Throne Room

A little bit of a story, scribbled down back in Janaury. I've been meant to upload it but the usual pressures of life made me forget about it. Until now. The short sentences and dubious grammar are intentional; I felt it put the reader into the character's head. I hope that it doesn't make for difficult reading.

* * *

Seated on her throne, Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. The indignity: Peeing with someone in the neighbouring cubicle! Why couldn't the interloper have taken the end stall, the one nearest the door, the shortest distance? 

          Elizabeth held her breath. She waited, her knickers around her ankles. Still and silent.

          The other woman finished. There was a rumble from the large, circular toilet paper dispenser, followed by various rustling sounds. A thump on the partition immediately accompanied by an exclamation (Ouch!) startled Elizabeth so that she almost made a sound. A close call. Finally, after more rustling, the clunk of the cistern and the rush of water tumbling into the bowl signalled the other woman's impending departure. The door lock clicked and rasped; metal on metal complaining at the movement. The door squealed a brief objection before banging loudly on the partition. Slender heels clicked, insect-like, on the tiles.

          In her own cubicle Elizabeth waited, expecting the squeak of the tap and the hiss of hot, aerated water. Perhaps there might be a soft thump of sickly soap pumped into the palm of a hand, or the blast of the hand dryer. Instead there was a creak and a heavy bang as the toilet door was pulled open and then swung shut.

          Elizabeth breathed and relaxed. How unpleasant. Her worst fears confirmed. She imagined the woman with untidy hair, clothes by George, a cheap knock-off handbag from eBay. And stiletto heels. In the day time. She didn't even wash her hands. The woman was no-better than a pigeon in the street, a snail in the garden, a house-spider that weaves unsightly webs in corners of rooms, unclean: Elizabeth had just shared her privacy with a person of low breeding. 

          She shuddered, physically shaking the unwelcome thoughts from her mind. She rustled around in her cubicle, arranging herself before emerging. Elizabeth paused in front of the full length mirror and examined herself with a critical eye. Her loose hair curled in a frame around sharp features. Her clothes were neat and tailored. She smoothed her pencil skirt over her hips anyway. She caught a flash of red from the soles of her grey, suede, Louboutin platforms and smiled. Quality assured. She tugged at the corners of her eyes. Wrinkles. The latest potion would be required to correct them. £50 for a minuscule tube but worth the price. She reached into her Valentino clutch for her Dior 'Devilish Pink' and swept it across Botox-inflated lips. She approved what she saw with a nod, stuck her nose in the air and left the toilet. The taps remained silent. The basins were dry.

"I'm so sorry to trouble you. I just don't like to go without washing my hands." 

          A tall, slender woman, dressed in a smart business suit with hair pulled into a tight bun, passed Elizabeth. A woman in a cleaner's coverall followed behind.

          "It's alright, love. I'd have been refilling the soap later anyway." The cleaner said.

          Insect heels clicked across the tiled floor as they entered the toilet.

          "I appreciate it anyway."

Goodreads

Stephen King, in his book On Writing tells us that reading is just as important as writing when it comes to developing your writing craft. He is often quoted: "If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time, or the tools, to write." Thankfully, reading is something I have been doing in abundance this year.

As one often does around the turn of a year, on 31st December 2012 I set myself some goals, one of which was to read thirteen books (13 for 2013). I'd set a similar goal for 2012 and failed miserably. I think I reached around seven, most of which were finished in the early part of the year. In reading terms, the second half of the year was a waste. But back to the here and now. So far in 2013 I have read seventeen books. And some of these were big beasties, like A Song of Ice and Fire and The Sum of All Fears. I reached the coveted target of thirteen so early that come the 31st December 2013 I hope not only to have read at least twenty books, but to set a higher target again for 2014.

You may ask, "How do you keep track of your reading? How do you know exactly how many books you've read?" Goodreads!

I've been a member of Goodreads.com for a couple of years now. If you're like me, you'll be organised, like lists, like tracking your progress, and you'll love Goodreads. I can keep track my progress on whatever novel (or novels) I'm reading, keep a list of books I want to read, organise my books into categories, genre, or any other list I like, and Goodreads also has an annual reading challenge where you set the target. Mine says I'm "4 books (19%) ahead of schedule!". Goodreads even has a handy app for your tablet or smartphone, which makes tracking your progress very easy.

So if you're an avid reader, or even just read occasionally, check it out. You might like it. Goodreads.com. 

The Creativity of Children

So this is the post I came to publish yesterday. Rather than post twice in one day I thought I save this for today. It was born from The Write Practice writing prompt from 22nd August - a short free write around the theme - that I liked enough to share. There's an irony to the fact that the next Write Practice blog I read was about creating a platform by sharing your stories. Consider this one plank of that platform if you like.

* * *

The Creativity of Children

It's a simple box, corrugated cardboard, unassuming; but inside is an doorway to world I can't see. In the hands of a child that drab, brown husk is a spaceship, or a racing car, or a fort, a princess castle or a dolls house. It may be empty to me, but not to a child who sees through an imaginative eye. The empty box is a toy in a child's hand, but a dead thing in mine. My head is filled with documents and spreadsheets, with worries and responsibilities. My creativity is shouted down by practicality. A blank sheet of paper and a few pots of paint combine to form an exciting masterpiece for a child, but it stares up at me, threatening me, daring me to try, mocking that would even consider it. A child, so free: It doesn't matter if it's 'right', it doesn't matter if it's 'good', it doesn't even have to be 'acceptable' because these are adult labels for things that make us afraid when we grow up.

Growing up. That thing we think of as an improvement - growing physically, growing in knowledge and experience - but at what cost? Is it really such an improvement? Give me the empty box. Give me the blank paper. Give me the world through a child's eyes.

Student Cafe

Edit: Open University course is done - graduation is in October - and I'm very pleased with a 2.1 degree and 81% overall score on the module. Since finishing the course I've had a little break and I've been working on developing some writing projects, but now it's time to get back into the blog. I logged in to post a writing prompt and discovered this post unpublished in drafts. I actually rather liked it on second reading, so I thought it worth posting... here's the original post, including the comment. Enjoy!

I suck at poetry: I don't write it, I rarely read it and I don't really 'get it'. I can't even write Haiku with any degree of success. When it comes to poetry, there's some stuff that I appreciate (rather than 'love' or even 'like') but there's a whole bunch of popular, acclaimed and famous poetry that actually bores me. So I think it's safe to say, I am a poetic philestine.

However, the current OU course had a little section on poetry, specifcally focussing on Villanelle, Pantoum, Sestinas and Sonnets. This is a Pantoum and is a product of that section. It's not the result of a assignment or exercise... just something that sort of happened.

Normally the lines in a Pantoum are of equal length (because the 2nd and 4th lines of each stanza repeat in the next one) but this thing resisted.

So here it is... the first poem I've written since High School... a certain number of unspecified years.

* * *

Student Cafe

Here you gather

notebook in hand, hope in your heart.

Students gathered,

To chat and to fawn and to prove you are smart.

Notebook in hand, hope in your heart;

Now resolved

to chat and to fawn and to prove you are smart:

So evolved!

Now resolved

to despondence and mournful concern that you’re not

so evolved.

“Give me love and a smile; an emotional crutch.”

To despondence and mournful concern that I’m not

worth the bother.

Give me love and a smile; an emotional crutch.

Here we gather.

One Night

Writing, writing, writing, but not a lot that I can put on here. I've been very good with my diary this year. Every page is filled with nonsense. I'm very proud: I have never been able to keep a diary before. If bad habits die hard, good habits are just as hard to bring to life.

Anyway, I finally have something I fancied sharing. This started life as an Open University exercise that ended up leading me down a different path. It's only the start of a story and I haven't worked out where it goes yet, but I like it so far. Eventually, when the time is right and the stars align, I'll have a go at finishing it off.

* * *

The club was dark. Music was pounding. His mates were in a jovial mood, laughing and hooting, knocking back drinks and eyeing up the girls. James was not.

“You wanna get back in the game, mate.” Simon slapped him on the back so that he almost dunked his nose into the pint of beer he’d been nursing for the best part of an hour.

“Yeah.” Dave said. “You gotta go with the flow. Move with the groove.”

“Shots!”

James wasn’t sure which one of his mates had shouted it, but a few minutes later two dozen shots were lined up in front of him, glowing lurid colours in the club light-show. He chugged the first one and it burned its way down but the afterglow felt good. He followed up with several more; each time he lifted a glass his spirits lifted with it. Half an hour later he was feeling very happy as he leaned against the bar waving a twenty and waiting to be served.

There were two people serving: a young woman with a ring through her lower lip and bright green hair, and a tall spindly bloke with scruffy hair. They were busy at the opposite end of the bar, where a group of girls on a hen night was holding their attention. As he waited, a girl stepped up to the bar next to him. She smiled and then focussed on trying to get the attention of one of the servers.

“Hi. I’m James.” He grinned. She smiled at him but said nothing. “You’re pretty.” She smiled again but continued to try and call the attention of the bar staff. “I’m here with my mates, over there.” He turned to point them out but couldn’t see them. He looked around for a moment. “Well, they were there. I guess I’m on my own. Are you here with someone? Boyfriend maybe?” She smiled again, a little longer, trying to figure out if he was worth the trouble, maybe.

“I’m with some friends from uni.”

“Great. Having a good time?”

She shook her head.

“Me neither. I didn’t want to come out tonight. I didn’t feel like it. I’m James.” He said again.

“You said that already.” She laughed. She paused and bit her lip. “Do you want to get some fresh air? The music’s kind of doing my head in.”

“I’ll go out with you if you tell me your name.”

“Maggie.”

She took his hand and led him towards the door.

James woke in a comfortable bed, his face half-buried in a soft pillow that smelled freshly washed. The music from the club was still buzzing in his ears and pounding in his head. He rolled over, expecting to see his dorm room but what he saw was unfamiliar. There was a tidy desk against one wall, with a cork notice board above it. Photos and cards were pinned all over the board. On the wall next to the bed there was a Madonna poster. On the table next to the bed was a short stack of books: Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations and Pet Cemetery. The latter had a postcard shove between the dog-eared pages. Where the hell was he?

                “Good afternoon sleepyhead.” Maggie entered, wrapped in a fluffy cream towel, with her auburn hair wrapped in another towel on her head.

                James smiled. In a rush he remembered the pretty shy girl from the club. The girl that he’d chatted with in the cold November night until the club had closed. She’d invited him back to the house she shared. They’d kissed and done more.

                “What time is it?”

                “Does it matter? Scoot.” She shuffled at the edge of the bed until he made room for her to sit, then she ruffled his hair. “You need a shower.”

                “I need coffee”

                Maggie kissed him on the cheek.

                “Shower first, then coffee. You’ll feel better.”

James stood naked in the bathroom, his hands either side of the designer basin. He stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was greying at the temples. A few light wrinkles had started to spread outwards from the corners of his eyes. When did he get so old? He looked down at the water running from the tap. The wedding band on his finger glinted in the early morning sunlight. He stared at it.

                “Are you alright in there?”

                “Yeah, I’m fine.” He called out.

                He splashed water on his face, turned the tap off and dabbed the moisture away with a bright white towel from the rail.

                The hotel room was well appointed, decorated in tones of cream, coffee and chocolate. The bed linen was white and expensive-looking, with one of those slippery sashes across the bottom of it. An empty bottle wine bottle bathed in a cooler on a walnut desk, the ice long-since melted. The remnants of room service lay on an oversized tray on the low coffee table in front of an equally low sofa.

                James slid back into the bed.

                “I was about to send out a search party.” His companion wriggled up against him, sliding her leg over his thigh. She propped her head up on one hand so that her hair fell around her bare shoulders in champagne waves. She pressed the duvet down to her waist. “Everything OK?”

                James glanced at the porcelain breasts so blatantly on display.

                “Yeah, fine.”

                “Good, cos I want you at least once more before we have to go down for breakfast.” She leaned over and kissed him, sliding her body over his. For a moment, he considered resisting, but it was only a moment, then she was straddling him and he was kissing her vigorously.

Elusive Sleep

This is a little something that originated from a diary entry. It's a semi-fictional piece in that it is not based on a particular incident, but it's something that happens to all of us sooner or later and something that I've experienced many times.

I lie there. Awake with my eyes closed. Perhaps if I pretend to be asleep I will go to sleep. If I just keep my eyes closed I'll drift off. But who am I kidding? My body isn't obliging tonight. My mind is still aware, still active, still thinking about the things I did today and the things I will do tomorrow.

I roll over. No... roll is the wrong expression; I flip myself over angrily. Angry at no-one and nothing in particular. Except for the sleep that refuses to come.

My arm is in the way now. I fold it under my head but it goes numb. I stick it out of the side of the bed but it goes cold. And my shoulder is getting crushed. There in the dark, with sleep eluding me, I contemplate how badly designed the human body is. It's all bits that stick out in odd directions. And what's the deal with snoring? I silently curse the creator as I flip over again.

Now the sheet has come loose from the corner of the mattress. It's wrinkled up under my shoulder in uncomfortable little folds, razor blades beneath me. Dammit!

I throw back the duvet and the blanket with a flair best reserved for the theatre, and rise from my troublesome nest. I can't tuck the sheet back under the mattress where it belongs without disturbing my softly snoozing partner so I do my best to smooth it out. I pull it under my pillow, which I move down, away from the headboard, hoping that it will tame the belligerent sheet. It probably won't work but it will have to do.

I climb back into the bed and check the clock. 2am. I'm cold now; my feet are tucked into each other and my knees are pulled up. But the sheets have remained blessedly warm from my own body heat. It's very welcome against my chilly limbs. My bed is now suddenly cosy. I pull the covers up over my chin and before I realise it the alarm clock is buzzing 6.30am.

I hit snooze. My cocoon is too comfortable to leave it just yet.

Free Your Writing

Welcome to the New Year, a time for resolutions (that often fall away by the end of January) and good habits (that often fall away before then). I know that it's a hopeless cliche, but I'm relaunching this blog today. By relaunching, I mean that I'm posting after a big period of not posting. Another New Year's resolution? Blog more? Post once a day, once a week, once a month? No, nothing like that. It just feels right.

Today, inspired by The Write Practice, I indulged in my first free-write of the year. What a joy!

In case you don't already know, free writing is a process that puts a stream of consciousness on the page. You can start with a prompt or just whatever words are in your head, but the point is to write non-stop and unedited for a period of time. Don't type, because typing encourages editing: It's not permanent enough, it can be deleted and re-written on a whim. Handwriting, however, is completely permanent: Once it's there on the page, it's there forever. You can cover it up, you can destroy the page, but you can't separate the ink from the paper. You just place the pen (or pencil) on the page and start writing and keep going; 5, 10 or 15 minutes is fine, or you can aim to fill a number of pages. You can either empty the contents of your head onto the page (literary vomitting) or you can write what's going on around you. Allow your mind to wander and jump from subject to subject. If your mind goes quiet and you find you have nothing to write, just keep going. Write the same word over and over if you have to, or switch to writing about what you can hear or see or smell. Just keep going.

What you end up with is nonsense - it isn't meant to be published - but free writing is a breeding ground for ideas that you didn't even know you had. It frees you from your inner editor and awakens your writer inside. And I had forgotten how much I enjoy it; it's liberating and blessedly easy.

I'll return to tonight's free writing in a day or two and see if there's anything I can develop.

So screw restrictive resolutions that commit us to 'blog once a week', or 'write the first novel by the end of the year', they are good goals and very worthy achievements, but this New Year, with my writing at least, I'm going back to basics. My goal is simply to write something every day, even if it's free writing or some other crap that is never unleashed upon the world.