I wasn't sure whether to actually post this. Wrote it for 750 words, but it's not really fiction and isn't really about anything.
The lane was in darkness. All the street lights were out and the nearest houses fifty or more feet away. The road beneath her feet was a darker ribbon of blackness winding between the dark greys of the bushes, the wall and the field. The brightest object around was actually the dog; a mostly white creature that sniffed at something unseen in the undergrowth.
It was creepy, but also, quite peaceful. Quiet.
This is how things used to be she thought, years ago before the advent of electric lighting. This is what my great-grandparents would have seen, would have walked streets like these. Except the lane a hundred years ago was no more than a dirt path, if it had been that at all. She wasn't sure what exactly had been here a hundred years back. Not even that, the estate was barely seventy years old.
Unlike the farmhouse. That was Grade 2 listed so she supposed it had been there a while. Mind you, it was derelict now, the roof had fallen in, exposing the timbers charred from a dozen or so fires. Local kids usually.
She remembered walking down the lane one night and seeing the inside of the roof lit up orange. The flames were not visible, just the glow, and the dark smoke pouring from the roof. She'd gone closer, and timidly peered through one of the glassless window frames at the front of the house, wondering if the fire was being tended. It wasn't, so she'd rung the fire brigade. Once the call had been made she'd almost regretted it. The fire wasn't that big, but she reckoned it may grow to be bigger, all that wood. It had been summer, and dry at that. Best to catch a fire before it grew into an inferno. She'd told herself that even as the fire engines drew closer. Two of them.
She'd seen no more fires in the old farmhouse since then.
When she'd moved to the area, ten years earlier, the farmhouse had been occupied. A sign at the side advertised fresh eggs and potatoes. It didn't specify what sort of eggs it sold. Possibly goose eggs, though she'd have thought the sign would specify if they had been. There was a big herd (?) of geese there. A gaggle of loud, belligerant beasts that honked and flew at anyone who got too close. She didn't buy her eggs there, unwilling to brave the demonic birds.
The dog chose a spot on the grass, peed.
They walked further up the lane. To her left was a scrubby field, scored with muddy grass-less paths and full of horse manure. Often there were ponies tethered here. Bony, unhealthy looking beasts. They looked unkempt and half feral. To her left, a paddock for the riding stables, one of maybe a half dozen fields owned by them. Their horses were groomed, beautiful and proud. Quite a contrast to the ponies.
Another new addition, an indoor riding area, loomed up above her, blocking out the view. She'd watched it being built; first the metal beams and then the wooden panels. Some people had objected but she quite liked it. Wood and stone buildings rarely looked out of place. For somewhere deep in the urban metropolis of the city, it all looked very rural.
Beyond the riding stables, the lane curved around and out of sight. She pondered walking further along the dark road. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness and she could see well enough to make her way along the road but it just looked creepy. Not to mention unsafe. People always warned you about walking down unlit roads at night. Which was probably good advice.
She turned and walked back past the farmhouse, towards the bright lights of the estate. Possibly a more frightening place in the day than the lane was at night. And ugly. Of course, there had been improvement in recent years. New fencing, new pebble-dashing, but you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. It would never be a nice place to live.
She stood for a moment at the top of the lane, looking towards the farmhouse, to the dark fields behind it, the inky black woodland and the spread of lights across the space between her and the distant horizon. Miles and miles away she could see a set of blue flashing lights, travelling through a myriad of orange, yellow and red lights.
And somewhere close, very close, the sound of sirens.
Thursday, 3 January 2013
Wednesday, 2 January 2013
Figgis 9: Body Disposal
Body Disposal
BODY DISPOSAL
"So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
"I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
"Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
"I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
"And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
"Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
"So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
"Do you do wine?"
"Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
"What sort do you have?"
"White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
"White please," Theresa said.
They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
"There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
"Well, this is nice," Bel said.
Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty. "So what now?" he asked.
"Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
"Oh fuck."
Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.
BODY DISPOSAL
"So what do you want us to do with your body?" Theresa asked, it was, at that moment, hung limply between her and Figgis, they looked like a pair of inept grave-robbers. Berk and Hairy perhaps.
Bel ummed and aahed. "I don't really want myself abandoning..." she began.
"I don't really fancy looking after a breathing corpse either," Figgis said. "I just met you, and I feel I don't know you well enough to be doing, um intimate things."
Bel cackled, "too close to necrophilia?"
Too close to nursing, Figgis had thought. Whilst getting up close and personal to female genitalia was always high on his list of priorities, it didn't include the sort of care usually reserved for infants.
"Let's get you into the car and then we'll decide what to do while we have a pint?" Figgis suggested.
Bel and Theresa seemed to find this quite agreeable. Except for when Figgis requested they put the body in the boot. Bel wasn't keen on that idea. She didn't find it very respectful. Figgis pointed out that driving around with an unconscious body in the back seat was not only likely to draw attention, it was also seriously creepy. It put him off his driving.
"I've got a blanket in there," he said. "You'll be lovely and warm?"
"And if she suffocates?" Theresa asked.
Figgis was of the opinion that if Bel's body actually carked it whilst they were in the pub, at least it would be easier to get rid of. He'd watched enough crime programs to be able to think of a dozen good places to hide a corpse. Or, they could just call an undertaker. Y'know, like normal folks. Bel would attend her own funeral, not many people could do that - not and be conscious of it, anyway - and at least she'd be able to have the service she wanted. Figgis suspected with Bel in charge it would be less a funeral and more of a death-themed carnival.
"Well, I can't stop you putting me in the boot," Bel complained, "it's not like I can stop you."
"So that's sorted," Figgis grinned.
It was surprisingly hard to jam the body in the boot. Despite Bel's short stature, the boot was not quite the right shape. They had to bend her into the feotal position, this was probably the only advantage to the body merely being unconcious instead of dead; rigor mortis would have been a bitch to deal with. Figgis had some rope in the boot but it would really interest traffic police when they saw a boot tied down and feet sticking out of the end of it. Or so he presumed.
The nearest pub was one of those Old Man pubs, all the decor done out in wood panelling and dark red brocade. The name on the swinging sign read The Long Drop Inn and featured a cheery wooden tower. It looked a lot like gallows. Figgis hoped this wasn't an omen. All of the beers were hand-pulled and listed on the chalk board above the bar. It appeared the most popular was a stout called Bongwater. Figgis ordered a pint of that and asked Theresa what she was drinking.
"Do you do wine?"
"Ayuh," the barman said, taking his pipe from the corner of his mouth to speak, his lips were lost in a tangle of grey bristles, a mighty beard that any wizard would be proud of.
"What sort do you have?"
"White or red," the barman gestured towards two dusty bottles on the shelf behind him. So dusty in fact, it wasn't actually possible to tell what colour the contents were.
"White please," Theresa said.
They watched as the barman reached out a hand, paused, then pulled one of the bottles from the shelf. The liquid inside was indeed white and a barely audible collective sigh of relief was heard. He sloshed it into a glass, considered the level and then added another splash. Figgis didn't know what sort of measurement the old guy was using, but he figured there wasn't much call for wine here.
"There y'go," the barman said. "'Undred fifty."
Figgis forked over a couple of notes and they took their drinks over to a table by the window. It was covered by heavy curtains and barely let in enough light to penetrate the gloom. Theresa pulled the curtain a little and sunshine burst into the room, startled, she dropped the curtain back into place.
"Well, this is nice," Bel said.
Figgis nodded and too a swig of the Bongwater Stout. It tasted slightly meaty. "So what now?" he asked.
"Well, I think we ought to..." Theresa began but was interupted by the shotgun blast bang of a car outside backfiring.
Figgis knew what that sound was, a sound he'd become only too familiar with over his years of car ownership. he leapt up at the window and yanked the curtain aside.
"Oh fuck."
Theresa appeared by his side, followed swiftly by Bel. The three of them watched in silence as Bertha backfired and zigzagged her way down the street, it veered left and took the corner on two wheels. Then, in one final plume of smoke, disappeared from sight.
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
Jan 1st words
This is the first 750 words thing I did.
"Write," he said.
"I don't know what to write," I replied. "I am all out of ideas, all out of energy."
My muse considered this. He turned away from me, so that all I saw of his face was his profile, almost obscured in the late winter sunshine. "I'm not here to do it for you," he said eventually. "I mean, I turn up, and we talk. I'm here to bounce ideas off, I'm here to spark your creativity, but what I usually do is just listen to your bullshit and whining and your excuses."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth shut in slightly shocked silence. Never before had my muse spoken to me like that. He'd always been there, firstly as a childhood imaginary playmate and then simply as a voice in my head. Many times I thought I'd lost him, that he was lost to me, but he always came back eventually. Swaggering back into my life with all the confidence of someone who knows he'll always be welcome, no matter how long the absence, no matter what terms we parted on.
"You call yourself a writer," he said, "you say you want to write and yet you don't. Not as much as you could, not nearly as much as you should."
"I'm no bloody good at it," I said.
"You're whining again."
"No, I'm not." I was. I realised then I was, and I shut my mouth again.
"Of course you're not as good at it as you would like," he said, "how do you get good at something? You do it. Lots and lots. Even when it's hard, even when it looks like all your effort is wasted, even when you read work of someone else's and think you could never be as good. You keep on doing it, and you'll get better."
"Life gets in the way," I mumbled, and knew I was making excuses.
"Oh really?" My muse laughed, "so other people don't have lives?"
"Yes, but..."
"But fuck all. If you want to write, you'll write. You're just a lazy slacker." He said this last with amusement in his voice, a goading banterish comment but it cut deep. He pretended not to see. "Make time. Turn the TV off, turn bloody facebook off."
"I don't watch TV," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Facebook?"
Guilty as charged there, and I knew I was. I opened my mouth to speak but didn't. Everything I wanted to say was either a whine, an excuse or some sort of bitter comment. I stared at my nails instead, bitten ragged, the nicotine staining on my finger not yet faded.
"Change," he whispered, "you've done most of it, keep going, more changes, think of yourself as a work in progress. Don't stagnate."
Stagnation, he was right, it had almost killed me once. Like the boy and horse in the Neverending Story, I had almost sunk. I'd used small goals like knots in a rope to pull myself out. I thought I was clear of all that.
"Out of the swamp maybe," he said, my thoughts as always, his thoughts too. "But where are you now? Not in the grassy meadow are you? You're on the muddy slope of the swamp, and if you just sit on your arse, pretty soon you'll be back in the middle."
He was right, he was always right.
"Make some more goals," he suggested. "Those you didn't hit, scale them down, go for them again. Those you failed, have another go. It's only failure when you stop trying."
"I still don't know what to write."
"Does it matter? If you start, something will turn up eventually. It may not be any good, it may not be what you wanted to write, but at least you're not sitting there making excuses and bitching that you don't have time to do anything."
"I won't keep up to it," I sighed, knowing he couldn't counter that. I'm not sure I'd ever managed to keep to anything in my whole life.
He shrugged. "So you miss a day, hell, maybe you miss a week. So go back to it," he laughed, "at least it's easier than weight loss, if you skip a couple of days it doesn't set you back a week! It's still more words than what you had before. It's a no-lose proposition."
I agreed. There was nothing to lose by having a go, if nothing else it would give me something to look back on this time next year. I smiled at him and my muse winked. I hoped we were going to have a lot of fun together.
"Write," he said.
"I don't know what to write," I replied. "I am all out of ideas, all out of energy."
My muse considered this. He turned away from me, so that all I saw of his face was his profile, almost obscured in the late winter sunshine. "I'm not here to do it for you," he said eventually. "I mean, I turn up, and we talk. I'm here to bounce ideas off, I'm here to spark your creativity, but what I usually do is just listen to your bullshit and whining and your excuses."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth shut in slightly shocked silence. Never before had my muse spoken to me like that. He'd always been there, firstly as a childhood imaginary playmate and then simply as a voice in my head. Many times I thought I'd lost him, that he was lost to me, but he always came back eventually. Swaggering back into my life with all the confidence of someone who knows he'll always be welcome, no matter how long the absence, no matter what terms we parted on.
"You call yourself a writer," he said, "you say you want to write and yet you don't. Not as much as you could, not nearly as much as you should."
"I'm no bloody good at it," I said.
"You're whining again."
"No, I'm not." I was. I realised then I was, and I shut my mouth again.
"Of course you're not as good at it as you would like," he said, "how do you get good at something? You do it. Lots and lots. Even when it's hard, even when it looks like all your effort is wasted, even when you read work of someone else's and think you could never be as good. You keep on doing it, and you'll get better."
"Life gets in the way," I mumbled, and knew I was making excuses.
"Oh really?" My muse laughed, "so other people don't have lives?"
"Yes, but..."
"But fuck all. If you want to write, you'll write. You're just a lazy slacker." He said this last with amusement in his voice, a goading banterish comment but it cut deep. He pretended not to see. "Make time. Turn the TV off, turn bloody facebook off."
"I don't watch TV," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Facebook?"
Guilty as charged there, and I knew I was. I opened my mouth to speak but didn't. Everything I wanted to say was either a whine, an excuse or some sort of bitter comment. I stared at my nails instead, bitten ragged, the nicotine staining on my finger not yet faded.
"Change," he whispered, "you've done most of it, keep going, more changes, think of yourself as a work in progress. Don't stagnate."
Stagnation, he was right, it had almost killed me once. Like the boy and horse in the Neverending Story, I had almost sunk. I'd used small goals like knots in a rope to pull myself out. I thought I was clear of all that.
"Out of the swamp maybe," he said, my thoughts as always, his thoughts too. "But where are you now? Not in the grassy meadow are you? You're on the muddy slope of the swamp, and if you just sit on your arse, pretty soon you'll be back in the middle."
He was right, he was always right.
"Make some more goals," he suggested. "Those you didn't hit, scale them down, go for them again. Those you failed, have another go. It's only failure when you stop trying."
"I still don't know what to write."
"Does it matter? If you start, something will turn up eventually. It may not be any good, it may not be what you wanted to write, but at least you're not sitting there making excuses and bitching that you don't have time to do anything."
"I won't keep up to it," I sighed, knowing he couldn't counter that. I'm not sure I'd ever managed to keep to anything in my whole life.
He shrugged. "So you miss a day, hell, maybe you miss a week. So go back to it," he laughed, "at least it's easier than weight loss, if you skip a couple of days it doesn't set you back a week! It's still more words than what you had before. It's a no-lose proposition."
I agreed. There was nothing to lose by having a go, if nothing else it would give me something to look back on this time next year. I smiled at him and my muse winked. I hoped we were going to have a lot of fun together.
New Year Evolutions
So, that's 2012 out of the way; another non-apocalypse survived, a year of onscreen sport almost completely avoided, celeb news ignored and another birthday notched up. And it's customary at this time of year to decide how this next year is going to be better. How one is going to be fitter, healthier, wealthier and happier. Or in other words, how not to fuck up this year as badly as we did last year. I am not immune to this.
A couple of years ago, I decided either I would have to change everything in my life, or just give up. Entirely. Big sweeping changes. Some of these changes were emotionally very hard, not just for me, but for those closest to me. The breaking eggs metaphor never seemed so apt. But, I made those changes. Some are easier than others. And some things are easier to change when you know it just has to be done once. And then there's the other things, that remain a daily challenge. Often the hardest things of all.
These are my daily challenges. I will probably fail, a lot, but let's face it, even 100 days on the wagon is better than 365 off.
To help me with this, I'm using the internet. I have the attention span of a housefly, it helps to be nagged, cajoled, prodded and downright bullied into remembering things.
For the calorie counting and exercise, I'm using Food Focus
For the writing, I'm using a site called 750 words , I may or may not post the wordage on here too. Depending on what I've actually written.
For the smoking? I'm not really going to keep track of that.
Let's see how we do this year!
A couple of years ago, I decided either I would have to change everything in my life, or just give up. Entirely. Big sweeping changes. Some of these changes were emotionally very hard, not just for me, but for those closest to me. The breaking eggs metaphor never seemed so apt. But, I made those changes. Some are easier than others. And some things are easier to change when you know it just has to be done once. And then there's the other things, that remain a daily challenge. Often the hardest things of all.
These are my daily challenges. I will probably fail, a lot, but let's face it, even 100 days on the wagon is better than 365 off.
- No cigarettes. Ecigs are allowed, but no real ones.
- To keep my calorie count what it should be (ie lose weight, but you can't lose every day, I'm hoping it will be a happy side effect)
- To give exercise every day. Usually this will be just dragging the dog out for a half hour walk. This ties in with the losing weight.
- Write every day.
To help me with this, I'm using the internet. I have the attention span of a housefly, it helps to be nagged, cajoled, prodded and downright bullied into remembering things.
For the calorie counting and exercise, I'm using Food Focus
For the writing, I'm using a site called 750 words , I may or may not post the wordage on here too. Depending on what I've actually written.
For the smoking? I'm not really going to keep track of that.
Let's see how we do this year!
Friday, 28 December 2012
The Liebster Award
My dad sent me this award... don't know how to put the picture up* but I'll have a go at the rest of it!
Apparently this thing has rules. These are the rules...
1. You post 11 random facts about yourself.
2. Answer the 11 questions your presenter gave you.
3. You pass the award on to 11 other bloggers.
4. Compose 11 new questions for your recipients.
So... eleven random facts about myself....
1) I am 37 year old grandmother. I was seventeen when I had my daughter and she was nineteen when she gave birth to hers. I was priviledged to be at my grandaughter's birth and I like to think we share a special bond, mostly this consists of her trying to pull my necklace off and me stopping her.
2) I've finished the NaNoWriMo challenge five times out of the eight I've tried it. This doesn't prove I'm a good writer, but does prove the efficaciousness of a looming deadline.
3) I own two guitars. I cannot play either of them. Well, I know about four chords. This is the limit of my musical expertise. They do ramp up the coolness factor of my bedroom though.
4) I don't drive. I took two lessons and scared the life out of myself. I thought I was travelling way too fast at 20 mph. I will always be one of lifes pedestrians. And never the designated driver. Which is fine by me.
5) I am afraid of heights, the dark, horses and things with spinning blades. I do not really consider these to be a problem, just a really well developed sense of self-presevation. After all, plenty of people are scared of spiders but no-one ever got their skull caved in by a skittish orb-weaver.
6) I have a fascination for all things weird and morbid. One of my favourite places in the city is its lovely cemetary, and I love a good documentary about freaks of nature. If it's weird, then I'm all over it. I'll take weird over banal every day of the week.
7) I am a published poet. Back in my teens I had a couple published in a magazine and one displayed as poem of the month in every library in Bradford. I've also, in the last couple of years, had a couple published on Pigmy Giant. Despite this, I scored pretty badly on poetry on my uni creative writing assignments.
8) I have a Diploma in Creative Writing And Literature. This means I have letters after my name and can throw together a story. Sometimes. I also discovered whilst acquiring this diploma that I am a terrible student. Usually starting the assignments mere days (and in one case hours) before the deadline. Deadlines are awesome, it's amazing what you can produce when they are flying towards you.
9) I am an avid Stephen King fan. My bedroom has several shelves devoted just to his books. I read my first (Misery) at 13 and have been collecting them ever since. Only a couple more and I've got pretty much a full set of his novels.
10) I like to walk barefoot outside. There's nothing quite like feeling the earth beneath your feet, whether that be scorching pavement, wet grass or soft warm moss. This does mean I usually have filthy feet in the summer.
11) I've only been abroad once. I was eleven years old (I think) and I went to Amsterdam with the brownies. The ferry crossed back in a force 9 gale and I, for once, was not travel-sick. I would like to travel when my kids have grown a little more (and finances allow).
so... the questions my Dad asked...
If you could come back in another life as an animal, which one would you choose to be?
A cat. Cats are awesome. They sleep when they like, wake up, kill things for pleasure and generally rule the roost. Yup, definitely a cat.
Have you ever owned one of those cars that whatever “Could” go wrong with it, “Did” go wrong? Never owned a car.
Do you believe in other world life forms? Yes, I think there's definitely something out there. I'm not sure it will be found in my lifetime, but yes.
If you had to spend a year on a desert island with just one celebrity for company, who would you choose? This is a hard one. I'm not much of a celeb person. Someone I could have a laugh with so probably a comedian. Adam Hills. Australian comic. Very funny guy.
Which band or entertainer would you most like to see in a live performance?
I would have said Queen, but Freddie is no longer with us. I would love to see Sxip Shirey's Hour Of Charm, especially f it has my favourite artist Jason Webley playing in it.
If you could alter just one physical aspect of yourself, what would it be?
I would love to be tall and slim. Slimmer is a possibility but I think I'm stuck with being a short-arse.
I have been told I am a Jack Russell, which breed of dog would you say you share characteristics with? A labrador. Loyal, sometimes daft, always up for a walk, chews a lot.
If you could choose any make or model of car to own for free, which model would you have?
A VW campervan. A green one. With a split window at the front (and someone to drive it. Obviously)
Which do you prefer, the quiet of the countryside, or the hustle-bustle of the city?
The countryside. I find cities too busy.
Do you have a favourite colour and number? And do you know why?
I don't have a favourite number but I do favour even numbers, they just sound nicer. As for colours, I like blues, purples and greens. My absolute least favourite colour is yellow.
What is your favourite film and book?
I hate this question! How can you choose only one? Currently my favourite film is probably Hedwig And The Angry Inch. Favourite book? Impossible. The one I've re-read most often is probably Stephen king's 'On Writing'. I actually read my first copy into tatters.
Eleven questions for you....
1. If you could pick any name instead of the one you have, what would it be?
2. What is your favourite cryptid?
3. Choose a superpower!
4. What actor would play you in a biopic of your life?
5. What was the last book you read?
6. Have you ever sent a rude text to the wrong person?
7. If you could only use one takeaway for the rest of your life, what sort would it be?
8. Which lessons did you love and hate at school?
9. What have you lost in the house that never turned up?
10. What is your favourite article of clothing and why?
11. Where is your favourite place in the world?
I don't know eleven bloggers so here's three...
Iamtypecast
JellyToATree
Jonathan Lawrence
Cheers Dad! Love ya xxx
*The picture is now up! Cheers Dad!
Apparently this thing has rules. These are the rules...
1. You post 11 random facts about yourself.
2. Answer the 11 questions your presenter gave you.
3. You pass the award on to 11 other bloggers.
4. Compose 11 new questions for your recipients.
So... eleven random facts about myself....
1) I am 37 year old grandmother. I was seventeen when I had my daughter and she was nineteen when she gave birth to hers. I was priviledged to be at my grandaughter's birth and I like to think we share a special bond, mostly this consists of her trying to pull my necklace off and me stopping her.
2) I've finished the NaNoWriMo challenge five times out of the eight I've tried it. This doesn't prove I'm a good writer, but does prove the efficaciousness of a looming deadline.
3) I own two guitars. I cannot play either of them. Well, I know about four chords. This is the limit of my musical expertise. They do ramp up the coolness factor of my bedroom though.
4) I don't drive. I took two lessons and scared the life out of myself. I thought I was travelling way too fast at 20 mph. I will always be one of lifes pedestrians. And never the designated driver. Which is fine by me.
5) I am afraid of heights, the dark, horses and things with spinning blades. I do not really consider these to be a problem, just a really well developed sense of self-presevation. After all, plenty of people are scared of spiders but no-one ever got their skull caved in by a skittish orb-weaver.
6) I have a fascination for all things weird and morbid. One of my favourite places in the city is its lovely cemetary, and I love a good documentary about freaks of nature. If it's weird, then I'm all over it. I'll take weird over banal every day of the week.
7) I am a published poet. Back in my teens I had a couple published in a magazine and one displayed as poem of the month in every library in Bradford. I've also, in the last couple of years, had a couple published on Pigmy Giant. Despite this, I scored pretty badly on poetry on my uni creative writing assignments.
8) I have a Diploma in Creative Writing And Literature. This means I have letters after my name and can throw together a story. Sometimes. I also discovered whilst acquiring this diploma that I am a terrible student. Usually starting the assignments mere days (and in one case hours) before the deadline. Deadlines are awesome, it's amazing what you can produce when they are flying towards you.
9) I am an avid Stephen King fan. My bedroom has several shelves devoted just to his books. I read my first (Misery) at 13 and have been collecting them ever since. Only a couple more and I've got pretty much a full set of his novels.
10) I like to walk barefoot outside. There's nothing quite like feeling the earth beneath your feet, whether that be scorching pavement, wet grass or soft warm moss. This does mean I usually have filthy feet in the summer.
11) I've only been abroad once. I was eleven years old (I think) and I went to Amsterdam with the brownies. The ferry crossed back in a force 9 gale and I, for once, was not travel-sick. I would like to travel when my kids have grown a little more (and finances allow).
so... the questions my Dad asked...
If you could come back in another life as an animal, which one would you choose to be?
A cat. Cats are awesome. They sleep when they like, wake up, kill things for pleasure and generally rule the roost. Yup, definitely a cat.
Have you ever owned one of those cars that whatever “Could” go wrong with it, “Did” go wrong? Never owned a car.
Do you believe in other world life forms? Yes, I think there's definitely something out there. I'm not sure it will be found in my lifetime, but yes.
If you had to spend a year on a desert island with just one celebrity for company, who would you choose? This is a hard one. I'm not much of a celeb person. Someone I could have a laugh with so probably a comedian. Adam Hills. Australian comic. Very funny guy.
Which band or entertainer would you most like to see in a live performance?
I would have said Queen, but Freddie is no longer with us. I would love to see Sxip Shirey's Hour Of Charm, especially f it has my favourite artist Jason Webley playing in it.
If you could alter just one physical aspect of yourself, what would it be?
I would love to be tall and slim. Slimmer is a possibility but I think I'm stuck with being a short-arse.
I have been told I am a Jack Russell, which breed of dog would you say you share characteristics with? A labrador. Loyal, sometimes daft, always up for a walk, chews a lot.
If you could choose any make or model of car to own for free, which model would you have?
A VW campervan. A green one. With a split window at the front (and someone to drive it. Obviously)
Which do you prefer, the quiet of the countryside, or the hustle-bustle of the city?
The countryside. I find cities too busy.
Do you have a favourite colour and number? And do you know why?
I don't have a favourite number but I do favour even numbers, they just sound nicer. As for colours, I like blues, purples and greens. My absolute least favourite colour is yellow.
What is your favourite film and book?
I hate this question! How can you choose only one? Currently my favourite film is probably Hedwig And The Angry Inch. Favourite book? Impossible. The one I've re-read most often is probably Stephen king's 'On Writing'. I actually read my first copy into tatters.
Eleven questions for you....
1. If you could pick any name instead of the one you have, what would it be?
2. What is your favourite cryptid?
3. Choose a superpower!
4. What actor would play you in a biopic of your life?
5. What was the last book you read?
6. Have you ever sent a rude text to the wrong person?
7. If you could only use one takeaway for the rest of your life, what sort would it be?
8. Which lessons did you love and hate at school?
9. What have you lost in the house that never turned up?
10. What is your favourite article of clothing and why?11. Where is your favourite place in the world?
I don't know eleven bloggers so here's three...
Iamtypecast
JellyToATree
Jonathan Lawrence
Cheers Dad! Love ya xxx
*The picture is now up! Cheers Dad!
Sunday, 23 December 2012
Favouritism
Favouritism
I did not expect this of you
This stress, all this upset
I look upon you as a sunny one
A happy one
Full of fun and cheer
Not misery
You’re the good one.
You on the other hand...
You seem to bring me nothing
But cursing and dread
I don’t look forward to your arrival
And I say I’m glad to see the back of you
You’re hard work
A jolt to the system
Unlike you, who I welcome
Who I await with glee
And many plans
We shall relax together
You are the highlight of my week
And you are the lowlight
Sneaking in
Before I am ready for battle
Yet, why should I pigeon-hole either of you?
Why should one be just good
And one be unredeemably bad?
You have your own characteristics
Your own needs, strengths and flaws
So why should I favour Friday over Monday
Why should my disappointment be greater if Friday misbehaves
And not gladder when Monday brings me joy?
I should love you all equally.
This idea came to me, that the days of the week have their own personalities, and I really do hate Mondays and love Fridays. Yet why should I? If they were children, it would be grossly unfair.
I did not expect this of you
This stress, all this upset
I look upon you as a sunny one
A happy one
Full of fun and cheer
Not misery
You’re the good one.
You on the other hand...
You seem to bring me nothing
But cursing and dread
I don’t look forward to your arrival
And I say I’m glad to see the back of you
You’re hard work
A jolt to the system
Unlike you, who I welcome
Who I await with glee
And many plans
We shall relax together
You are the highlight of my week
And you are the lowlight
Sneaking in
Before I am ready for battle
Yet, why should I pigeon-hole either of you?
Why should one be just good
And one be unredeemably bad?
You have your own characteristics
Your own needs, strengths and flaws
So why should I favour Friday over Monday
Why should my disappointment be greater if Friday misbehaves
And not gladder when Monday brings me joy?
I should love you all equally.
This idea came to me, that the days of the week have their own personalities, and I really do hate Mondays and love Fridays. Yet why should I? If they were children, it would be grossly unfair.
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Figgis 8: At The Hospital
Latest installment, which is not quite as funny as the others. Writing has been hard this week, family commitments and such. I'm thinking writing every day may be a tad ambitious. Maybe a weekly target of 2 or 3 posts would be more achieveable. I'm not sure, I'll reassess after Christmas. Anyway, enjoy...
At The Hospital
Apparently the three of them were not the only victims of the Transformation Studio. It looked like Dr Moreau’s waiting room up at the local Accident & Emergency unit. A mermaid with human legs but flippers for arms, several human sized bats and a woman covered head to toe in fur were only some of the other people waiting. Figgis tried to engage this last person in conversation, making a joke about at least she didn’t have paws to go with the fur so she could at least shave if it off and look halfway normal.
This got them seen pretty quickly; the punch the woman delivered required stitches. Figgis had never before heard of hypertrichosis. He wasn’t likely to forget it either.
“I can’t believe she hit me!” He moaned.
“Basically you called her a dog,” Bel pointed out, “I think I would have smacked you too.”
Figgis, his newly sutured eyebrow still oozing blood, sighed. “Yeah, as chat up lines go, it wasn’t a terribly good one.”
“Cheer up, fur-face,” Bel gave him a rueful grin, “at least you’re back to normal. Me and Theresa are still shafted.”
They were back in the waiting room after their brief stint in the suture room, it appeared very few of the failed Transformation victims were getting any medical treatment, but there was already posters on the wall offering LO-COST BODY STORAGE and HAD A FAILED TRANSFORMATION? YOU HAVE A CLAIM! NO WIN NO FEE!
“You know what we ought to do?” Theresa said, “we ought to go find wherever the bastards have moved to and demand they make us human again.”
Bel snorted, “yeah, I bet they've left a forwarding address.”
“I bet you could find them on the internet,” Figgis said at last, “that’s how I found them in the first place.”
“Really?” Theresa looked interested, “I just saw the shop walking past.”
“You just saw it and went in?” Bel asked, incredulous, “and you just happened to have a spare million credits to spend? That’s one hell of a impulse buy.”
Theresa shrugged, “I’d been saving up.”
“A million credits? That’s like, two years wages!”
“It was for a house deposit,” Theresa said, and looked perilously close to tears, “I was going to buy a house with my boyfriend.”
“What happened?” Figgis asked, expecting her to confirm her single status, hoping it wasn’t something too tragic. A cheating ex being less tragic than a dead one. Better still, Theresa kicking the ex out. It wasn’t like he was hoping to step into the guys shoe... no wait. That’s pretty much exactly what he fancied doing.
“We split,” Theresa said. “He said he wasn’t ready for commitment.”
Figgis mentally hoorayed. Commitment he could do. Hell, he could go all the way through commitment into low-level stalking if that’s what she needed. Not major stalking though, that tended to get people looking at you strange and police officers having Quiet Words.
"How about you two?” Theresa asked, “how did you afford it?”
“I won it,” Figgis admitted. “Stuck hundred creds on the lottery, won ten million.”
Bel whistled. “Not bad, drinks on you then."
“What about you?” Theresa asked Bel.
“The opposite to you, I sold my house so I could lease it instead.” Bel sighed, “I decided to live out the rest of my days in reckless days and wild debauchery.”
And now Figgis got an inkling of real tragedy. He didn’t ask what she meant by ‘the rest of my days’, he didn’t have to.
“You’re dying?” Theresa clapped both hands over her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t...”
“Well, not now, obviously.” Bel grinned and shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, I asked for immortality and I’ve gotten it.”
Only one thing puzzled Figgis, “so why ask to be rehumanised? If you’re just going to die if you do?”
“I was sort of hoping they’d sort all that out." She got up from the seat she was pretending to sit on and wafted towards the window, not looking at her new friends. “On second thoughts, you’re right, sod being rehumanised, we should just go out and have fun instead.”
“But these wings...”
“Are sexy as all hell,” Figgis got to his feet. “Fuck this, who wants a pint? It’s my round.” he held out his hand and Theresa slipped hers into it.
“Let’s go then,” Theresa smiled.
And then they walked out of the hospital into the hazy spring sunshine.
“Wait a minute, you’ve left me behind,” Bel complained. “Are you just going to leave me propped up in the bloody waiting room?”
Figgis sighed. This was not the happy ending he’d hoped for...
At The Hospital
Apparently the three of them were not the only victims of the Transformation Studio. It looked like Dr Moreau’s waiting room up at the local Accident & Emergency unit. A mermaid with human legs but flippers for arms, several human sized bats and a woman covered head to toe in fur were only some of the other people waiting. Figgis tried to engage this last person in conversation, making a joke about at least she didn’t have paws to go with the fur so she could at least shave if it off and look halfway normal.
This got them seen pretty quickly; the punch the woman delivered required stitches. Figgis had never before heard of hypertrichosis. He wasn’t likely to forget it either.
“I can’t believe she hit me!” He moaned.
“Basically you called her a dog,” Bel pointed out, “I think I would have smacked you too.”
Figgis, his newly sutured eyebrow still oozing blood, sighed. “Yeah, as chat up lines go, it wasn’t a terribly good one.”
“Cheer up, fur-face,” Bel gave him a rueful grin, “at least you’re back to normal. Me and Theresa are still shafted.”
They were back in the waiting room after their brief stint in the suture room, it appeared very few of the failed Transformation victims were getting any medical treatment, but there was already posters on the wall offering LO-COST BODY STORAGE and HAD A FAILED TRANSFORMATION? YOU HAVE A CLAIM! NO WIN NO FEE!
“You know what we ought to do?” Theresa said, “we ought to go find wherever the bastards have moved to and demand they make us human again.”
Bel snorted, “yeah, I bet they've left a forwarding address.”
“I bet you could find them on the internet,” Figgis said at last, “that’s how I found them in the first place.”
“Really?” Theresa looked interested, “I just saw the shop walking past.”
“You just saw it and went in?” Bel asked, incredulous, “and you just happened to have a spare million credits to spend? That’s one hell of a impulse buy.”
Theresa shrugged, “I’d been saving up.”
“A million credits? That’s like, two years wages!”
“It was for a house deposit,” Theresa said, and looked perilously close to tears, “I was going to buy a house with my boyfriend.”
“What happened?” Figgis asked, expecting her to confirm her single status, hoping it wasn’t something too tragic. A cheating ex being less tragic than a dead one. Better still, Theresa kicking the ex out. It wasn’t like he was hoping to step into the guys shoe... no wait. That’s pretty much exactly what he fancied doing.
“We split,” Theresa said. “He said he wasn’t ready for commitment.”
Figgis mentally hoorayed. Commitment he could do. Hell, he could go all the way through commitment into low-level stalking if that’s what she needed. Not major stalking though, that tended to get people looking at you strange and police officers having Quiet Words.
"How about you two?” Theresa asked, “how did you afford it?”
“I won it,” Figgis admitted. “Stuck hundred creds on the lottery, won ten million.”
Bel whistled. “Not bad, drinks on you then."
“What about you?” Theresa asked Bel.
“The opposite to you, I sold my house so I could lease it instead.” Bel sighed, “I decided to live out the rest of my days in reckless days and wild debauchery.”
And now Figgis got an inkling of real tragedy. He didn’t ask what she meant by ‘the rest of my days’, he didn’t have to.
“You’re dying?” Theresa clapped both hands over her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t...”
“Well, not now, obviously.” Bel grinned and shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, I asked for immortality and I’ve gotten it.”
Only one thing puzzled Figgis, “so why ask to be rehumanised? If you’re just going to die if you do?”
“I was sort of hoping they’d sort all that out." She got up from the seat she was pretending to sit on and wafted towards the window, not looking at her new friends. “On second thoughts, you’re right, sod being rehumanised, we should just go out and have fun instead.”
“But these wings...”
“Are sexy as all hell,” Figgis got to his feet. “Fuck this, who wants a pint? It’s my round.” he held out his hand and Theresa slipped hers into it.
“Let’s go then,” Theresa smiled.
And then they walked out of the hospital into the hazy spring sunshine.
“Wait a minute, you’ve left me behind,” Bel complained. “Are you just going to leave me propped up in the bloody waiting room?”
Figgis sighed. This was not the happy ending he’d hoped for...
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