In 2010 I will be re-introducing the Frantic Flash Competitions, run every weekend.
The idea is simple. Sign up for the weekend (and your first story) and you will receive a set of prompts at set times over the weekend and have up to 75 minutes to write a flash and submit it.
There will be six time slots per weekend and you can enter 1-2-3-4-5 or six times (each entry for a fee).
At least 50% of entry fees will be paid out in prizes and all entrants will be able to view all the (author-anonymous) flashes in a closed area of Boot Camp, comment and rate.
Winning entries (and selected finalists) will enter a second competition for a second, larger prize.
Copyright will remain with authors.
Winning stories will be published on this blog (author-anonymously) BUT ONLY IF the author grants permission.
If you are interested in Frantic Flash please comment here or email alex.keegan
at btinternet.com
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Interview and a Couple of Stories
A few weeks ago I did an interview for Express FM in Portsmouth and read a couple of unpublished flashes.
Click on "Interview" above
Click on "Interview" above
Imagine this:
Imagine this:
A group of twenty young men decide they want to be soldiers. They vary in age and life-experience but the one thing they have in common is that none has ever fired a gun or faced an enemy.
But these are keen young men. They find each other on the internet and form a self-help group, promising each other to understand their dreams and to be kind in pointing at each other’s faults.
Of course, since none of the participants actually knows how to strip a rifle, or how to fire a gun from cover, they make rather bad soldiers. In their first engagement they all die.
A group of twenty or so men and women decide they want to be writers. They vary in age and life-experience but the one thing they have in common is that none has ever been seriously taught creative writing, or written extensively or submitted, or been published.
But these are keen young aspiring writers. They find each other on the internet and form a self-help group, promising each other to understand their respective dreams and to be kind in pointing at each other’s faults.
Of course, since none of the participants actually knows how to strip down a story, or how to write well, how to edit, they make rather bad writers. In their first engagement with reality they fail miserably.
Another twenty aspiring soldiers enlist and find themselves drilling, going on runs, doing callisthenics. “Why?” they cry out. They just want to have guns and go shoot the bad guys. Their hard-bitten Sergeant tells them they are not ready. They are not fit. They are not tough. They are not trained in self-defence or military craft. They need months, probably years to become ordinary soldiers, and then, if they work and work at their craft as green new members of their units, one day they might actually be good soldiers. They might survive long enough to be tough old soldiers like their sergeant. One day they might teach a new batch of kids.
But why should we believe you, they wonder? What makes you special, Sergeant?
Well, I was like you once. I was naïve, stupid, green and untrained. An old war-horse of a sergeant taught me first how to stay alive, second how to protect my comrades, third how to get better and maximise my chances in combat.
And he points to his medals (if his presence isn’t enough) and the recruits read of his exploits. They know he has been under fire and survived. He shows them that he can strip a rifle in fifteen seconds, put it together in another fifteen. He shows them he can knock down the biggest man in the group without breaking sweat.
If beginning writers work solely with other beginning writers, they have no mentors, no experience to call on. If a more forceful or more outspoken beginner makes a statement of “fact” in error the less forceful and more easily-led might well accept that fact and cement the error. Since one of the stronger voices says this, and others in the group concur, bad habits become routine and widespread.
Beginning writers seeking out other beginning writers is at best naïve, at worse, stupidity.
Why, then, does it happen?
It happens because few of these wannabee writers are prepared to face the simple truths about any craft. It takes a sustained effort over an extended period of time, hours and hours of practice, practice, practice for weeks, months, even years to even start to become a writer.
Why not, instead, “hang” with a load of people who will say nice things about me and my work (in return for me saying nice things about them and their work.) Not only that but the more active among us can set up little magazines with editorial standards that almost match our abilities. We can all “be published”.
Our internet groups can grow and we will, of course, be the founder-members, the old-guard, the inner-circle. We will be the leaders of this, in principle, same-old self-help group, just bigger and more glossy (and probably with its own in-house internet magazine publishing the older hands.)
A group of twenty young men decide they want to be soldiers. They vary in age and life-experience but the one thing they have in common is that none has ever fired a gun or faced an enemy.
But these are keen young men. They find each other on the internet and form a self-help group, promising each other to understand their dreams and to be kind in pointing at each other’s faults.
Of course, since none of the participants actually knows how to strip a rifle, or how to fire a gun from cover, they make rather bad soldiers. In their first engagement they all die.
A group of twenty or so men and women decide they want to be writers. They vary in age and life-experience but the one thing they have in common is that none has ever been seriously taught creative writing, or written extensively or submitted, or been published.
But these are keen young aspiring writers. They find each other on the internet and form a self-help group, promising each other to understand their respective dreams and to be kind in pointing at each other’s faults.
Of course, since none of the participants actually knows how to strip down a story, or how to write well, how to edit, they make rather bad writers. In their first engagement with reality they fail miserably.
Another twenty aspiring soldiers enlist and find themselves drilling, going on runs, doing callisthenics. “Why?” they cry out. They just want to have guns and go shoot the bad guys. Their hard-bitten Sergeant tells them they are not ready. They are not fit. They are not tough. They are not trained in self-defence or military craft. They need months, probably years to become ordinary soldiers, and then, if they work and work at their craft as green new members of their units, one day they might actually be good soldiers. They might survive long enough to be tough old soldiers like their sergeant. One day they might teach a new batch of kids.
But why should we believe you, they wonder? What makes you special, Sergeant?
Well, I was like you once. I was naïve, stupid, green and untrained. An old war-horse of a sergeant taught me first how to stay alive, second how to protect my comrades, third how to get better and maximise my chances in combat.
And he points to his medals (if his presence isn’t enough) and the recruits read of his exploits. They know he has been under fire and survived. He shows them that he can strip a rifle in fifteen seconds, put it together in another fifteen. He shows them he can knock down the biggest man in the group without breaking sweat.
If beginning writers work solely with other beginning writers, they have no mentors, no experience to call on. If a more forceful or more outspoken beginner makes a statement of “fact” in error the less forceful and more easily-led might well accept that fact and cement the error. Since one of the stronger voices says this, and others in the group concur, bad habits become routine and widespread.
Beginning writers seeking out other beginning writers is at best naïve, at worse, stupidity.
Why, then, does it happen?
It happens because few of these wannabee writers are prepared to face the simple truths about any craft. It takes a sustained effort over an extended period of time, hours and hours of practice, practice, practice for weeks, months, even years to even start to become a writer.
Why not, instead, “hang” with a load of people who will say nice things about me and my work (in return for me saying nice things about them and their work.) Not only that but the more active among us can set up little magazines with editorial standards that almost match our abilities. We can all “be published”.
Our internet groups can grow and we will, of course, be the founder-members, the old-guard, the inner-circle. We will be the leaders of this, in principle, same-old self-help group, just bigger and more glossy (and probably with its own in-house internet magazine publishing the older hands.)
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Prompts Thursday 22nd October
And then by drowning
Maggot
The three car crash
Wounded bird, tree
We only remember their names
Red Slippers
We ride into battle, our horses do not volunteer
A House with green wallpaper
Eggs
Rock and Bloody Roll
The Arbortionist's Lunch
I will not come out until someone apologises
I made a sculpture of my father, without a heart
You Have Mail!
How many Eggs for Breakfast, Caesar? (Ate Two, Brute)
The nature of bad jokes
A black cat at midnight, in an unlit coal mine
Grandmother, blood
Maggot
The three car crash
Wounded bird, tree
We only remember their names
Red Slippers
We ride into battle, our horses do not volunteer
A House with green wallpaper
Eggs
Rock and Bloody Roll
The Arbortionist's Lunch
I will not come out until someone apologises
I made a sculpture of my father, without a heart
You Have Mail!
How many Eggs for Breakfast, Caesar? (Ate Two, Brute)
The nature of bad jokes
A black cat at midnight, in an unlit coal mine
Grandmother, blood
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
28 Days: Wednesday 21st Prompts
Women in neon passing the window
Career Path
Plain-Clothes detectives are operating in this store
Tripod
What I was about to say
In my attic
She leaves the nursery and begins to walk
There is a pause in the music
Another Toy
I will choose a child not my colour
All the ships have left, the last plane
A Silver Bracelet
So I opened the parcel
ACID
I stood once, at a window in a storm
Tomorrow or Not
Eating Electricity
SAND
Career Path
Plain-Clothes detectives are operating in this store
Tripod
What I was about to say
In my attic
She leaves the nursery and begins to walk
There is a pause in the music
Another Toy
I will choose a child not my colour
All the ships have left, the last plane
A Silver Bracelet
So I opened the parcel
ACID
I stood once, at a window in a storm
Tomorrow or Not
Eating Electricity
SAND
Friday, October 16, 2009
28 Days: Prompts Friday 16th
And for another twenty-five pounds, a neat leather wallet
Frozen Shoulder
I Have My Lover's Heart (in the fridge)
Come Live With Me and be my fuck-buddy
Shall I compare thee to a 0-0 draw in Crewe on a wet Monday?
Here, have an onion
Bloody Men!
Flea
Catch a Falling Star and Put Him in Hello
Drink to Me, Leona
Gather a few roses and that
You waste your time and mine
When I consider how my life has whistled past
Had we but world enough, and time
There is no one like Sally
Listen, the Curfew Bell
I had a goldfish
I will have a cat named Beatrice
And when a lovely woman
The harbour is still, the sea is low and swollen
Frozen Shoulder
I Have My Lover's Heart (in the fridge)
Come Live With Me and be my fuck-buddy
Shall I compare thee to a 0-0 draw in Crewe on a wet Monday?
Here, have an onion
Bloody Men!
Flea
Catch a Falling Star and Put Him in Hello
Drink to Me, Leona
Gather a few roses and that
You waste your time and mine
When I consider how my life has whistled past
Had we but world enough, and time
There is no one like Sally
Listen, the Curfew Bell
I had a goldfish
I will have a cat named Beatrice
And when a lovely woman
The harbour is still, the sea is low and swollen
Thursday, October 15, 2009
28 Days Prompts. Thursday 15th October
The Dogs are Gone
In Eastbourne, or Lewes. Well Brighton Way
The Rain it was that killed us
Two Bites
Forgive me. I am about to break wind
He hit him in the head
Three lonely guys and a sad old dog
Mary Ellen at the Pawn Shop door, baby in her hand and the bundle on the floor
Polishing the threshhold
Gangplank
The wind off the sea whipping our faces
Bugs live in spotless houses
Soaping, scrubbing, swilling off
He moved from Salop to Splott
Coal Dust signature
This is Tom. This is Jane. Tom Loves Jane. Jane loves Frank.
A soiled mattress, bugs, probably
ORCHID
In about 1900, here or hereabouts
In Eastbourne, or Lewes. Well Brighton Way
The Rain it was that killed us
Two Bites
Forgive me. I am about to break wind
He hit him in the head
Three lonely guys and a sad old dog
Mary Ellen at the Pawn Shop door, baby in her hand and the bundle on the floor
Polishing the threshhold
Gangplank
The wind off the sea whipping our faces
Bugs live in spotless houses
Soaping, scrubbing, swilling off
He moved from Salop to Splott
Coal Dust signature
This is Tom. This is Jane. Tom Loves Jane. Jane loves Frank.
A soiled mattress, bugs, probably
ORCHID
In about 1900, here or hereabouts
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
28 Days. Prompts on Wednesday 14th
I want to somewhere, on a long dark train, whistling
Be that as it may
Please choose music, photos
I think my sight is not what it was
Everyday, Every Way
One day I will be a skinny boy, ribs showing
The floor is full, may I have another room?
Maybe We Will Recover
The Thing About Birthdays
Kitchen Sync
I have decided to be slovenly
Crumple Me
Strong Plunge I Have
Pull Yourself Apart, Man!
A Plain Wood Table, A Simple Chair
PING!
Apart from the obvious, there is little to say
PLUM
A Man on a Bridge
I Doubt it Very Much, Mrs Havisham
The House is Sad, the furniture weary
Be that as it may
Please choose music, photos
I think my sight is not what it was
Everyday, Every Way
One day I will be a skinny boy, ribs showing
The floor is full, may I have another room?
Maybe We Will Recover
The Thing About Birthdays
Kitchen Sync
I have decided to be slovenly
Crumple Me
Strong Plunge I Have
Pull Yourself Apart, Man!
A Plain Wood Table, A Simple Chair
PING!
Apart from the obvious, there is little to say
PLUM
A Man on a Bridge
I Doubt it Very Much, Mrs Havisham
The House is Sad, the furniture weary
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
28 Days. Prompts on Tuesday 13th
Who remembers to leave the bottles out
TINGLE
And crazy, fearless children
Picture a glassy sea
Stone, Fish
I am going, I just don't know where it is
Leaf
The hinges are rusted
CHESTNUTS
If you want, you can overlook this
Reflection
Riddle me this, Batman
TACK
A Short History of a Few Odds & Sods
I am in the garden
A few wept, a few laughed. Most were silent
I am the guilty bystander
My wife will stop you
People in Grass Houses
I'm not sure, but have you got younger?
TINGLE
And crazy, fearless children
Picture a glassy sea
Stone, Fish
I am going, I just don't know where it is
Leaf
The hinges are rusted
CHESTNUTS
If you want, you can overlook this
Reflection
Riddle me this, Batman
TACK
A Short History of a Few Odds & Sods
I am in the garden
A few wept, a few laughed. Most were silent
I am the guilty bystander
My wife will stop you
People in Grass Houses
I'm not sure, but have you got younger?
Monday, October 12, 2009
28 Days: Prompts on Monday 12th
My mother has sold my books
Sheds, Pigeons
A little bit of luck would have seen us through
Nail
From the backs of pick-up trucks
If you love me, build
Read to me by candle-light, your soft voice
Wearing an old coat
At least the roof doesn't leak
Progress
Are you happy to be in this picture?
Beef
And BEFORE the big bang?
Drifting, Salt
The walls are high enough, for we are small and feeble
It's not easy to admit
There are small heroes, just as heroic
Van & Wheelchair
A pebble in her shoe
Sheds, Pigeons
A little bit of luck would have seen us through
Nail
From the backs of pick-up trucks
If you love me, build
Read to me by candle-light, your soft voice
Wearing an old coat
At least the roof doesn't leak
Progress
Are you happy to be in this picture?
Beef
And BEFORE the big bang?
Drifting, Salt
The walls are high enough, for we are small and feeble
It's not easy to admit
There are small heroes, just as heroic
Van & Wheelchair
A pebble in her shoe
Sunday, October 11, 2009
28 Days. Prompts on Sunday
Around the bottom of the tree, but not the tree
About your credit score
The Waste Land
Going Back to Miami
Various Methods of Appeal
There appears to be no ridge, no way for it to hold
Flowers
Of course elephants can jump
Fighting Towards Italy
The Vaguely-Happy Barrista
How to Be Alone
52 Ways of Looking at Love
Lady Sings the Blues
The Smell of Cooking Meat, High on the Night
Leaving Soon for Lancaster
Boring Letters Home
T S Eliot on His iPod, Dante in His Bag
One Or Two Batteries May Work
About your credit score
The Waste Land
Going Back to Miami
Various Methods of Appeal
There appears to be no ridge, no way for it to hold
Flowers
Of course elephants can jump
Fighting Towards Italy
The Vaguely-Happy Barrista
How to Be Alone
52 Ways of Looking at Love
Lady Sings the Blues
The Smell of Cooking Meat, High on the Night
Leaving Soon for Lancaster
Boring Letters Home
T S Eliot on His iPod, Dante in His Bag
One Or Two Batteries May Work
Monday, October 05, 2009
28 Days. Prompts 03 Monday 5th
I dreamt of the perfect story
Tell me about the future, I want to know
For five days we waited
A crisp, fresh page
Remember me when you are gone
I am too well to be a poet
It is like, after too far in the rain, you see a light
There is a cold field somewhere, and gold
After, we laid in the sun and wept
Where is the boy now, what is he?
Owl, white as light
We could build a bridge, or a castle
You will wake soon, I will go
This will need to be checked out, then we'll see
At your ear, something breathless, rising
Where dead feet walked
I walked with sorrow, listening to her silence and understanding
Tell me about the future, I want to know
For five days we waited
A crisp, fresh page
Remember me when you are gone
I am too well to be a poet
It is like, after too far in the rain, you see a light
There is a cold field somewhere, and gold
After, we laid in the sun and wept
Where is the boy now, what is he?
Owl, white as light
We could build a bridge, or a castle
You will wake soon, I will go
This will need to be checked out, then we'll see
At your ear, something breathless, rising
Where dead feet walked
I walked with sorrow, listening to her silence and understanding
Sunday, October 04, 2009
28 Days. Prompts 02 Sunday 4th
I want to sleep and take my time waking
Gardens
I would love her, but how do I do that?
Richard Bow
Four beauties in a lift
Something worries me about us
His Little Red Bicycle, Brown Shoes
Tie up and rest
Something is broken, small but terribly important
Connotation
Living is merely death deferred
Pineapple, Brick, Chocolate, Chair
Tell me you are not afraid
Six policeman, one van, one drunken, stupid man
I can smell antiseptic
Death is not the punch line, even if life's a joke
Rain folding in the streets
Hope Flies
When I am old I shall wear Lycra
We could slow down, hold each other
Gardens
I would love her, but how do I do that?
Richard Bow
Four beauties in a lift
Something worries me about us
His Little Red Bicycle, Brown Shoes
Tie up and rest
Something is broken, small but terribly important
Connotation
Living is merely death deferred
Pineapple, Brick, Chocolate, Chair
Tell me you are not afraid
Six policeman, one van, one drunken, stupid man
I can smell antiseptic
Death is not the punch line, even if life's a joke
Rain folding in the streets
Hope Flies
When I am old I shall wear Lycra
We could slow down, hold each other
Saturday, October 03, 2009
WARNING
Last Month's Blast was pathetic when compared to even an "ordinary" month.
As I'm late this month let's have 28 Days, 28 Pieces, 28 Subs.
Please don't joinn this and then be a spectator.
Join and do, or don't join
As I'm late this month let's have 28 Days, 28 Pieces, 28 Subs.
Please don't joinn this and then be a spectator.
Join and do, or don't join
28-DAY ALL OR NOTHING BLAST
To Join 28 Days, you MUST write a piece a day, every day, for the rest of
October. If you are going to miss a day, then do TWO pieces the day before
To Join 28 Days, you MUST write a piece a day, every day, for the rest of
October. If you are going to miss a day, then do TWO pieces the day before
To Join 28 Days, you MUST write a piece a day, every day, for the rest of
October. If you are going to miss a day, then do TWO pieces the day before
PROMPTS
A swell, modest time
TACK
In a catholic country
INCENSE
What are we waiting for, assembled in the halls?
DANCERS
The burnt-out ends of a ragged month
FADE
A newspaper tumbles in the wind
DUST
Blinds are pulled down at dirty, yellow windows
MORE, MORE!
And she was built in pride and made for death
FUTURE
To see them flourish, fall
CANNON
We lived in trees, or waded in the shallows of the lake
FIRE
Fish are rotting in choked channels
JACOB's LADDER
Things will get raw and bleed
FIG
Everywhere stinks
GENIE
It is a small sacrifice, just my son
52 WAYS
Like old men double up and coughing
BLEARY
Death is beautiful slowed down
October. If you are going to miss a day, then do TWO pieces the day before
To Join 28 Days, you MUST write a piece a day, every day, for the rest of
October. If you are going to miss a day, then do TWO pieces the day before
To Join 28 Days, you MUST write a piece a day, every day, for the rest of
October. If you are going to miss a day, then do TWO pieces the day before
PROMPTS
A swell, modest time
TACK
In a catholic country
INCENSE
What are we waiting for, assembled in the halls?
DANCERS
The burnt-out ends of a ragged month
FADE
A newspaper tumbles in the wind
DUST
Blinds are pulled down at dirty, yellow windows
MORE, MORE!
And she was built in pride and made for death
FUTURE
To see them flourish, fall
CANNON
We lived in trees, or waded in the shallows of the lake
FIRE
Fish are rotting in choked channels
JACOB's LADDER
Things will get raw and bleed
FIG
Everywhere stinks
GENIE
It is a small sacrifice, just my son
52 WAYS
Like old men double up and coughing
BLEARY
Death is beautiful slowed down
Friday, October 02, 2009
Ocotober 02 Prompts
01 Red Light
02 One Mint Left
03 Trailer Park Boys
04 Memories of My Father
05 Memories TV
06 Black Rain
07 An Awfully Big Adventure
08 As for the hall, they've done the best they can
09 I feel almost smothered when I start to write
10 Ted is going to buy a cheap radio this week
11 My little enamel table
12 I have been having a pleasant day in bed, resting and reading
13 I am going to start seeing a woman doctor
14 My new hairdo and clothes have cheered me up
15 Madness by Text
16 The Vacuum Run
17 The Simple Truth
18 You Can Look But You Better Not Touch
19 Blue Avenue
20 Say it's all right Joe
21 Clean Sheets and a River View
22 Telephone Call From Istanbul
23 Way Down in the Hole
24 All the Way to the Middle
02 One Mint Left
03 Trailer Park Boys
04 Memories of My Father
05 Memories TV
06 Black Rain
07 An Awfully Big Adventure
08 As for the hall, they've done the best they can
09 I feel almost smothered when I start to write
10 Ted is going to buy a cheap radio this week
11 My little enamel table
12 I have been having a pleasant day in bed, resting and reading
13 I am going to start seeing a woman doctor
14 My new hairdo and clothes have cheered me up
15 Madness by Text
16 The Vacuum Run
17 The Simple Truth
18 You Can Look But You Better Not Touch
19 Blue Avenue
20 Say it's all right Joe
21 Clean Sheets and a River View
22 Telephone Call From Istanbul
23 Way Down in the Hole
24 All the Way to the Middle
Thursday, October 01, 2009
October 01 Prompts
Janufebby
The Black Girl in Search of God
The Red Tsar
The Christmas Hip-Hop
Butterlight
Watching my father watching TV
Never Again
A line from the right poem might help
Mad Men
Better in High-Definition
When Poverty Flies in Through the Window, Love Flies Out the Door
Ghurkas in the Dark
Fishy in the Water, Fishy in the Sea
The Fire
Forgotten Voices
Lies My Teacher Told Me
A way of skimming things until daylight
He puts down the glass.
It's not out yet
A blanket across his lap
Yellow Squares
A train was coming, and for a second...
He'd been almost famous, had a wife, two children
The Black Girl in Search of God
The Red Tsar
The Christmas Hip-Hop
Butterlight
Watching my father watching TV
Never Again
A line from the right poem might help
Mad Men
Better in High-Definition
When Poverty Flies in Through the Window, Love Flies Out the Door
Ghurkas in the Dark
Fishy in the Water, Fishy in the Sea
The Fire
Forgotten Voices
Lies My Teacher Told Me
A way of skimming things until daylight
He puts down the glass.
It's not out yet
A blanket across his lap
Yellow Squares
A train was coming, and for a second...
He'd been almost famous, had a wife, two children
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Prompts 29 September
Pigeons gathering on wet slate
Love broke out
The train is empty. It doesn't want to leave
Banquet
I am trying to remember, trying to believe it
After the Coma
Unrelationshiply making love
He asked them, "Play the Birdie Song"
It's like a wound that opens and then opens
From Thursday to Friday
Wondering about small American towns, dusty roads
Frailty
Long, slow railway stations, the darknesses
He wakes crying
It will be something to talk about at least
Love broke out
The train is empty. It doesn't want to leave
Banquet
I am trying to remember, trying to believe it
After the Coma
Unrelationshiply making love
He asked them, "Play the Birdie Song"
It's like a wound that opens and then opens
From Thursday to Friday
Wondering about small American towns, dusty roads
Frailty
Long, slow railway stations, the darknesses
He wakes crying
It will be something to talk about at least
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Prompts, Sunday
The simplicity of it
There is a sign of night, clouds
Your body is too sharp
The sea sings because it is moving
A tin-roofed shack, no phone
We smoke a silent cigarette, look at the rain
The grass needs cutting
Pickard woke me
Dogs
Waiting for morning, for breakfast
Don’t give it a thought
The A-Z of useless platitudes
Madame Curie
If, dear
He left her photographs of sad caravans
The Angry Priest
The road to your place, they are digging it up
Attic
A glass door flashing
Let’s face it. Or not
When I was a child, I imagined.
One brick, then a second, then three, four
Dog in a bath
Back to my high, empty place
My father was claustrophobic
There is a sign of night, clouds
Your body is too sharp
The sea sings because it is moving
A tin-roofed shack, no phone
We smoke a silent cigarette, look at the rain
The grass needs cutting
Pickard woke me
Dogs
Waiting for morning, for breakfast
Don’t give it a thought
The A-Z of useless platitudes
Madame Curie
If, dear
He left her photographs of sad caravans
The Angry Priest
The road to your place, they are digging it up
Attic
A glass door flashing
Let’s face it. Or not
When I was a child, I imagined.
One brick, then a second, then three, four
Dog in a bath
Back to my high, empty place
My father was claustrophobic
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Prompts Thursday 24 September
The Last Thing You Read
SAND
Lost Without His Brother
SNOW
Something About a Leopard
POD
I have something not to say
NAIL
In The Court of the Red Queen
TAXI
Blessings, Effendi
DRINK
Flanagan Starts Running
GAS!
Which of the Gods Made Them Quarrel?
WATCHING
It was in a poem, or an advert
He didn't have a belly-button
JACK!
But then, who does?
It's square, but more round than that
I believe I could believe
SAND
Lost Without His Brother
SNOW
Something About a Leopard
POD
I have something not to say
NAIL
In The Court of the Red Queen
TAXI
Blessings, Effendi
DRINK
Flanagan Starts Running
GAS!
Which of the Gods Made Them Quarrel?
WATCHING
It was in a poem, or an advert
He didn't have a belly-button
JACK!
But then, who does?
It's square, but more round than that
I believe I could believe
More Prompts
As an exercise, consider combining prompts, try using all or most.
From the very first coming down
Beetle
Only the caravan was real and that wasn't there
Never Again
Happy, but no closer, even now
GRENADE
My father, the way he sits
SMELLS
We have drawn up a list
TIN
Sometimes the scars fade temporarily
SILVER
On the wet road, past the know of pines
BRUISE
Never Stronger
We have made all the possible preparations
It's more a case of
I am not sure that little boys imagine; I mean they all imagine the same things
There is a gap between attention and awareness
My ambition would be to love
ACHE
I am Transient
VAN
Watch how he hesitates before saying, "I love you..."
WIRE
Turn a deaf eye
BLOSSOM, BLOOM
We will begin today. We start and it is an ending
THORN
It was Easter. I found myself alone
CHINE
On the phone she whispers that her husband is mad.
From the very first coming down
Beetle
Only the caravan was real and that wasn't there
Never Again
Happy, but no closer, even now
GRENADE
My father, the way he sits
SMELLS
We have drawn up a list
TIN
Sometimes the scars fade temporarily
SILVER
On the wet road, past the know of pines
BRUISE
Never Stronger
We have made all the possible preparations
It's more a case of
I am not sure that little boys imagine; I mean they all imagine the same things
There is a gap between attention and awareness
My ambition would be to love
ACHE
I am Transient
VAN
Watch how he hesitates before saying, "I love you..."
WIRE
Turn a deaf eye
BLOSSOM, BLOOM
We will begin today. We start and it is an ending
THORN
It was Easter. I found myself alone
CHINE
On the phone she whispers that her husband is mad.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Prompts 22 September
A Small Blue Plaque
Hanging Baskets
How the woman pauses
While he waits for her to buy two coffees
Paper Hats
Orange tiles, white spikes
His car, his moustache
Olives
How the women congregate, talking about swimming
Her Black Wedding
A café, a shop, three or four houses
The trainee barista
Stooped, white hair, but almost free
Behold the duck!
What catches me, what catches my eye
LISTEN!
How beautiful, in profile
Four Feet Under
What is the H in W H Smith?
Silks
Old Men in Cardigans
The Differences of Aquamarine
At the Lake
If we had world enough and time
Low fat sex
For a suitcase full of cash
Sprouting
Children love wheels
Words, in type, streaming across a photograph
The Olive man smiles, with a twinkle, and holds out a single olive on a spoon for the lady to taste
Shall we do some kind of lunch?
Hanging Baskets
How the woman pauses
While he waits for her to buy two coffees
Paper Hats
Orange tiles, white spikes
His car, his moustache
Olives
How the women congregate, talking about swimming
Her Black Wedding
A café, a shop, three or four houses
The trainee barista
Stooped, white hair, but almost free
Behold the duck!
What catches me, what catches my eye
LISTEN!
How beautiful, in profile
Four Feet Under
What is the H in W H Smith?
Silks
Old Men in Cardigans
The Differences of Aquamarine
At the Lake
If we had world enough and time
Low fat sex
For a suitcase full of cash
Sprouting
Children love wheels
Words, in type, streaming across a photograph
The Olive man smiles, with a twinkle, and holds out a single olive on a spoon for the lady to taste
Shall we do some kind of lunch?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Prompts Monday 21 September
Joe Cocker, three a.m.
When the improbable doesn’t surprise
Wretched
Black Swan, Owls by Day
Places to Go
Turning of Bluetooth
Women, meeting for coffee
Vente Latte
How the Cancer Bites First
The Wisdom of Drivers
Nobody Knows What’s Going On
Nine Pounds Later
History Does Not Know it is History
Give or Take
The Problem is How You See
What’s Not to Like?
The Bible i-Pod, the i-Pod Bible
Until the rain gets in
Where I Belong
The Poetry in a Football Programme
I am not proud of this
Let us try to be civil, try to be rational
The Light is Wrong
Approximately five hours: 4:58
Picnic in Bierut
The Light Music of Children
When the improbable doesn’t surprise
Wretched
Black Swan, Owls by Day
Places to Go
Turning of Bluetooth
Women, meeting for coffee
Vente Latte
How the Cancer Bites First
The Wisdom of Drivers
Nobody Knows What’s Going On
Nine Pounds Later
History Does Not Know it is History
Give or Take
The Problem is How You See
What’s Not to Like?
The Bible i-Pod, the i-Pod Bible
Until the rain gets in
Where I Belong
The Poetry in a Football Programme
I am not proud of this
Let us try to be civil, try to be rational
The Light is Wrong
Approximately five hours: 4:58
Picnic in Bierut
The Light Music of Children
Friday, September 18, 2009
Prompts Friday-Saturday
The happenstance of airwaves
Ratat
Strangers in Borders
Seeds, poison
What copies, what doesn’t, what should
BEAN
A woman, pointing
DITCH
Why this is difficult, difficult
Hum
I am reading old poems, asking if they are mine
Deleting
The art of invisibility, with ache
Thimble
I am trying to remember my mother
Close to Black
We could go to Japan or Peru
AAA
Waiting for it to come together
Element
I’m just looking at your face
Screw
On the other hand
Blossom, meet Dearie; Dearie, Blossom
Privet School
One kind of itch, two kinds of scratching
Ratat
Strangers in Borders
Seeds, poison
What copies, what doesn’t, what should
BEAN
A woman, pointing
DITCH
Why this is difficult, difficult
Hum
I am reading old poems, asking if they are mine
Deleting
The art of invisibility, with ache
Thimble
I am trying to remember my mother
Close to Black
We could go to Japan or Peru
AAA
Waiting for it to come together
Element
I’m just looking at your face
Screw
On the other hand
Blossom, meet Dearie; Dearie, Blossom
Privet School
One kind of itch, two kinds of scratching
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Prompts September 9th 01
A story, “The Seven Ages of Skin”
When I am an old women and have purple skin
Had we but world enough and time
There is a spot just here, in the hollow of my pelvis
Nobody saw him, the tattoo’d man
Sunday, my father working in the frost, the skin of his hands red and cracking
And of a baby, so smooth, ready for scars
The midwife was small, beautiful, with olive skin and hands that were light
It is the softness in her face
If I should die, think only this of me: dying, my friend, is not all it’s cracked up to be
I will be illustrated at the very least
Smooth skin, but not a shaved cat
If skin was an instrument and we played it
Move him so the sun catches his child-dying face
The fingertip, the ear, the neck
Perhaps red-raw, perhaps soft and talcumed
The machine sucked it from the bed, your skin, mine, inseparable
Your scars, one like an arrow, one a heart
Sometimes the person, sometimes the skin
You reach across and touch me. My heart leaps up
But you wear gloves and dark glasses
Eventually, we are all naked
But it is the Caesar scar I love
Trace me, slowly
There is something electric
When I am an old women and have purple skin
Had we but world enough and time
There is a spot just here, in the hollow of my pelvis
Nobody saw him, the tattoo’d man
Sunday, my father working in the frost, the skin of his hands red and cracking
And of a baby, so smooth, ready for scars
The midwife was small, beautiful, with olive skin and hands that were light
It is the softness in her face
If I should die, think only this of me: dying, my friend, is not all it’s cracked up to be
I will be illustrated at the very least
Smooth skin, but not a shaved cat
If skin was an instrument and we played it
Move him so the sun catches his child-dying face
The fingertip, the ear, the neck
Perhaps red-raw, perhaps soft and talcumed
The machine sucked it from the bed, your skin, mine, inseparable
Your scars, one like an arrow, one a heart
Sometimes the person, sometimes the skin
You reach across and touch me. My heart leaps up
But you wear gloves and dark glasses
Eventually, we are all naked
But it is the Caesar scar I love
Trace me, slowly
There is something electric
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
September 08:01 Prompts
Loveable-ity
The grey sea and thew long black land
Trying to lose the pick-up
Every day is a fresh ending
Bloody men are like bloody tractors
I have no name, call me Thing
The winter evening slides quietly into sleep
Slippery as a slippery thing
My Dear, where now?
We were doing fine, until the bed...
Lay your head on my chest, let's pretend we're OK
I've been brought back, not sure why
How you call to me, aching on the night
Darling, don't take it literally AND personally
My life has ended a few times
First they came for
Turning and turning and turning. Turning
Like Ice. Like Fire. Like ice upon a fire
I am not me even when it looks that way
Time doesn't mend this
White. Soft. Sweet.
The milk-buckets are frozen
I would like a cigarette now
Mercy. Pity. Peace. Love.
Somewhere in the clouds, falling.
The grey sea and thew long black land
Trying to lose the pick-up
Every day is a fresh ending
Bloody men are like bloody tractors
I have no name, call me Thing
The winter evening slides quietly into sleep
Slippery as a slippery thing
My Dear, where now?
We were doing fine, until the bed...
Lay your head on my chest, let's pretend we're OK
I've been brought back, not sure why
How you call to me, aching on the night
Darling, don't take it literally AND personally
My life has ended a few times
First they came for
Turning and turning and turning. Turning
Like Ice. Like Fire. Like ice upon a fire
I am not me even when it looks that way
Time doesn't mend this
White. Soft. Sweet.
The milk-buckets are frozen
I would like a cigarette now
Mercy. Pity. Peace. Love.
Somewhere in the clouds, falling.
Monday, September 07, 2009
September 07:01 Prompts
The French Ballerina & the Builder
No, INDIAN Food
The clunk and roll of a dozen ball-bearings
Buck House
Refill Pad, Pencils, sharpener
STICKY
Social Psychology, the Alternative
PX
Stories From the Spare Bedroom
Getting Into Brock'
TXT
The sound grass makes
BELL
How sometimes the wind aches for people
Plankton
Guatemala, the View Above the Trees
I remember when I thought the world was solid
EFFERVESCENCE
And so I drift, waiting to be touched
CHERRY
A soft, muddy river in Portugal.
SACK
Where they are all from
No, INDIAN Food
The clunk and roll of a dozen ball-bearings
Buck House
Refill Pad, Pencils, sharpener
STICKY
Social Psychology, the Alternative
PX
Stories From the Spare Bedroom
Getting Into Brock'
TXT
The sound grass makes
BELL
How sometimes the wind aches for people
Plankton
Guatemala, the View Above the Trees
I remember when I thought the world was solid
EFFERVESCENCE
And so I drift, waiting to be touched
CHERRY
A soft, muddy river in Portugal.
SACK
Where they are all from
Saturday, September 05, 2009
SUNDAY's Prompts September 06:01
I'm out running and then partying tomorrow so here are Sunday's prompts a little early
Learn Brain-Surgery in a Weekend
Marble
Once Upon a Time
SLAB
For once, an early night
OK, tomorrow or the day after
Fresh Apples
Young Miss Tavistock's Dilemma
Rolling, Rolling, Rolling!!
Who's Afraid of Jane Austen?
The Various Differences and Similarities
The Ball.
Bomber Harris at Play
TING!!
Music and Love begin as delicate flames
James! James!
What we have adored and what we have abhorred
Tea's Ready!
I doubt we live forever
I have not been to Jerusalem
Fast now.
Learn Brain-Surgery in a Weekend
Marble
Once Upon a Time
SLAB
For once, an early night
OK, tomorrow or the day after
Fresh Apples
Young Miss Tavistock's Dilemma
Rolling, Rolling, Rolling!!
Who's Afraid of Jane Austen?
The Various Differences and Similarities
The Ball.
Bomber Harris at Play
TING!!
Music and Love begin as delicate flames
James! James!
What we have adored and what we have abhorred
Tea's Ready!
I doubt we live forever
I have not been to Jerusalem
Fast now.
Prompts September 05:01
A Room for Romeo Smith
GLOVE
He never goes up West
HOW IT WORKS
It's complicated, but basically, Lycra underpants
BOILING
I have been cold, but never this cold
TIN
Purple Icebergs
PICNIC IN MERTHYR
A Week in December
BOOK OF SILENCE
Why I have to love you
From what I remember, he had big ears
RIVER
The myths are swept away by an avalanche of truth
... and the waters will rise
It doesn't hurt much
It doesn't translate very well
Standing with the fat boy, waiting to be picked
AND THEN THE BED COLLAPSED
Pink Vaseline
I have never been ill
PARTLY DYING
Swollen hands, plump, wormy fingers
Two thousand men
OK, OK...
For entertainment we talk about our lovers
SAY SOMETHING IN LATIN
A Cafe called "Writers"
After you left I couldn't wash the sheets
GLOVE
He never goes up West
HOW IT WORKS
It's complicated, but basically, Lycra underpants
BOILING
I have been cold, but never this cold
TIN
Purple Icebergs
PICNIC IN MERTHYR
A Week in December
BOOK OF SILENCE
Why I have to love you
From what I remember, he had big ears
RIVER
The myths are swept away by an avalanche of truth
... and the waters will rise
It doesn't hurt much
It doesn't translate very well
Standing with the fat boy, waiting to be picked
AND THEN THE BED COLLAPSED
Pink Vaseline
I have never been ill
PARTLY DYING
Swollen hands, plump, wormy fingers
Two thousand men
OK, OK...
For entertainment we talk about our lovers
SAY SOMETHING IN LATIN
A Cafe called "Writers"
After you left I couldn't wash the sheets
Prompts September 05:01
A Room for Romeo Smith
GLOVE
He never goes up West
HOW IT WORKS
It's complicated, but basically, Lycra underpants
BOILING
I have been cold, but never this cold
TIN
Purple Icebergs
PICNIC IN MERTHYR
A Week in December
BOOK OF SILENCE
Why I have to love you
From what I remember, he had big ears
RIVER
The myths are swept away by an avalanche of truth
... and the waters will rise
It doesn't hurt much
It doesn't translate very well
Standing with the fat boy, waiting to be picked
AND THEN THE BED COLLAPSED
Pink Vaseline
I have never been ill
PARTLY DYING
Swollen hands, plump, wormy fingers
Two thousand men
OK, OK...
For entertainment we talk about our lovers
SAY SOMETHING IN LATIN
A Cafe called "Writers"
After you left I couldn't wash the sheets
GLOVE
He never goes up West
HOW IT WORKS
It's complicated, but basically, Lycra underpants
BOILING
I have been cold, but never this cold
TIN
Purple Icebergs
PICNIC IN MERTHYR
A Week in December
BOOK OF SILENCE
Why I have to love you
From what I remember, he had big ears
RIVER
The myths are swept away by an avalanche of truth
... and the waters will rise
It doesn't hurt much
It doesn't translate very well
Standing with the fat boy, waiting to be picked
AND THEN THE BED COLLAPSED
Pink Vaseline
I have never been ill
PARTLY DYING
Swollen hands, plump, wormy fingers
Two thousand men
OK, OK...
For entertainment we talk about our lovers
SAY SOMETHING IN LATIN
A Cafe called "Writers"
After you left I couldn't wash the sheets
Friday, September 04, 2009
Prompts September 04:01
A story beginning: "The trouble with stories is..."
Listening to the Other Sam Browne
Tenses
Some nights you can hear them
This is England
What we call the beginning
He looked sweet, he did look sweet
Coventry, Milton-Keynes, Welwyn Garden City
Absolve them!
Somebody's Thinking of You Tonight
It's not that easy when your soul is torn in two
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Don't look so eager to leave
Pomegranate
I'm on a Diet of Love
Forgive me, I was trying to say something nice
WW0
Pennies From Heaven
BUCKET
I'd like to say we could be friends, Jack
STEEL
Are you glad she lost the love of her life?
White Paper, Pen
I met my ten-year old self; a curious boy. He was frightened by me
On a rope over the water
A story ending: "But it could have been, it could have been."
Listening to the Other Sam Browne
Tenses
Some nights you can hear them
This is England
What we call the beginning
He looked sweet, he did look sweet
Coventry, Milton-Keynes, Welwyn Garden City
Absolve them!
Somebody's Thinking of You Tonight
It's not that easy when your soul is torn in two
Curb Your Enthusiasm
Don't look so eager to leave
Pomegranate
I'm on a Diet of Love
Forgive me, I was trying to say something nice
WW0
Pennies From Heaven
BUCKET
I'd like to say we could be friends, Jack
STEEL
Are you glad she lost the love of her life?
White Paper, Pen
I met my ten-year old self; a curious boy. He was frightened by me
On a rope over the water
A story ending: "But it could have been, it could have been."
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Prompts September 03:02
When men die far away it is like sand settling, dust
In the room the women come, and usually go
SOOT
Through certain streets, dusty, deserted
Do not ask what it is
The corners of evening
Tinsel
A far sound, something falls, something breaks
BAYONET
It was a soft September night, almost October
There is always time
It’s a freaking waste-land
To murder and create
Do I Dare? Do I Dare?
I decide to revise
I pin you, you squirm
Old men collecting fag-ends
Full Moon
Basically, I was afraid
My mind creaks, like melting ice
The universe in a grain of sand
Mr Spock I presume?
After the cups, the marmalade, a little toast
Twinkle
Reading Annie
They think they’re all grown up now
In the room the women come, and usually go
SOOT
Through certain streets, dusty, deserted
Do not ask what it is
The corners of evening
Tinsel
A far sound, something falls, something breaks
BAYONET
It was a soft September night, almost October
There is always time
It’s a freaking waste-land
To murder and create
Do I Dare? Do I Dare?
I decide to revise
I pin you, you squirm
Old men collecting fag-ends
Full Moon
Basically, I was afraid
My mind creaks, like melting ice
The universe in a grain of sand
Mr Spock I presume?
After the cups, the marmalade, a little toast
Twinkle
Reading Annie
They think they’re all grown up now
Prompts September 03:01
Unfortunately, this is likely to be necessary
Where Art Thou?
The fickle, the unsure, the hypocritical
Being a Soldier
The basic necessities: laptop, mints, CHARGER
A Spotless Mind
Oh would the gift the giftie gie us!
Reading TS Eliot
Watching World Film
Above the water, under the cliff, far from a house
Boys & Caravans
Sometimes the names move, they slip, they slide
More or less low-calorie
Sleeping in another room, he tries to remember things
The Queen waves a gloved hand
KER-CHING!
I am in possession of Possession
NAIL
I am waiting in the wings for an empty stage
ICE
The smell of steak in alley-ways
Marzipan
A little lady, sweet, who worried about Penguins
Honey
She picks the blackberries, cooks them for me. I try not to cry
Vanilla, I think
I am trying to remember a goal I scored
Sausage & Mash
New Govt Regs: Item 1 LOVE
Where Art Thou?
The fickle, the unsure, the hypocritical
Being a Soldier
The basic necessities: laptop, mints, CHARGER
A Spotless Mind
Oh would the gift the giftie gie us!
Reading TS Eliot
Watching World Film
Above the water, under the cliff, far from a house
Boys & Caravans
Sometimes the names move, they slip, they slide
More or less low-calorie
Sleeping in another room, he tries to remember things
The Queen waves a gloved hand
KER-CHING!
I am in possession of Possession
NAIL
I am waiting in the wings for an empty stage
ICE
The smell of steak in alley-ways
Marzipan
A little lady, sweet, who worried about Penguins
Honey
She picks the blackberries, cooks them for me. I try not to cry
Vanilla, I think
I am trying to remember a goal I scored
Sausage & Mash
New Govt Regs: Item 1 LOVE
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
September 02:01 Prompts
"It has been a nice summer," said Diana, twisting the new ring on her left hand with a smile.
“Harvest is ended and summer is gone," quoted Anne Shirley,
A fox will track a vixen for a week
a little undercurrent of vague pain and dissatisfaction running through it
A piano made from ice
There was quite a bewildering succession of drives, dances, picnics and boating parties
almost as beautiful as the angel on my string
Anne of the Island
Coordinates is an anagram of Decorations
For a little while I had a dog.
gazing across the shorn fields dreamily.
He was the first to escape
I had one white pill and one yellow pill in the morning, and in the afternoon I had a pink pill and in the evening white.
I went into the trees and built a shelter.
I will give you the horse, a cart, a leather coat, a plate and some gasoline
LoveFinder General
Murder Club, the Vicarage 19:15 Mondays
the fields were bare and sere, scarfed with golden rod,
The fortnight Anne spent in Bolingbroke
The house bleeds
The Promise Tree
The woman was fat and her face was pink.
There is a woman I love who could not kill a wasp
There was not, however, much time to think about him.
They were both nice, manly fellows, but Anne would not be drawn into any opinion as to which was the nicer.
We are studying love
When he was eight he was stolen by gypsies
When he was ninety he swam across the bay.
whenever she thought about Gilbert.
Whispers of a life without borders
“Harvest is ended and summer is gone," quoted Anne Shirley,
A fox will track a vixen for a week
a little undercurrent of vague pain and dissatisfaction running through it
A piano made from ice
There was quite a bewildering succession of drives, dances, picnics and boating parties
almost as beautiful as the angel on my string
Anne of the Island
Coordinates is an anagram of Decorations
For a little while I had a dog.
gazing across the shorn fields dreamily.
He was the first to escape
I had one white pill and one yellow pill in the morning, and in the afternoon I had a pink pill and in the evening white.
I went into the trees and built a shelter.
I will give you the horse, a cart, a leather coat, a plate and some gasoline
LoveFinder General
Murder Club, the Vicarage 19:15 Mondays
the fields were bare and sere, scarfed with golden rod,
The fortnight Anne spent in Bolingbroke
The house bleeds
The Promise Tree
The woman was fat and her face was pink.
There is a woman I love who could not kill a wasp
There was not, however, much time to think about him.
They were both nice, manly fellows, but Anne would not be drawn into any opinion as to which was the nicer.
We are studying love
When he was eight he was stolen by gypsies
When he was ninety he swam across the bay.
whenever she thought about Gilbert.
Whispers of a life without borders
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Prompts September 01:02
I taste salt
Fife
You see the little things, the quietly beautiful that I miss
Death may or may not be permanent
I am bleeding slightly; from various places
The simple things, like you reaching for me
We will hurry home
It is not here that your mother meets your father
The wind rises; you laugh
We will kiss the earth
ICE
The buzz of a needle, the tatooist's hand
Once this was sea. Sea-birds still nest here, dark with disappointment.
An old woman who smells a little
Oyster-Catcher, night road
Duke of Earl
Various ice-creams, more than one kind of cheese
FIGS
The flowers echoing the dead church-bells
Fife
You see the little things, the quietly beautiful that I miss
Death may or may not be permanent
I am bleeding slightly; from various places
The simple things, like you reaching for me
We will hurry home
It is not here that your mother meets your father
The wind rises; you laugh
We will kiss the earth
ICE
The buzz of a needle, the tatooist's hand
Once this was sea. Sea-birds still nest here, dark with disappointment.
An old woman who smells a little
Oyster-Catcher, night road
Duke of Earl
Various ice-creams, more than one kind of cheese
FIGS
The flowers echoing the dead church-bells
September Blast
Just back from Wales (and September started a few hours late but we're having another "BLAST"
Write every day, EVERY day, to a strict minimum and a tough total, and write at least a third of your total word-count "pre-log", that is BEFORE any email-reading or internet browsing.
Post your minimum targets and exceed them, no excuses.
Stories may be posted in a free area of Boot Camp for feedback, but in order to see these stories we will need to have a Yuku ID (go to Yuku.com) to grant access.
A dozen already on board, we want twice that number
For further info contact AK at alex.keegan (AT) btinternet.com
Write every day, EVERY day, to a strict minimum and a tough total, and write at least a third of your total word-count "pre-log", that is BEFORE any email-reading or internet browsing.
Post your minimum targets and exceed them, no excuses.
Stories may be posted in a free area of Boot Camp for feedback, but in order to see these stories we will need to have a Yuku ID (go to Yuku.com) to grant access.
A dozen already on board, we want twice that number
For further info contact AK at alex.keegan (AT) btinternet.com
Prompts September 01:01
The National Anthem, The Archers, A Man Lost in Space
Related Travel Advice
A room smelling of shame
3-in-1 for the treatment of love creaks
Collecting postcards from the lonely
A story beginning, "This is the point..."
We have a problematic interface
He is wearing a raincoat from a film
Bomblight
These are small things, human things
When there was water
I try to remember us, but see clouds
An old, decrepit caravan, broken glass
Behind night stones, beneath dark
I have waited too long to be born
A shingle beach, rain, they separate, come together
SHARD
Everything here is just the right size
Of course, as long as you are here
I dream of bloody waterfalls, of screaming grass
I tend to flop about when anger leaves
Related Travel Advice
A room smelling of shame
3-in-1 for the treatment of love creaks
Collecting postcards from the lonely
A story beginning, "This is the point..."
We have a problematic interface
He is wearing a raincoat from a film
Bomblight
These are small things, human things
When there was water
I try to remember us, but see clouds
An old, decrepit caravan, broken glass
Behind night stones, beneath dark
I have waited too long to be born
A shingle beach, rain, they separate, come together
SHARD
Everything here is just the right size
Of course, as long as you are here
I dream of bloody waterfalls, of screaming grass
I tend to flop about when anger leaves
Friday, July 31, 2009
Prompts 31 July
There was an old woman who
She woke too soon
There is little grass, dust rises off the playing fields
How wide this bed has become
I am dreaming of simple things, china teacups
There is a pale blue light
I was wondering about Moscow. What do you think?
We could keep chickens
Should I scream or just sigh?
They are cancelling trains everywhere
What about Formica?
Old, bitter, her face at a wet window
TAG
I hear the torturer loves his little cat
Cut me a hole
Summer Soup
I like it on my allotment. Spuds, Carrots, Beans
Gonna go to town
I would like to be in a book, page 28, the suicide
Carnation
The occasional festival
Something about paper but I didn't really understand
The thirteenth hour
She woke too soon
There is little grass, dust rises off the playing fields
How wide this bed has become
I am dreaming of simple things, china teacups
There is a pale blue light
I was wondering about Moscow. What do you think?
We could keep chickens
Should I scream or just sigh?
They are cancelling trains everywhere
What about Formica?
Old, bitter, her face at a wet window
TAG
I hear the torturer loves his little cat
Cut me a hole
Summer Soup
I like it on my allotment. Spuds, Carrots, Beans
Gonna go to town
I would like to be in a book, page 28, the suicide
Carnation
The occasional festival
Something about paper but I didn't really understand
The thirteenth hour
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Prompts 30 July
Where he thought he was dying, he suddenly grows
I have lost the ability to articulate
Coordinates
I will be so very alone
What I mean is, what I am trying to say is, light
They do nothing but sit together in a car, in the rain. How beautiful is that?
A uniformed man is opening and closing gates
Seven-Seven
Its all the same as I left it, including my body
The ground beneath them turns to water
His daughter is different, toast is different
The dog is limping
Every day, he doesn't know how, he is a little taller
Pin-hole
Was a Chapel, now a Church
The placement of a judicious comma
A list of wonderful books
I have been bleeding
I am happy to sign the warrants, just get rid
I have lost the ability to articulate
Coordinates
I will be so very alone
What I mean is, what I am trying to say is, light
They do nothing but sit together in a car, in the rain. How beautiful is that?
A uniformed man is opening and closing gates
Seven-Seven
Its all the same as I left it, including my body
The ground beneath them turns to water
His daughter is different, toast is different
The dog is limping
Every day, he doesn't know how, he is a little taller
Pin-hole
Was a Chapel, now a Church
The placement of a judicious comma
A list of wonderful books
I have been bleeding
I am happy to sign the warrants, just get rid
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Prompts 28 July
The sun in scorpio
First there is a forest, naturally trees, but the thing is forest
Maybe my sight is getting worse
Let me put it this way, there weren't six foot posters of him on student walls
Shivering, but it is internal, hands steady as a rock
I will lie down
This is one possible way, raise our heads, walk
If candle-flame took the light
Perhaps there is a way we can recover
What do you think of the hat?
They're only bombs, Mrs Tavistock, bombs don't decide
All this is is a table, these are people
Listen, beneath our breaths, listen
There were many of us, now there are few
It's hard to imagine love in Thatcham
Quietly, it must have been a weekend, they took us from the map
What kind of effigy?
All I am is at the window, all you are is not
My grey suit, my grey suit, my grey suit, my pink.
First there is a forest, naturally trees, but the thing is forest
Maybe my sight is getting worse
Let me put it this way, there weren't six foot posters of him on student walls
Shivering, but it is internal, hands steady as a rock
I will lie down
This is one possible way, raise our heads, walk
If candle-flame took the light
Perhaps there is a way we can recover
What do you think of the hat?
They're only bombs, Mrs Tavistock, bombs don't decide
All this is is a table, these are people
Listen, beneath our breaths, listen
There were many of us, now there are few
It's hard to imagine love in Thatcham
Quietly, it must have been a weekend, they took us from the map
What kind of effigy?
All I am is at the window, all you are is not
My grey suit, my grey suit, my grey suit, my pink.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Prompts 27 July
A cupboard full of dead man's clothes
Topaz
What was in his tin
The Top Nine
The sky today, these cars, it all looks dirty
Brown Paper
The Book that Came From the Sky
Robert Jones, Higgler
How the fields so neat are shaven
I do not begin to explain, but death has dropped away
House on Stilts, Girls Exploding
Only in one way am I exhausted
And then I realised I hadn't heard
I could be a minor diplomat but I'd be kidnapped and die with a dirty beard
Magnificent men smelling of oil
There are always warnings in newspapers
Finding Ronnie
Nothing will grow in here, nothing outside
From the back, my neighbour, broader than I thought
I dreamt an old lover moved in next door
Weather, a rumour, but not necessarily untrue
A few of us wept, but we didn't know why
Topaz
What was in his tin
The Top Nine
The sky today, these cars, it all looks dirty
Brown Paper
The Book that Came From the Sky
Robert Jones, Higgler
How the fields so neat are shaven
I do not begin to explain, but death has dropped away
House on Stilts, Girls Exploding
Only in one way am I exhausted
And then I realised I hadn't heard
I could be a minor diplomat but I'd be kidnapped and die with a dirty beard
Magnificent men smelling of oil
There are always warnings in newspapers
Finding Ronnie
Nothing will grow in here, nothing outside
From the back, my neighbour, broader than I thought
I dreamt an old lover moved in next door
Weather, a rumour, but not necessarily untrue
A few of us wept, but we didn't know why
Friday, July 17, 2009
Prompts 17 July 01
A wooden spoon
Dancing in the light between trees
Look at me, Ma!
The house is bleeding
I dream of sun and feel the rain
Uncle Arthur’s Slice
I am walking on a path beside a river
This is about who hears
Why not be a surgeon?
In the cobwebbed hut, four shiny bikes
Stain
There are noises in the kitchen
Majesty
The chapel waits and will rest later
The ping of a microwave
Anagrams of Poets’ Names
I intend to rise earlier
Today is the tomorrow we worried about yesterday
The thing is, Mam…
In the moment after the bang
Mad Men
The view from here is different, silent
A Penny for the Black Babies
They bottle water in a factory in Wales
Exactly as we left it
Dancing in the light between trees
Look at me, Ma!
The house is bleeding
I dream of sun and feel the rain
Uncle Arthur’s Slice
I am walking on a path beside a river
This is about who hears
Why not be a surgeon?
In the cobwebbed hut, four shiny bikes
Stain
There are noises in the kitchen
Majesty
The chapel waits and will rest later
The ping of a microwave
Anagrams of Poets’ Names
I intend to rise earlier
Today is the tomorrow we worried about yesterday
The thing is, Mam…
In the moment after the bang
Mad Men
The view from here is different, silent
A Penny for the Black Babies
They bottle water in a factory in Wales
Exactly as we left it
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Prompts 16 July 01
PROMPTS
The things I fear
Domestos and other occasional drinks
Green Glass
How clouds coagulate and darken
Lack of Moral Fibre
We could go to Derbyshire
INK
This hole in my head is unfortunate
Fingerless mitts
My cat refuses to talk
All the lost eyes, the empty nights
Not About Her Father
Which side is behind the wall?
Zinc
I have taken out my heart to let it cool a little
Oral Examination
My girlfriend whispering in the mortuary.
Playing Arlies.
Consider these things
The things I fear
Domestos and other occasional drinks
Green Glass
How clouds coagulate and darken
Lack of Moral Fibre
We could go to Derbyshire
INK
This hole in my head is unfortunate
Fingerless mitts
My cat refuses to talk
All the lost eyes, the empty nights
Not About Her Father
Which side is behind the wall?
Zinc
I have taken out my heart to let it cool a little
Oral Examination
My girlfriend whispering in the mortuary.
Playing Arlies.
Consider these things
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Capel Bethel
Some of our readers may know that 5/6 writers have been using the chapel in Wales (Capel Bethel) as a retreat this week. Here is a message from them.
A message from the team at the half way point of the retreat:
We are now six, having met Pauline (from Co Kerry via London) off the tiny train at the tiny station. We are currently (5.00 pm) all writing in the huge living area. Three on the farmhouse table, three sprawled on the deep leather settees.
Every day we have worked quietly, systematically, stopping for lunch in the cafe across the road, or for a cuppa, a walk. Then work again in the afternoons. We haven't counted the new stories and flashes that have been born here in the chapel. And add to that the flashes, stories, novel and poems that are being made better - it feels good.
The chapel is a fabulous space for writers. It is geared, and very inspirational. The rooms are not just comfortable, they are very comfortable, and we are sleeping the sleep of long distance writers. Martin has been a real gent and has given up his room for Pauline, and is sleeping in the living room tonight, on a bed settee.
This week is going too fast.
J, P, M, C, V and V
A message from the team at the half way point of the retreat:
We are now six, having met Pauline (from Co Kerry via London) off the tiny train at the tiny station. We are currently (5.00 pm) all writing in the huge living area. Three on the farmhouse table, three sprawled on the deep leather settees.
Every day we have worked quietly, systematically, stopping for lunch in the cafe across the road, or for a cuppa, a walk. Then work again in the afternoons. We haven't counted the new stories and flashes that have been born here in the chapel. And add to that the flashes, stories, novel and poems that are being made better - it feels good.
The chapel is a fabulous space for writers. It is geared, and very inspirational. The rooms are not just comfortable, they are very comfortable, and we are sleeping the sleep of long distance writers. Martin has been a real gent and has given up his room for Pauline, and is sleeping in the living room tonight, on a bed settee.
This week is going too fast.
J, P, M, C, V and V
Prompts 15 July 01
PROMPTS
This is the third time, the fourth, the fifth
When you love, words appear on skin
If you like we can talk. Or we can BE
There are angels in Borders
Make of this what you will. It will still be true.
I would like not to want
You could volunteer. Dying isn't necessarily bad.
Opening a difficult jar
Listen to a river. I mean LISTEN to a river.
All the women, all the men, hands, silent.
We are creeping, the dampness kisses feet
Sailing, tin-trays, yellow grass, incredible, inhuman
By noon something will be dead
I once shot a crow, filled it with pellets. It fell like a sin.
Mud is easier to eat than straw
For example, music doesn't exist
Dogs think about religion. Cats KNOW.
Look, and I mean LOOK, at your feet.
This is the third time, the fourth, the fifth
When you love, words appear on skin
If you like we can talk. Or we can BE
There are angels in Borders
Make of this what you will. It will still be true.
I would like not to want
You could volunteer. Dying isn't necessarily bad.
Opening a difficult jar
Listen to a river. I mean LISTEN to a river.
All the women, all the men, hands, silent.
We are creeping, the dampness kisses feet
Sailing, tin-trays, yellow grass, incredible, inhuman
By noon something will be dead
I once shot a crow, filled it with pellets. It fell like a sin.
Mud is easier to eat than straw
For example, music doesn't exist
Dogs think about religion. Cats KNOW.
Look, and I mean LOOK, at your feet.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
July 14 Prompts 01
Two old horses
The house shines, picked out by early light
I am trying to remember, your hair
How I might die while gardening, bending for peas
He only said fuck off the once
She wants to find a man who dances, straight, and tall
We are what we abandon
Allegedly, we are mammals, our brains are split
What else is there to say? We tried
Projectile vomiting Newcastle Brown
A mother digs a hole in a garden
I turn my collar up, shrug on
Mere ugliness is no excuse. It needs more
When does a mother stop to become pretty?
Money on wires, buzzing
We are building a fence, but is it strong enough?
A grandfather, a quiet kitchen, an open razor
They put the dead baby on a newspaper
We could hang
The house shines, picked out by early light
I am trying to remember, your hair
How I might die while gardening, bending for peas
He only said fuck off the once
She wants to find a man who dances, straight, and tall
We are what we abandon
Allegedly, we are mammals, our brains are split
What else is there to say? We tried
Projectile vomiting Newcastle Brown
A mother digs a hole in a garden
I turn my collar up, shrug on
Mere ugliness is no excuse. It needs more
When does a mother stop to become pretty?
Money on wires, buzzing
We are building a fence, but is it strong enough?
A grandfather, a quiet kitchen, an open razor
They put the dead baby on a newspaper
We could hang
Monday, July 13, 2009
Prompts 13 July 01
I have been wondering
There is a certain light that moves, swells, before rain
In the morning my child was cooler and slept
I would love ice
Peas, beans, various kinds of potatoes
I'm trying to get this right and left thing
I used to wait on the low church roof
Old shops with wood and whirring canisters
From the hill I saw a snaking tenement
It's something not in her eyes
Kitchen of Sand
Do they make statues of the living
There is a grey building full of bad men, or misunderstood
On the piss with Judas
What do we watch if the space is not empty?
I knew a man who had a hole in his head
Mittens on string, push-pull, incredible
I find it strange, me, never was
He loved a fat woman, she loved a little man
A cold door
There is a certain light that moves, swells, before rain
In the morning my child was cooler and slept
I would love ice
Peas, beans, various kinds of potatoes
I'm trying to get this right and left thing
I used to wait on the low church roof
Old shops with wood and whirring canisters
From the hill I saw a snaking tenement
It's something not in her eyes
Kitchen of Sand
Do they make statues of the living
There is a grey building full of bad men, or misunderstood
On the piss with Judas
What do we watch if the space is not empty?
I knew a man who had a hole in his head
Mittens on string, push-pull, incredible
I find it strange, me, never was
He loved a fat woman, she loved a little man
A cold door
Friday, July 10, 2009
Prompts 10 July (01)
When the freeze started it was just cold
They work side by side, opposite, strangers
I ride the wind
My bed is far too large now
TOYS
He punches in numbers, listens for the buzz
I’ve heard about your hair issues, the SAS
We will take the children
JIGSAW
These are not clouds, this is something wrapping
Purrs, coughs, stumbles
A nest of snakes, how it rolls, slides
It’s late but still people come
You know it, you can feel it, rising through you
We were black raincoats and black shoes
This is a story you should not hear
Picnic on a bomb site
I am writing to the council
I need to say something but it takes more than words
With luck, whatever that is
Call me Simple Simon, the others do
I could be out in a year
They work side by side, opposite, strangers
I ride the wind
My bed is far too large now
TOYS
He punches in numbers, listens for the buzz
I’ve heard about your hair issues, the SAS
We will take the children
JIGSAW
These are not clouds, this is something wrapping
Purrs, coughs, stumbles
A nest of snakes, how it rolls, slides
It’s late but still people come
You know it, you can feel it, rising through you
We were black raincoats and black shoes
This is a story you should not hear
Picnic on a bomb site
I am writing to the council
I need to say something but it takes more than words
With luck, whatever that is
Call me Simple Simon, the others do
I could be out in a year
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Prompts 07 July (1)
A mockery of insects
There is a love which checks the alarm is on
The enemy fries bacon and it smells like ours
I ask you to picture waves as an army
If possible I would like to be born
We build walls but never higher than they need be
It’s unlikely but crying is not impossible
I’m focussing on the quaint idea of love
This Helen, is she a looker?
Slut is fine
When policeman look younger, old people differentiate
Like sheep upon the fold
Nothing more than a wooden table, slightly bloody
Certain lights are angry
We need more ways to waste our time
Wheelchair
The last time I counted, there was just me
Listen to a white van grumbling
Today we have the naming of ports, beginning Le Havre
I think of the word “Honfleur”
Age ten, today we choose parents
Fustercluck
As she leaves in soft darkness
The difference between perfume and Eau de Toilette
I don’t even make “minor”
There is a love which checks the alarm is on
The enemy fries bacon and it smells like ours
I ask you to picture waves as an army
If possible I would like to be born
We build walls but never higher than they need be
It’s unlikely but crying is not impossible
I’m focussing on the quaint idea of love
This Helen, is she a looker?
Slut is fine
When policeman look younger, old people differentiate
Like sheep upon the fold
Nothing more than a wooden table, slightly bloody
Certain lights are angry
We need more ways to waste our time
Wheelchair
The last time I counted, there was just me
Listen to a white van grumbling
Today we have the naming of ports, beginning Le Havre
I think of the word “Honfleur”
Age ten, today we choose parents
Fustercluck
As she leaves in soft darkness
The difference between perfume and Eau de Toilette
I don’t even make “minor”
Sunday, July 05, 2009
More Course Feedback
• Lovely accommodation that offers both comfort and functionality
• Hard work but great fun!
• Variety of different tasks to enable exploration of mood, tone and character
• Variety of tasks to stimulate and manipulate ideas
• Plethora of books and magazines to inspire and provoke discussion
• Entertaining anecdotes and honest appraisals
• Numerous handouts that offer clear explanations and examples of what not to do
• Plenty of time to write and attempt implementation of the skills explored through texts and handouts
• Well researched theories on the craft of writing
• Different teaching methods employed and an ability to be flexible with the tasks set
• Intense and enthusiastic approach to writing
• Value for money.
• Lovely accommodation, full days of work and tasks (but the opportunity to opt out if it’s too much), convenient café for brunch and dinner just ten metres from the front door, lots of resources, handouts to take away afterwards, debates and humorous anecdotes, numerous computers available to work on and time to write and relax with other like-minded people.
• Hard work but great fun!
• Variety of different tasks to enable exploration of mood, tone and character
• Variety of tasks to stimulate and manipulate ideas
• Plethora of books and magazines to inspire and provoke discussion
• Entertaining anecdotes and honest appraisals
• Numerous handouts that offer clear explanations and examples of what not to do
• Plenty of time to write and attempt implementation of the skills explored through texts and handouts
• Well researched theories on the craft of writing
• Different teaching methods employed and an ability to be flexible with the tasks set
• Intense and enthusiastic approach to writing
• Value for money.
• Lovely accommodation, full days of work and tasks (but the opportunity to opt out if it’s too much), convenient café for brunch and dinner just ten metres from the front door, lots of resources, handouts to take away afterwards, debates and humorous anecdotes, numerous computers available to work on and time to write and relax with other like-minded people.
Course Feedback
I recently returned, exhausted but happy, from one of Alex Keegan's face-to-face writing courses. For three days we wrote, and discussed craft and all sorts of other things, into the early hours. There is nothing nine to five about these courses. Alex is ready to work until the last person says enough. Generous with his energy and writing expertise, he never instructs then sits back. He writes alongside the group, usually with enviable ease but sometimes, reassuringly, he struggles like anyone else.
I was apprehensive beforehand, thought I wouldn't be good enough, but needn't have worried. The ethos is one of respect for anyone who's serious about improving, whatever their current level. I got lucky when Alex used one of my stories to illustrate the editing process. His blue pen slashed through words, sentences, paragraphs - highlighting my particular weaknesses, and showing us all how we can strengthen our writing.
There's flexibility in what's looked at (Openings, Dialogue, etc) but also in how much writing is done. One evening I was too tired, my mind a blank, so while the others wrote I sat on a sofa in the corner, browsing through books of photographs.
The spaces within the Chapel have been created to allow withdrawal from the group whilst still being able to listen in to any interesting chat. There's the large table, great for laptop users or anyone who prefers sitting upright to lounging, and then there are several comfy seating areas with low coffee tables. The Chapel is well-supplied with all mod-cons, beds, computers and showers, a great place for any writing course, retreat or holiday. Just across the road is the very reasonably-priced café in which we ate most of our meals. Down the road is the sea and behind the village are hills and mountains, including Cader Idris.
I left on Sunday afternoon having learned a huge amount about writing, and sorry to have to say goodbye to new friends. I will definitely be back, just as soon as I've done enough writing to deserve another great weekend away.
Margot Taylor, Somerset
I was apprehensive beforehand, thought I wouldn't be good enough, but needn't have worried. The ethos is one of respect for anyone who's serious about improving, whatever their current level. I got lucky when Alex used one of my stories to illustrate the editing process. His blue pen slashed through words, sentences, paragraphs - highlighting my particular weaknesses, and showing us all how we can strengthen our writing.
There's flexibility in what's looked at (Openings, Dialogue, etc) but also in how much writing is done. One evening I was too tired, my mind a blank, so while the others wrote I sat on a sofa in the corner, browsing through books of photographs.
The spaces within the Chapel have been created to allow withdrawal from the group whilst still being able to listen in to any interesting chat. There's the large table, great for laptop users or anyone who prefers sitting upright to lounging, and then there are several comfy seating areas with low coffee tables. The Chapel is well-supplied with all mod-cons, beds, computers and showers, a great place for any writing course, retreat or holiday. Just across the road is the very reasonably-priced café in which we ate most of our meals. Down the road is the sea and behind the village are hills and mountains, including Cader Idris.
I left on Sunday afternoon having learned a huge amount about writing, and sorry to have to say goodbye to new friends. I will definitely be back, just as soon as I've done enough writing to deserve another great weekend away.
Margot Taylor, Somerset
July 05 Prompts (01)
Unshoed, I was travelling, but steadily
Yes, I was hungry
We are in little houses
The way blood flows in the bath, whatever else it’s beautiful
Death-Watchers
I am dancing. Not for money, for the music
Where clocks stop
Boxers once practised on me
Swimming to America
I have my toothbrush, one or two condoms
Out of the blue, could they owe me five hundred?
How cluttered an office gets
We’re all going swimming, apart from the kids and me
I was tricked into living and I regret it
An awful lot of jellyfish
The puff of a flash gun, no other sound like it
The signals come. Only the mad are tuned in
Most of us smile at the machine-gunners; it’s so personal.
Sobbing like a widow over spilt milk
Imagine yourself as my Kryptonite
You haven’t heard the first of this, what you have is impure
Yes, I was hungry
We are in little houses
The way blood flows in the bath, whatever else it’s beautiful
Death-Watchers
I am dancing. Not for money, for the music
Where clocks stop
Boxers once practised on me
Swimming to America
I have my toothbrush, one or two condoms
Out of the blue, could they owe me five hundred?
How cluttered an office gets
We’re all going swimming, apart from the kids and me
I was tricked into living and I regret it
An awful lot of jellyfish
The puff of a flash gun, no other sound like it
The signals come. Only the mad are tuned in
Most of us smile at the machine-gunners; it’s so personal.
Sobbing like a widow over spilt milk
Imagine yourself as my Kryptonite
You haven’t heard the first of this, what you have is impure
Friday, July 03, 2009
July 03 Prompts 1
When the day comes, and it will
Staples
Balancing his work, his lover, his writing
We woke up face to face like lovers
A small dark dot, someone is waving
We are waiting for the drowned man
Stand still a moment, listen carefully
The endless emptiness when they are gone
Something has come to our attention
Facing backwards on the escalator
Full of professors and so-o-o-o American
An Orang-Utan, his dog
A stitch of want below the throat
NAIL
In a filthy alley just below
It’s small things, the unreturned email, the pauses
Belching out the Devil
When I am blind I will feel sunsets
I am glass; you shimmer, you are light
The history in a single grain
I am not much looking forward
I look at this scar, long, incredible. I was wide open once.
Staples
Balancing his work, his lover, his writing
We woke up face to face like lovers
A small dark dot, someone is waving
We are waiting for the drowned man
Stand still a moment, listen carefully
The endless emptiness when they are gone
Something has come to our attention
Facing backwards on the escalator
Full of professors and so-o-o-o American
An Orang-Utan, his dog
A stitch of want below the throat
NAIL
In a filthy alley just below
It’s small things, the unreturned email, the pauses
Belching out the Devil
When I am blind I will feel sunsets
I am glass; you shimmer, you are light
The history in a single grain
I am not much looking forward
I look at this scar, long, incredible. I was wide open once.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
July 02 Prompts (2)
I place my hope on the water
GRANITE
Put in mind of my father and moved to tears
BOLT
What knots my belly now is hope
CHINA
I am an old, beaten dog
GLASS
I am a woman, middle-aged invisible
FLUID
Touch my lips with your spirit
PEA
They have found a way to crack the sky
MOON
So perfect it's ugly
TIN
A girl with her back to me, a girl on fire
FAT
This is one way to remember
WIRE
When all this is over, I will try to write
BUBBLE
Second hand, second-class, grey
CHEW
He wears boots, a dress, drives a shopping trolley, eats in the caff.
LIGHTS
GRANITE
Put in mind of my father and moved to tears
BOLT
What knots my belly now is hope
CHINA
I am an old, beaten dog
GLASS
I am a woman, middle-aged invisible
FLUID
Touch my lips with your spirit
PEA
They have found a way to crack the sky
MOON
So perfect it's ugly
TIN
A girl with her back to me, a girl on fire
FAT
This is one way to remember
WIRE
When all this is over, I will try to write
BUBBLE
Second hand, second-class, grey
CHEW
He wears boots, a dress, drives a shopping trolley, eats in the caff.
LIGHTS
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
July 02 Prompts (1)
The way she walks, The way she talks
She showed me a picture of a man in a hat
Twenty-Five Airmail Envelopes
Vauxhall Victor 101
Why do dark stories illuminate?
Remembering Tom
I looked up the meaning of your name. It means shit-head
I am a fish, desperately coming up for water
When I think of you, I see flickers
I'm in bed and you're in bed
A bowl can't but a tin can.
It's an interesting ward
I have never been happy
Wild Horses, muddy water
The Devil's Blog
A secret full of houses
It's set in Miami. And Nantwich
Let me know if you want to continue
I need a better name, something Polish or Romanian
I could try joining it up?
She showed me a picture of a man in a hat
Twenty-Five Airmail Envelopes
Vauxhall Victor 101
Why do dark stories illuminate?
Remembering Tom
I looked up the meaning of your name. It means shit-head
I am a fish, desperately coming up for water
When I think of you, I see flickers
I'm in bed and you're in bed
A bowl can't but a tin can.
It's an interesting ward
I have never been happy
Wild Horses, muddy water
The Devil's Blog
A secret full of houses
It's set in Miami. And Nantwich
Let me know if you want to continue
I need a better name, something Polish or Romanian
I could try joining it up?
PROMPTS 2 (11:36 Wednesday 1st July)
In another room
When Daddy came home
And it’s too, darn, hot.
Like Wolves Upon the Fold
Among the Dead Cities
I am trying not to be here
The light of an almost morning
All the fun is in how you say a thing
Circuit
What I think about when I’m making love
Red Brick
An end to running
Perhaps, if I don’t try so hard
Smoke in the valley
The Girl of My Best Friend
A small airfield in North Africa
How we pretend
You were here before me
When Daddy came home
And it’s too, darn, hot.
Like Wolves Upon the Fold
Among the Dead Cities
I am trying not to be here
The light of an almost morning
All the fun is in how you say a thing
Circuit
What I think about when I’m making love
Red Brick
An end to running
Perhaps, if I don’t try so hard
Smoke in the valley
The Girl of My Best Friend
A small airfield in North Africa
How we pretend
You were here before me
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
JULY COLD TURKEY WRITERS
SOME OF US had a very successful June "Blasting" but nevertheless probably wasted too much time on Facebook and other places.
So here is the deal for JULY
Join my Facebook group (JULY COLD TURKEY WRITERS) to write every day, BUT (here is the rub) other than getting your prompts, you must not look at emails or the web AT ALL until you have completed your daily minimum word-count.
SO if your minimum daily WC is 500 words, no internet access until you've written the 500
Trust me, your productivity will ROCKET
Join my group but only if you seriously intend to try this.
So here is the deal for JULY
Join my Facebook group (JULY COLD TURKEY WRITERS) to write every day, BUT (here is the rub) other than getting your prompts, you must not look at emails or the web AT ALL until you have completed your daily minimum word-count.
SO if your minimum daily WC is 500 words, no internet access until you've written the 500
Trust me, your productivity will ROCKET
Join my group but only if you seriously intend to try this.
July 01 Prompts
Prompts for July 1st
The Complete Book of Knots
The mortal lady of our tale
Distantly related to the more famous Stan
Blackpool in December, Jesus Christ!
I am in my workroom
Tail-End Charlie
52 Ways of Looking
What We Believe But Cannot Prove
Spectacles, Testicles, Fags & Matches
I fell in love with an enigma
and the prompts below
Hands
A Nightingale Sang
Seven Uses for a Hedgehog
Hello Vera
The Bodyshop
As You Like It
Glow in the Dark
Eating out of my Hand
Paint Stripping
Twins, Bodies
Do You Want Chips with That?
Silver Water
Chocolate Purple
Indian Summer Days
The Beach Hut
The Rattle of Stones
Not About my Father
Up to My Ears
The Tutor
Feet
The Complete Book of Knots
The mortal lady of our tale
Distantly related to the more famous Stan
Blackpool in December, Jesus Christ!
I am in my workroom
Tail-End Charlie
52 Ways of Looking
What We Believe But Cannot Prove
Spectacles, Testicles, Fags & Matches
I fell in love with an enigma
and the prompts below
Hands
A Nightingale Sang
Seven Uses for a Hedgehog
Hello Vera
The Bodyshop
As You Like It
Glow in the Dark
Eating out of my Hand
Paint Stripping
Twins, Bodies
Do You Want Chips with That?
Silver Water
Chocolate Purple
Indian Summer Days
The Beach Hut
The Rattle of Stones
Not About my Father
Up to My Ears
The Tutor
Feet
Monday, June 29, 2009
Connections
I am not religious, not even sure I believe in God, but I AM getting more and more "spiritual" as I age.
Things seem to happen to me in too many mysterious, amazing ways that they do not feel like accidents.
One partial example. My Dad is dead now but years ago, when I was still a dreamer, I asked him, "What did you REALLY want to do with your life, Dad?" and his answer, without any historical context was mind-bogglingly odd.
"I always wanted a little small-holding in Ipswich."
Pardon?
This was a steelworker from South Wales! Why a small-holding in Ipswich?
Part II
A few months ago I had a phone call from a woman asking if my Dad was "Ron Jones, RAF, born approx 1918"
He was all three.
"Well," said the lady, "My mother was born-out-of-wedlock from a liaison between HER mother and this RAF chappie..."
Gran was a WRAF. Are we getting warm here?
So I do my research. Gran served in East Anglia, but nobody knows where. BUT my research (I got my father's war records) suggested he never went NEAR Ipswich.
Then, while teaching a creative writing course in Wales,I got an email from a chap who served in my father's unit in WWII. This chap was actually on the same Landing Craft as my Dad going in to North Africa.
Interesting, spiritual, warm, life-filling (but no Ipswich)
Then accidentally I deleted the email and emptied my trash.
Took a week to find the guy again and we chat on the phone and he says, "When we were posted FROM IPSWICH to Loch Fyne"
I get an out of print book on the 3202 Servicing Commando from Alibris and there, sure enough, they trained at Ipswich before their commando training in Scotland.
Oh WOW, I may have a half-sister somewhere.
I once won a story comp (£300 thank-you) and the story title was, "Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet & Watch"
The name of the book I bought?
"Spectacles, Testicles, Fags & Matches."
Things seem to happen to me in too many mysterious, amazing ways that they do not feel like accidents.
One partial example. My Dad is dead now but years ago, when I was still a dreamer, I asked him, "What did you REALLY want to do with your life, Dad?" and his answer, without any historical context was mind-bogglingly odd.
"I always wanted a little small-holding in Ipswich."
Pardon?
This was a steelworker from South Wales! Why a small-holding in Ipswich?
Part II
A few months ago I had a phone call from a woman asking if my Dad was "Ron Jones, RAF, born approx 1918"
He was all three.
"Well," said the lady, "My mother was born-out-of-wedlock from a liaison between HER mother and this RAF chappie..."
Gran was a WRAF. Are we getting warm here?
So I do my research. Gran served in East Anglia, but nobody knows where. BUT my research (I got my father's war records) suggested he never went NEAR Ipswich.
Then, while teaching a creative writing course in Wales,I got an email from a chap who served in my father's unit in WWII. This chap was actually on the same Landing Craft as my Dad going in to North Africa.
Interesting, spiritual, warm, life-filling (but no Ipswich)
Then accidentally I deleted the email and emptied my trash.
Took a week to find the guy again and we chat on the phone and he says, "When we were posted FROM IPSWICH to Loch Fyne"
I get an out of print book on the 3202 Servicing Commando from Alibris and there, sure enough, they trained at Ipswich before their commando training in Scotland.
Oh WOW, I may have a half-sister somewhere.
I once won a story comp (£300 thank-you) and the story title was, "Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet & Watch"
The name of the book I bought?
"Spectacles, Testicles, Fags & Matches."
Digging up Old Stories
I was talking about various things and remembered a story...
This was PUBLISHED 12 years and two months ago (first in the Southern Ocean Review) so I may have written it 13 or more years ago.
The Mistress
Tom is watching a movie with his mistress when something in the story-line touches him, and breaks through his well-constructed façade. His defences breached, he thinks of his son and his small daughter. He begins to cry soundlessly. When his mistress realises her lover is upset, she tries to be kind, but her kindness makes the guilt worse and Tom snaps at her. She doesn't understand.
They see out the film, leave, go to a restaurant. The waiter is an old friend, and Tom nods to him, orders garlic bread, then fresh Turbot. He also orders a litre of red wine, and a malt which he will drink while he waits for the bread. His mistress is tentative. She takes one glass of the wine and nibbles at it. When Tom has drunk his whisky and a glass of wine he reaches out a hand to her and she takes it. Tom squeezes her hand and he mouths, "I love you." He means it absolutely.
When they leave the restaurant Tom and his mistress walk a short distance arm in arm; to a little and expensive Victorian town-house. Inside, the door barely closed, they kiss and things progress. They fuck royally on the lowest stair but only when he has virtually eaten her, and she has mewed her delight, and he has felt so proud.
But then, when they go up to bed, Tom's mistress says nothing. She knows that every gesture of affection and any word of love can remind him. Sex is their shield. Tom's mistress walks a razor's edge but where it is sharp their life is still tremendous. They still lust after each other, like neither has ever lusted before, and when they reach their bedroom, still silent, she strips naked, stands above him, then drops down. She swallows him whole and tastes herself, then she climbs aboard him, controlling, to rock him to sleep. Afterwards, he slides into a special darkness which does not quite satisfy. He will not remember his dreams.
Tom's mistress would like to cook for him, but Tom doesn't like to stay in. Instead, they eat in good restaurants and joke with waiters. Once Tom loved the meals his mistress prepared, their quiet nights, the candle-lit nights, but now he doesn't want her to cook, he doesn't want to soften. And when his mistress dresses or undresses, though Tom is aroused and desperate, he prefers her simple, the lights dim. And when they play music, let it be the CDs they bought together, nothing older, HMV, Virgin, their times away in London, Paris, Amsterdam.
They never watch television now. Occasionally he will read and his mistress will curl up with the telephone, whisper to a friend, sometimes laugh. He pours her wine, himself a whisky.
He had realised long before it finally happened, but he loved his children almost as much as he hated his wife and he had thought himself capable of control, of strength. But then one day he was walking with his mistress, who was not then his mistress, towards Margaritas, for yet another lunch-time pizza. Innocent of course. They were walking behind a friend called Mike and some lady called Pauline down the crisp off-white pavement by the park.
He spoke quietly. His hand was inside her elbow, gently slowing her. He watched the back of the other two. Mike was happy, his arms everywhere, telling another outrageous joke.
Tom felt mature. He said, "Claire, I've got a problem;" then he hesitated and for some reason changed sides, moving outside her, nearer the road, "Claire, about lunches, about spending all this time with you. It's not just lunches now. I don't think of you as just a friend any more."
She had taken his hand. She had squeezed it, lifted it to waist height with a second firmness, then gently released him.
"If you want to stop going..." he said weakly.
"I don't," she whispered, "let's just carry on."
The lunch was a dream and when Tom spoke he heard himself. He had sat the same side of the table as his mistress, now his mistress, the inches closer that couples sit, sensuously, in each other's private space, their arms brushing, their thighs achingly close, shared moist air between their separate bodies.
By dessert he was turned towards her. He had a foot on the rung of her chair, his knee up as he talked lightly and sipped a liqueur. Occasionally, as she talked to the others, she would rest an arm or a hand on the muscle above his knee.
Later, when they had returned to work, he made mugs of coffee and scattered them round the office with precision. Claire got hers last. She was typing like a machine gun and breathing deeply, sensing him, waiting for him to come near.
He had rehearsed casualness. "Coffee, no sugar," he said close to her ear, but it sounded more like, "I love you!" His mistress took the mug and clasped it two-handed in front of her face, steam rising from it to lick around her glasses. Tom left and went to his office but his voice fluttered when he phoned and spoke to clients.
He fought for a fair time, aware he had fortitude but neither real courage nor strength. He knew he could no more avoid being with his mistress than he could give up loving his children, but he could, for a hopeful, self-deluding while, avoid fucking her, as if this act of non-action somehow excused him from the everyday crime of loving her and hating the mother of his children.
But oh, how he dreamt of his mistress, avoided her! How in the pinewet dripping forest he ran too hard, so long, so punishingly that his feet bled! And how he painted things, built things up, took things down, and read and argued and drank and sang, anything, anything, but spare himself the dark imagination, the scent of her, the eventual deep heat of her, the suicide, the giving up.
And he knew he would know the look, that look in her eyes, the timid power blurred by tears, that massive victory, that, he would remember. The late explosion, when it eventually would come, would be a comma not an exclamation, and he would remember only falling.
It was winter when Tom and his mistress finally got together. One night, she had cried, and he had simply not gone home. The next day, by phone from work, he told his wife. He was ashamed, and on the following Saturday his wife met him with his children in MacDonalds. He couldn't speak without shaking. His wife explained in front of him, that Daddy would be away this week, then she said they had to get back to the car and to hurry and kiss their father goodbye.
She left him an alarm clock, clean underwear, shirts, and a photograph of him with the kids. When the children hugged him, behind their backs he saw his wife's face, the cruellest victory barely masked, a whirling, bursting joy at his terrible mistake, so filling her up he thought she would explode into laughter.
That night, that first night, when he and his mistress had made love, if you could call it that, on a borrowed blanket on a borrowed floor, by a dying fire, in the cottage of her friend who suffered their mistakes and didn’t like him, it was love, at least love was there, but her partner had hovered, his wife had hovered, and the friend’s bedroom had creaked. The love act, it was something that had needed to be done, so had been done, some rubber-stamp, some symbol, an act to parade, a red flag to make something elsewhere absolute. He knew he had wanted to make himself leave.
Of course there were times, sober, quieter times, when Tom tried to explain to his mistress why they no longer laughed. At first he thought to blame the business, how, raging with success like a rampant cock he didn't have the time. And the money, the power, the two of them, drunk with the blackness of it all, driving through the ruins of the half-lives of others, ignoring amber lights, the warning signs, getting things done, all that, he said, didn't leave room for the petty, mere laughter.
"But," he said, "I love you and I could not love you more."
***
And they settled, they found a one-bedroomed place and he found whisky. Then one night, her face dark red, she screamed that he disgusted her and that he was fat, and he stopped drinking whisky and went jogging. The next night, when they made love he was cruel and hurt her and she told him she loved him and nothing, nothing was as good as this. And they took another holiday. When they came back they found the Victorian cottage, bought it quickly, then bought a good stereo system, talked about another holiday.
That weekend, Tom's children visited the new house. They were polite and they shook his mistress's hand. Then she went shopping and Tom's son played with the new stereo. When Tom's mistress returned the children had gone. Tom said he was thinking of taking them to Disney World. His mistress nodded. She cooked him creamed chicken and rice but didn't eat hers. Afterwards, they drank two bottles of ice-cold white wine and sat in the dark, listening to Elton John. They went to bed. In the morning she told him the holiday was all right with her, but one week, not two and he said a week was lousy value for money, but OK.
Orlando was hot, Disneyland crazy, and he was ardently foolish, dressed down to be like his kids, trying every ride, eating lunches at The Hard Rock Café, pizzas at night. His mistress swallowed her pride, fought the tears and laughed, went brown in the sun, went swimming with his boy, took photographs of the three of them, made love silently in the night. But when Tom was alone with his daughter, his daughter would shake her head, pull up her knees and ask, "How Dad? Why? She is so ugly!"
And Tom would shake his head too, and then smile sadly at his daughter and explain yet again that his mistress did not cause him to leave their mother. He just fell out of love, that was all.
But his daughter knew different.
After Orlando, Miami, even hotter - they had compromised on ten days - and in the islanded Keys he was wilder, even more child-like trying jet-skis, deep-sea fishing, even a barn-storming red biplane that sprayed him and his son with a faint film of hot oil. And for the first time she mentioned the money that poured through his fingers and his voice was raised in anger, not sadness and he said, "I love my kids, is that so hard to understand?"
And she looked at him differently, paused, then said, "Yes."
At the airports she walked fractionally behind the three of them, and she flinched when she heard Tom say they had to do it again. For the first time she wondered about David and how once upon a time, her life had been so simple. She had to remind herself that it had been unhappy too. She looked at Tom. Vaguely, she considered what having his child would be like, but as she looked at the back of his head she knew it would never happen.
Then one night Tom explained. He loved her absolutely. It was not them. He had never loved anyone so completely, so deeply. It was not them, it was the shadows, the others, the shadows of the things he had once created, the echoes, the ripples, the whispers; his wife's parents, her friends, his friends who liked her as much or more than him, the prickled skin of his children, the politeness that burned and left the air tainted with civility. He wanted to relax. He wanted to relax, that was all; he said. He hadn't known that love could be so painful or so wearing.
And he thought, "This is because you are my mistress, this is what they see. They don't see you, not the woman. You are a thing, a thing set apart, the cause of others' pain."
Then he spoke aloud, "But you're not, Claire. It's not fair. We fell in love, that was all. It was nobody's fault."
"Not what?" she said.
"It doesn't matter," he said.
And slowly she began to bend under the weight of his family, her bright, proud head lower, her eyes faintly dimmer. And though they still fucked well, and though they still fucked often, it was all of a sad darkness now and the explosions were painted red, and she began to wonder, could she walk away, even now, even after this third anniversary, could she walk away? And she thought, only if I can make him angry, only if I can make him say it, and she started to ask it, "Are your children more important than me?"
And every time he would say no, and they would drink and hold each other, and she would dream dark dreams and he would think I must suffer being in love still, and though he contemplated his own death he knew he could not accomplish it, not until the children were sixteen, and instead, he would whisper her name and slip his hands between her legs, and on the lower stair they would fuck again and he would sleep a while.
2,277 words
This was PUBLISHED 12 years and two months ago (first in the Southern Ocean Review) so I may have written it 13 or more years ago.
The Mistress
Tom is watching a movie with his mistress when something in the story-line touches him, and breaks through his well-constructed façade. His defences breached, he thinks of his son and his small daughter. He begins to cry soundlessly. When his mistress realises her lover is upset, she tries to be kind, but her kindness makes the guilt worse and Tom snaps at her. She doesn't understand.
They see out the film, leave, go to a restaurant. The waiter is an old friend, and Tom nods to him, orders garlic bread, then fresh Turbot. He also orders a litre of red wine, and a malt which he will drink while he waits for the bread. His mistress is tentative. She takes one glass of the wine and nibbles at it. When Tom has drunk his whisky and a glass of wine he reaches out a hand to her and she takes it. Tom squeezes her hand and he mouths, "I love you." He means it absolutely.
When they leave the restaurant Tom and his mistress walk a short distance arm in arm; to a little and expensive Victorian town-house. Inside, the door barely closed, they kiss and things progress. They fuck royally on the lowest stair but only when he has virtually eaten her, and she has mewed her delight, and he has felt so proud.
But then, when they go up to bed, Tom's mistress says nothing. She knows that every gesture of affection and any word of love can remind him. Sex is their shield. Tom's mistress walks a razor's edge but where it is sharp their life is still tremendous. They still lust after each other, like neither has ever lusted before, and when they reach their bedroom, still silent, she strips naked, stands above him, then drops down. She swallows him whole and tastes herself, then she climbs aboard him, controlling, to rock him to sleep. Afterwards, he slides into a special darkness which does not quite satisfy. He will not remember his dreams.
Tom's mistress would like to cook for him, but Tom doesn't like to stay in. Instead, they eat in good restaurants and joke with waiters. Once Tom loved the meals his mistress prepared, their quiet nights, the candle-lit nights, but now he doesn't want her to cook, he doesn't want to soften. And when his mistress dresses or undresses, though Tom is aroused and desperate, he prefers her simple, the lights dim. And when they play music, let it be the CDs they bought together, nothing older, HMV, Virgin, their times away in London, Paris, Amsterdam.
They never watch television now. Occasionally he will read and his mistress will curl up with the telephone, whisper to a friend, sometimes laugh. He pours her wine, himself a whisky.
He had realised long before it finally happened, but he loved his children almost as much as he hated his wife and he had thought himself capable of control, of strength. But then one day he was walking with his mistress, who was not then his mistress, towards Margaritas, for yet another lunch-time pizza. Innocent of course. They were walking behind a friend called Mike and some lady called Pauline down the crisp off-white pavement by the park.
He spoke quietly. His hand was inside her elbow, gently slowing her. He watched the back of the other two. Mike was happy, his arms everywhere, telling another outrageous joke.
Tom felt mature. He said, "Claire, I've got a problem;" then he hesitated and for some reason changed sides, moving outside her, nearer the road, "Claire, about lunches, about spending all this time with you. It's not just lunches now. I don't think of you as just a friend any more."
She had taken his hand. She had squeezed it, lifted it to waist height with a second firmness, then gently released him.
"If you want to stop going..." he said weakly.
"I don't," she whispered, "let's just carry on."
The lunch was a dream and when Tom spoke he heard himself. He had sat the same side of the table as his mistress, now his mistress, the inches closer that couples sit, sensuously, in each other's private space, their arms brushing, their thighs achingly close, shared moist air between their separate bodies.
By dessert he was turned towards her. He had a foot on the rung of her chair, his knee up as he talked lightly and sipped a liqueur. Occasionally, as she talked to the others, she would rest an arm or a hand on the muscle above his knee.
Later, when they had returned to work, he made mugs of coffee and scattered them round the office with precision. Claire got hers last. She was typing like a machine gun and breathing deeply, sensing him, waiting for him to come near.
He had rehearsed casualness. "Coffee, no sugar," he said close to her ear, but it sounded more like, "I love you!" His mistress took the mug and clasped it two-handed in front of her face, steam rising from it to lick around her glasses. Tom left and went to his office but his voice fluttered when he phoned and spoke to clients.
He fought for a fair time, aware he had fortitude but neither real courage nor strength. He knew he could no more avoid being with his mistress than he could give up loving his children, but he could, for a hopeful, self-deluding while, avoid fucking her, as if this act of non-action somehow excused him from the everyday crime of loving her and hating the mother of his children.
But oh, how he dreamt of his mistress, avoided her! How in the pinewet dripping forest he ran too hard, so long, so punishingly that his feet bled! And how he painted things, built things up, took things down, and read and argued and drank and sang, anything, anything, but spare himself the dark imagination, the scent of her, the eventual deep heat of her, the suicide, the giving up.
And he knew he would know the look, that look in her eyes, the timid power blurred by tears, that massive victory, that, he would remember. The late explosion, when it eventually would come, would be a comma not an exclamation, and he would remember only falling.
It was winter when Tom and his mistress finally got together. One night, she had cried, and he had simply not gone home. The next day, by phone from work, he told his wife. He was ashamed, and on the following Saturday his wife met him with his children in MacDonalds. He couldn't speak without shaking. His wife explained in front of him, that Daddy would be away this week, then she said they had to get back to the car and to hurry and kiss their father goodbye.
She left him an alarm clock, clean underwear, shirts, and a photograph of him with the kids. When the children hugged him, behind their backs he saw his wife's face, the cruellest victory barely masked, a whirling, bursting joy at his terrible mistake, so filling her up he thought she would explode into laughter.
That night, that first night, when he and his mistress had made love, if you could call it that, on a borrowed blanket on a borrowed floor, by a dying fire, in the cottage of her friend who suffered their mistakes and didn’t like him, it was love, at least love was there, but her partner had hovered, his wife had hovered, and the friend’s bedroom had creaked. The love act, it was something that had needed to be done, so had been done, some rubber-stamp, some symbol, an act to parade, a red flag to make something elsewhere absolute. He knew he had wanted to make himself leave.
Of course there were times, sober, quieter times, when Tom tried to explain to his mistress why they no longer laughed. At first he thought to blame the business, how, raging with success like a rampant cock he didn't have the time. And the money, the power, the two of them, drunk with the blackness of it all, driving through the ruins of the half-lives of others, ignoring amber lights, the warning signs, getting things done, all that, he said, didn't leave room for the petty, mere laughter.
"But," he said, "I love you and I could not love you more."
***
And they settled, they found a one-bedroomed place and he found whisky. Then one night, her face dark red, she screamed that he disgusted her and that he was fat, and he stopped drinking whisky and went jogging. The next night, when they made love he was cruel and hurt her and she told him she loved him and nothing, nothing was as good as this. And they took another holiday. When they came back they found the Victorian cottage, bought it quickly, then bought a good stereo system, talked about another holiday.
That weekend, Tom's children visited the new house. They were polite and they shook his mistress's hand. Then she went shopping and Tom's son played with the new stereo. When Tom's mistress returned the children had gone. Tom said he was thinking of taking them to Disney World. His mistress nodded. She cooked him creamed chicken and rice but didn't eat hers. Afterwards, they drank two bottles of ice-cold white wine and sat in the dark, listening to Elton John. They went to bed. In the morning she told him the holiday was all right with her, but one week, not two and he said a week was lousy value for money, but OK.
Orlando was hot, Disneyland crazy, and he was ardently foolish, dressed down to be like his kids, trying every ride, eating lunches at The Hard Rock Café, pizzas at night. His mistress swallowed her pride, fought the tears and laughed, went brown in the sun, went swimming with his boy, took photographs of the three of them, made love silently in the night. But when Tom was alone with his daughter, his daughter would shake her head, pull up her knees and ask, "How Dad? Why? She is so ugly!"
And Tom would shake his head too, and then smile sadly at his daughter and explain yet again that his mistress did not cause him to leave their mother. He just fell out of love, that was all.
But his daughter knew different.
After Orlando, Miami, even hotter - they had compromised on ten days - and in the islanded Keys he was wilder, even more child-like trying jet-skis, deep-sea fishing, even a barn-storming red biplane that sprayed him and his son with a faint film of hot oil. And for the first time she mentioned the money that poured through his fingers and his voice was raised in anger, not sadness and he said, "I love my kids, is that so hard to understand?"
And she looked at him differently, paused, then said, "Yes."
At the airports she walked fractionally behind the three of them, and she flinched when she heard Tom say they had to do it again. For the first time she wondered about David and how once upon a time, her life had been so simple. She had to remind herself that it had been unhappy too. She looked at Tom. Vaguely, she considered what having his child would be like, but as she looked at the back of his head she knew it would never happen.
Then one night Tom explained. He loved her absolutely. It was not them. He had never loved anyone so completely, so deeply. It was not them, it was the shadows, the others, the shadows of the things he had once created, the echoes, the ripples, the whispers; his wife's parents, her friends, his friends who liked her as much or more than him, the prickled skin of his children, the politeness that burned and left the air tainted with civility. He wanted to relax. He wanted to relax, that was all; he said. He hadn't known that love could be so painful or so wearing.
And he thought, "This is because you are my mistress, this is what they see. They don't see you, not the woman. You are a thing, a thing set apart, the cause of others' pain."
Then he spoke aloud, "But you're not, Claire. It's not fair. We fell in love, that was all. It was nobody's fault."
"Not what?" she said.
"It doesn't matter," he said.
And slowly she began to bend under the weight of his family, her bright, proud head lower, her eyes faintly dimmer. And though they still fucked well, and though they still fucked often, it was all of a sad darkness now and the explosions were painted red, and she began to wonder, could she walk away, even now, even after this third anniversary, could she walk away? And she thought, only if I can make him angry, only if I can make him say it, and she started to ask it, "Are your children more important than me?"
And every time he would say no, and they would drink and hold each other, and she would dream dark dreams and he would think I must suffer being in love still, and though he contemplated his own death he knew he could not accomplish it, not until the children were sixteen, and instead, he would whisper her name and slip his hands between her legs, and on the lower stair they would fuck again and he would sleep a while.
2,277 words
Not Enough Hints for Mrs Golightly
Thinking of Bridport (deadline tomorrow) I recall this article of mine from a while back and published in the Internet Writers Journal.
Please note the article is not sour grapes.
Not Enough Hints for Mrs Golightly
I recently picked up a second prize in a magazine competition, then in the issue announcing the winners I read from a subscriber: "Dee, A Dancer stood head and shoulders above the other competition entries. It's the only time I have ever been moved to give nine out of ten for a story."
PS, this is neither about "my writing" or "my story"...
Another reviewer wrote: "Dee, A Dancer gets under our moral body-armour and imparts an unacceptable feeling which robs our black- and-white judgment of absolute certainty...sensitive writing. A third reviewer wrote "I like the neutral tone to convey powerful stuff," another thought Dee was the most enjoyable story, but awarded marks to another for originality. Then a fifth reader said, despite awarding top marks: "the husband doesn't know what's wrong, fair enough, but I was frustrated that he, the writer, couldn't have dropped more hints that the reader could make sense of".
Yet, to others "Dee, A Dancer was insubstantial." "Depressing and self-conscious" and another "didn't understand the end. Was it only this reader or did others think that the last paragraph had slipped in from another story?" And third critic said "Dee, A Dancer tried confusedly and unconvincingly to relate."
If I ever actually understand that last sentence, I promise to let you know, but ignoring that, the whole experience leads me to wonder and to worry about the state of much of the short-story market. I have talked in the past about the "disease of competence" and at least three editors have confided in me that they daren't "push it too far", that they often dare not print material which taxes the reader at all. They tell me wanting quality is all very fine, but not at the expense of a readership. Though I might pretend to understand this, what this eventually means is that the safer (and often lack-luster) "decent" stories, find their way into the magazines, competitions are often won by these safe and easy (but smoother than the others) stories, and the readers think this is the norm, the top end of the mid-quality literary canon. Beginners imagine these are the story types to aspire too. The result? More blandness, and yet more authors dropping in hints that the character wouldn't know (terrible art, but we must keep Mrs Freda Golightly of Chiswick happy. She votes!)
Alice Munro would struggle, Borges would be laughed out of the room, Carver would be dismissed probably because he was "too thin".
My question is, where, below the top five-six American magazines, and the few dozen magazines based on American University campuses does a writer go if she wants to push beyond the easy-to-swallow general fiction that is often seen in many of the small British magazines?
I can take three of my stories, one near my best quality, rich and literary, a second, lighter, less ambitious, and a third a lightweight, relative failure. If I enter these three in a competition I can predict the outcome. The best flops, the mid-range is short-listed and the make-weight gets a prize! This hasn't happened just once, it's happened maybe five, six a dozen times. Why?
One why is "readers". Many volunteer readers for competitions, those who narrow down four thousand entries to a more manageable couple of hundred stories, have been raised on the mid-range "easy-to-swallow" magazines I've already mentioned. Many are writers or aspiring themselves. Often, I think, they choose, not the best work, not the most enjoyable, but the best works that they could imagine themselves writing. That is, if it's tough, if it's something currently that bit of an extra reach for them, it's dismissed as "arti-farty" or "intellectual junk" or perhaps "self-conscious" or "MFA stuff".
The result? Even if the final judge is Saul Bellow, what he gets to see are those stories where we've put in the crude make-it-easy-for-Freda bits, removed a few allusions, kept it under the glass ceiling. The poor judge gets two-hundred plain vanilla me-too stories, stories that (ask any judge) he can't remember a month later.
But does Ray Carver's "A Few Good Things" get forgotten? Do people forget the baby in "The Shawl" or the abortion scene in "Differently," the fisherman's boots in "The Ledge"?
I know the owners of magazines have a terrible dilemma, but doesn't something need to be done? Reader, ask yourself. Think of the copies of little magazines you have on your shelf, or the ezines you've read. Now close your eyes. What stories do you remember? Which ones got under your moral radar, which ones subverted you, changed you, even if only for a while. Can you remember ANY of the stories?
Someone once said, "Be one per-cent different and they call you a genius, be two-percent different they call you mad; five per-cent different and they kill you." The problem with much of the short-story market, particularly the competition-driven market is "different" never means "tougher", different never means asking the reader to think, to move through emotional application, into a greater realization, change. Different means, the same plus a one-liner, what I can do, with a twist.
Please note the article is not sour grapes.
Not Enough Hints for Mrs Golightly
I recently picked up a second prize in a magazine competition, then in the issue announcing the winners I read from a subscriber: "Dee, A Dancer stood head and shoulders above the other competition entries. It's the only time I have ever been moved to give nine out of ten for a story."
PS, this is neither about "my writing" or "my story"...
Another reviewer wrote: "Dee, A Dancer gets under our moral body-armour and imparts an unacceptable feeling which robs our black- and-white judgment of absolute certainty...sensitive writing. A third reviewer wrote "I like the neutral tone to convey powerful stuff," another thought Dee was the most enjoyable story, but awarded marks to another for originality. Then a fifth reader said, despite awarding top marks: "the husband doesn't know what's wrong, fair enough, but I was frustrated that he, the writer, couldn't have dropped more hints that the reader could make sense of".
Yet, to others "Dee, A Dancer was insubstantial." "Depressing and self-conscious" and another "didn't understand the end. Was it only this reader or did others think that the last paragraph had slipped in from another story?" And third critic said "Dee, A Dancer tried confusedly and unconvincingly to relate."
If I ever actually understand that last sentence, I promise to let you know, but ignoring that, the whole experience leads me to wonder and to worry about the state of much of the short-story market. I have talked in the past about the "disease of competence" and at least three editors have confided in me that they daren't "push it too far", that they often dare not print material which taxes the reader at all. They tell me wanting quality is all very fine, but not at the expense of a readership. Though I might pretend to understand this, what this eventually means is that the safer (and often lack-luster) "decent" stories, find their way into the magazines, competitions are often won by these safe and easy (but smoother than the others) stories, and the readers think this is the norm, the top end of the mid-quality literary canon. Beginners imagine these are the story types to aspire too. The result? More blandness, and yet more authors dropping in hints that the character wouldn't know (terrible art, but we must keep Mrs Freda Golightly of Chiswick happy. She votes!)
Alice Munro would struggle, Borges would be laughed out of the room, Carver would be dismissed probably because he was "too thin".
My question is, where, below the top five-six American magazines, and the few dozen magazines based on American University campuses does a writer go if she wants to push beyond the easy-to-swallow general fiction that is often seen in many of the small British magazines?
I can take three of my stories, one near my best quality, rich and literary, a second, lighter, less ambitious, and a third a lightweight, relative failure. If I enter these three in a competition I can predict the outcome. The best flops, the mid-range is short-listed and the make-weight gets a prize! This hasn't happened just once, it's happened maybe five, six a dozen times. Why?
One why is "readers". Many volunteer readers for competitions, those who narrow down four thousand entries to a more manageable couple of hundred stories, have been raised on the mid-range "easy-to-swallow" magazines I've already mentioned. Many are writers or aspiring themselves. Often, I think, they choose, not the best work, not the most enjoyable, but the best works that they could imagine themselves writing. That is, if it's tough, if it's something currently that bit of an extra reach for them, it's dismissed as "arti-farty" or "intellectual junk" or perhaps "self-conscious" or "MFA stuff".
The result? Even if the final judge is Saul Bellow, what he gets to see are those stories where we've put in the crude make-it-easy-for-Freda bits, removed a few allusions, kept it under the glass ceiling. The poor judge gets two-hundred plain vanilla me-too stories, stories that (ask any judge) he can't remember a month later.
But does Ray Carver's "A Few Good Things" get forgotten? Do people forget the baby in "The Shawl" or the abortion scene in "Differently," the fisherman's boots in "The Ledge"?
I know the owners of magazines have a terrible dilemma, but doesn't something need to be done? Reader, ask yourself. Think of the copies of little magazines you have on your shelf, or the ezines you've read. Now close your eyes. What stories do you remember? Which ones got under your moral radar, which ones subverted you, changed you, even if only for a while. Can you remember ANY of the stories?
Someone once said, "Be one per-cent different and they call you a genius, be two-percent different they call you mad; five per-cent different and they kill you." The problem with much of the short-story market, particularly the competition-driven market is "different" never means "tougher", different never means asking the reader to think, to move through emotional application, into a greater realization, change. Different means, the same plus a one-liner, what I can do, with a twist.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Feedback on Capel Bethel Course
I have learnt more in one weekend of Alex Keegan's Bootcamp then I have in all my writing practice to date. Bootcamp equals action. From morning to night, there are endless discussions on writing and life. These are filled with intensity, laughter, the dawn of understanding and plenty of writing. Bootcamp is focused and directed, unfocused and indirected - the two complementing each other to give writers the perfect approach to the craft. Alex is a wonder and I'm booking my place on the next course. I've also connected with other writers and found new friends.
The chapel which is right in the centre of Llwyngwril is a beautifully converted space. Upstairs, you'll find a large open plan living-kitchen space where writers hunker down around the 12-seater table or sprawl about on the many sofas. Distractions include: Wifi, Bar billiards, a massive TV, books, DVDs and music. If you want to preach then the pulpit is yours for the taking. Downstairs there are bedrooms with comfy memory foam mattresses, bathrooms with power showers and an enormous roll top bath. There are books and pictures everywhere.
A hill stream rushes down through the village of Llwyngwril to the sea. The takes ten minutes to walk from the chapel to the beach - there are also other fantastic walks all around. There's a village shop (with cash back and booze!), post office, cafe and pub. The village also has its own train station and you can get a return, if you pre-book with Virgin trains, to London and back for about £25.00.
The chapel which is right in the centre of Llwyngwril is a beautifully converted space. Upstairs, you'll find a large open plan living-kitchen space where writers hunker down around the 12-seater table or sprawl about on the many sofas. Distractions include: Wifi, Bar billiards, a massive TV, books, DVDs and music. If you want to preach then the pulpit is yours for the taking. Downstairs there are bedrooms with comfy memory foam mattresses, bathrooms with power showers and an enormous roll top bath. There are books and pictures everywhere.
A hill stream rushes down through the village of Llwyngwril to the sea. The takes ten minutes to walk from the chapel to the beach - there are also other fantastic walks all around. There's a village shop (with cash back and booze!), post office, cafe and pub. The village also has its own train station and you can get a return, if you pre-book with Virgin trains, to London and back for about £25.00.
Runners Who Write; Writers Who Run
Morning Folks.
I am on Facebook as AlexBootCampKeegan (all one word) and I have just started a group called
Runners Who Write; Writers Who Run
The following is a note I've posted on FaceBook about it. If you write ad run (should be BOTH, that's the point) then why not join me?
I have only run three hours in the last 4-5-6 months but I was a serious veteran club runner AND I WILL BE RUNNING TODAY.
Imagine going on a writers retreat where you ran first thing in the morning and everyone was so ALIVE!
I have just finished a weekend of teaching creative writing in a very intense atmosphere, up around 0600, going to bed around 0100. That intensity was on the back of almost thirty days of non-stop, heavy-duty writing and too many late nights. I went INTO the course dog-tired.
Once upon a time, as an athlete, I would have been overjoyed at the surroundings of the chapel. All those fantastic runs, with great views. This time I went, only just recovered from an injury having done no exercise whatsoever for six weeks and abusing my body with too-long days, too much time at the computer and too much (I drink when I write a lot) wine.
But one of the ladies on the course was out first morning, out there running with the sea air in her face. Day Two I HAD to go out.
I was three stones and more (as much as fifty pounds) over my racing weight, unfit, slightly upset tummy, hungover, mentally running on empty AND WE WALKED-RAN FOR TWO HOURS.
We didn't exactly hammer things. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that our mile-running pace was nearer ten minutes than nine, but we walked up those hills, ran along the cliffs, saw an amazing blue lagoon, came back sweaty (and I was sore) but the day FLEW by and I was twice as good a teacher, full of energy again.
This is what I remember when I was running a lot (up to seventy miles a week at my peak).
The physical, mental, philosophical side-effects of running are fantastic. When I'm fit, especially through running (and carrying a lot less weight) I feel younger, sharper, cleverer and insights come so fast I can't catch them all. I used to say running "empties my head of fat".
So, I want to form a group of people who firstly consider themselves writers (whether professionals or serious non-professionals) people who wake up and 19 days out of 20 are immediately thinking, "When and where today will I get my writing space?"
Ability and publications is NOT the point, desire an seriousness, and how you define yourself is the mark of "writer". I was unpublished when my son Alex was born. On the birth certificate my wife, unprompted, put my profession down as writer. That must mean I was, even if the 350-400 publications I now have hadn't started.
And running?
Well, the definition of writer is above. My definition of runner is similar. Do you get up evry day WANTING to run? Is it your main way of being fit? You may or may not be super-slim or fast, but at some time in your past you ran seriously (say 4-5 or more days a week) and raced a bit (even if you finished way down the field.
You own running shoes, shorts, vests etc and you get somewhere and you want to run, want to run, want to run.
You might be like I am right this minute (but watch this space) grossly overweight and maybe a bit ashamed, with short-term and long-term injuries. Running might now make you breathless. You aren't supple, you may not be quite so young. There's no way you are going to enter the next County Cross-Country, and the idea of The National, try to stop laughing.
BUT, like with me last weekend, someone was going running and you HAD TO try, because that's what you are, even if you're a fat old fat, you define yourself as a runner, you want to be fit again, want to feel that sharpness in body, brain and soul.
You quite like the idea, a year down the line, of a half-marathon where every person in the field is a writer. Wouldn't that be glorious?
JOIN ME!!
PS
If you write and don't run, START.
I am on Facebook as AlexBootCampKeegan (all one word) and I have just started a group called
Runners Who Write; Writers Who Run
The following is a note I've posted on FaceBook about it. If you write ad run (should be BOTH, that's the point) then why not join me?
I have only run three hours in the last 4-5-6 months but I was a serious veteran club runner AND I WILL BE RUNNING TODAY.
Imagine going on a writers retreat where you ran first thing in the morning and everyone was so ALIVE!
I have just finished a weekend of teaching creative writing in a very intense atmosphere, up around 0600, going to bed around 0100. That intensity was on the back of almost thirty days of non-stop, heavy-duty writing and too many late nights. I went INTO the course dog-tired.
Once upon a time, as an athlete, I would have been overjoyed at the surroundings of the chapel. All those fantastic runs, with great views. This time I went, only just recovered from an injury having done no exercise whatsoever for six weeks and abusing my body with too-long days, too much time at the computer and too much (I drink when I write a lot) wine.
But one of the ladies on the course was out first morning, out there running with the sea air in her face. Day Two I HAD to go out.
I was three stones and more (as much as fifty pounds) over my racing weight, unfit, slightly upset tummy, hungover, mentally running on empty AND WE WALKED-RAN FOR TWO HOURS.
We didn't exactly hammer things. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that our mile-running pace was nearer ten minutes than nine, but we walked up those hills, ran along the cliffs, saw an amazing blue lagoon, came back sweaty (and I was sore) but the day FLEW by and I was twice as good a teacher, full of energy again.
This is what I remember when I was running a lot (up to seventy miles a week at my peak).
The physical, mental, philosophical side-effects of running are fantastic. When I'm fit, especially through running (and carrying a lot less weight) I feel younger, sharper, cleverer and insights come so fast I can't catch them all. I used to say running "empties my head of fat".
So, I want to form a group of people who firstly consider themselves writers (whether professionals or serious non-professionals) people who wake up and 19 days out of 20 are immediately thinking, "When and where today will I get my writing space?"
Ability and publications is NOT the point, desire an seriousness, and how you define yourself is the mark of "writer". I was unpublished when my son Alex was born. On the birth certificate my wife, unprompted, put my profession down as writer. That must mean I was, even if the 350-400 publications I now have hadn't started.
And running?
Well, the definition of writer is above. My definition of runner is similar. Do you get up evry day WANTING to run? Is it your main way of being fit? You may or may not be super-slim or fast, but at some time in your past you ran seriously (say 4-5 or more days a week) and raced a bit (even if you finished way down the field.
You own running shoes, shorts, vests etc and you get somewhere and you want to run, want to run, want to run.
You might be like I am right this minute (but watch this space) grossly overweight and maybe a bit ashamed, with short-term and long-term injuries. Running might now make you breathless. You aren't supple, you may not be quite so young. There's no way you are going to enter the next County Cross-Country, and the idea of The National, try to stop laughing.
BUT, like with me last weekend, someone was going running and you HAD TO try, because that's what you are, even if you're a fat old fat, you define yourself as a runner, you want to be fit again, want to feel that sharpness in body, brain and soul.
You quite like the idea, a year down the line, of a half-marathon where every person in the field is a writer. Wouldn't that be glorious?
JOIN ME!!
PS
If you write and don't run, START.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Oxford Street!
I will be signing copies of Ballistics from 12 Noon until 4PM at
BORDERS, Oxford Street, London
Saturday July 18th
Please come along if you are in London that day and say hello.
BORDERS, Oxford Street, London
Saturday July 18th
Please come along if you are in London that day and say hello.
Ballitics 3rd Amazon Review
5.0 out of 5 stars
A magician with words, 14 Jun 2009
By DJM King "david61751" (Australia)
Alex Keegan writes some of the finest short fiction around and this collection contains some of the best examples of his art.
`Ballistics', a chilling but poignant account of human anger that gives rise to disastrous consequences, was an excellent choice as the title story. Personal favourites are however those written in Keegan's inimitable Welsh voice: 'Meredith Toop Evans and his Butty Ernest Jones'; 'The Last Love Letter of Berwyn Price'; and 'The Bastard William Williams'.
Like the pauses between musical notes, the stories in this book will ring true long after the last sentence has been read. Keegan's magic lies in what is being said without the saying. His stories are never short in the real term.
David and Myra King
A magician with words, 14 Jun 2009
By DJM King "david61751" (Australia)
Alex Keegan writes some of the finest short fiction around and this collection contains some of the best examples of his art.
`Ballistics', a chilling but poignant account of human anger that gives rise to disastrous consequences, was an excellent choice as the title story. Personal favourites are however those written in Keegan's inimitable Welsh voice: 'Meredith Toop Evans and his Butty Ernest Jones'; 'The Last Love Letter of Berwyn Price'; and 'The Bastard William Williams'.
Like the pauses between musical notes, the stories in this book will ring true long after the last sentence has been read. Keegan's magic lies in what is being said without the saying. His stories are never short in the real term.
David and Myra King
Sunday, June 14, 2009
New Amazon Review of Ballistics
4.0 out of 5 stars
Perfect Nuggets of Truth,
June 14, 2009
By
Diana Forrester "reader" (Grove City, OH)
Alex Keegan's Ballistics is a stunning collection of stories filled with grit, blood and truth. In the title story a toddler is blinded by his father's love _and_ anger. His life resonates with a need for understanding. In The Smell of Almond Polish(my favorite) Bridie Collins' life is filled with choices before it turns full circle taking her back to its beginning. In Post Cards from Balloonland, a man leaves a legacy for his children as he prepares to die. Each story contains its own nugget of truth, told perfectly, ready for you to read and ponder. You will not regret buying this book and while you are at it you should buy one for a friend
Perfect Nuggets of Truth,
June 14, 2009
By
Diana Forrester "reader" (Grove City, OH)
Alex Keegan's Ballistics is a stunning collection of stories filled with grit, blood and truth. In the title story a toddler is blinded by his father's love _and_ anger. His life resonates with a need for understanding. In The Smell of Almond Polish(my favorite) Bridie Collins' life is filled with choices before it turns full circle taking her back to its beginning. In Post Cards from Balloonland, a man leaves a legacy for his children as he prepares to die. Each story contains its own nugget of truth, told perfectly, ready for you to read and ponder. You will not regret buying this book and while you are at it you should buy one for a friend
Friday, June 12, 2009
Spotted This!
Geri is by no means the only one...
Hi, All - I'm a former BCer, started with the group when it was formed back on CServe a decade or so ago (Hi, Alex, John R., Diana F., & Merc!). I have both fond memories and godawful nightmares about those days. Since then, I've written and published 7 novels - of which, book 7 made me proud by earning a good review in Publisher's Weekly and 3 out of 4 stars from People Magazine. Currently, I'm working on book number 8.
Geri Buckley Borcz
Hi, All - I'm a former BCer, started with the group when it was formed back on CServe a decade or so ago (Hi, Alex, John R., Diana F., & Merc!). I have both fond memories and godawful nightmares about those days. Since then, I've written and published 7 novels - of which, book 7 made me proud by earning a good review in Publisher's Weekly and 3 out of 4 stars from People Magazine. Currently, I'm working on book number 8.
Geri Buckley Borcz
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Prompts 23:30 June 11th
No sunrise, no noon, no city
When I am gone away
The night I lost you
I just need a little space
It is hard for us to get inside
We all have monsters
You could call me, if there was a point
I will lead the black horse
When I am dead, say what the fuck you like
I loved her, my dear stranger
I have walked a long way in the rain
We put his heavy body in
I keep thinking you’re still here
The deal is just for you, on the table
They are waiting somewhere near the big rock
What is, is, what goes, goes
Inside the tent, you were still breathing
I am trying to break in to the asylum
I am not just visiting
Nothing is lost, well not everything
There are no strawberries
I’ve brought some money
I woke and could hear the harbour shifting
It’s not THAT big a tornado
All night I have held your hand
It was Tennessee
I am trying to repair
Like wolves on the fold
When I am gone away
The night I lost you
I just need a little space
It is hard for us to get inside
We all have monsters
You could call me, if there was a point
I will lead the black horse
When I am dead, say what the fuck you like
I loved her, my dear stranger
I have walked a long way in the rain
We put his heavy body in
I keep thinking you’re still here
The deal is just for you, on the table
They are waiting somewhere near the big rock
What is, is, what goes, goes
Inside the tent, you were still breathing
I am trying to break in to the asylum
I am not just visiting
Nothing is lost, well not everything
There are no strawberries
I’ve brought some money
I woke and could hear the harbour shifting
It’s not THAT big a tornado
All night I have held your hand
It was Tennessee
I am trying to repair
Like wolves on the fold
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
9th June Evening Prompts
“Love usually does,” he said.
A red flash of something
Allowing for wind
He clapped his hands.
His heart beat so loudly he could not hear her speak
In the back of a garbage truck
My gray brother
No problems down here
Now he was smiling, “Well, piss off, then!”
Now it is far away
Primrose
She danced on to his mouth
She felt as if she’d been out a month.
Tablets
She knew she could do without this.
Among the dead cities
She told him she’d live with her loss.
Bronze
She turned her collar up and ducked back into the day
Irky-Darky
Six blind men taking in the evening
The barman steered them to a whispy-haired old codger in the corner
The guy in the suit is a clerk
The masks didn’t protect them.
The night collapses at 2 AM
The time when the rat-people emerge
Them’s dusky types: South Americans and ayrabs
This is how the night takes us
This is the safety-catch
This should not be rushed.
This was going to be a bad weekend
Weasel
You will have heard this before, often
A red flash of something
Allowing for wind
He clapped his hands.
His heart beat so loudly he could not hear her speak
In the back of a garbage truck
My gray brother
No problems down here
Now he was smiling, “Well, piss off, then!”
Now it is far away
Primrose
She danced on to his mouth
She felt as if she’d been out a month.
Tablets
She knew she could do without this.
Among the dead cities
She told him she’d live with her loss.
Bronze
She turned her collar up and ducked back into the day
Irky-Darky
Six blind men taking in the evening
The barman steered them to a whispy-haired old codger in the corner
The guy in the suit is a clerk
The masks didn’t protect them.
The night collapses at 2 AM
The time when the rat-people emerge
Them’s dusky types: South Americans and ayrabs
This is how the night takes us
This is the safety-catch
This should not be rushed.
This was going to be a bad weekend
Weasel
You will have heard this before, often
Tuesday 9 June Prompts at 07:20
They have taken the sofa away
Brabazon
Slowly they are dragging themselves home, their ghosts dancing
Exposed beams
Settle for Half
He had it with him at the time of the accident
Working together for your future
I find it hard to believe
We will move him into the sun
My head aches and my body aches
I do not believe in the sum of the parts
Death like a small pink flower
At the sink and hopelessly in love with her master
Unharmed
A delicious softness
If our love had been in a book
Everything they said glittered
Under here, a town where people walked
Profumo
I was much further out than they thought
Eat after I am dead
There’s dance tonight at the YM
The money in his name is mounting up
He disappeared in December
In the United States a policeman is shot every 53 Hours
Married to Marilyn
The blessed will not care how we look at them
Quartz
Above the shops the old facades whisper of ancient sex
Brabazon
Slowly they are dragging themselves home, their ghosts dancing
Exposed beams
Settle for Half
He had it with him at the time of the accident
Working together for your future
I find it hard to believe
We will move him into the sun
My head aches and my body aches
I do not believe in the sum of the parts
Death like a small pink flower
At the sink and hopelessly in love with her master
Unharmed
A delicious softness
If our love had been in a book
Everything they said glittered
Under here, a town where people walked
Profumo
I was much further out than they thought
Eat after I am dead
There’s dance tonight at the YM
The money in his name is mounting up
He disappeared in December
In the United States a policeman is shot every 53 Hours
Married to Marilyn
The blessed will not care how we look at them
Quartz
Above the shops the old facades whisper of ancient sex
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Prompts Before Midnight
I confess that I was completely bewildered
Some two months ago, on an August afternoon
I met him on the square
After that I seemed to see him all the time
I remember, with painful clarity
They blamed the nurse
The doctor had soft hands and a disarming smile
We decided to live
It was a warm, still evening
He would not look at her
I am related to Herr general
Dark smoke, screaming
It can all be summed up simply
Southern Comfort
The room was dull with dull pictures and dull drapes
I recall very little of my childhood
Another official came towards us
It was nearly dark
I was on my way to Dresden
Tell me a story with not too many lies
And that was when she kissed me
The candles burned lower
I loved a soldier
He sat and played a little, then someone began singing
It was a heavy, brutal blow
A boy on a bicycle came towards us
The city rose, then softly sighed
My joy was to look in those windows
Some two months ago, on an August afternoon
I met him on the square
After that I seemed to see him all the time
I remember, with painful clarity
They blamed the nurse
The doctor had soft hands and a disarming smile
We decided to live
It was a warm, still evening
He would not look at her
I am related to Herr general
Dark smoke, screaming
It can all be summed up simply
Southern Comfort
The room was dull with dull pictures and dull drapes
I recall very little of my childhood
Another official came towards us
It was nearly dark
I was on my way to Dresden
Tell me a story with not too many lies
And that was when she kissed me
The candles burned lower
I loved a soldier
He sat and played a little, then someone began singing
It was a heavy, brutal blow
A boy on a bicycle came towards us
The city rose, then softly sighed
My joy was to look in those windows
Ballistcs Gigs
JUNE 27th
I'll be signing at BORDERS, Newbury 11:30 onwards
JULY 11th (Saturday)
I'll be signing in Waterstones Winchester Saturday, July 11th, coinciding with The Music and Literary Festival there.
JULY 15th WEDNESDAY 8:30 PM
NOW CHANGED TO JULY 8TH (ONE WEEK EARLIER)
I'll be giving a reading/talk at BORDERS, Newbury after closing, in Starbucks upstairs
I'll be signing at BORDERS, Newbury 11:30 onwards
JULY 11th (Saturday)
I'll be signing in Waterstones Winchester Saturday, July 11th, coinciding with The Music and Literary Festival there.
JULY 15th WEDNESDAY 8:30 PM
NOW CHANGED TO JULY 8TH (ONE WEEK EARLIER)
I'll be giving a reading/talk at BORDERS, Newbury after closing, in Starbucks upstairs
Prompts on Sunday Morning
Pardon the lateness of these, but just flipping through books and getting "tweaked" I managed two short poems. Well that's me complete for the day
I seem to have always known I was a carpenter
Some call this a city
I have never sat beside a river with someone beautiful and just looked
One spring a few years later
Here I am, a man of good sense
There is a certain way the light comes in
We drink it in the morning, we drink it at night
The touch of something carved
I have walked down side-streets under trees
I want to sing. I would like to play
Walking through the supermarket at night, the cans…
Nothing came from out the gloom
For you it’s no big deal, but this is my ambition
And he loved boiled sweets and sex
I would like to increase life
Why not salad for breakfast?
After swimming, down Stow Hill, extraordinarily fresh
Oxo and Bread, twopence
I miss the joy of body
If I fill my house with poems, must they all be good?
Men who take to railways or to tugs
I sat once on a lonely road, waiting for a vet’s needle
You must have had your hand up a lot of skirts
My son had not heard of Thalidomide
A word but not used up, is filled with light
We must die, or love one another.
The mere word freedom can kill
They sing such jolly songs, but they are dying, ignorant.
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