Writing Practice

Not sure about this - writing it felt like the mental equivalent of trying to squeeze the last tiny bit of toothpaste out. Of course the trouble with squeezing the tube so hard is that the toothpaste goes everywhere but the toothbrush.

His knees pressed down hard into the sand, the guard’s foot on his back keeping him firmly in a bowing position. He could hear the sound of a whetstone being drawn over a blade somewhere nearby. The sweat trickled down his face, dripping from him like a light summer rain, the salt mingling with the discoloured sand below.

The sound of the whetstone stopped. The sand shifted as the executioner began walking towards him. Someone was saying something but he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his heart thrashing around his chest like a caged alley cat, all teeth and claws and frantic yowls.

The light shifted.

And the world imploded.

Screams and curses sounded all around him as the various smokes bombs thrown into the arena went off, filling everything within the immediate surroundings with a dense white smog.

The guard pining him down was suddenly shoved away and an indistinct silhouette grabbed is arm.

“Run.” It shouted.

He ran, stumbling awkwardly, his balance thrown with is arms tied behind his back. The figure kept pushing and pulling at him, dragging him through the ever more chaotic crowd, the light fractured and the people no more than shadows screaming. At one point he could have sworn the smoke was humming.

“Under here.” His saviour said, “Quick, quick.” It shoved him through a gap in the fence, barely wide enough for a child let alone a full grown man.

“Hurry, hurry.” It said, kicking his arse behind him.

He somehow pushed himself through and took deep gulping breaths of the smokeless outside air.

‘This way, this way.”

They ran towards the river, a boat pulled up to the dock and waiting for them.

His bonds were finally cut.

“How on earth did you distract them long enough to throw the bombs?” He asked his wife.

She grinned at him, her eyes bright against her filthy skin.

“Bees.” She said.

“Bees?” he asked, incredulous.

She nodded. “I threw a whole hive of them I collected into the crowd. Nothing more distracting a whole load of pissed off bees.”

“Who stages a prison break out using bees?”

“Your head is still attached to your body, yet I am really not feeling the gratitude here.” She said, pouting. “If you want I am happy to send you back.”

“No, no,” he said hastily, “I am very, very, very grateful. Viva bees!”

“Humph.” She said, then changed her mind and smiled. “Well, I am somewhat glad you’re not dead so I guess I’ll let you off this time.”  

Writing Practice

Her fingernails were scratching at the cheap plywood of the folding table, caressing the pressed unvarnished wood, the tips of her nails catching on the random dribs and drabs of dried spilled paint and wallpaper glue.

He had thought with the application of the gag and blindfold she would finally be rendered mute but no. The soft scritch scritch of her nails spoke volumes.

Anticipate

The second hand of the clock was slicing up the hour like a pro chef slicing up an onion, the knife moving so quickly that you cringed in anticipation of bloodshed.

I twitched uncomfortably. I could not stop the way my legs stretched cautiously against their enclosures but they found no leeway, just a warm and inescapable embrace.

“Are you sure doing it all at once was the best option?” I asked the women in white.

She didn’t even look up from her nails. “Of course. Nice and quick for you.”

I went back to staring at the ceiling. It looked like the place had a damp problem – tendrils of pewter grey and green mould had filigreed themselves over the pale peach paint.

My teeth itched.

There was a rustle of fabric and the woman appeared front of me. From my semi prone position I stared up at her brilliant white teeth, the brightness of them clashing against the darkness that lay behind.

She reached down to my left leg and took hold of the first wax coated strip.

“Now,” she said sweetly, “this may sting a little.”

And yet more practice (otherwise known as 'How I feel most weekday mornings)

She awoke with the taste of rotting seawater festering in her mouth, half remembered dreams of dwarves, Italian weddings and shelves of unused dusty glasses fleeing her mind like startled mice. She glared at the blurred streak of red light of her bedside clock, the digits refusing to come into focus for her sleep smeared eyes. She gave up and pulled the duvet back over her head. She knew it was past time she should be up so what would five more minutes cost?

More practice

The midday sun stabs through the dusty venetian blinds, strewing sharp edged blades of light across the table. It glitters off the cheap, chipped nail polish painted on the bitten fingernails of the girl hunched over at the table. A mobile phone is cradled between her shoulder and ear as, having bitten through all her nails, she now proceeds to chew on her hair.

A black cat watches from the other end of the table, its bored expression mirroring the girl’s own.

“Are you even listening?” A voice on the other end asks in exasperation.

“Yes.” The girl lies.

“It won’t be my head on the chopping board if you screw up.”

“Yes.” The girl murmurs, the rhythm of her voice is completely unaffected either way by the thought of the hypothetical guillotine.

The cat stretches, its long sinewy body looks more like a snake than a cat, as if it could be a creature more biblical or sinful than a domesticated pet.

“Do you think cats go to heaven?” The girl interrupts the nagging on the other end of the phone. “Do you think they follow their masters?”

The voice sounds even more exasperated. “What the hell are you going on about now? Just focus on the job at hand.”

“The last job.” The girl repeats softly.

A pause. Then “Yes. The last one.”

“Just like the last one.” And this time there is a hint of mockery in her monotone voice.

The voice on the phone brushes it aside. “This is for the greater good. We’re heroes remember.”

The girl looks at the cat again. Its unblinking yellow eyes stare back into hers. From what she remembered from her picture books as a child, heroes were people who didn’t lie. The voice on the phone lied a lot. But then again, so does the girl.

The voice continues. “Have you finished the upload?”

The girl checks her computer screen. “10% left. I don’t think they do you know.”

“Do what?” The voice is clearly at the end of its tether.

“Follow their masters to heaven.”

“You’re talking about the damn cats again?”

“They don’t have masters.” The cat has grown bored with this game and now sleeps at the end of the table. “They just do what they want.”

“I really don’t understand you.”

“I see.” The dial on the screen fills with red, the circle complete.  “Goodbye.” The girl presses enter on her keyboard.

There is a load explosion mixed and flavoured with screaming. Then silence, only static over the airwaves.

In the distance sirens howl. The cat continues to sleep, its ears twitching. The girl continues to chew her hair and watches the blades of light slide across the table towards her.

Practice makes....something.

Well, I am currently so out of practice with writing that I have fallen back on the advice of my old tutor. When you simply can't think of an idea, watch and describe everything around you. It'll give you writing practice while you're waiting for your muse to get her arse out of bed.

So, two observational pieces of the summertime:

One

The iron staircase slopes sharply down, the strong light casting diagonal shadow stripes across the steps, the metal warm beneath your bare feet. Bright yellow blooms wrapping around the last step herald the end of your descent.

A path leads off to the right, stone slabs marking the steps to be taken amongst the loose shale. Overblown bushes of dark burgundy and gold hued leaves crowd in, nudging you towards the wooden fence. 

Small brown birds hop along the top of the fence, matching pace with you. You catch their eye and they immediately flit away to a neighbouring tree, scolding you for interrupting their play at a safe distance.

The sun has burn the clouds right out of the blue of the sky and you sit and watch the shadows flicker and listen to the chatter of the birds.

Two

The bright red and white trimmed bird box moves gently an emptily in time with the rhythm of the breeze. The birds have eschewed it in favour of performing acrobatic feats on a spindly, long limbed nearby bush. The flock has each claimed a skinny, uppermost branch and are clinging to them with the tips of their claws, swaying dangerously back and forth as the bush succumbs to the weight of the birds and the summer breeze dancing insistently through its leaves.

The birds boast loudly of their accomplishments. Behind me, hidden within the dark cavern of the laundry laden clothes horse, the cat watches, her eyes gleaming gold.