She woke up, disorientated by her dreams. Did that really happen, or did her stupid brain just make it up? She sifted through the details in her head before they faded away, as dreams always do. No. No it was a dream. Her boyfriend didn't wear glasses. Weren't they the glasses her dad used to wear? Ah yes. Abandonment issues. Awesome. Everyone should try them. Fear of being with someone and fear of being alone.
She stretched. He wasn't here, and in a way she was quite pleased. Nice to wake up in the morning sometimes without feeling obliged to be nice and make conversation before she'd had her first cigarette. She could smell her breath, sour from the long sleep. What time is it anyway? Oh, it's only 7 in the morning. More sleep? The uncomfortableness of the nights adventures had left her feeling weird, kind of scrumpled up inside. No. Better to get up and have a cup of tea. Maybe start the days writing task. It's only 750 a day, after all.
She padded to the kitchen. It was tidy for a change and she didn't even have to go in the dishwasher to retrieve a cup. What a lovely change, although she knew it was only because she was doing anything at all at the minute to avoid writing. It was just so hard sometimes. The blank page. The tabula rasa. It could be so daunting. What to write about? Fantasies about men on white horses come to take off their lady loves? Aliens and robots invade earth only for mankind to fight back and to live another day?
The possibilities were endless and that meant there was no choice. She put the kettle on, the cold water splashing out of the sink and hitting her bare stomach. Jesus. that's icy. That's one way to wake up, eh?
After she made her tea, she went and sat at the computer and turned it on. The bloody thing seemed to take longer and longer to get going, and she thought that she probably should have turned it on before making a brew. God. With banal thoughts like this, how was she ever going to get anything good written.
She sat back in her chair and waited for the windows start up tune to come out the speakers. It did, too loud and she jumped. Bloody thing. Why was is so loud? ah yes. She'd been watching a film last night and the dodgy copy had bad sound so she'd had to turn it right up.
Right. Quickly check facebook, reddit, twitter, emails...
Bugger. that's an hour of the day wasted again. She had been pleased to read in the news that the two boys accused of raping a little girl had not been imprisoned. What was the world coming to where a game of 'I'll show you mine and you show me yours' got you on the sex offenders register. She thought back to when it had happened to her. She had been 9, and her and her sister were playing with a boy from down the street. What was he called again? Wayne? Ben? Something, not that it matters. She had been horrified, as he got out his cock. Her sister had raised up her skirt and she'd bolted to tell her mum all about it. Seems daft now.
Maybe that was something to write. A story from the perspective of all three characters, her, her sister and the little boy. That could fill 750 words, surely? Nah, she wasn't in the mood right now for that kind of thing. Too early. Maybe try that tomorrow, or later in the day when she felt slightly more human. Her half-left cup of tea had gone cold, so she went back to the kitchen to make another one.
There now. She sat back down, sitting with one leg up on the chair and one dangling on the floor. Still no inspiration. What was the quote she'd read the other day? 'I love being a writer but what I can't stand is all the paperwork.' ha. It would be funny, if it wasn't so tragically true. How was she ever going to make it if she couldn't even rustle up a few words? Aha! What about just writing all this down? She began to type... 'She woke up, disorientated by her dreams. Did that really happen, or did her stupid brain just make it up..?'
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
A lady in Paris
She squirmed in her seat, trying to surreptitiously move her dress back up to where it was, without attracting any attention. That was the problem with the strapless ones, they always seemed to come down at the most ridiculous of moments, when reaching across the table for the water bottle, or when dancing. Her hair, which she thought dull and mousy, had escaped it's clip and was curling down her back as well.
She had been invited to dinner by Michael. He had seemed so nervous when he had asked and she thought it would have been rude to refuse, but now she was here, she was feeling a little out of place. He and his friends were talking and laughing too loudly for the crowded restaurant, after all the wine and brandy they had had, and the women were all joining in.
She wasn't used to it, all the razzmatazz of Paris after her quiet live in the village. Nemours had been too small, and she'd wanted to experience life, but now she was here, it was all so.... so very gauche, so very ooh la la and she felt so very out of place, a country bumpkin surrounded by elegant ladies and proper gents. What could she talk about? She could take someone on a country walk and point out and name all the plants and flowers, but in Paris, what could she talk about? The weather? The shops? It all seemed so trivial and when they all started talking politics, discussing whether the Germans were going to invade again, she felt so out of her depth.
She had lost her father and mother in the war. Her father had been sent to the front, he had fought at Verdun, and after the letter arrived telling them he'd been lost in action just before the war had been declared officially over, she'd watched her mother fade to nothing over the next few months. She'd been unable to do much apart from cry. Amelia had sometimes gone into her mother's room on a night and slipped into bed beside her, feeling her tremble. The weather had been very cold, and in a morning, she'd blamed it on that but Amelia knew it was more than just that. She had tried to get her to eat, but the meal always came back with just nibbles out of them. She had got a job in the local bar, and one day she'd come home from work to find her mother hanging from the beam in the bedroom. There was a letter and a medal on the table. Apparently, her father had been awarded it for bravery. It had been a final twist of the knife to her mother, and Amelia knew that she'd felt abandoned, even with the excuse of death, for his bravery.
Her uncle had taken her in, but he kept trying to come into her room late at night. His wife, and her aunt, had passed away from the flu after the war, and he had turned into a bitter, lonely old man.
When Michael had offered to take her to Paris, she'd jumped at the chance. Anything to get away from her uncle's prying eyes and monstrous hands. Michael had got her a job in a bar, and the work, while it was busier than she was used to, was not much more difficult than at home. This paid for her apartment, well, room really, and Michael had taken her out any night she wasn't working, to dances and meals and even soirees in big houses where Ameali had felt quite unwelcome with her dowdy homemade clothes and lack of airs and graces.
They were in a fancy restaurant now, with too much silverware and prices that she had gasped at. Everything smelt of elaborately roasted meats and expensive wine. Not to worry, Michael always paid for everything, but she knew that at some point there would be a return expected, for him helping her to escape. She was grateful, really, but she knew that she didn't love him and never would, and that would be what was expected of her.
'Are you alright, my dear?' . The lady sat next to Amelia had turned and looked at her. Amelia had obviously been staring off into the distance and now she blushed, feeling rather ignorant and rude.
'Why, yes, thank you mademoiselle. I just feel a bit out of place. You all look lovely, in your dresses and I just don't ever know what to do at these kind of gatherings'. Amelia blushed even more. The wine had made her talkative, and now she had embarrassed herself in front of someone who was probably important.
The woman smiled at her.
'I always felt like that when I first started coming to the affairs. Countrified and like I had nothing to say. Paris does take some getting used to after all.'
It was like the lady had read her mind.
'I'm Elizabeth. I've only lived in Paris for 2 years. I promise, you soon get settled in'. She put her hand on Amelia's arm, and squeezed gently.
'I'm Amelia.'
'Where are you staying?'
'Oh, I'm only 15 minutes walk from here.'
'Well, my dear, it would appear that the party is starting to break up. Would you care for someone to accompany you home? It can be awfully scary later on an evening, and an unaccompanied lady is not the thing, even in this day and age.'
Amelia looked over at Michael. His cheeks were flushed with the alcohol, and he was deep in conversation with the lady next to him.
'If... if you don't mind, that would be lovely.'
'Of course. Let's leave the men to their tomfoolery, and go have ourselves a little fun.'
They both rose from the table, and Elizabeth signalled to the waiter that they needed their coats. Elizabeth came around the table, and after putting her coat on, held out Amelia's. She put hers on, and Elizabeth took her arm. They set off, and just before they went through the door, Amelia looked back. Michael was watching her, an anguished look in his eye. She shrugged, almost imperceptively, and he looked down at his empty plate as she and Elizabeth set off into the night.
She had been invited to dinner by Michael. He had seemed so nervous when he had asked and she thought it would have been rude to refuse, but now she was here, she was feeling a little out of place. He and his friends were talking and laughing too loudly for the crowded restaurant, after all the wine and brandy they had had, and the women were all joining in.
She wasn't used to it, all the razzmatazz of Paris after her quiet live in the village. Nemours had been too small, and she'd wanted to experience life, but now she was here, it was all so.... so very gauche, so very ooh la la and she felt so very out of place, a country bumpkin surrounded by elegant ladies and proper gents. What could she talk about? She could take someone on a country walk and point out and name all the plants and flowers, but in Paris, what could she talk about? The weather? The shops? It all seemed so trivial and when they all started talking politics, discussing whether the Germans were going to invade again, she felt so out of her depth.
She had lost her father and mother in the war. Her father had been sent to the front, he had fought at Verdun, and after the letter arrived telling them he'd been lost in action just before the war had been declared officially over, she'd watched her mother fade to nothing over the next few months. She'd been unable to do much apart from cry. Amelia had sometimes gone into her mother's room on a night and slipped into bed beside her, feeling her tremble. The weather had been very cold, and in a morning, she'd blamed it on that but Amelia knew it was more than just that. She had tried to get her to eat, but the meal always came back with just nibbles out of them. She had got a job in the local bar, and one day she'd come home from work to find her mother hanging from the beam in the bedroom. There was a letter and a medal on the table. Apparently, her father had been awarded it for bravery. It had been a final twist of the knife to her mother, and Amelia knew that she'd felt abandoned, even with the excuse of death, for his bravery.
Her uncle had taken her in, but he kept trying to come into her room late at night. His wife, and her aunt, had passed away from the flu after the war, and he had turned into a bitter, lonely old man.
When Michael had offered to take her to Paris, she'd jumped at the chance. Anything to get away from her uncle's prying eyes and monstrous hands. Michael had got her a job in a bar, and the work, while it was busier than she was used to, was not much more difficult than at home. This paid for her apartment, well, room really, and Michael had taken her out any night she wasn't working, to dances and meals and even soirees in big houses where Ameali had felt quite unwelcome with her dowdy homemade clothes and lack of airs and graces.
They were in a fancy restaurant now, with too much silverware and prices that she had gasped at. Everything smelt of elaborately roasted meats and expensive wine. Not to worry, Michael always paid for everything, but she knew that at some point there would be a return expected, for him helping her to escape. She was grateful, really, but she knew that she didn't love him and never would, and that would be what was expected of her.
'Are you alright, my dear?' . The lady sat next to Amelia had turned and looked at her. Amelia had obviously been staring off into the distance and now she blushed, feeling rather ignorant and rude.
'Why, yes, thank you mademoiselle. I just feel a bit out of place. You all look lovely, in your dresses and I just don't ever know what to do at these kind of gatherings'. Amelia blushed even more. The wine had made her talkative, and now she had embarrassed herself in front of someone who was probably important.
The woman smiled at her.
'I always felt like that when I first started coming to the affairs. Countrified and like I had nothing to say. Paris does take some getting used to after all.'
It was like the lady had read her mind.
'I'm Elizabeth. I've only lived in Paris for 2 years. I promise, you soon get settled in'. She put her hand on Amelia's arm, and squeezed gently.
'I'm Amelia.'
'Where are you staying?'
'Oh, I'm only 15 minutes walk from here.'
'Well, my dear, it would appear that the party is starting to break up. Would you care for someone to accompany you home? It can be awfully scary later on an evening, and an unaccompanied lady is not the thing, even in this day and age.'
Amelia looked over at Michael. His cheeks were flushed with the alcohol, and he was deep in conversation with the lady next to him.
'If... if you don't mind, that would be lovely.'
'Of course. Let's leave the men to their tomfoolery, and go have ourselves a little fun.'
They both rose from the table, and Elizabeth signalled to the waiter that they needed their coats. Elizabeth came around the table, and after putting her coat on, held out Amelia's. She put hers on, and Elizabeth took her arm. They set off, and just before they went through the door, Amelia looked back. Michael was watching her, an anguished look in his eye. She shrugged, almost imperceptively, and he looked down at his empty plate as she and Elizabeth set off into the night.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Wake up and smell the coffee
She woke up. Perhaps on any other day this would not have been worth mentioning, but today she was rather excited. It was her birthday. Then it hit her. Bugger. What had she done last night? There was something... just a feeling that somewhere, someone had a reason to hate her. She rolled over to go back to sleep, and bumped into something. Oh yes. that was it. Her best friend's boyfriend. He woke up, and turned over.
Morning.
Um... good morning.
Happy birthday.
Yeah... what the smeg happened last night?
He raised himself up onto his elbow.
Don't you remember?
She shook her head.
No. No, it's all a blur. I vaguely remember going to the last bar with everyone, but that's it.
He sat up, and rolled his head.
God. My head hurts. You got coffee?
Um, sure, it's in the kitchen.
Really? Well, I wouldn't have thought of checking there.
He hopped out of bed. He still had underwear on. He grabbed a jumper, and putting it on, stumbled out of the bedroom.
She lifted the duvet, and checked. No, she didn't have any clothes on. A bit of a mystery then. Did they... do it?
She got out of bed, and put on her dressing gown. She went to the bathroom to relieve her near-bursting bladder and to check how awful she looked in the mirror. Bleugh. She'd not taken her make up off, and looked like she had two black eyes. She peered closer, and managed to hit her head on the frame.
Ow! Fuck! That hurt!
You ok in there?
He'd come through to the hall, and tapped on the door.
Yeah, yeah, just drunk still, I reckon.
How do you like your coffee?
Strong, lots of milk, lots of sugar. I'll be out in a second.
She heard him go back through to the lounge and rubbing her head tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Nope. No joy. She gave up, and followed him through.
How's your head? I found painkillers in the cupboard above the microwave. You need any?
No, I'm feeling ok, I just can't remember last night.
Not that suprising after the amount of shots you had.
I don't mean to be rude, but did we..?
God. Was I that bad?
Really? We did? But what about Katie? Oh my god, she's going to kill me.
Sarah... what are you on about?
You know, Katie, your girlfriend? My best friend? She's going to kill me. I can't believe I'd do that to her. I can't believe you'd do that to her.
You seriously don't remember, do you?
Remember what?
Our plan?
What plan? I don't remember any plan.
Mark stood up, and taking her by the hand took her through to the kitchen. There, on the counter was Katie's head. The eyes had started to bloat. They looked like they were coming our. Her once blond hair was now streaked with red, and the smell was... actually not that unplesant. Sort of like pork, but a little bit more metallic.
Sarah screamed.
What the fuck is this?
It was the plan, babe. Do you remember yet?
Oh yes. The plan. Sarah had had her eye on Mark for a while. She knew he liked her too, and together, last night, they'd gotten drunk. He'd asked what she wanted for her birthday, and she'd said him. A few more shots of tequila and they'd hatched THE PLAN. As neither of them wanted to hurt Katie's feelings, they'd decided the best option was to just kill her. No fuss then, no extended feelings of guilt and remorse as Katie would later eye them across bars and cafes, huddling together with her friends to talk about them both and the inevitable fall out as people picked sides. No, best way, they had decided would be to kill her, and then Sarah could fall into Mark's arms, and everyone would just assume it was inevitable as they comforted each other to get over Katie's disappearance. Seemed like a winner last night.
We did it?
Fuck yeah we did it.
Well, I suppose if it's already done, there's no point in fretting about it. What's for breakfast?
Mark went over to the fridge, opened it, and held up a plate of what looked like bacon.
Katie and Egg sandwich?
Sarah smiled, and went over to Mark. Standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
That would be lovely, darling. Eggs over easy, please.
Morning.
Um... good morning.
Happy birthday.
Yeah... what the smeg happened last night?
He raised himself up onto his elbow.
Don't you remember?
She shook her head.
No. No, it's all a blur. I vaguely remember going to the last bar with everyone, but that's it.
He sat up, and rolled his head.
God. My head hurts. You got coffee?
Um, sure, it's in the kitchen.
Really? Well, I wouldn't have thought of checking there.
He hopped out of bed. He still had underwear on. He grabbed a jumper, and putting it on, stumbled out of the bedroom.
She lifted the duvet, and checked. No, she didn't have any clothes on. A bit of a mystery then. Did they... do it?
She got out of bed, and put on her dressing gown. She went to the bathroom to relieve her near-bursting bladder and to check how awful she looked in the mirror. Bleugh. She'd not taken her make up off, and looked like she had two black eyes. She peered closer, and managed to hit her head on the frame.
Ow! Fuck! That hurt!
You ok in there?
He'd come through to the hall, and tapped on the door.
Yeah, yeah, just drunk still, I reckon.
How do you like your coffee?
Strong, lots of milk, lots of sugar. I'll be out in a second.
She heard him go back through to the lounge and rubbing her head tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Nope. No joy. She gave up, and followed him through.
How's your head? I found painkillers in the cupboard above the microwave. You need any?
No, I'm feeling ok, I just can't remember last night.
Not that suprising after the amount of shots you had.
I don't mean to be rude, but did we..?
God. Was I that bad?
Really? We did? But what about Katie? Oh my god, she's going to kill me.
Sarah... what are you on about?
You know, Katie, your girlfriend? My best friend? She's going to kill me. I can't believe I'd do that to her. I can't believe you'd do that to her.
You seriously don't remember, do you?
Remember what?
Our plan?
What plan? I don't remember any plan.
Mark stood up, and taking her by the hand took her through to the kitchen. There, on the counter was Katie's head. The eyes had started to bloat. They looked like they were coming our. Her once blond hair was now streaked with red, and the smell was... actually not that unplesant. Sort of like pork, but a little bit more metallic.
Sarah screamed.
What the fuck is this?
It was the plan, babe. Do you remember yet?
Oh yes. The plan. Sarah had had her eye on Mark for a while. She knew he liked her too, and together, last night, they'd gotten drunk. He'd asked what she wanted for her birthday, and she'd said him. A few more shots of tequila and they'd hatched THE PLAN. As neither of them wanted to hurt Katie's feelings, they'd decided the best option was to just kill her. No fuss then, no extended feelings of guilt and remorse as Katie would later eye them across bars and cafes, huddling together with her friends to talk about them both and the inevitable fall out as people picked sides. No, best way, they had decided would be to kill her, and then Sarah could fall into Mark's arms, and everyone would just assume it was inevitable as they comforted each other to get over Katie's disappearance. Seemed like a winner last night.
We did it?
Fuck yeah we did it.
Well, I suppose if it's already done, there's no point in fretting about it. What's for breakfast?
Mark went over to the fridge, opened it, and held up a plate of what looked like bacon.
Katie and Egg sandwich?
Sarah smiled, and went over to Mark. Standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
That would be lovely, darling. Eggs over easy, please.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
http://750words.com
Right, here goes. I've been failing to write anything apart from song lyrics and angst teenage poetry for the last two months, and I need a push. I will treat this as a opening for the rest of the day, and see if I can keep it up.
What to write about though? My mood? too obvious.
Start with a random object. or thing. The smell of spaghetti bolognaise. I have just made some.
She stirred the bolognaise sauce. It was her go-to, her staple for when she couldn't decide what to eat, which was half the days ever. ( this is terrible. It's ok, it's a warm up.) She'd been feeling pretty shitty recently. Nothing to do in the holidays from university. Yes, she could have gone an got a part time job, but what was the point? The hours would have interfered with general day to day activities, and to be honest, she couldn't even get out of bed in a morning and tidy up her flat, let alone go out and find work from a pedantic, watch-checking, arsehole who thought that her sole role in life was to be a slave to the minimum wage. What was the point of uni anyway? Just another excuse to not get a proper job. She wanted to be a writer. Ha. The aspiration of all pseudo-intellectuals. They do say that everyone has got a novel in them, but she was fairly convinced that her was buried under a thick, hard layer of apathy and patheticness.
She helped herself to a plate of hot spaghetti and sauce, and went and sat down by the computer. What to do? Trawl facebook, twitter, reddit, all these needless distractions from the fact that she should really be writing. No, today it was time to actually pick herself up and do some typing. It had all started so well. The beginning of summer, the 500 words a day minimum, which she had managed to stick to, even when she'd been on holiday. After that, the sun came out every day. There seemed to be little point in the writing when she knew she could be outside with her friends, doing nothing in particular but still having a great time. Drinking in the sun. the perfect way to spend the holidays. And now? The sun hadn't bothered to come out from behind the clouds for any longer than an hour, so instead she sat in the pub, doing the crossword and moaning about being bored. She had said that she had been waiting for the bad weather but when it came, she hated it even more for the fact that she was still incapable of getting off her arse and doing some writing.God. How trivially boring she was. There's that old saying, only boring people get bored. She thought about her friends, Ami, who worked 50 hours a week and still had time to write essays on philosophy and the nature of consciousness. She'd thought that maybe the work ethic of her boyfriend might have rubbed off somewhat but no, she was just one of those people who is, quite frankly, lazy. God. Some days she couldn't even be bothered to have a wash. Grebby. She put on the iPlayer, and watched a supposed comedy about a vicar. Is this supposed to be funny? It just seems bleak and almost cliched. A vicar has a crisis of faith? Oh no. Surely in this day and age all vicars must have crises of faith on a daily basis, what with the existence of science and the non-existence of a beard in the sky telling people what they could and couldn't do.
How on earth did she expect to write a novel? It would take years. Millenia. It's not too much to ask, is it? a couple of hours in the morning. Perhaps this could be a turning point. She opened her blog, and started to write. What to write? Perhaps a moan about how she couldn't write. It's an idea, eh?
There. That wasn't to bad. Flash fiction, a quick story/moan etc. God. Still got 60 words to go. Try a tanka.
Boredom kills the urge
to write anything at all
which is quite silly
because boredom is killed by
writing a few words at all.
there. that's better. I may even post this on my blog. fill up some space in the ether, whilst avoiding trolls. Perhaps I was a billy goat in a past life. baaa.
What to write about though? My mood? too obvious.
Start with a random object. or thing. The smell of spaghetti bolognaise. I have just made some.
She stirred the bolognaise sauce. It was her go-to, her staple for when she couldn't decide what to eat, which was half the days ever. ( this is terrible. It's ok, it's a warm up.) She'd been feeling pretty shitty recently. Nothing to do in the holidays from university. Yes, she could have gone an got a part time job, but what was the point? The hours would have interfered with general day to day activities, and to be honest, she couldn't even get out of bed in a morning and tidy up her flat, let alone go out and find work from a pedantic, watch-checking, arsehole who thought that her sole role in life was to be a slave to the minimum wage. What was the point of uni anyway? Just another excuse to not get a proper job. She wanted to be a writer. Ha. The aspiration of all pseudo-intellectuals. They do say that everyone has got a novel in them, but she was fairly convinced that her was buried under a thick, hard layer of apathy and patheticness.
She helped herself to a plate of hot spaghetti and sauce, and went and sat down by the computer. What to do? Trawl facebook, twitter, reddit, all these needless distractions from the fact that she should really be writing. No, today it was time to actually pick herself up and do some typing. It had all started so well. The beginning of summer, the 500 words a day minimum, which she had managed to stick to, even when she'd been on holiday. After that, the sun came out every day. There seemed to be little point in the writing when she knew she could be outside with her friends, doing nothing in particular but still having a great time. Drinking in the sun. the perfect way to spend the holidays. And now? The sun hadn't bothered to come out from behind the clouds for any longer than an hour, so instead she sat in the pub, doing the crossword and moaning about being bored. She had said that she had been waiting for the bad weather but when it came, she hated it even more for the fact that she was still incapable of getting off her arse and doing some writing.God. How trivially boring she was. There's that old saying, only boring people get bored. She thought about her friends, Ami, who worked 50 hours a week and still had time to write essays on philosophy and the nature of consciousness. She'd thought that maybe the work ethic of her boyfriend might have rubbed off somewhat but no, she was just one of those people who is, quite frankly, lazy. God. Some days she couldn't even be bothered to have a wash. Grebby. She put on the iPlayer, and watched a supposed comedy about a vicar. Is this supposed to be funny? It just seems bleak and almost cliched. A vicar has a crisis of faith? Oh no. Surely in this day and age all vicars must have crises of faith on a daily basis, what with the existence of science and the non-existence of a beard in the sky telling people what they could and couldn't do.
How on earth did she expect to write a novel? It would take years. Millenia. It's not too much to ask, is it? a couple of hours in the morning. Perhaps this could be a turning point. She opened her blog, and started to write. What to write? Perhaps a moan about how she couldn't write. It's an idea, eh?
There. That wasn't to bad. Flash fiction, a quick story/moan etc. God. Still got 60 words to go. Try a tanka.
Boredom kills the urge
to write anything at all
which is quite silly
because boredom is killed by
writing a few words at all.
there. that's better. I may even post this on my blog. fill up some space in the ether, whilst avoiding trolls. Perhaps I was a billy goat in a past life. baaa.
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