A Dialogue

This was an idea that came to me during the crime writing thing. It was amazing how just spending a day with people who were interested in words started lots of stuff ticking off in my mind. Wish it happened more. Anyway, this is a straight onto the page thing. I hope it's a bit chilling.

Dialogue.

'I don't know why I can't live with your brother. Your brother would treat me much better than you do.'

'He's in America, Mum.'

'Doing a proper job, earning money, not like you.'

'I'm looking after you, Jack and the kids, Mum.'

'You're not doing a very good job.'

'Here, Mum, take your pills.'

'I've already taken them.'

'No Mum, that was this morning's lot.'

'Oh, alright then. Why doesn't Alice come visit any more?'

'Alice died, Mum, a year ago.'

'I liked talking to Alice, I don't like talking to you.'

'What would you like for tea, Mum?'

'Are you cooking it?'

'Yes, Mum.'

'Oh dear.'

'Here, Mum, take your pills.'

'I've already taken them.'

'No Mum, Your memory's going, that was this morning's lot.'

'Oh alright then.'

'I'll just do you the same as the kids then, for tea?'

'Not mash, your mash is lumpy, makes me want to be sick. I don't know why Jack married you.'

'We're very happy.'

'He deserves better, look at you.'

I've got a lot on, Mum.'

I'm tired, Janice.'

'So am I, Mum.'

'I think, I think, I'll close my eyes for a bit. I. I can't think straight.'

'Neither can I, Mum. But Before you go to sleep, you need to take your pills.'

'I thought, I thought I'd already taken them.'

'No Mum, that was this morning's lot. But don't worry, these are the last ones. I love you, Mum.'

'Go away.'

'I love you, Mum.'



(Obviously, there are pacing issues here and it could probably do with a bit of slowing down but I think the idea comes across. If you have any thoughts I would love to hear them.)

Exercises.

These are two ten minute exercises from the 'Spring into Summer,' crime writing workshop taken by Danuta Rhea. Thought I'd bob them here. Both these are straight onto the page and written in about ten minutes each.

An exercise in creating rising tension.

DCI Jack Broom hated the Dale centre multi storey, didn't know why he'd parked there. Sat between the spiky architecture of the Norman church and the smooth Victorian curves of the wool exchange only exaggerated its monstrousness. The other buildings here felt real, lived in, designed to bring you in and through them, to be part of them. The car park was blocky, aggressive, as mechanical and cold as the scattering of cars that had been left there through the day. No paths or aisles, just roads making him feel like a kid again, walking along giant's pavements.

A shiver went down his back as he moved from the street and the concrete cube blocked out the sun

Don't step on the cracks, Jack, don't step on the cracks.

Five storeys to go, he thumbed the lift, moving from one leg to the other as he waited reading the graffiti. John -heart- Jane. Jane crossed through, below it 'jane is a slag.

'Not any more,' he said, under his breath, 'unless your tastes run to necrophilia.' Again, that cold shudder running through him as the lift stopped with a metallic, angry squeal.

He waited for the doors to open.

They didn't. Somewhere in the upper levels an expensive, highly tuned engine coughed into angry life.

An Exercise in Writing Dialogue.

'Daddy,' Lizzy pulled at the quilt, her voice rising to a shriek, 'Daddy, daddy wake up.'

'It's too early,' the words came out as a groan and he pulled the pillow over his head, 'go to your Grandad, Lizzy'

'Grandad is sleepy,' she pulled harder at the quilt. 'I want cbeebies. Grandad won't wake up.'

'Then try again,' he pulled the pillow down harder, willing the world away. 'I'm hungover, Lizzy. I just need left alone for a little.'

'I can hangover the bed,' he heard tiny enthusiastic footsteps scamper around to his side of the bed and turned his head away from the sound. 'Do you want to see?' she asked.

'No, Lizzy' Daddy is sleepy,' he willed her away with a wince, 'go to your Grandad.'

'Have you had some of Grandad's special sweeties, Daddy?'

'Lizzy,' his voice came out through the pillow muffled and fuzzy, exactly like he felt, 'Daddy is very tired. Go to your Grandad.'

'I've had some of Grandad's special sweeties,' he could hear her twirling round. 'Grandad smells, he smells like the cat.'

'The Cat's dead Lizzy, gone to be with jJesus. Now please, just give me half an hour.'

'I feel sick Daddy.'

'Well,' he tried to pull the quilt up over his head, his weak hands slipping on the dirty material 'tell your Grandad.'

'I feel sleepy too now Daddy,' she let out a huge yawn. 'Grandad's special sweeties make you sleepy don't they?'

'Yes, yes they do,' his head was pounding. 'Why don't you go lie down with Grandad, Lizzy.'

'I'm going to be like Grandad,' she said, walking out the door, her eyelids beginning to shut.

'You do that sweetheart,' said Daddy, 'You be like your Grandad.'

International Short Story Day.

'It's international short story day so this is my thing for it. I've hawked it about and it's always come back with flat no's. It's a bit experimental and it may be that it just doesn't work but I think it does, maybe. Possibly the pacing is a little off towards the end but that's sort of the point. I think it gets what I want across. It's also one of those things I've written that I'm genuinely appalled by. The language and attitude of it are all so totally alien to me that it may be part of my doubts about it. Don't know. Anyway, I don't think enjoy is the right word but maybe it is.  I really like the title but it probably makes more sense once you've finished.

And Then a Sudden Deterioration of the Situation.

8.48pm on the sort of hot summer Friday where the pissing down rain seems like gift. The rainbow scent of curry wafted over from a nearby restaurant as my partner, Detective Sergeant Milo Bonn give Agam Singh the kicking of his fucking life in an underpass. I stood out in the rain, showing the badge, moving people on.

'Police business love,' all that. Most people just wanted to get inside, quick and the Heckler and Kosch MP5 I held at port arms scared away all but the most drunk. The weight of the gun felt like a ghost from Afghanistan.

A couple of barely dressed girls; giddy with drink, too young and stupid to be anything more than curious about the sounds of violence, tried to peer behind me and into the darkness of the tunnel.

'Fuck off,' I whispered into blond hair rock-solid with cheap, eye-watering, hair-spray and they cackled as they moved away in quick, tottering steps. They probably wanted to get to the next pub before their hairdos were ruined. In the moment before the veil of rain obscured their features one of the girls gave me the finger.

Eyes screwed up in distrust behind the veil.

We'd just returned from the chippy when we got the call. I was relieved. Milo had been in full, ranting, flow about his divorce - again. You could never forget his voice; as acrid and coarse as the vinegar fumes that filled the car and heavy with threat no matter the subject. As he gestured and shouted he spilled chips and spat little gobs of food out to hit the inside of the windscreen where they stuck. Moist white dots spattered across the glass.

'Fucking witch! Talking about pressing fucking charges. Cunt.'

I mentally faded out Milo's harsh grate out as a report came in over the radio. A car matching the description of one used in a shooting up in Undercliffe had been found abandoned in the car park near the Inland Revenue building in the centre of the city, engine still warm. I threw my food out the window and hit the lights as Milo hit the accelerator. Ten minutes later we were doing an armed sweep of the city centre; just in case they were still there.

Which isn't as unlikely as it sounds. Most criminals are thick as fuck.

We'd been searching half an hour and it had become pretty obvious we weren't going to find anything. That's when we came across Agam.

Agam Singh was a career burglar and smalltime dealer who spent most of his cash on speed, cider and prozzies. A nothing. Always unlucky. Never the type to carry a gun. We came across him and Milo recognized him. Got in his face, got in his territory, dwarfing the wiry little man with his own bulk.

They had a quick, whispered conversation that ended in an explosive shout from Milo.

'Fucking cunt!'

Milo grabbed Agam by the lapels of his dirty jacket and dragged him into the underpass. Shooting me a knowing look as he continued to scream abuse at the panicking man.

I didn’t know why Milo was giving him such a kicking. Grunting with each kick. Punctuating each blow with a curse. His voice rising and falling with effort.

'Kick. Your fucking. Face in. You fucking. Cunt. Bastard.' Echoed through the underpass.

Maybe he thought Agam knew something. Maybe he knew something about Agam. Maybe Ali Baba had said something to Milo. Maybe he’d spat at us.

That happens a lot in these small villages .

I didn't approve of what was going on and there was no way I was going to take part in it. But I knew Milo would have a good reason for it.

The kicking.

Even without a good reason. I wouldn’t try and stop Milo Bonn. I didn't need that sort of grief. We called him ‘The Neanderthal’ but never to his face.

He knew though.

He liked it.

I didn't mind partnering with him, we'd both gone from the police to the army and back again, both done tours so we shared a lot of experiences and, say what you want about him, Milo got things done. It also helped that I could call in a lot of favours from cops who wanted to swap out of working with Milo. Everything balanced out in the end.

When he’d finished pasting Agam, Milo sauntered out from the underpass, wiping his bald head with a hand before putting his riot helmet back on. Behind Milo Agam crawled sluggishly out the underpass; oozing blood from every hole, a blood-slime trial marking his progress over the tiny, dirty blue tiles that made up the floor of the underpass. The place smelt like the open sewers of Kabul.

Milo gave me a grin. He had a face like a baby, soft and round; though his blue eyes were colder than any kids. He showed his teeth again and shook his head as he held up a small baggie of marijuana.

'Spoils of war. Fucking little cunt…'

You learn to recognize the killers. Learn it at the checkpoints, the ones with nothing left in their eyes apart from the determination to do what it is they intend to do.

You have a split second to act. I knew what was in Agam's hand. There was no maybe about it. It wasn’t a toy, it wasn't a fake. There was a heaviness in the way he held it. A specific mechanical purpose in the way he moved. He was so badly damaged: he was so determined to strike back.

My reaction was instantaneous. I didn’t warn him that I was armed. I didn’t ask him to drop it. I didn’t even shout out that I was the police.

Take stance.

AimFire.

I shot the boy between the eyes.

Identify-yourself -- Run-forward-- do-not-take-the-barrel-of-the-gun-off-the-target -- kick-away-any-visible-weapon.

I shouted it.

'British Armed Forces! Drop your weapon!' and again. 'Armed Police! Drop. Your. Weapon.' I didn’t think he was alive. Training. I had to say it. Shoot it out.

Armied Police.

Make-the-target-aware-before-you-fire.

Adrenalin powered through me. I pushed Agam with my foot. Small hole in his forehead. Slightly off centre.

Not a perfect shooting.

He rolled, moving like a doll filled with wet sand. Dead, you don’t do a tour without knowing dead. He’d pissed and shit himself.

Brains and bright blood splattered the turquoise wall of the subway.

I turned to Milo, adrenaline draining from me, to say, 'that was a close one.'

Milo slumped against the wall of the subway under the twitching shadows of a flickering neon. His legs splayed out in a 'v'. He looked uncomfortable, wrong. His riot helmet was about three and a half meters down the mosaic floor of the subway. It rocked slightly: noisily. His naked head: seeming jaundiced under the flashing sodium light.

I ran across the desert sand, keeping low and screaming into my radio. 'The Sergeant's down. Sarge is down.'

I thought he was dead. I turned him. Blood streaming from his mouth. Those cold blue eyes aware, alive. He didn't look like a baby any more. He had a face like a clenched fist as he bit down on the pain. I checked his body. A hole as big as my hand in the front of his vest. I’d not even seen the gun go off.

Focus-on-the-target.

Mind racing. The hole was huge. For some reason it seemed incredibly important to find Agam's gun. So I knew the calibre of the bullet. Stupid. Stupid.

Combat can make your mind work in funny ways.

I pulled off my helmet, better to search for the gun without the narrowed view of the riot helmet. Found it.

'Moving!'

Milo grabbed my arm. It felt like being cuffed. I thought that’s what he'd done. It was a joke. He'd set this up with Agam and now he’d got me near he'd slipped on the cuffs as proof that he’d outsmarted to me.

When he spoke I knew it wasn’t a joke; harsh, gurgling, chewing out the words.

'Did you get him?'

'What?' surprised he could speak. His hand felt cold through my wet jersey.

He started again. Even though he was shot, he was furious at having to ask the same question twice. I could see it in his eyes

'Did. You.'

'Yes, the towel head's dead, we’ll piss on his gr…'

He squeezed my arm so hard I thought something would break.

'Fucking look at me, Steve,' it came out as a hiss.

Those action-hero eyes locked with mine.

'You have my undying,' gasp, spit. 'Fucking,' rattling breath. 'Gratitude.' He passed out. According to the pathologists report his undying gratitude lasted another four minutes.

But the pathologist was wrong.

The first time I heard from Milo again was a week after my demotion.

Not mental things. Not his voice talking bollocks or telling me to worship the devil and kill students. It'd have been easy if it was that cos then I’d know I was a mental.

My arrest rate has shot up over the last two years.

Thanks to Milo.

Honest to fucking God.

The first big one was a week after the wife first mentioned divorce. Anonymous caller and we found a prozzie dead on the Lane, stabbed once. Clean kill.

A few suspects. We liked the husband for it but he had an alibi; he’d been fighting in the Crown and Crescent over Leeds way and got arrested the night of the murder. He could still have done it but it would have been tight timewise. Any good lawyer would destroy us on it without a confession. We were looking at johns and doing a canvass around the estate where she’d lived, just in case someone saw something.

I was on my seventh ‘fuck off’ when Milo started talking. Telling me he knew who’d done it. After the stress of the inquiry into Agam's death my own instincts had fled and I'd come to rely on Milo's hints. It’d been little nudges at first. Barely a bastard whisper, but always right. I carried on with the canvass while his voice told me we could solve this.

Another three ‘fuck off's’ from friendly housewives trying to peacefully shout at their kids and by then Milo wouldn't fucking shut up.

Those nudges though.

Always right before.

I binned my canvassing sheet and clipboard to follow the voice of a dead man. It wasn’t just the vague directions of a celebrity psychic. These were definitive. A rat-tat-tat in my head.

“Fucking bastard, she was only twenny-one. Fucking cunt. Left. Bastard. Fucking head kicked in, fucker. Left and first left. Fucking bastards. Twenny one. Fucking cunt. Needs a good fucking kicking. Twenty one! Left.”

Building. Hateful. Always right.

Nasty bastard murdering a twenty one year old. Little fucker. Milo’s voice swearing and giving directions. Animal rage building up. I just wanted to rip shit out of whoever answered the door.

The husband.

Just like we thought.

Fucker.

He could see Milo in my eyes, knew what Milo was capable of. The fucker fell down to his knees. His face seemed to stretch and he let out a moan, started sniveling and crying. I hardly had to hit him at all before he coughed up. Just kept saying, 'I’m sorry,' and 'I didn’t mean it,' for about five minutes. I stared down at him, breathing heavily. My leg twitched; wanting to give out a kicking. Instead I hissed.

'You fucking cunt.'

I bent down, cuffed him and called it in.

The wife wanted counselling. Said she knew I'd been through a lot and we should try and make things work. Cunt.

Milo’s always with me. He won't leave

The other cops are so fucking stupid sometimes, I have to shout them down in case meetings. Such fucking stupid bastards. I know who's done it. I don't need to hear their words only Milo's.

Same at home.

Fucking them. Bastards.

The voice, the hints. He's always right.

He never shuts up. It’s fucking there from the head moment I get up to the bastard moment I drink myself cunt in to sleep.

It’s been getting harder to kick your fucking head in and harder to ignore.

And I lost it last week. Not even with a fucking bastard criminal.

With another cop.

Did my head in over a parking space.

Cunt.

Needed a fucking bastard kicking.

They had to drag me off him.

Go home.

See the shrink.

Get away from the job for a while.

Sort things out at home Steve.

Milo can't quit the job, fucker.

He doesn’t go away just because I’m not at bastard work. And he doesn’t have the outlet I need anymore. She's taking about divorce again. Cunt. A fucking reminder here kicking and there to make sure the bastards tell it straight is all that's needed. Don't go, please. The tension in my neck. Kick fucking the head in cunt. What have I done?

Where do I begin?

Whose face in the mirror?

The sound of violence.

Eternally fucking grateful

I need help.

A specific mechanical purpose

Kick the fucking cunt in.

Armied Police!

Don't leave.

Blood splattering the wall.

What.

Have.

I.

Done.

AimFire.

Poem - Around the World in 730 Days.

Around the World in 730 Days.

I bought a globe.

To make the journeys in my head

I never can in my body

Dr Fingertip I presume?

Lost in darkest Africa,

(You can't say that now but the globe is an antique.

so I'm not being racist, it's historical.

Which makes everything fine.

Excusing the atrocities of Empire with a jolly wave

'All that's past now'.)

The Earth is smooth beneath my hand

Not fractious or lumpy

Spins easily

If you apply a little oil.

Or it would

If I had a globe

I don't

The toddler would break it anyway

He doesn't think of the consequences when he acts

The boy is two now

He is an excellent little metaphor.

I love him.

But I wish I had a globe.

Instead, I imagine, imaginary journeys

Across a smooth paper sea.

To lands I will never visit.

Stuff.

Again this is written the same way as the last one following the path of the words. It's just written so I have no real opinion of it. I like the bit about the world being flat below my hand though.

Poem thing. - A Sequence.

A Quantum Sequence

Every moment a held breath

A shower of white blossom

(in potential)

The step

from summer to winter

a run to a limp

a skip to a slide

The ice is treacherous here.

I lost my footing once.

Came un-

stuck in, mired.

My own devising

(of)

My own problem

(s)

My own solutions

(are)

Often backwards thinking.

A radial reality

I sit upon

This one spoke

Volumes to me

If I were louder?

(Worry: you may be heard.)

Would I listen and learn?

Or continue

in circles.

Seasonal

Every moment a held breath.




This is a first draft written by just following the chains the words make. I like some of the imagery in it and the overall shape, the way it moves from simple to (slightly) more complex imagery. On the other hand it feels uncomfortably serious for me. Almost as if there is something in my subconscious trying to get out (I'm not sure there is).

Clearly, there are autobiographical elements in anything you write just by using 'automatic writing' but I'm not sure what this sequence of words hints at. I think I will revise it, definitely remove the word 'seasonal' as it feels clumsy. Maybe strengthen the hint of parallel realities within the idea of radial spokes. 

Maybe it is about ageing. Dunno. I generally think it is the readers job to find things within something that can be as vague as poetry.

Choose your own adventure 2

Having read the nonsense about some stupid choose your own adventure game you decide not to bother. Clearly, this is some sad and lonely fool crying out for attention. And really, Generia? Come on, it's not even very clever.

Mind made up you have breakfast and decide to go for a walk. Once outside you can't help but notice everyone is looking at you. A fair amount of them are sniggering. A boy in a hoodie cycles past on a beaten up BMX and shouts, 'nice pants!' at you. You think about shooting him with your bow, Shooty, but decide better of it, besides, the pouring rain would make your arrows slippery.

In horror, you realise it is to late, you are already playing the choose your own adventure game and worse, it doesn't start until tomorrow. You turn to go back home but the trees have closed around the path behind you. You have no choice but to go on into the suburbs and put up with the twitching of curtains and constant sniggering about your furry outfit. You try and find an inn but do not have enough money for a room at the Travelodge and they think you're a bit weird.

You wander about longing for a homeless shelter but they have all downsized due to lack of funding and do not have room. You get ready for a cold and damp night on the streets.

If you can roll a six you successfully mug a tramp and steal his sleeping bag.

***Childish nonsense postponed due to ill and small boy being asked to attend the northern ballet.***

Choose your own adventure.

Generia, a land familiar to all and yet different enough to avoid copyright problems, stretches from the Dragonliketeeth Mountains of Snjowvinlandia in the north to the ever shifting sands of Arabish in the south where swarthy men race shamels and worship heathen gods. In the capital city of Generia, Thyngumy, amid towering edifices of oldness stand the hundred mighty statues of the City's fierce gods that protect her people and aren't heathen at all for some reason I can't quite work out.

It is in Thyngumy that you were born an orphan and then, along with thousands of others, whisked away by kindly priests who raised you as their own children who, if they had any, would also have been bloodthirsty warriors. For eighteen years you have trained hard in all the martial arts, sticking, slicing, hitting, batting, nipping and name calling. You are the foremost among your fellows.

Upon your name day you were brought before the hight priest, Hippocrastinese, and finally told why you had been worked so hard for all of your young life. Shockingly, for people who have never read a book, it turns out that is is statistically likely that you (or one of the thousands of others taken by this actually-quite-sinister-if-you-think-about-it order) may be the one to fulfill an ancient prophecy.

Shocked by this revelation you sit and the priest tells you that before you leave on your quest you must give him some information. First, he asks your name. Before you can get annoyed at the fact this man has trained you for eighteen years and can't remember your name you remember that a mysterious order has to have some mysteries or it isn't very mysterious and presume this is just one of them.

Then Hippocrastinese asks you what sex you are, explaining they were never sure and thought it rude to ask until now. This quite annoys you.

Lastly he asks you what race you are, explaining that for himself he's really not bothered about such things but there are quotas you know and they wouldn't want anyone to feel left out though just between you and him he does think dwarves smell a bit.

Then he asks you to leave your character details in the comments and when the game starts on Tuesday the 12^th to use the hashtag #CYOA on twitter. Bemused by these ritual words you gather your equipment:

Female Characters get class specific armour.

The Revealing Armour Bikini of Protection.

Male Characters get class specific armour.

The Swollen Manpouch of Protective Stuffing.

All Characters carry the Massive Greatsword 'Impractica' and a magical bow called I dunno, Shooty or something*.

Now, prepare to leave and begin the quest of....

THE WARLOCK OF DUNGEON TRAPPED DEATHS!

*I've given this literally minutes of thought. 

Poem thing.

An Entirely Heartfelt Poor Quality Play on Words.

I am ill,

The Toddler outruns me.

I hope he always will

Lost in a ball,

A globe

The globe.

Take what I know.

Outshine me, son.