An ocean of jewels
Folks, next week – on 14 Feb – I want to take a look at some of YOUR work. I’ll pick out my tipple-top favourites for praise and commentary, but I’ll get to as much as I can in the comments as well.
To participate, please:
- FInd a chunk of work that especially pleases you
- Upload a maximum of 250 words via the comments below this post
- Give us a book title and a sentence or so to understand the characters / scene you’re writing about.
- And also, please, feel free to comment (truthfully but constructively) on any work uploaded by others.
You’ve got all week to do this.
On 14 Feb, I’ll fish through the work you’ve uploaded and pick out a few bits for my email that afternoon. I’ll also add comments, where I can, to the thread below.
That’s it from me. Any questions? No. So hop to it. Your finest work please. I look forward to seeing it.
The Leavin Blues
His life for his music. The truth of his dying might kill her too.
Extract:
How many seconds would it take to drown? I guessed about sixty. There was little reason not to find out. Lose my footing. Slide into nothingness. Life seemed as senseless as the equinox attempting to balance the hours of darkness and light. But I was a passenger in my own body and I was being driven.
I reached into the pocket of my jeans for a small pebble with hand cut letters. The little pebble in my hand seemed to say: ‘Hold on. Don’t let go. There are other ways out of depression.’
Davey’s famous way out of depression… I understood now. Self-medicating is: an attempt to manage life, a way to detach from the Keepers of Pain. Davey had been dead many years now. Dark nights and cold days shadowed me; the equinox promised more to come. I understood human frailty. I understood utter despair. I just didn’t know how to score.
Running a finger over the pebble in my pocket, tracing the width and depth of its letters, I shouted out the word those letters formed, ‘B E L I E V E.’ Believing was what we were supposed to do even when there was no hope.
Guided to that place of desolation I had hoped my pain would finally end. I received no coup de grace.
Once Kate’s gone out with Brett, is Gen alone in the house? Does the attic door open again? Is there something in the attic making the door open, is it something Kate has purchased from a garage sale? Is it sinister?
Your excerpt draws you in to the attic door, however subtly you mentioned it. You just know that the attic hasnt been left open by Gen or Kate, creepy.
But I could be completely wrong. Either way your writing got my imagination working so job done.
Book title: HEAR MY VOICE
Dani wants the world to know exactly what she thinks of it. So she’s embarking on a one-girl campaign of spraying her thoughts across her drab home town each night.
Occasional cars drove by. Dani did her best to ignore them but always stayed alert for the sound of one slowing down.
‘Where you goin’?’
‘Wanna lift?’
‘Hey, jump in.’
No thanks, dickhead.
There were sometimes older men whose cars crawled past while they peered out of the window and looked quizzically at her.
Don’t you dare say anything, creep.
The old hospital loomed up behind a wall of boarding. Dani’s birthplace, fifteen years ago. Already ancient back then, closed now. She turned off to her right and began the slow climb up a tight, dark street of terraced houses. At the top the street opened out into the wide expanse of ground which marked the beginning of the estate. Tyres had cut swirling, muddy lines into the grass, bin bags lay in a pile, their contents strewn by foxes. In daylight she would have walked straight across to cut the distance but now she stuck to the pavements around the side. The pale street lights showed the low houses bulking sullenly around the edges. The low-walled gardens, where walls still existed, home to sofas, mattresses, and broken toys, all slowly being consumed by ever-growing weeds and grass.
Pull your hood up, don’t be recognised. Don’t walk directly under the lights.
She passed a row of garage doors, the site of her first attempt at a stencil. It was still blurrily visible under an outbreak of tags. Amateurish compared to her recent stuff. Apart from tonight’s disaster.
Story Title: Margo
To protect her, a mother takes her teenage daughter to a new area but the girl develops an unexpected relationship with a mysterious neighbour.
The question was whether to ask her or not, rather than how to. How to was another issue altogether. We had only spoken to Margaret once or twice briefly, in a queue at the supermarket checkout. Margo, as the neighbours called her, lived three houses down our road. She was probably in her early sixties, tall and well-built, with pointy-framed glasses that made her face look rather severe. She was always dressed formally, in a certain chic style, offset by the high heels she usually wore. She moved around in a spotless light blue Mitsubishi SUV which had apparently belonged to her husband. Whenever she drove the short distance into town – she never walked –her black Labrador bitch sat on the passenger seat beside her, a seatbelt fastened around its shoulders, looking like a proud seal sunbathing on a rock at the zoo. The dog was only taken out for walks at dawn and at midnight by a plump dark-skinned girl of eighteen or so. Nobody quite knew who she was. We were quite new in the neighbourhood. It was my daughter Paula’s idea to ask our section of street to a barbeque. Margo’s house was the last in the row, the one with a crooked stone cross in the garden.
Title: Nicky Saint and the Christmas of Doom
Nicky is ten years old and is determined to find out why his father hates Christmas so much.
The class room couldn’t have been more Christmassy if it tried.
A large artificial tree stood at the front, and was decorated to the hilt with baubles, tinsel and at least three sets of different coloured lights. The branches were so covered with tinsel, you would be hard pressed to tell what colour the plastic needles were
Paper chains sprang across the ceiling, leaping from one corner of the room to another, alongside the hanging tinsel decorations and yet more baubles; until the ceiling tiles almost groaned with their weight.
There was even fake snow spayed on the window panes, so much that it was hard to see the playground outside.
Miss Smyth surveyed the room with satisfaction. It was her first Christmas at Poplar Primary School (or any school for that matter) so she had pulled out all the stops to made it a good one. And (if she said so herself) she’d done a pretty good job. She’d seen Santa’s Grotto’s with less Christmas cheer.
Just one hour left before the school broke up for Christmas. That was just enough time for the activity she had in mind.
Miss Smyth scanned the classroom, wondering who to pick first. She smiled at the class and thirty pupils beamed back. They were all happily chatting with each other about what they had asked for from Father Christmas or what their plans were for the two weeks break.
All save one.
Lovely, descriptive opening!
Hi Harry,
These are the first three paragraphs from my WIP, ‘The Gaze’. I have probably revisited this far too many times. I’m promising myself I will keep it in a locked box until I’ve finished a first draft. It’s a mystery/coming of age story that’s pieced together over past/present timelines. This is the prologue and present.
I lean on the seawall with the other drinkers, looking out, as everyone always looks out. I am not seduced by the view like the others though. My elbows press uncomfortably into the rough stone, and my swollen ankles have to keep shifting weight from one side to the other. My drink is not a real drink either, but juice, like a child’s.
The wake, not that anyone has called it that, was my doing. No one has dressed up, or worn black. None of us are family and there has been no funeral, but the old faces are here. And they are actually old now of course. The same teenage friends but overlaid onto adult-bodied strangers. It’s jarring. I’ve snuck looks at their faces and wondered how they’re the same, and then I’ve been terrified by what they see when they look at me. So far, we’ve only said the polite things, sent careful words out to float on the surface, idling like gulls. It’s been too early for anything else. Too early for the memories coiled like eels inside our mouths, waiting, no doubt, for the alcohol to swirl them out.
For now, like everyone else, my eyes keep drifting back over the wall. It’s one of those eerily low tides, where we’re left with just sand, stretching out and out, until it is sky. The sea is long gone. I think of my mother, telling me at thirteen, that nature abhors a vacuum and I squirm, even now, at the thought, because it was meant as a warning about sex.
I enjoyed this. The second paragraph, in particular, is very evocative and I liked the clever use of marine imagery in the similes. And the line
is very good. I’ve felt exactly that at reunions where decades might have passed since the last time people met. And felt that same terror you describe!
Really enjoyed this. Very atmospheric and some great imagery – eels and gulls, which fit with the setting. Makes me want to know more – why is she not drinking? I also liked the slightly awkward feel to it and the final hint of the relationship with the mother.
Thank you Gill! I’m new to this site and it’s great to get some positive feedback. You’ve made my day by being intrigued about my character. Thanks for taking the time to read. Now I must return the favour and do some reading myself.
Title: Truth and Smokescreens
This is the start of a short story. Joe is a loveable rogue with a weight problem, a temper, and grave personal secrets. He can also be economical with the truth. Can he beat his demons?
_______________________
I found a table outside, on the footpath. The traffic was noisy, but I had escaped from the heat and tobacco smoke. I swallowed half my drink and wiped my forehead.
A huge man was reading his newspaper at the other table, and two chatty skinheads were passing by. There was no warning. One of them grabbed his drink, and the other snatched his paper. He was dumbfounded.
They retreated to gulp his beer. The short one crumpled his paper, page by page, and threw it on the footpath, while the one with the Mohican haircut chanted insults.
“Fat belly. Too much telly.”
“Beefy, porky, roly-poly…” He went on and on.
The big man waddled after them, swearing. They taunted him, walking backwards, keeping their distance.
I stuck my foot out and tripped the Mohican as he passed. He fell hard, and his companion stumbled over him. They had fear written on their faces. The man hurried forward, but they were up and running, and he stood there shouting after them.
I drained my glass and asked him.
“Wanna drink?”
He didn’t take his eye off the skinheads.
“Thanks, pal. A pint of Abbot’s.”
When I got back he was reading his paper. He pointed at a chair.
“Sit yourself down.”
He offered his hand.
“My name’s Joe.”
“I’m Tom.”
I expected a knuckle-crunching handshake. It was firm but gentle.
“Thanks, Tom. I thought I’d got ’em this time, but they’re too quick for me.”
“So you know them?”
…
I love this. Great characters, simple scene, elegantly told. Let’s have the rest!
Thanks, Aidan. Your kind words are encouraging.
‘The rest’ is getting there. I’m editing it – yet again – in the light of lessons learnt.
Great introduction to Joe, seen through Tom’s eyes. And a nicely paced, small-scale conflict, too. Very believable and real.
Thank you John. I appreciate that.
Hi. I’m new here and I haven’t written anything yet, so I just conjured this up out of thin air. Unfortunately, this means I can’t really provide any context…
——————–
Sara barged through the door and into the bedsit with such force that she stumbled heavily on to her hands and knees, gasping in agony. She clutched at her hip and climbed unsteadily to her feet. Then, with a knee pressed against the open door, her quivering hand snatched the bloodied keys from the lock. She slammed it shut and fell against it, trying desperately to bring her breathing under control; the last thing she needed right now was to go into shock.
The room was dark, except for a faint sliver of light from the hallway that reached across the floor towards the ruffled bed against the far wall, broken only by the shadows cast by her feet. Heavy curtains muffled the clattering of rain from the window hidden behind, and the air was frigid and stale, just as before.
Having regained a little composure, she levered herself from the door and headed for the dingy bathroom in the corner, shrugging off her coat and cringing in the process. The light switch activated a dim filament bulb that protruded awkwardly from the wall above the sink mirror.
A mirror that revealed a dark tormented soul.
After holding her own gaze for several seconds, she swept away damp matted locks from her forehead before turning her attention to the wound. Hiking up her jumper she grimaced at the sight of exposed bone where the bullet had clipped her. The blood was still seeping, but things could have been a lot worse, and although she’d been lucky, she chastised herself regardless.
Her toiletry pack was rolled down the back of the bathroom door, hung on a rusted nail. In one of its pouches was a medical kit, which she retrieved and opened. She tore the wrapping from a gauze and rummaged for some tape.
Then she froze.
There was a loud creak from out in the hallway.
Fuck! Did he follow me?
That was a good read! Thank you for conjuring that. I was pulled into the scene right away. Your descriptions provided intrigue and tension.
I’d just like to say a huge thank you! Having seen the work that Harry chose to comment on, it’s easy to see that my own is a million miles from being at that level…
But then I’m not aiming for those heights; for me, to be in a shop and witness someone purchase a copy of my book would be the ultimate sense of achievement. I’m not interested in literary prizes.
Therefore, to see that at least one person has enjoyed my post enough to make a compliment, is enough to fuel me with the motivation required to continue my journey.
I hope others in my position find the same… 😊
Very nice descriptions and interactions. I particularly liked
and
Both very evocative and slightly ominous!
The Token
I was reading Todd’s book on balance when she walked in. She had fawn-colored hair that fell towards the front, so I only got a glimpse of a fine nose and chin. She was a bit delicate, but with good posture and graceful movements. One of the things you notice when you’re in this kind of work is how people carry themselves.
My dryer stopped just then, but I put another token right in.
As she loaded a machine, something white with small red flowers almost fell out. I couldn’t tell whether it was a dress or a nightgown before she flipped it back in. Whatever it was, I thought she must look lovely in it. She took several tokens from her wallet. That meant not passing my way to the token machine, and still no glimpse of her face. Then she sat down across from her washing, which made four empty seats between her and me, and took out a paperback. Her hair fell forward even more with that book.
The dryer thumped to a halt again, my red boxers on top, the whole load bone dry. I inserted the largest coin I could find in the token machine, and it clinked to the bottom with a yellow light: “correct change only”.
I made that light my destiny. Walked over and said, excuse me, would you happen to have any change?
She looked at me wide-eyed. They were blue, her eyes, like pools in summer.
xxx
The narrator wants this girl in his life, but she keeps eluding him. They finally become a couple when he becomes her physical therapist after she suffers an ankle injury. Later, she is offered opportunities to dance abroad. He struggles between his desire to keep her and his realization that it would be better for her if he let go. (My first attempt to write a male POV)
This is well-written, Janet.
Unlike Alice, I didn’t get that your protagonist is male. Not until you told us after the extract. But I loved that use of things one notices in this profession (hopefully would have been exposed previously) as an excuse for the physical description and comment on posture.
I also think the fist time his dryer stops, you need more around him restarting it: not checking even though he knows it’s dry, the desire to observe, etc. As it stands, that emotional catalyst is absent.
Hi Rick, Thanks for your comments. Do you think that your suggestions would make it clearer that the narrator is male?
That depends how you write it. What is his physiological reaction to seeing her? At the moment, it’s presented only as an abstract curiosity, the intrigue about the face under the hair. But if he feels his blood stir, catches his eyes wandering non-professionally, then yes, you would certainly inject a dose of sexual tension that would show us that it’s likely. Or you could do little things as he stands to put the token in the dryer – sucking in his gut, squaring his shoulders: instinctive male preening reflexes.