn off the heat. She was soothed by the fug of her kitchen and she rejoiced at her heritage.
This pause was part of the process. Normally Estelle poured herself a large glass of merlot, put on the radio and enjoyed a steamy moment before she continued with her other work. This, however, was not routine. She was cooking for their survival. She wavered between the kettle and the wine rack before reluctantly making a pot of tea tempered with a plate of Jaffa cakes.
The flirtation over, Estelle eventually took the soup from the stove whilst they both cooled-off. This could not be rushed, there was a rhythm to be obeyed, the same process followed for generations. It was late but before she went to bed she removed the chicken from the stock, strained the vegetables from the liquid and prepared to
place the fledgling soup in the fridge. Her heart raced into tomorrow as she checked she was alone. Estelle then pulled the final ingredient from the back of the cupboard and gently stirred it into the warm mix.
Estelle awoke early on Friday, she was calm and focused unlike her husband. As evening descended Mike dodged in and out of the kitchen bringing with him his black cloud of apprehension.
He had watched Estelle stroke the congealed fat from the surface of the soup that morning, as he had watched many times before. She now placed the pot on the hob, stirring the golden soup to perfection. The unexpected intimacy of the rising heat reminded them of what they were playing for. They looked at each other and smiled. Mike reached for Estelle, stroking her arm and caressing her fingers.
“Our future in your hands” Mike said “of course everything will be all right!”
Estelle heard a demanding voice
“Yes” mumbled Mike “Yes, yes…I do realise that, Friday…this Friday…I understand”
He put down the receiver.
As seconds yawned into minutes Estelle turned to her husband
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as it can get. If I can’t seal the deal on Friday then that’s it Estelle, we’re sunk.”
Estelle Franklin believed in her husband. He might have got them into this mess but he was an accomplished chancer and she remained confident that he would get them out. However Estelle was no shrinking violet, and maybe after all their years together she could draw on her reserves and show Mike that she too had valuable skills.
As she lay there the anxiety spread across Estelle’s back and her forehead settled into deep furrows above her red-rimmed eyes. It was critical that Friday was a success. If there was no reconciliation then the future would be bleak for all of them. The house would definitely have to go along with the lifestyle. Despite her reassurances she knew Mike was dwelling on whether his misjudgement would shatter the foundations of their long marriage.
“It’ll kill you or make you stronger” had always been Grandma’s teasing riposte to any crisis, large or small. Her family was made of strong stuff and the cure for all ills - medical, emotional or practical was well known to them. Granted, none of them had been married to Mike but they would get through this in the way they always did, Estelle would blindside them with some culinary magic and Grandma’s chicken soup was just that.
Inspired by memories of her grandmother the next day she went to work. “Dig deep Estelle” she told herself. She moved through her kitchen gathering the ingredients from her arsenal. The ground was familiar here and whilst the stakes were too high to feel that she could settle into her comfort zone, the tension started to ease.
She took the expectant chicken from the worktop (no good straight from the fridge, it needed to be at room temperature) and placed it into the large pot. She covered the flabby white flesh with water and brought it gently to the boil. First stage over she was in the groove, Estelle deftly peeled off the scum (without shuddering as she once did) and added carrot, turnip, celery, leek and parsley (the crisp vegetables all finely chopped) a good dose of salt and white pepper and she sighed. Her shoulders sank, beads of sweat mushroomed on her blushing face as the familiar smell wooed her. Game on. She had 3 hours at least for the alchemy to happen, adding only her love as the pot simmered. There were no precise timings the gift of generations guiding her to know when to turn off the heat. She was soothed by the fug of her kitchen and she rejoiced at her heritage.
This pause was part of the process. Normally Estelle poured herself a large glass of merlot, put on the radio and enjoyed a steamy moment before she continued with her other work. This, however, was not routine. She was cooking for their survival. She wavered between the kettle and the wine rack before reluctantly making a pot of tea tempered with a plate of Jaffa cakes.
The flirtation over, Estelle eventually took the soup from the stove whilst they both cooled-off. This could not be rushed, there was a rhythm to be obeyed, the same process followed for generations. It was late but before she went to bed she removed the chicken from the stock, strained the vegetables from the liquid and prepared to
place the fledgling soup in the fridge. Her heart raced into tomorrow as she checked she was alone. Estelle then pulled the final ingredient from the back of the cupboard and gently stirred it into the warm mix.
Estelle awoke early on Friday, she was calm and focused unlike her husband. As evening descended Mike dodged in and out of the kitchen bringing with him his black cloud of apprehension.
He had watched Estelle stroke the congealed fat from the surface of the soup that morning, as he had watched many times before. She now placed the pot on the hob, stirring the golden soup to perfection. The unexpected intimacy of the rising heat reminded them of what they were playing for. They looked at each other and smiled. Mike reached for Estelle, stroking her arm and caressing her fingers.
“Our future in your hands” Mike said “of course everything will be all right!”
Without Conflict There is No Plot
When I grew up I would be a writer. I had always known this. The only obstacle was growing up.
I had spent years imagining the garret, the years of torment followed by my bestseller and international renown. Decades slipped by and I kidded myself that life was getting in the way but with another milestone birthday on the horizon it was time to “get my shit together” as my friend Celia would say.
The reality was that my weapon of choice was a bottle of wine rather than the pen. I had fooled myself that experience of life could replace learning how this craft worked. Things had to change. Reluctantly, with my only piece of writing, my precious story of lost love clutched to my chest and addled brain cranked in gear I signed up for a creative writing class confident that this would provide the tools for my success.
“How bad can it be?” encouraged Celia.
With one look she was reminded of having said the same thing before sending me off to that ill-fated speed dating session. We arranged to meet later for a post-mortem.
“I’ve got you a large one” was exactly what I needed to hear
“Jesus, Celia, no wonder I haven’t made it on my own. You wouldn’t believe this stuff. Apparently there’s only 7 plots. All those novels and only 7 bloody plots. I need a hook, conflict, exciting language whilst saying as little as possible. She’s taken my life’s work home but has already said that I will need to get rid of every other word, less is more apparently! And…we’ve got homework!”
The weeks sped by as our tutor attempted to instil the basics into a bemused class. Our characters needed to jump from the page, we needed to know every detail of their lives even if the readers didn’t, our plot needed pace and originality, we needed to find our voice.
Meantime I had received my reality check
“I like your perspective but this needs re-writing, the pet phrases need to go along with all those adjectives. Show don’t tell! The plot must be strong, simple and compelling, the character sorely tested” she told me using, beyond, what I now knew to be the requisite number of adjectives to make her point.
I put my life’s work to one side and tried to concentrate on the homework exercises. I found that I actually enjoyed the concentrated form of writing to a formula. The discipline of a haiku, mini saga or flash fiction really focused the mind. It left nowhere to hide!
I decided to distil my blockbuster using the methods I had been taught. I tried to remember all the rules and pared my story down to its bare bones. I made the plot and location as small as possible. I had to change the characters considerably, ensure that there was conflict in my plot and add a twist, but at last I could do this – I knew these personalities like the back of my hand. Satisfied I had used the prescribed criteria, there it was, 100 words, job done!
The other woman
He hadn’t been home for days when Daphne spotted him sidling up the street, head held high, rump swinging suggestively. She watched as he made his way to the door in no great hurry, not a care in the world. She flung the door open and took a deep whiff of cheap perfume. He had been with that floozy again! Alan smirked and slunk through the door making no greeting whatsoever, heading straight for the kitchen. It was then she saw the new glitzy collar he had round his neck.
“Get your own bloody cat” she screamed down the street…..
I had spent years imagining the garret, the years of torment followed by my bestseller and international renown. Decades slipped by and I kidded myself that life was getting in the way but with another milestone birthday on the horizon it was time to “get my shit together” as my friend Celia would say.
The reality was that my weapon of choice was a bottle of wine rather than the pen. I had fooled myself that experience of life could replace learning how this craft worked. Things had to change. Reluctantly, with my only piece of writing, my precious story of lost love clutched to my chest and addled brain cranked in gear I signed up for a creative writing class confident that this would provide the tools for my success.
“How bad can it be?” encouraged Celia.
With one look she was reminded of having said the same thing before sending me off to that ill-fated speed dating session. We arranged to meet later for a post-mortem.
“I’ve got you a large one” was exactly what I needed to hear
“Jesus, Celia, no wonder I haven’t made it on my own. You wouldn’t believe this stuff. Apparently there’s only 7 plots. All those novels and only 7 bloody plots. I need a hook, conflict, exciting language whilst saying as little as possible. She’s taken my life’s work home but has already said that I will need to get rid of every other word, less is more apparently! And…we’ve got homework!”
The weeks sped by as our tutor attempted to instil the basics into a bemused class. Our characters needed to jump from the page, we needed to know every detail of their lives even if the readers didn’t, our plot needed pace and originality, we needed to find our voice.
Meantime I had received my reality check
“I like your perspective but this needs re-writing, the pet phrases need to go along with all those adjectives. Show don’t tell! The plot must be strong, simple and compelling, the character sorely tested” she told me using, beyond, what I now knew to be the requisite number of adjectives to make her point.
I put my life’s work to one side and tried to concentrate on the homework exercises. I found that I actually enjoyed the concentrated form of writing to a formula. The discipline of a haiku, mini saga or flash fiction really focused the mind. It left nowhere to hide!
I decided to distil my blockbuster using the methods I had been taught. I tried to remember all the rules and pared my story down to its bare bones. I made the plot and location as small as possible. I had to change the characters considerably, ensure that there was conflict in my plot and add a twist, but at last I could do this – I knew these personalities like the back of my hand. Satisfied I had used the prescribed criteria, there it was, 100 words, job done!
The other woman
He hadn’t been home for days when Daphne spotted him sidling up the street, head held high, rump swinging suggestively. She watched as he made his way to the door in no great hurry, not a care in the world. She flung the door open and took a deep whiff of cheap perfume. He had been with that floozy again! Alan smirked and slunk through the door making no greeting whatsoever, heading straight for the kitchen. It was then she saw the new glitzy collar he had round his neck.
“Get your own bloody cat” she screamed down the street…..
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