Grazia and Orange fiction prize The Deadline

The first paragraph was begun by author Kate Mosse, and entrants were invited to complete the chapter in max. 1000 words.

I really enjoyed writing it, spurred on by the May 10th entry date.

The Deadline

She stood looking up at the house. At the blank grey walls, the shuttered windows with empty boxes on the concrete sills, the stern front door. The house said nothing about what it was or what took place inside, it was unassuming and nondescript and uninviting. She'd come here several times before, but never got the courage to go in. Now, there was no choice. The deadline was today, no last chance of a reprieve or change of heart. If she was going to do it, it had to be now. She shivered, chill from the sudden drop in temperature now the light was fading, or from excitement or from fear, she didn't know. Also, the sense of possibility that, by pressing this suburban doorbell, her life could - would - alter for good. But still she lingered on the unwashed step, picking at a thread of wool come loose from her glove, caught between the girl she was and the woman she might be. A deadline she never thought she would face.

She was unable to push the bell. Her finger hovered over it with almost magnetic repulsion. Before she had the chance to change her mind and head back to the conference, no harm done, a shadow appeared behind the yellow-tinted glass of the door.
“Who’s there?” a voice hollered, and the shadow loomed larger.
“We don’t want nothin’ from you.” A face, distorted by the frosting, leered through the window. Angela stood silently on the doorstep, outwardly composed but inwardly repeating OhGodOhGodOhGod over and over like white noise. Finally the door opened with a reluctant groan to reveal a humungous woman clad only in a nightgown. It would have been impossible to place the woman’s age, had Angela not already known, as this was a great beast of a woman. The worn cotton of the nightgown stretched out over rolls of stomach and back and ass, sagging over each other in lumps like a burst armchair. Dried spittle and the remains of meals covered her front, and large crescent moons of old sweat darkened her underarms. Peering with black pebble eyes she swayed backwards and forwards with the effort of standing and watching. Their meeting seemed to be happening in slow motion. Angela was unsure if this was a trick of time, leaving her in nervous suspense, or if the woman moved at half speed with thoughts and words fighting their way to the surface like swimming through treacle. Looking Angela up and down there was definite recognition.
“What you doin’ here?” The woman reached for the doorframe to steady herself. Her large uncradled breasts undulated as she wheezed and coughed with the effort.
“I came to see you…to see how you are.”
“I can’t stand here all day.” The woman turned to walk away, leaving the door wide open. After a moment’s pause Angela took this as an invitation to follow and entered the house.

The first thing to hit Angela was the smell and the heat. It was an early autumn evening but the windows had clearly stayed shut all summer. In the lounge a two bar gas-heater burned orange and released an odour of melted plastic. The house was a time warp. Nothing had changed since the seventies and the furniture was faded in green and beige; a life lived in sepia. Unless she checked the dates on the front of the mail and freesheet newspapers piled up in the hall there would be no way of guessing the year, or even the decade. She selected a seat as far from the heater as possible and leaned forward to avoid the halo of grease that clung to the headrest. The woman heaved her gargantuan frame onto the sofa, settling into the pronounced grooves where buttocks had ploughed ridges into the fabric. They sat, not speaking, while the woman gulped for breath. Angela gazed at the old statue of Jesus on the cross that was silhouetted on the mantelpiece. It sat, as it always had, lit from behind with a candle. Puddles of melted wax sat in rivulets, almost as tall as the figurine itself. Angela folded her hands and fiddled with the beads on her bracelet in mock penance. After huffing and puffing the woman was settled, ass firmly planted in the sofa’s indent. She looked at Angela, with either a single solitary tear or an oozing bead of perspiration snaking down the side of her cheek.
“Where you been, baby?”
“Illinois. I’ve been in Illinois.” Angela was unsure what else to add. It was hard to sum up seventeen years in a simple ‘where’ or ‘what.’
The woman hauled herself forward on the sofa and fixed those black eyes on her guest.
“Your daddy been missin’ you.” She hissed breathlessly.
“Momma.” Angela started, then hesitated, “He hasn’t missed me.”
“Sure he has. I visit him in that hospital and all he does is ask for you. He barely notice I’m there.” She paused for breath. “He’s so skinny now. They don’t feed him right, I swear. But nobody listens to me. Could you go talk to them?”
“Talk to the hospital?” Angela asked.
“Sure. And tell them your daddy need feedin’ up.”
“Maybe, Momma, maybe.”
“Please, Angel. That place is worse than the last, and the one before.”
Angela found it uncomfortable to think of her father passed round the system the same way she had been. It was four years for her, before the trial and before they could find a proper home. Even that was hazy, the interviews and questions. They gave her dolls. ‘He touched you here?’ they would say, and she agreed. Memory is a strange thing.

Seeing Angela’s reluctance her mother pushed on. “It’s the least you could do.” Her mother said, sadly. And there it was: the thing Angela came to speak about, and yet was hoping would never come up. How can you tell the truth when you don’t know what that is?
“I’ll do it.” She replied. There was no admission of guilt, but no protestations of innocence either.
“Why’d you come? Why’d you come if you don’t wanna help?” Her mother asked.
“I do want to help.” Angela replied. And the real question came.
“Why’d you come now then? Your daddy needed your help ten years ago.” Her mother was angry underneath.
Resisting the urge to say and I needed your help, momma Angela just sat, sweltering.
“Why did I come now?” She repeated the question to buy herself time as she removed her jacket in the heat.
“I came now…” Leaning backwards awkwardly on the sticky chair Angela shrugged off her coat to reveal a loose blouse, and under that a perfectly rounded bump, five months grown.
“I came now.” The question needed no further explanation.

Love (and cliche)

A while ago I wrote a short story that got a very positive reception at my first St Martin's writing course. On the topic of love it was something I never expected to be good, as the subject is a tough one to balance between sentiment and reality. I read my story aloud, happy with the result but not expecting much. It was greeted with a full room of positive responses, many saying it was their favourite thing I'd written. One asked if it was based on The Notebook (it wasn't) and if I'd seen it (I hadn't). It was just on Film4 this evening so I checked it out. And, I'll be honest, I cried like a baby. Though I'd like to caveat I've had a stressful week at work, nothing at all to do with the affecting tale of enduring love. Honest.

Anyway, watching this inspired me to revisit the story I wrote back then and I can really see how much improved my writing is now. Quite aside from the technical issues of slipping in and out of tenses and points of view, the content feels loose and flabby. Paragraphs flop around and sentences tie themselves in knots. I might take some time to rewrite, because I like the story and the characters feel very right. And I can totally see the similarities with The Notebook*, which made the film sadder as I felt I already knew the characters' story but this showed it to me in technicolour detail. The story is below, and I'll post again when I've rewritten.

*(written by Jeremy Leven, also wrote the screenplay for My Sister's Keeper)

Every Saturday they would watch a film. Not like years ago when they would sit in the darkness of old-fashioned cinemas or novelty Americano drive-ins. Ellen would lay her coat over their knees and Jack would squeeze her hands secretly underneath. One time he traced a prediction in a circle on the fourth finger of her left hand. Now their coats were replaced by a fleece blanket, and on her fourth finger sat a tiny diamond among the folds. Tonight Ellen had chosen an old favourite. She was tired and it slipped on like an old jumper. The first notes of The Sound of Silence filled the room. They had the television a lot louder nowadays, the plucking of a guitar soothed her and she was transported.
For dinner Jack microwaved some lamb, which nestled in a plastic box amongst new potatoes and green beans. Now just the two of them were left they had little enthusiasm for a full roast, but liked a pre-prepared treat from messieurs Marks and Spencer. The meat smelt of thyme and rosemary, filling any empty corners of the house. Once they finished eating they paused the video; she washed, he dried. Another benefit of the little plastic dishes was no pans to wash, but Ellen insisted on eating off a proper china plate, and dressing for dinner. Tonight she wore a blue skirt, accessorised with grey furry slippers. Sitting back down Ellen leant against the arm of the sofa, legs entangled, and laid a blanket over them. Just as they had done for fifty years.
They had met at a party, a mutual friend’s birthday, and Ellen had gone rushing down the steps thinking him someone else. She greeted him like a whirlwind. She kissed him on both cheeks and laughed at her stupidity. That night she was wearing a summer party dress with halter straps snaking up around her neck leaving her shoulders bare and white. The dress was covered in sprigs of yellowy flowers, which Jack told her looked like scary faces when he squinted. She told him to look at the geometric patterns in the curtains, which she thought looked like grizzly bears. Then, later, called him up to the bathroom to show him a damp patch of wall where the paper was peeling. “Look” she had exclaimed “there’s the monkey.” She held his arm out to trace a pattern in the air “its little tail is this peeling bit of paper and its eyes are those two dots of mould.” It wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world but he pushed the bathroom door quietly to and kissed her face, reaching down to hold her hands by his side. It was inevitable really; all evening Jack had followed Ellen around, hand resting on the small of her back as though they were already a couple. If she noticed, she didn’t acknowledge it and let him wait patiently by her side as she carried on greeting friends. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room, he knew that, but she was the one who laughed the most.
Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross sat on the back of the bus, fleeing. At this scene a tear slips down Ellen’s cheek and she smiles at Jack. “Silly” Jack whispers.
They had got married in the spring on 1958, she was in love with the day, with life and with her dress. She wore a tight bodice and sweetheart neckline, with a full skirt reaching her knees. Layers of organza underneath swished when she walked. Ellen wouldn’t keep still for the wedding photographs, and several caught her doubled over and clutching at her new husband. For their first dance they whirled around and around, her skirt catching and flying out and Jack could never remember being happier.
When the film finished they danced up to bed. Ellen liked to sleep early, curled at his side, so Jack read until late and slept until later. When they first moved in together Ellen would wake up early every Saturday and get up without rousing Jack. She would do whatever errands needed doing for the day, cleaning or washing, and often buy breakfast. Once she was done she would go back upstairs and slip into the bed beside Jack. He remembered in summer when they lived in Devon she would sometimes cycle to the shops. Coming home she would have some eggs and bread, or strawberries, in her basket and ring her bell to let him know she was back. He would pretend to be asleep and they would lie close and warm listening to the birds outside. “Just another half an hour” one of them would wheedle, stopping the other who felt guilty that the day was carrying on without them. Some days, right at the beginning, they would stay in bed till two or three, reading the paper or bringing breakfast upstairs. This left pink sweet-smelling trails of strawberry across the pillow and breadcrumbs on the sheets.
On Sunday morning Jack woke up early. Or at least he thought it was early, because the room was still. It took a moment to realise the sun was beaming through a gap in the curtains, like a fat, accusatory finger telling him to get out of bed. Ellen was still lying by his side. He wasn’t surprised she was still there, he had somehow expected it. After a moment he got out of bed quietly and slid open the doors to their wardrobe.
Jack considered the dresses carefully. He was not good at this. Every choice she made was beautiful, and he knew it was a dressing up box of vintage treasures. “This is for Gracie and Rachel” Ellen had always said “when they’re old enough to appreciate a well-made Biba or Mary Quant.” Jack finally selected one in a playful purple, with ruffles at the neck and shiny buttons spilling down the front. It was the same colour she wore when he proposed. He hung it carefully on the outside of the wardrobe before carefully getting quietly back into bed beside Ellen. He lay on his side, stroking her shoulder, exposed over the parapet of the duvet. He reached out for her hand, warming it with his fingers. Just another half an hour, he thought to himself.

A Magical Story

Following on from the evil relay story I worked on for OZON magazine a few months back we've decided to keep the momentum going and keep relaying stories around. I was sent this opening to work from:

‘I made your favourite,’ Bella said. She walked into the dining room holding up a cake stand, on it something wobbled: a creamy white meringue shook on top of sunshine yellow base. It was thick, the colour of egg yolks, all held together by a pastry crust. It danced in its stand. ‘Lemon meringue. Just for you.’ She sat the cake down in front of George with a plonk. It gave a final jiggle.
‘Oh … magic,’ he said, thumping his hard, round stomach. ‘And what’s this treat for?’
‘Just felt like it,’ she said, leaning towards him, her decolletage wobbling like the cake. Her tea-dress had a smattering of buttercups over it, pulled sharply in with a belt at the waist.
She sat down opposite him. ‘Now I want to watch you have your first bite. I stirred in something extra special with the lemon curd.’
George picked up the knife and cut himself a slice. ‘And one for you?’
‘Oh no, I eat too much while I’m cooking.’ She put her hands on her belt. ‘Got to watch me figure.’
‘Too right, Bells, me too!’ he said and they both laughed.
Bella touched the side of her mouth, ensuring no lipstick was smudged.
George stabbed a large wedge with his fork. ‘This is a treat, you are good to me,’ he said, his eyes on the cake, his mouth watering as he opened it wide and shoveled the cake in. ‘Oh wonderful,’ he said, spraying as he spoke, ‘what did you say went into this? You are a little wonder!’
‘Oh, I just concocted something with me special potions,’ she said, and laughed with control while she watched closely as George’s expression began to change. It went from elated to confused to something quite peculiar. She leaned forward, eager to see if it was working. That little bit of something to create a little bit of change … she thought she even saw a little spark in the air, a little shift in the atmosphere. She held her breath.

And have just responded with the below:

As she held her breath, his puffed out from every orifice with a squeak. His face morphed, his eyes popped and bulged. ‘Ohhh’ he quivered ‘I feel ever so queer all of a sudden.’ Bella screwed her mouth into a pout of mock-concern. ‘You do look a little peaky.’ She lay her chubby hand across his forehead, feeling pulsating strong enough to clack her diamond rings together. ‘Yes,’ she murmured with delight, ‘you don’t feel at all well.’

As George’s groans got louder Bella’s smile got broader. He dropped from his seat and rolled on the floor in pain. ‘What was…in that..cake?’ he gasped from his prone position on all fours.
‘Just a special ingredient’ she replied.
‘You’ve poisoned me, you’ve poisoned me!’
‘It’s not poison. It’s pixie dust.’ Bella giggled.
‘What IS it?’ George barked.
‘It isn’t dog food either’ Bella was enjoying herself ‘though you’ll wish it was!’
‘Tell me…’ he whimpered.
‘And I haven’t cooked your son in a pie. Classical revenge was never for me.’ Bella said.
With infuriation George threw his head backwards and howled. With that Bella noted that his nose was growing longer and his hair much fuller than before. She reached out to scratch him behind his pointed ears. How he had wished for years that his balding head would once again be thatched. George growled. ‘Now now’ Bella chastised ‘don’t bite the hand that fed you.’
With alarm in his amber eyes George turned and in a gruff voice asked ‘am I – am I a werewolf?’
‘Don’t be silly’ Bella replied, with a tap on the nose, ‘werewolves don’t exist.’
Crouching down next to him she said ‘this is something much more special. This is magic.’
‘Magic?’ He yapped.
‘I thought it was time for a little lesson in fidelity.’ She reached for a tightly wrapped ball of kitchen foil lying on the counter, the surface reflected in the sun and caught George’s eye.
‘There Fido – fetch!’ shouted Bella at her new pet.

Watch this place for the next installments.

Class work example 3

We were thrown into the blackness and landed in piles. I felt something scrunched up by my shoulder that didn’t move when I shrugged. I prayed it stayed still because it was never alive, not because it had ceased to be. There were grunts, staccato demands barked as the men dragged us around like sacks of spuds. ‘Mover, perra,’ and ‘callate, puta Americana.’ One grabbed me round my chest, pinching and pulling at the flesh of my armpits with his stubby fingers. His hands left a sluggy trail where they brushed over my face, and his rotten odour filled my mouth. I could hear my own constant wheezing breaths and the pump-pump of my heartbeat like white noise. I half expected one beat to be too much, to push my insides out of my chest like a scene from Alien. Finally the turn of phrase ‘heart in my throat’ made sense; it sat engorged at the base of my neck, threatening to choke me.

Once the Men left us alone we were silent for a long while. Or at least it felt like it. Time isn’t quite so measurable in the dark, when it expands and contracts into gaping holes or flurries of panic. The first voice to speak out wasn’t mine. I was waiting, willing someone else to go first, frightened that if I spoke no-one would answer back. I didn’t want the answer to be finite, and in the dark there are always possibilities. ‘H-hello?’ came the first voice, female and stuttering. There was a pause and I felt us hold our collective breaths. A man responded ‘I’m here’ he said. His voice came from behind me, her voice from in front. Surrounded I spoke out ‘How many?’ At the same time another voice spoke, posing the same question. ‘Are there more of you?’ she asked, a distorted echo.

Again nobody spoke. The pause was too long and so two more people started at once, like a conversation with satellite delay. Again I asked my little question: how many. The number was most important, providing substance where nothing else was tangible. Concentrating I could feel very little. My arms were tied and numb behind my back. My face was pressed against the floor, gritty against my cheek. I lay on my side in a position like the result of a suicide leap, spine twisted and legs bent awkwardly. I pictured the chalk outline from cop shows, and in my mind I was already dead. ‘I’m here’ it was the woman who first spoke up ‘my name is Geneveive’ her English was perfect, but she spoke with a thick French accent. ‘I’m thirty-four years old, from Lyon. I’m a journalist.’ ‘Hello Geneveive’ another woman spoke out encouragingly. ‘I’m Annik. Dutch. Also a journalist.’ ‘Thank you.’ Courtesy, rather than a hand to hold, was all we could offer.

Taking a ragged breath I decided it was my turn ‘Hi…everybody. I’m Bethan, I’m British, from Leeds.’ I paused before the final push. ‘And I’m looking for my husband.’
Then they came thick and fast.
‘Paul. From Boston.’
‘Tina, Paul’s wife.’
The two voices came from very near each other, maybe within touching distance. I tried to stretch a foot, to make contact, jealous of theirs.
‘My name is Diana. Travelling from Cambridge, England.’
‘Diana! I’m here – over here!’
‘Stephanie!’
‘That’s my friend, Stephanie.’ There was rustling in the dark, perhaps Diana reaching out her foot.
‘And Dan, Daniel. I’m with them. Girls, where are you?’
‘Over here’ ‘Here’ The words came at once, a confused echo from opposite sides in the darkness.
‘I don’t know where that is’ Dan’s words were met with another confused silence. The connection between us was tenuous, and I didn’t want to break it.
‘Is that everybody?’ I asked, to which there were murmurs in reply.

With no visual clues I couldn’t see if I should talk. Nobody had instructed not to but it seemed unwise to anger the Men.
Out of the darkness we heard Geneveive ‘Who are you?’
Confused, I responded. ‘We already said. I think that’s everyone.’
‘No, I mean who are you. Like I’m a news journalist from the Netherlands, out here with only a small crew. My cameraman is missing, and I think the others escaped. I am lucky, I have no one at home waiting for me.’
‘No-one? There must be someone.’ Tina spoke up from across the room, and I felt an almost physical pain as I imagined she would be squeezing Paul’s hand, grateful.
‘My parents are gone, that’s ok, and I have no other family.’
‘Someone will care though.’ I couldn’t help myself. Being alone there was bad enough for me.
‘I have friends, but they will be fine – they have each other. Somebody said before their husband is missing.’
I swallowed, but shielded by the dark decided to tell them.

Class work example 2

CRIMES AND MISDEMEANOURSWrite a 500-word story about a crime (or misdemeanour), totally from the perspective of the criminal/perpetrator. Then write a 500-word story of the same event, from the victim's point of view. It shouldn't be a simple 'repeat' -- there should be new and powerful insights we gain from the second version of events.


Version 1:
Almost pissed my pants when I realised there was someone there. Fucking terrified. There’s no feeling like it. I’m a superhero – hearing magnified a thousand times. I swear I could’ve heard my own hair growing, it was that quiet. If I had any, of course.

I’d already had a good look around and there was plenty of good steals. Big stuff to come back for later, but things that fit in your pocket too. Nice little shiny things to sell on easy. Everything’s smaller nowadays. Flat little phones and ipods, ipads. icats and dogs and ichildren’ll be next. Hundred quid a pop, job done. They had a massive telly too – bit big for the room, if you ask me. But then I’m no interior designer. Helped a few people out with removals over the years though, if you know what I mean.

So I was in their living room, sussing out the PSP and slipping a pile of computer games into my rucksack when I heard it. Just a squeak, not something just anyone could’ve picked up. But that’s one of my talents. See, people think it’s just raping and pillaging, but there’s skill involved too. Not just anyone can do break-ins and not get caught. Maybe she rolled over in the bed, or maybe he was pushing off the duvet. Either way I had to make a quick-sharp decision, and the haul was too good to overlook.

I thought I’d take my chances. Stopped for a minute, heart pumping a million break-beats till I was struggling to hear anything else. Cold sweats, clammy hands, but on top of that great big bloody shot of adrenaline. Once the house was definitely still again I carried on filling up the bag. Piles of games, dvds, cds and pocket-sized mp3s; an Aladdin’s cave of electronics and trinkets. It’s funny being in someone’s house uninvited. The room looks homely, the sofa practically begging me to have a quick sit down. Pictures on the walls to show off to all their friends, but only lets me know how rich and posh they are. Holidays on a boat, elephants on safari. I’m Robin Hood, me. Their stupid sons in stupid hats and mini-me ties. Should be outlawed. What’s wrong with a Man U shirt? Kids should be kids, that’s what I think. And our Jack would’ve killed for that Xbox Kinect.

I was just clearing the sideboard – load of silverware, ugly but might be worth summat – when the noise started up again. So close to finishing I didn’t stop this time, until I heard the footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, not cautious like most of the time. I’ve been caught before. I said it’s skill, but there’s luck involved too. Most people are too pussy and hang around till all they see is the back of you leggin’ it down the road. Usually with a sack full of their bling. This guy didn’t give me time to make a run for it. I should’ve checked the photos on the wall more carefully, now there’s a wedding photo in front of me and he’s a rugby toff type. And either his wife’s a midget or he’s fucking stacked. Maybe my luck’s running out.

Version 2:
It’s not the Things that bother me. It’s the principle, the cheek that someone can just walk into my home and take what isn’t theirs. What if I hadn’t been there? I shudder to think that Miriam and the kids would have slept right through. Or worse. If Adam or Jake had got up to use the loo, or for a glass of water. What would he have done then? Since the boys were born I don’t think I’m ever fully asleep, I spend nights in a half-slumber just in case one of them calls out. That’s probably why I woke up, but I don’t remember hearing a noise. I just got a feeling that something wasn’t right. I started to fall back asleep, but then the cabinet in the lounge opened with a distinctive glass tinkle.

Something took over and I sprang out of bed in a second, without even thinking. Miriam stayed asleep, barely stirring, and I made my way down the stairs. Passing the coat rack I fumbled for a golf club standing upright underneath. I’d be lying if I hadn’t said I’d thought about this before. It might be old-fashioned but I feel my role is as protector. I am the man of the house, and even if there’s no more hunting and gathering I’d fight with every last fibre to keep them safe. I’d known the golf club was there, and my plan had always been this. Clutching it tight in both hands I pushed open the door. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, but I was momentarily thrown by the pin-prick torch positioned above the tv cabinet, casting a spotlight onto my wedding photo. This only displaced my apprehension with out-and-out rage. How dare this man, this scum, thrust himself into my life. To stamp over my sons’ toys, to empty out drawers of personal letters – birthday wishes and sympathy notes strewn across the carpet. He looked at me for a split second as though it were me who didn’t belong. I quickly surveyed him, noting he was about my age and just as stocky as me, but shorter and hunched. In short, I could definitely take him. ‘Get out’ I told him, through gritted teeth. He went to move forward, whether it was towards me or towards the door I really couldn’t have told you but I panicked all the same. Raising the club over my head I took a swing, as though he were an enormous golf ball, and felt the connection with a thud right up to my shoulder blades. There were screams, by this point Miriam was awake so it may have been her. It might have been him screaming, but I don’t know if he was able. Or the screams might have been me.

Describe a flower with violent fear and loathing

First there was the shame. It mingled with the hangover – the dirty taste, my grubby hair and the clothes from last night. When the delivery came the morning’s retching threatened to overcome me, acidic vomit clawing at the back of my throat. ‘Who’s a lucky girl?’ the receptionists clucked. Both of them came to my desk, practically skipping with glee. I uncurled myself from my slump, unplugged earphones and raised a smile. ‘Who are they from?’ they crowed. ‘I..I don’t know.’ The lie came easily into my head but stuck in my throat, perhaps held down by the nausea and the coating of fur on my teeth. ‘Open the envelope!’ Came the chorus. But there was nothing, so I was saved that indignity at least.

For the rest of the morning the bouquet squatted on my desk. Eleven roses sat firm and upright, their high stalks holding their heads fortunately above my line of vision. The twelfth bud of the dirty dozen had flopped and hung down, taunting me. Its fat bloom was too big and greedy for the wiry stalk. Each time the air conditioning whirred back into life the thick velvety petals tremoured. This caught my eye in the periphery of my computer screen. Against the office greys the deep red stood out like smears of blood, thick and almost black in places. The rose hanging down was the darkest, overripe and flabby. Shadows of veins stood out, criss-crossing messily over the crumpled petals and I imagined I could see them throbbing with sap. Dotted indents of decay clung to the rough hewn edges of the flower. The rot must have been spreading inside, the red outer layers hiding a core riddled with soft putrefying mulch. Perhaps an insect had buried deep inside and lain eggs, waiting to burst out. Scenes from Alien sprang to mind, and the thought of what lay dormant inside me made the sick feeling return. Another gust from the air con exposed the stigma nestled inside the bloated bloom, thick with orange pollen and protruding like a tongue. Mocked by its exposed organs I reached out and tore the stem with a woody snap.

Once the rose lay in my hand I smelt the aroma. Rotten like lettuce left at the bottom of the fridge, or bin juice leaked onto kitchen floors. I closed my fist around the flower, tightening and squeezing until it oozed into a sodden mush. When I opened my hand the petals were bent and limp, and a scarlet dye seeped between my fingers.

Describe a disease with loving lyricism

Looking down her stomach forms a concave; a valley rolling down from the crumpled peaks of her too-big t-shirt. On either side ribs form troughs in uniform lines. She tilts her head, admiringly, looking at the work of art she created in the nine days since food passed her lips. Boredom is no longer a problem, as it had been for the first week. Hours could pass and she no longer minded staying still, but relished in the focus an empty room brought. Hours would pass examining a toe or a finger, a new shape exposed as the flesh melted away. She could re-sit, and no doubt pass, the failed biology exams of last summer with the new-found knowledge of the skeleton. Each movement can be tracked, as knuckle tweaks fibrous tissue up the hand, wrist, and then forearm with a domino effect. She traces maps of sinews and tendons, clenching and unclenching each part in turn as if in yogic relaxation.

Raising a leg pushes the cavernous stomach in deeper. She lifts the half full glass on the bedside table, tiny bubbles formed up the sides of the glass hold her attention for a moment as they cling on in perfect spheres. She sips gently, holding herself back from lapping and gulping down in thirst. Holding the water in her mouth it tastes of metal, like blood. She swallows slowly, savouring the flavour which is really only the taste of her own arid mouth. swallowing the water she can feel it travel cooly down her throat, snaking its way down, gurgling as it drops and splashes into the empty space. Curiously she examines the water left in the glass and slopes the sides downwards, towards her body now propped up slightly on a pile of pillows. The water runs slowly at first, then drains out with a ‘plop’ onto her belly. The valley of her stomach holds the water as the cup did previously, sloshing around as she rolls gently, hypnotically from side to side. The cool water has given her goose bumps. The flesh puckers. She watches affectionately as the skin tightens, contracting around her ribs. Pale golden hairs stand to attention as obstacles for the water, causing it to split into rivulets ebbing and flowing in their new vessel.

Ted Moor tries to die

I have recently been involved in a writing relay for Ozon magazine, a kind of hipster's international style bible. This started of with the editor contacting three writers with a theme for the magazine and a suggested start to a dark story. The first writer, Sarah Dodd, then emailed me with this:

Ted Moor turned the key in the door of his high rise flat and entered. It was cold and part of the hallway carpet was damp; a burst pipe. He kicked the piles of bills and junk mail from the door mat and shuffled through to the kitchen where he dumped his meagre groceries and began to roll a joint. He hadn’t received any Christmas cards this year and since Sheila, his second wife, had left him in December he’d spent most of Christmas day at the care home with his mum. He sat back and contemplated the oven, thick with dust and grease and littered a top with pizza boxes and take away wrappers. ‘Why not?’, he thought, ‘there’s no point to it anyway’. Stretching across to the hob he twisted each dial in turn up to full. There was a hiss as gas filtered into the room. Ted fastened down the window and laid a towel across the bottom of the door. He switched on the radio and the tinny wailings of a recent hit sprung into life. Coughing, Ted settled back into his chair and brought the tightly rolled joint to his lips with a sigh. This was it. Now he would wait. Abruptly, there was an imperceptible whirr and a click and the kitchen light flickered and went out. The stream of gas weakened and stopped. Confused, Ted fumbled his way out into the hall and by the green light of his mobile squinted at the metre. 0.000. Nil funds. Cursing, he turned out his pockets scrabbling for coins. Nothing! Leaning back against the wall he searched his trousers for something to light the joint; at least he could smoke in peace and wait until morning. His jeans were empty. Tears welled up in Ted’s eyes as he lashed out into the darkness. No light, no life and no lighter.

The aim was that in each paragraph of around 250 words the character would attempt suicide and fail. Thanks to the first writer for handing me the high-rise block on flats on a plate! So I returned with the following:

Opening the door to his flat Ted staggered out into an equally dark hallway. Instead of pausing to lock the door he left it to swing open with a faint sense of rebellion. The end of the corridor led to an open balcony which from the outside looked like a multi-story car-park. It was the only flat he could afford now Sheila wasn’t around; the sort of place where people urinated in the stairwells. The smell of vomit cloyed from where someone, months ago, had puked, only for it to seep between the open steps and hang in semi-solid drips. He leant over the balcony and winced as he imagined his prone body slumped broken on the ground. Seconds from launch there was a loud shout. ‘Move away from the edge’ Ted turned backwards, almost overbalancing, but saw no-one was there. The voice shouted again, louder and more hysterical this time. Ted’s heart briefly sang, until he saw the owner of the voice peeking down from the balcony above. A large lady in a too-tight vest clutched a tiny, dirty child in her bulging arms. ‘You saw her there’ she accused. Barely stumbling out a protestation Ted backed down from the edge but the lady continued. ‘Sure you did – you see a little girl headin’ into a death-trap and you do nothin’.’ Ted turned to leave but the shouting continued ‘you were too busy creeping round down there with your drugs.’ He noticed the wet joint still clutched between his thumb and forefinger and hung his head. ‘Get out of my sight!’ the woman hollered, and Ted obsequiously obeyed. Sliding back over the balcony wall he sank into the corner of the mucky, sodden piss-stained corridor, defeated.

And passed onto the final writer, Sonali Hindmarch, who closed with the following:

He sat heavily, feeling fat ripple around his thighs. He threw his spliff on the ground, watched it float in a puddle. He heard the music before he heard them. It was played on a mobile phone. The bass sounded choked, stronger than the device could handle. Voices followed. Then clomping feet. Kids. They were walking up the stairwell, swearing echoed off the walls. Ted didn’t look when they turned onto his corridor, but he felt them there. A dog sniffed Ted’s face then grunted. One of the kids said something, but Ted couldn’t lift his head to acknowledge. They spoke again, but it was like Ted was watching TV out of the corner of his eye with the volume turned down, everything blurred at the edges. Until he felt a sharp stab - a kick - against his thigh. The noise and action rushed into focus then, the volume turned back up. There were three of them, no faces, just hoods. One had his leg lifted, still shouting, ready for another blow. The foot came heavily down onto Ted’s face, he felt his teeth loosen, a smack of pain. Is this how? he thought, slumping the rest of his body onto the ground as another kick slammed against his head. His world turned to static. Indistinct. The dog, shouts, running, then rain. He felt his phone ringing before he heard it. When he finally eased it out of his pocket he’d had three missed calls. It rang again in his hand. ‘Ted Moor?’ Ted thought he mumbled a reply. ‘This is the police, you’ll need to come to the hospital. It’s your wife … there’s been a fatal accident.’

I really enjoyed the challenge of writing to a specific theme and with strict timings and guidelines. The hardest part was keeping within the word count and still managing the play out the attempted suicide for your paragraph. This exercise made me realise I relish some kind of structure to write within, as sometimes sitting down with a blank page and a full head is the worst combination. So this Thursday I'll be starting my second Central St Martins' writing course and will blog work and feedback as I do it.

The fallacy of writer's block

What a crappy, crappy day. I don’t really believe in writer’s block - just force yourself to write SOMETHING. However if it does exist, today I have it. Maybe I’m tired after finishing work at eleven last night, it could be that I’m distracted by moving house, or perhaps it’s just that the planets aren’t in alignment; Mars isn’t parallel with Venus in my house of Doing Some Fucking Work. Or something. Either way the result is the same: my page is empty. I’ve done some reading, searching for 90s novels for adaptation, and then have written one lonesome paragraph for the Guardian short story competition.

It reached thirty-seven degrees, the weathermen said. It was hot everywhere. Indoors was stale and thick with black dots of flies, driving neighbours onto patchy front lawns. They draped themselves languidly around the timed spurts and dribbles of hosepipes for relief. Outdoors the sun throbbed down and sat fat and heavy over the grass. Buses were the worst. PVC stuck to bare legs, leaving red grooves on bare thighs and partially-clad bottoms as they peeled away from seats with a sticky slurp.

And I think it sucks. Maybe I shout write off this afternoon and watch some telly. It’s about the only thing I will have bloody written.

Writing example: The police came late one night

The police came late one night, but there were no scenes. There was an uncomfortable disparity in Jenna’s mind; the policeman’s soft, firm rap against the family’s front door, contrasted against the story he came to tell. For months afterwards Jenna couldn’t close her eyes without visualising against her will the invented last moments of her brother’s life. On some nights she was haunted by desperate screams and cries for help, on others there was simply a crash, flashing lights and a descent into darkness.

She had been in bed, asleep, on a night very much like any other. After dinner Jenna had spent over an hour on the phone to a friend she had seen that day and, Jenna had assumed, would sit with again in geography the following day. Ellie usually called after their walk home to dissect the day. They would either discuss the previous weekend or make plans for the next one, depending on how far into the week they had gone. In this case it was Tuesday, so speculation about Dawn and Liam in the disabled toilets of the under-eighteens club night was still rife. “She said nothing happened” Jenna had mused, only to be struck down with Ellie’s assertion that “she always says nothing happened” and they concluded that there was still more to be discovered about the situation. Jenna’s dad had joked again about the phone-bill and about the necessity to put Ellie on friends and family even though she lived three roads away. Jenna found his jokes tiresome and he never understood how they had so much to talk about.

After several thwarted attempts at maths homework not due till Friday there was a programme on about the nation’s obesity levels then Jenna went to bed, and slept easily. She was woken by a knock at the door. It took a few moments for her to fight through the fuzzy layers of sleep and realise her parents were at the door, joined by an unfamiliar voice. Not wanting to get out of bed into the cold night, lit only by streaks of moon seeping from the back garden through her patterned curtains, Jenna stayed in bed and listened with interest to find out the reason for the late night visitor. The unknown man’s solid tread followed the flip-flop of her mum’s slippers and the heavy swishes of her dad’s bare feet against parquet flooring. The three settled in the lounge, situated directly under Jenna’s bedroom, but voices grew muffled by the thick carpet in between. Jenna lay as still as possible, trying not to breathe too loudly. Her head was cocked sideways, ear lifted off the pillow to avoid the plump cotton muffling the voices further. After a short while, it was impossible to say how long what with the strange contracting and expanding of time that happens in the dark, Jenna grew impatient and gradually more awake and slowly wiggled her way out of the warm bed, leaving padded covers morphed to her shape. There was no reason for her caution as everyone in the house was already awake, but a sense of quiet had descended on the building. There was something present which had filtered into the collective subconscious of those living there and it seemed bad manners to cause a disturbance. Barelegged Jenna padded out onto the landing and sat on the worn shag-pile of the top stair. The banister and front door glowed a sickly black and amber as the streetlights slipped through gaps and reflected back on themselves against the polished wood below. Placing her forehead between cold spindles leading down the stairs Jenna could see a warmer yellow light seeping out under the lounge door invitingly, but still she did not move. Waiting and listening she tucked her legs comfortingly against her chest and pulling her t-shirt down over her knees, like they used to in primary school assembly, all sat cross-legged in row after row of bottle-green sweaters stretching the front of the material, to the annoyance of their parents. She was still straining to hear voices, but the pauses between words were now getting longer, yet despite the unusual late night visitor and the night-time loneliness she still felt none of the gravity of the situation pervading into her consciousness. Finally satisfied that this was a conversation she would not be invited into Jenna tip-toed back to bed shivering and fell into a disturbed sleep, occasionally punctuated by a rise in volume downstairs but by time she awoke the voices subsided and Jenna was left to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing.

Jenna woke the next morning with a strike of fear, not at the memory of the strange visitor but simply in the knowledge that she had overslept. The light in the room was unusual for 8am, it was too bright and was the sign of a fully-fledged sunshine rather than milky fingers poking their way gingerly around corners and edges of drawn curtains. Sure enough when she rolled over the red cubed letters read 8.57. Jenna never set an alarm, as she disliked the momentary panic at being beeped awake so suddenly through the deepest of sleeps, and instead relied on the noise of her family and her ever-dependable mother to ensure she was up before eight for school. Even though things appeared to be in excess of fifty-seven minutes behind schedule the house was lay quiet.