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?
Thursday, 1 July 2010
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
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