Tuesday, 17 November 2015

Five minutes - Four words – One Story

Write Something over Coffee every Monday - WriSoCoMo

 On Monday 16th November…….

The taxi pulled up at 5 AM. In the seconds it took to get to the passenger door she staggered, buffeted by the storm.

She could hear the driver lug her bag into his boot. The car shook as he slammed the boot and shook more when he threw his big frame into the driver's seat.

 ‘It is my belief,’ he declared, ‘that the end of the world is nigh’.

 He turned to look at her - ‘Where to my love?’

 ‘The airport’ she said – still trying to struggle out of her hooded jacket.

 She found herself looking at a big plastic daisy on his dashboard.

‘So - you're into flower power then?’ She asked wearily.

 ‘Hah – Daisy can spot a morning grouch a mile off,’ he said…..

ENDS (122)

Fifteen minutes -Six Words - One Story….

Write Something over Coffee every Monday - WriSoCoMo

On Monday 9thNovember…..

Eva sat at the kitchen table clutching her teacup. The large window had steamed. She asked Rosie to wipe it with kitchen towel.

Outside it had stopped raining. The sycamore was laden with dripping gossamer. Gossamer was woven into the sodden lumpen grass.  The path glistened with moisture.

The sky had descended almost on to the house. It was black to the east and west but a shaft of light stretched south to the road. Eva would watch the road now till he came.

Rosie had gotten an email to say he was coming. Rosie wanted her to take toast with her tea but the knot in Eva’s stomach was growing. She leaned too close into the window - and her breath – or was at her tea –steamed it again.

‘I can’t see’, she called out to Rosie.
Her voice sounded plaintiff and weak. She cleared her throat.

Rosie came back with a wad of kitchen towel.

‘Eva,’  she said gently – ‘Come sit by the fire – you look cold.’

‘I can’t see out from the fire,’ Rosie said. ‘Why is the window so steamy?’
‘It will clear,’ said Rosie, ‘it's so early, you don't usually get up at this hour.  He won't be here till noon Eva – come sit by the fire.’

‘I must watch,’ said Eva. ‘I need to catch the first glimpse of him. I will know everything once I see him.’

 Rosie wiped the window again making a big circle beside Eva.
She touched Eva's hand.

 ‘You are cold,’ she said.

 ‘This is a cold dawn Rosie,’ Eva said

ENDS (265)

Monday, 2 November 2015

Twenty minutes, eight words, one story.

National Write Something Month (NaWriSoMo) has begun.

This morning in the Orchard cafe, writer Triona Walsh is busy developing the stunning plot for her second novel.
Meanwhile she challenges me to write a flash fiction piece, in 20 minutes, using the following prompts.

An accident
Cup of tea


So here we go..............


Mary stares into her cup of tea. It is grey – dish cloth weak – as weak as she could make it. The doctor said it was critically important to drink several pints of water every day. She can't face cold water - so her day revolves around enormous pots of tea. Half a teaspoon of leaves to one large teapot.. Dehydration was how sadness was affecting her - the doctor said. So Mary has a goal – one thing she can do - drink tea.

John and she can hardly look at each other since the accident. His thing is digging. The doctor said he needed to exercise. Mary has become paralysed but John has become agitated. He can barely contain himself. She can hear him digging now - the spade making contact with the stony soil of the garden. She hates the sound. The beds have been dug and re-dug. The vegetables have been harvested and given away. Every autumn leaf is being swept as it lands.......

At 11 she will bring him a coffee. She will put it on the bench. She will put a biscuit on the saucer. She will watch from the kitchen as he breaks the biscuit and put it into the bird table. He will stand with his back to the kitchen window lest she might catch his eye. She will see how bony he had become and how his elbows stick out under his rolled up sleeves. She wonders if the day goes faster out there than it does in here. She envies him activity. They never speak now. She can focus on only one thing now - tea.

Both are trying to learn how to wait. When lunchtime comes she will put a sandwich somebody else has made out onto his bench. John will probably not eat that either.

On the hour, every hour, he will go to the radio he had set up on his bench and listen to the news. He will check his phone too for news on social media and emails.
Every hour. On the hour. He only allows himself to look once an hour.

Mary’s phone stares blackly at her beside the teapot...................................
Check out Triona's progress here http://trionawalsh.blogspot.ie/

Sunday, 1 November 2015

Write Something Every Monday for November

Inspired by National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) @TheTrionaWalsh and myself have decided to meet in the Orchard Café and Write Something Every Monday for November.

We will set a timer. We will write randomly for 15 minutes.  Then we will do a quick edit and blog the result.

Here is my first attempt:

Coffee is a good start to writing something. Sit still for a moment with my coffee – put my two feet on the ground - feel contact with the earth - just for a moment. My feet will very likely end up round my neck as I tackle the words but that's okay. So to start - a coffee – a blank page - a pen – feet on the ground. What happens? Something always happens. First it's contrived - I'm doing an exercise, it had better be good, smart, witty, quick......

But then I spy a woman in a pink baseball cap balancing two lattés on a tray. An older woman, leaning heavily on a stick, follows carefully behind her. The baseball-hatted woman puts the latte’s down on a nearby table and pulls out a chair for her companion.

The older woman takes a while to sit - takes ages in fact. Finally her stick is positioned safely under the table. She straightens her back and gazes serenely at the lattés. Her hatted companion has taken a call on her mobile - she is pacing to fro nearby – she looks agitated. She can't hear properly so she goes outside. She marches backwards and forwards in the garden talking furiously.

The older woman’s eyes never leaves the lattés. The froth has subsided on both. She strokes the glass of the one nearest her with her finger. I know she won't raise it to her lips until her companion returns.

Outside the hatted lady’s face is flushed. She paces among the Halloween Ghouls oblivious of their presence. (250)