On Using Prompts to Find Stories.
Every day in Boot Camp we post at least one set of prompts. These are help around road-blocks, ways to find new directions, grit in the oyster, small, odd elements to make your thoughts a little different.
It is rare we post less than ten. We sometimes post as many as twenty-four. Writers can use one prompt, two, or twenty-two and they can use prompts exactly, partially or use them as inspiration and not directly use them at all. For example, I might post “Hickory-Dickory Dock” and a writer might think of mice and clocks and write about cuckoos. The point is to break out of the box.
Some writers, especially beginners, might freeze when they read a list of prompts. Well, first, remember, no-one says you must use these, any of these, or yesterday’s, or any prompt we have posted. The prompts say, “write”, that is all, and if the prompts help you, fine, if not, that’s OK too.
But I believe that freezing before a prompts-lists is like how sometimes, when we are told to read a boom (remember school?) we see only words, and even when we try to read “naturally” all we hear is a monotonous voice, and every line is treacle.
SING.
Read the list of prompts, go loose, be drunk, from the top to the bottom, from the bottom to the top. Try chanting them or singing them, combine them, alter their order. 49 times out of fifty some of the prompts will stick to you. Often it is not ONE prompt that hits you but two together, as a combination, as an echo. Look for the rhythms in lines. Presume nothing, allow yourself to be seduced.
Many of our prompts are poetry, lines either directly from poems, or similar lines tweaked a little. (Many lines, while being written are prompted themselves by lines from poetry, so are original, but cousins of the poem.
Understand that the line or its cousin contain. They hold my thoughts or the poster’s thoughts, and the poet’s and, deep within, his society and history and the literature he stands upon. A poem has DNA, a family-tree. We have to open up, though, to feel it.
I am a poor reader of poetry yet, every day, as I flick through books of poetry I am struck by lines. Not only are they sometimes beautiful alone, but I feel them resonate, pulse, echo ages, smell of sex. I hear the poet breathing.
Once that never happened. Once it was just words.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Saturday Morning Prompts 07:20
We were more or less accomplices
Old men reading newspapers
But she came to me, whispering, sucking, when she chose
Your gesture is appreciated
It is a trim accountancy
The air is poison
Hear careless children in the schoolyard, dancing on bones
It is kind of you to come
I loved my lover and I tried to love my wife
You drag out your days on your knees
Soup
I remember once, a nurse, not of my country
A face that called me deep, and echoing
The daily struggle ends in whispers
From what we have gathered we are not alone
A sadness waits here, like a tick in grass
Frankly, it would be nice to pause a while and take a drink
See death fly by confused
She loved a man who said he was a singer
They are all holier than I
What I believe is like a light across the moor
I stumble forward but the ground is treacherous
Every city has its ghetto
Of childhood, most, I remember fears
My name is Elias Jones, I have been dead these weeks
Old men reading newspapers
But she came to me, whispering, sucking, when she chose
Your gesture is appreciated
It is a trim accountancy
The air is poison
Hear careless children in the schoolyard, dancing on bones
It is kind of you to come
I loved my lover and I tried to love my wife
You drag out your days on your knees
Soup
I remember once, a nurse, not of my country
A face that called me deep, and echoing
The daily struggle ends in whispers
From what we have gathered we are not alone
A sadness waits here, like a tick in grass
Frankly, it would be nice to pause a while and take a drink
See death fly by confused
She loved a man who said he was a singer
They are all holier than I
What I believe is like a light across the moor
I stumble forward but the ground is treacherous
Every city has its ghetto
Of childhood, most, I remember fears
My name is Elias Jones, I have been dead these weeks
Friday, May 22, 2009
Friday Night Prompts 20:15
The small summer droops
We move at speed
We set out earthen jugs and water
My mother and my father sang, but not together
Again and again, horses, horses, horses
I am in no way eminent though I have dined with kings
I want a girl with white, white skin
It is the same, I think
A Chapel, but no garden and no view
I stole a bullet
I try to remember me, a boy, always forgetting he is dead
Aunties are fat, or stand like brooms, they are never in-between
Fat Moonsky
A bride with anger in her eyes
Silverware
If all the blood, all the blood, a lake, an ocean?
Tell them about your country
I would die for seeing her
Really, it was being locked away
This is no place for ambition
They will shutter all this up
We move at speed
We set out earthen jugs and water
My mother and my father sang, but not together
Again and again, horses, horses, horses
I am in no way eminent though I have dined with kings
I want a girl with white, white skin
It is the same, I think
A Chapel, but no garden and no view
I stole a bullet
I try to remember me, a boy, always forgetting he is dead
Aunties are fat, or stand like brooms, they are never in-between
Fat Moonsky
A bride with anger in her eyes
Silverware
If all the blood, all the blood, a lake, an ocean?
Tell them about your country
I would die for seeing her
Really, it was being locked away
This is no place for ambition
They will shutter all this up
Friday Evening Prompts
There are places I don't go
Is this where God hides?
Where can I go then, from the smell?
Just an ordinary, bald man, from the bald mountains
John Corner
I see the girls with yellow teeth and wicked smiles
He is soured by years of celibacy
Too far, too far, too far
The sheep are grazing above the village
Twelve Angry Men
Do not go to the woods. They say there is a poet there
You Have Mail
We are a people thinned out by war, and old.
Diesel is not Petrol, and Vice Versa
I found a dead poem, slowly rotting, being picked over by critics
There are cries in the dark
We have heard these things before. We have heard these things too often
I will switch to another author
And you, my father
Civilisation walks on an edge
All day it has rained, and we are cold
They have built their tents above us
I sleep.
=====================================
PS Buy a copy of Ballistics! Save SALT
Is this where God hides?
Where can I go then, from the smell?
Just an ordinary, bald man, from the bald mountains
John Corner
I see the girls with yellow teeth and wicked smiles
He is soured by years of celibacy
Too far, too far, too far
The sheep are grazing above the village
Twelve Angry Men
Do not go to the woods. They say there is a poet there
You Have Mail
We are a people thinned out by war, and old.
Diesel is not Petrol, and Vice Versa
I found a dead poem, slowly rotting, being picked over by critics
There are cries in the dark
We have heard these things before. We have heard these things too often
I will switch to another author
And you, my father
Civilisation walks on an edge
All day it has rained, and we are cold
They have built their tents above us
I sleep.
=====================================
PS Buy a copy of Ballistics! Save SALT
Ongoing Blast
Why not join the Boot Campers who are "blasting", trying to write a piece a day through until the end of June
Prompts are Here > http://bootcampkeegan.yuku.com/topic/11856/master/1/
Prompts are Here > http://bootcampkeegan.yuku.com/topic/11856/master/1/
Reminder: Ballistics: Salt
If you almost thought, almost bought a copy of Ballistics to help SALT PUBLISHING, but then didn't push through, please do.
If you love the short-story, help this fine publisher.
No charity involved, no subsidy, just buy a book (or two)
One day you might have a collection
and discover there are no SS publishers.
If you love the short-story, help this fine publisher.
No charity involved, no subsidy, just buy a book (or two)
One day you might have a collection
and discover there are no SS publishers.
Prompts 08:50
A World to Build
A bag of six-inch nails, facts, a bag of brass screws
The Sequel First
Rain holding on, the dark branches
Rubber
Small against the mountain
RIVET
After the sun stares, glaring at nothing
Dead City
She wears the grief, deep to the bone
PARROT
The other day she stopped me in the street
NAIL
As he grows older, older
CHINK
But when I think of Eliot
We are the women of the terraces
BASKET
They tug reluctant daughters through slanting rain
ALMOND
The coal smells, the streets are black
Travels by iceberg
The Church of Clinking Glasses
or a story beginning: I do not ask you to believe me, only let me speak.
or a story ending: It was small, efficient, final
A bag of six-inch nails, facts, a bag of brass screws
The Sequel First
Rain holding on, the dark branches
Rubber
Small against the mountain
RIVET
After the sun stares, glaring at nothing
Dead City
She wears the grief, deep to the bone
PARROT
The other day she stopped me in the street
NAIL
As he grows older, older
CHINK
But when I think of Eliot
We are the women of the terraces
BASKET
They tug reluctant daughters through slanting rain
ALMOND
The coal smells, the streets are black
Travels by iceberg
The Church of Clinking Glasses
or a story beginning: I do not ask you to believe me, only let me speak.
or a story ending: It was small, efficient, final
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Prompts 21 May 16:50
A white, fine skull, full up with darkness
And only heralded to the gaudy spring
A female, aged about twenty-two
And tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding
And the rustling blood
But as the riper should by time decease
A bag of six-inch nails
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes
Dogs barked for me
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel
A tractor broke open the grave
From fairest creatures we desire increase
I heard the hooters blowing up and down the valley
His tender heir might bear his memory
I follow my mother in from the car
If this was America I’d stop running
In the night he was delirious, shouting of lions
Like stiff new boots
Making a famine where abundance lies
Officially described as a steelworker
On Sundays they play tennis in the park
Owain was ill today
Pity the world or else this glutton be
Seeing only our reflections in bottomless pools
She is a tree in winter
Sing me a tin-bath song
Some plague or violence came
Ten years ago, my father
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die
The mathematics of sunshine
The poorest house in the street
The women come with baskets
The wood has rotted, the mud has won
There is bleeding in Newport
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
We were sitting having tea
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self so cruel
When a stream of visitors arrived
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
We stare at each other, dark into dark
Within thine own bud buriest they content
White on a black sky
A buzzard watches
And only heralded to the gaudy spring
A female, aged about twenty-two
And tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding
And the rustling blood
But as the riper should by time decease
A bag of six-inch nails
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes
Dogs barked for me
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel
A tractor broke open the grave
From fairest creatures we desire increase
I heard the hooters blowing up and down the valley
His tender heir might bear his memory
I follow my mother in from the car
If this was America I’d stop running
In the night he was delirious, shouting of lions
Like stiff new boots
Making a famine where abundance lies
Officially described as a steelworker
On Sundays they play tennis in the park
Owain was ill today
Pity the world or else this glutton be
Seeing only our reflections in bottomless pools
She is a tree in winter
Sing me a tin-bath song
Some plague or violence came
Ten years ago, my father
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die
The mathematics of sunshine
The poorest house in the street
The women come with baskets
The wood has rotted, the mud has won
There is bleeding in Newport
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
We were sitting having tea
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self so cruel
When a stream of visitors arrived
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
We stare at each other, dark into dark
Within thine own bud buriest they content
White on a black sky
A buzzard watches
Ballistics x 4
I'm delighted to say that we sold four copies of Ballistics tonight (and 5 on the weekend)
Thanks to all.
Save the Short-Story!
Thanks to all.
Save the Short-Story!
21st May Prompts Set 1 00:15
The Corner House
Let the blood-sucking bat
We will not remember dying
Twelve hours, give or take a week
Planes explode
Between the belly and the mind
Onion
I am finely honed beneath this
You can be my furry godmother
Chapel
You are neither bread nor knife, nor are you butter
Sin-Eater
I think they killed him off because he was fat
Mud so black with coal it burned
Touch me, remind me
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Thin, flat battery
It’s about time, or God, it varies
This is the hard-work part of love
I only claim for the four homes
You can die
Behind the ropes like the seagulls
Castor Oil & Malt
Cello
The first sound, the last thing I will see
Seems the Normans were right bastards
Let the blood-sucking bat
We will not remember dying
Twelve hours, give or take a week
Planes explode
Between the belly and the mind
Onion
I am finely honed beneath this
You can be my furry godmother
Chapel
You are neither bread nor knife, nor are you butter
Sin-Eater
I think they killed him off because he was fat
Mud so black with coal it burned
Touch me, remind me
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Thin, flat battery
It’s about time, or God, it varies
This is the hard-work part of love
I only claim for the four homes
You can die
Behind the ropes like the seagulls
Castor Oil & Malt
Cello
The first sound, the last thing I will see
Seems the Normans were right bastards
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Save the Short-Story
Folks, I heard on the grapevine that SALT PUBLISHING
have had a serious drop in cash-flow and really need some urgently
If we could all of us buy just one book
(but I guess a few more would be a good thing)
that would surely help a lot.
If you don't have a copy of Ballistics order one today, PLEASE.
I think if you order direct it's better for them, but you can order through Amazon or a bookshop, anywhere
Ballistics: Alex Keegan
ISBN 978-1-84471-477-3
Maybe you could buy 1-2 of mine as presents, help two causes at the same time?
(Smile at this point)
Save the short-story. Support short-story publishers.
Alex
have had a serious drop in cash-flow and really need some urgently
If we could all of us buy just one book
(but I guess a few more would be a good thing)
that would surely help a lot.
If you don't have a copy of Ballistics order one today, PLEASE.
I think if you order direct it's better for them, but you can order through Amazon or a bookshop, anywhere
Ballistics: Alex Keegan
ISBN 978-1-84471-477-3
Maybe you could buy 1-2 of mine as presents, help two causes at the same time?
(Smile at this point)
Save the short-story. Support short-story publishers.
Alex
20 May Second Prompt Set
Red Ring
Her I come to view a voiceless ghost
Tick-Tock
The enduring fascination of the difficult
I have met them each at close of day
Turning and turning and turning
Half-Term Activities in Milton-Keynes
We rested on a gate
Violence after violence,; violence upon violence.
Lake Geneva
Softly, on the evening, I hear a woman singing
There are days when life roars at us
And I was filled with such delight
It was a short war, and fairly neat
Piquante
You and I, and the evening lying down before us
When the boys come back
There will be time, there’s always time unless it doesn’t matter
Tinkle
Fuck April. It is crueller to be alone in August
Death has undone us.
Spade
A hairdresser called Phoebe
Grenade
I was walking along the Kennet, hoping
Her I come to view a voiceless ghost
Tick-Tock
The enduring fascination of the difficult
I have met them each at close of day
Turning and turning and turning
Half-Term Activities in Milton-Keynes
We rested on a gate
Violence after violence,; violence upon violence.
Lake Geneva
Softly, on the evening, I hear a woman singing
There are days when life roars at us
And I was filled with such delight
It was a short war, and fairly neat
Piquante
You and I, and the evening lying down before us
When the boys come back
There will be time, there’s always time unless it doesn’t matter
Tinkle
Fuck April. It is crueller to be alone in August
Death has undone us.
Spade
A hairdresser called Phoebe
Grenade
I was walking along the Kennet, hoping
08:10 More Prompts
20th May 2009-05-20
At the violet hour, when the eyes turn upwards
The Nine Fridays
We live lives our parents did not know
Once there was marsh here, men came in fear
She has fire that flashes in her eyes
Nobody steps in the same river twice, it changes
Or Bambi
It is not what we have built, it is what we knocked down to build
Ibuprofen
After lunch you said you wanted to pick flowers
Oh indeed my wife is handsome
I make the tea. I am quiet
Father Maloney’s glass eye
There is a boat on the river
The smell of meat on the air
They are selling the usual stuff
I live in you
A lost tribe is singing
Burnt-out buses
The zombie I met in Tesco
Circle into square and into circle
For days now I have been under house arrest
Pack
None of the substitutes work, but they are cheaper
At the violet hour, when the eyes turn upwards
The Nine Fridays
We live lives our parents did not know
Once there was marsh here, men came in fear
She has fire that flashes in her eyes
Nobody steps in the same river twice, it changes
Or Bambi
It is not what we have built, it is what we knocked down to build
Ibuprofen
After lunch you said you wanted to pick flowers
Oh indeed my wife is handsome
I make the tea. I am quiet
Father Maloney’s glass eye
There is a boat on the river
The smell of meat on the air
They are selling the usual stuff
I live in you
A lost tribe is singing
Burnt-out buses
The zombie I met in Tesco
Circle into square and into circle
For days now I have been under house arrest
Pack
None of the substitutes work, but they are cheaper
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Prompts. Set 1
A way with words
Alternatively books from both authors will be available at the centre
Zebra
She grinds my eyes with answers far too short
Moored of Eritrea
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds
Avro Lancaster Owner's Workshop Manual
The room is breaking out
For quality control purposes, calls may be recorded
This is the time and place to be alive
Lie to me
You weren't well or really ill yet either
Blood & Rage
Perhaps with help from my enemies
What makes us human
I did not imagine being old, or waiting here
The naming of parts
Or maybe Zulus
The next available agent
That Easter I was a few minutes late, but nothing to go on about
Here is a tricky question
We cannot take our eyes of the young
It could be seen as bribery
Back gardens, back gardens, back gardens, satellite dishes
Hanging like an old balloon
Alternatively books from both authors will be available at the centre
Zebra
She grinds my eyes with answers far too short
Moored of Eritrea
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds
Avro Lancaster Owner's Workshop Manual
The room is breaking out
For quality control purposes, calls may be recorded
This is the time and place to be alive
Lie to me
You weren't well or really ill yet either
Blood & Rage
Perhaps with help from my enemies
What makes us human
I did not imagine being old, or waiting here
The naming of parts
Or maybe Zulus
The next available agent
That Easter I was a few minutes late, but nothing to go on about
Here is a tricky question
We cannot take our eyes of the young
It could be seen as bribery
Back gardens, back gardens, back gardens, satellite dishes
Hanging like an old balloon
Fancy a Writing Blast?
Ex-BCers, Current BCers
Suck-it-and See-ers
Today is May 19, it's six full weeks to the end of June, 42 Days
Who wants to aim for some tough targets? A piece a day (minimum)
42 pieces in the 42 days?
It's not tough. It's just a case of ATTITUDE
19-25 May
26-01 May-June
02-08 June
09-15 June
16-22 June
23-30 June
If you are not BC, then you won't have the BC Crit Grid
and we can't promise any critical feedback, but you CAN join in the fun
and see what is possible when working with a motivated group
Or you can sign up with BC for a month with 2 weeks
extra thrown in and got the whole hog
email me alex.keegan(atsign)btinternet.com
Suck-it-and See-ers
Today is May 19, it's six full weeks to the end of June, 42 Days
Who wants to aim for some tough targets? A piece a day (minimum)
42 pieces in the 42 days?
It's not tough. It's just a case of ATTITUDE
19-25 May
26-01 May-June
02-08 June
09-15 June
16-22 June
23-30 June
If you are not BC, then you won't have the BC Crit Grid
and we can't promise any critical feedback, but you CAN join in the fun
and see what is possible when working with a motivated group
Or you can sign up with BC for a month with 2 weeks
extra thrown in and got the whole hog
email me alex.keegan(atsign)btinternet.com
Friday, March 13, 2009
Capel Bethel Web Site
The Beta of Capel Bethel's Web Site is now up
http://web.me.com/snowball136/Site_2/Welcome.html
http://web.me.com/snowball136/Site_2/Welcome.html
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday 13th 21:00 Prompts
1 A sunless corner and a sad flower
2 Men are waiting on the corners
3 Sticking needles in my eyes
4 How light shifts and the air adjusts itself
5 Women are standing in doorways, something will happen
6 Oil to rub, calamine
7 Maybe and maybe
8 I thought of using Heaney
9 Over from Aust with the pigs and sheep
T Genitalia
1 If you don’t behave
2 Trying to dig up the garden
3 IRON
4 It’s just a thing men do. You don’t have to understand
5 Unopened, unsure
6 Not exactly Formica, a tablecloth
7 Dolly
8 Hedgehoppers Anonymous
9 The ATC we called it, Chipmunks
T Peanuts and an Orange
2 Men are waiting on the corners
3 Sticking needles in my eyes
4 How light shifts and the air adjusts itself
5 Women are standing in doorways, something will happen
6 Oil to rub, calamine
7 Maybe and maybe
8 I thought of using Heaney
9 Over from Aust with the pigs and sheep
T Genitalia
1 If you don’t behave
2 Trying to dig up the garden
3 IRON
4 It’s just a thing men do. You don’t have to understand
5 Unopened, unsure
6 Not exactly Formica, a tablecloth
7 Dolly
8 Hedgehoppers Anonymous
9 The ATC we called it, Chipmunks
T Peanuts and an Orange
Evening Friday 13th Prompts 18:00
18:00
1 Some of us will build a temple
2 A yolk of light
3 I am not Henry the Fifth, OK?
4 Ding!
5 I have taken to wearing clothes to bed
6 I have wept some, and starved myself. Now what?
7 Mrs Jenkins’ Boil
8 I’m no prophet, but I think…
9 Marmalade, Dear?
T The difference between a story and a poem
1 It’s by some dead bloke I think
2 I said Pilla, not PILLAR
3 Occasionally I swell
4 Do I dare to eat a peach?
5 Will they sing to me? I think not.
6 The smoke and fog of matrimony
7 I see rings of light and hear wailing
8 Two or three, and a flower
9 Quantity Time
T It’s his Achilles Penis
1 Some of us will build a temple
2 A yolk of light
3 I am not Henry the Fifth, OK?
4 Ding!
5 I have taken to wearing clothes to bed
6 I have wept some, and starved myself. Now what?
7 Mrs Jenkins’ Boil
8 I’m no prophet, but I think…
9 Marmalade, Dear?
T The difference between a story and a poem
1 It’s by some dead bloke I think
2 I said Pilla, not PILLAR
3 Occasionally I swell
4 Do I dare to eat a peach?
5 Will they sing to me? I think not.
6 The smoke and fog of matrimony
7 I see rings of light and hear wailing
8 Two or three, and a flower
9 Quantity Time
T It’s his Achilles Penis
Evening Friday 13th Prompts 19:30
19:30
1 April usually comes after March
2 I was in a word-crash, horrible, squashed vowels, dead consonants
3 The sound of a stringless cello at midnight
4 So I just sort of grin
5 Like two cats fighting in a sack
6 Flow
7 It keeps pinging, pinging, pinging!
8 I doff my hat to you, Sir
9 6d a cow, twenty pigs for 2/6d
T The smell of burgers in the square
1 Fried Fingers
2 Here is a head, at least that’s our best bet
3 He uses the word “Islamisation”
4 Gathering together where there used to be churches
5 Something for the weekend, Sir?
6 In the palms of my sticky, sticky hands
7 Jeremy-Jeremy has a girlfriend
8 You could be right but you’re not
9 Noon, and something strange is happening
T What I’m trying to say is fuck off
1 April usually comes after March
2 I was in a word-crash, horrible, squashed vowels, dead consonants
3 The sound of a stringless cello at midnight
4 So I just sort of grin
5 Like two cats fighting in a sack
6 Flow
7 It keeps pinging, pinging, pinging!
8 I doff my hat to you, Sir
9 6d a cow, twenty pigs for 2/6d
T The smell of burgers in the square
1 Fried Fingers
2 Here is a head, at least that’s our best bet
3 He uses the word “Islamisation”
4 Gathering together where there used to be churches
5 Something for the weekend, Sir?
6 In the palms of my sticky, sticky hands
7 Jeremy-Jeremy has a girlfriend
8 You could be right but you’re not
9 Noon, and something strange is happening
T What I’m trying to say is fuck off
Prompts, Apology
There's has been an emergency planning meeting called tonight (they are threatening to build 1,500 homes on Newbury Racecourse, so I won't be around all evening as I hoped to be.
Will try to post a few blocks of prompts before that. Here is one block.
====================================
The damp corners of evning
Kitten, bed, shit
She's wearing blue again
And the evening spread out under deep red, purple
It's to do with chemical reactions
Let us go and make a visit
Here is the female fat from a diet of
The town has curled up for night
Which leads me to this question
and the slow smokes slides along the street
visions, revisions
National Murder Day
For I have known them all already
She talked out of the corner of her eyes
Then we'll begin
In dull lamplight things are crumpled where you were
And is it worth it, could it be worth it?
Someone is pissing my life, me, against a dirty wall
Cups and Saucers
They used to cut cheese with wire, just for my mother
Rattlesnake
After the books, the poems, the dried up glasses
I shall wear my sleeves rolled up, a hankie on my head
This is a small flood only
He who has keeps. He who has not envies.
This is what they mean to me, my friends
What does a violin do in its case?
We will go on drinking tea.
Will try to post a few blocks of prompts before that. Here is one block.
====================================
The damp corners of evning
Kitten, bed, shit
She's wearing blue again
And the evening spread out under deep red, purple
It's to do with chemical reactions
Let us go and make a visit
Here is the female fat from a diet of
The town has curled up for night
Which leads me to this question
and the slow smokes slides along the street
visions, revisions
National Murder Day
For I have known them all already
She talked out of the corner of her eyes
Then we'll begin
In dull lamplight things are crumpled where you were
And is it worth it, could it be worth it?
Someone is pissing my life, me, against a dirty wall
Cups and Saucers
They used to cut cheese with wire, just for my mother
Rattlesnake
After the books, the poems, the dried up glasses
I shall wear my sleeves rolled up, a hankie on my head
This is a small flood only
He who has keeps. He who has not envies.
This is what they mean to me, my friends
What does a violin do in its case?
We will go on drinking tea.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Evening Prompt
There are no ferries on Sunday
Two keys, that's all
Neighbours
Scenes From a Revolution
Flowers kept her going just about
The A-Z of dying
Major Major
and chips
There's only so far you can push me, I'm heavy
a line in the sand
And they have a stature of Diana Doors
River, River
This is the future, my husband says
We have reason to believe you are employing aliens
Evan can wait
This is a journey
The VAT Lady is very pregnant
Two keys, that's all
Neighbours
Scenes From a Revolution
Flowers kept her going just about
The A-Z of dying
Major Major
and chips
There's only so far you can push me, I'm heavy
a line in the sand
And they have a stature of Diana Doors
River, River
This is the future, my husband says
We have reason to believe you are employing aliens
Evan can wait
This is a journey
The VAT Lady is very pregnant
More Prompts for Writers
A set of car keys
Some sort of Ambush
Not seeking the front pages, not wanting to be seen
Ninety-One
Kidnapped by Gypsies
The Story of Jemima Pinke.
He doesn't like apricots, or porridge
A Difficult Case
Birdsong, turn up the volume
Press Button A
It's only in retrospect we know
Something buzzes, something is buzzing
Picnic in Angola
All we do is argue about positions
I am clumsy, I am clummy
Counting and counting and counting
I smell her, they say it is cheap, I smell Tweed
Slate, nothing but fucking slate
as I walk to the phone, lift the receiver
Generation Kill
Some sort of Ambush
Not seeking the front pages, not wanting to be seen
Ninety-One
Kidnapped by Gypsies
The Story of Jemima Pinke.
He doesn't like apricots, or porridge
A Difficult Case
Birdsong, turn up the volume
Press Button A
It's only in retrospect we know
Something buzzes, something is buzzing
Picnic in Angola
All we do is argue about positions
I am clumsy, I am clummy
Counting and counting and counting
I smell her, they say it is cheap, I smell Tweed
Slate, nothing but fucking slate
as I walk to the phone, lift the receiver
Generation Kill
Monday, February 09, 2009
PROMPTS FOR WRITERS MONDAY 9 FEB
Now I can sleep on the other side of the bed
Where the victim finds her murderer
It spins because it spins
Flat as a witch's tit
Seven Ages
I like catching mice, the sound of the trap
He says, "When?" and his hands shake
Impossible breasts
Ambush
I am in love with the milkmaid
There's this new idea, houses in rows, and rows, and rows
JC has organised a night out
My first, my second, my third, oh!
He punches in the code and something beeps
The dearest dust
World Death Day
The Ministry of Impossible Notions
Peejay & Fudge
I have heard the sound of unknown things
The Sin-Eater's Wife
Now it is wet. Last month it snowed
Lost Voices
Where the victim finds her murderer
It spins because it spins
Flat as a witch's tit
Seven Ages
I like catching mice, the sound of the trap
He says, "When?" and his hands shake
Impossible breasts
Ambush
I am in love with the milkmaid
There's this new idea, houses in rows, and rows, and rows
JC has organised a night out
My first, my second, my third, oh!
He punches in the code and something beeps
The dearest dust
World Death Day
The Ministry of Impossible Notions
Peejay & Fudge
I have heard the sound of unknown things
The Sin-Eater's Wife
Now it is wet. Last month it snowed
Lost Voices
Friday, February 06, 2009
Friday 07:40 Prompts for REAL WRITERS
I have Many Daughters
One Autumn Evening
And then, three times, it was denied
The Affair of the Clasps
Five went out, and they were laughing
Creatures That Once Were Men
We will bear it, without shame
Notch
He walked in the snow and left no mark
Chums
Sheep's Head Soup
Twenty-Six Men and a Girl
Out there, a crack, and then the noise fading
RED
He saluted, shook his head, smiled and took the gun
Birth of a Man
My Mother, Dad, going to the Dogs
Going Home
Penis Pendulous
Lullaby
The soft moon floats above the hill, a church
The Hermit
The fire is dead, the ashes chilled
The Other Road
He's not yet dead, clinging against the sea
The Golden Ass
The smell of blood and piss in alleyways
One Autumn Evening
And then, three times, it was denied
The Affair of the Clasps
Five went out, and they were laughing
Creatures That Once Were Men
We will bear it, without shame
Notch
He walked in the snow and left no mark
Chums
Sheep's Head Soup
Twenty-Six Men and a Girl
Out there, a crack, and then the noise fading
RED
He saluted, shook his head, smiled and took the gun
Birth of a Man
My Mother, Dad, going to the Dogs
Going Home
Penis Pendulous
Lullaby
The soft moon floats above the hill, a church
The Hermit
The fire is dead, the ashes chilled
The Other Road
He's not yet dead, clinging against the sea
The Golden Ass
The smell of blood and piss in alleyways
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Thursday Prompts 2200
What's that?
Stephanie called
Personal Details: Please Amend
Please Note: You have NOT won the lottery
Salmon
A good poem clears your vowels
The road is steaming
The dreams are now disallowed
Guttersnipe
The moving finger writes etc.
Oh, love and you so far away; my love I never spoke to her, but she heard every word.
The Fifth World War was very civilised
Imagine a perfect blue
Hold the Bones
For he's a jolly good driver
Story of the Week? You're 'avin' a laugh!
Think of me as a NICE Salman Rushdie
Bollocks, Balderdash
There is a tide in the affairs of man, when
Barbed Wire
The Sacrificed
Yonder, see the cows?
The Zebra Funeral
Stephanie called
Personal Details: Please Amend
Please Note: You have NOT won the lottery
Salmon
A good poem clears your vowels
The road is steaming
The dreams are now disallowed
Guttersnipe
The moving finger writes etc.
Oh, love and you so far away; my love I never spoke to her, but she heard every word.
The Fifth World War was very civilised
Imagine a perfect blue
Hold the Bones
For he's a jolly good driver
Story of the Week? You're 'avin' a laugh!
Think of me as a NICE Salman Rushdie
Bollocks, Balderdash
There is a tide in the affairs of man, when
Barbed Wire
The Sacrificed
Yonder, see the cows?
The Zebra Funeral
Thirsday Blast Prompts (2) 20:00
Oven
Twenty-eight pairs of white socks
a roar of dragons, rain
When I was young I would travel, but
In Town Tonight!!
At the moment of falling, before the ground
May was murder
A long-legged maid, and freckles, a twinkle
My sister and the boy with his temper
Cheese, Cider, God, You cannot choose when
Before I was a virgin
Richard Dimblebee
Wagon Train in black and white
Burned fields, next year
Before it passes, smell
Squeeze my hand.
Six horses, how many doubles, trebles?
Magic, just like 'at
If only now, he'd love it, all on the TV
Are there enough dead people?
Brilliant.
The Air Force boy, magnificent, and the girls stopped
Twenty-eight pairs of white socks
a roar of dragons, rain
When I was young I would travel, but
In Town Tonight!!
At the moment of falling, before the ground
May was murder
A long-legged maid, and freckles, a twinkle
My sister and the boy with his temper
Cheese, Cider, God, You cannot choose when
Before I was a virgin
Richard Dimblebee
Wagon Train in black and white
Burned fields, next year
Before it passes, smell
Squeeze my hand.
Six horses, how many doubles, trebles?
Magic, just like 'at
If only now, he'd love it, all on the TV
Are there enough dead people?
Brilliant.
The Air Force boy, magnificent, and the girls stopped
Thursday Blast (1)
Not where she said she'd be
ECHO
For all the good it will do
August in Brittany
Yes, this is my voice, this is my face
They are Red Kites, see the tail?
We used to have big blocks of it. Sixpence, I think
Slowly the dust rises
Next week is a roll-over
Balancing on the Edge of a Word
An Evil Cradling
Mummy, Look! A MONSTER!
Forced smiles on a hundred pink-faced women;
Men is sports-jackets and open-necked shirts
My parents don't know everything
You can have a life, I'll have books
Midnight at the oasis
I regret a whole fucking lotta things
I'm fixing a hole
Dirty British Miner with his clean shop-steward
O for the muse of fire!
Sweet flesh but soured
ECHO
For all the good it will do
August in Brittany
Yes, this is my voice, this is my face
They are Red Kites, see the tail?
We used to have big blocks of it. Sixpence, I think
Slowly the dust rises
Next week is a roll-over
Balancing on the Edge of a Word
An Evil Cradling
Mummy, Look! A MONSTER!
Forced smiles on a hundred pink-faced women;
Men is sports-jackets and open-necked shirts
My parents don't know everything
You can have a life, I'll have books
Midnight at the oasis
I regret a whole fucking lotta things
I'm fixing a hole
Dirty British Miner with his clean shop-steward
O for the muse of fire!
Sweet flesh but soured
Thursday Prompts
Somewhere towards the end
My father, digging, his ears red, his head
I think of you continuously, things remind me
SALT
The dull glow of miners' lamps, the smell of oil
I have nothing to sell but it's all half-price
Lovers: isn't the point that it's for now?
Hazard Warning
Blue, glorious, and through the white
Chink, slither.
My son went there twice but could not find it
I remember the ones I didn't marry
It's cold but warms up quickly
I woke up in a shop-doorway; someone had pissed on me
Various problems with invisibility
They are coming: I must paint myself blue
Persistent Vegetative State
The eggs not used, the eggs not used
In the not-too-distant-future, if all my dreams come true
Dogs, Snow
The sand slips away
My daughter, the barren one, sews by the oil-light
My father, digging, his ears red, his head
I think of you continuously, things remind me
SALT
The dull glow of miners' lamps, the smell of oil
I have nothing to sell but it's all half-price
Lovers: isn't the point that it's for now?
Hazard Warning
Blue, glorious, and through the white
Chink, slither.
My son went there twice but could not find it
I remember the ones I didn't marry
It's cold but warms up quickly
I woke up in a shop-doorway; someone had pissed on me
Various problems with invisibility
They are coming: I must paint myself blue
Persistent Vegetative State
The eggs not used, the eggs not used
In the not-too-distant-future, if all my dreams come true
Dogs, Snow
The sand slips away
My daughter, the barren one, sews by the oil-light
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Wednesday Prompts
Like something has started dancing on your desk
This is the third time this week
Let me take you through it again
Your hair is wet, your eyes
Why not be a surgeon?
I'm building a seven-sided cube
There is someone, something, in the ditch
Tongue and Teeth
Stones scatter themselves, the wind rests then moves on
There are voices, ripples on the night
Faster and Faster. Faster!
Years ago when I was not old enough, I never thought I would be too old
WORMS
We are walking to the North end
Nine out of ten humans when asked prefer
If I knew how, I would do this delicately
They are manning the barricades, the ditches
Somewhere, a woman is singing
No THIS is clutter
PIANO
Life spared him. The others were lucky.
It is time to read out the charges
This is the third time this week
Let me take you through it again
Your hair is wet, your eyes
Why not be a surgeon?
I'm building a seven-sided cube
There is someone, something, in the ditch
Tongue and Teeth
Stones scatter themselves, the wind rests then moves on
There are voices, ripples on the night
Faster and Faster. Faster!
Years ago when I was not old enough, I never thought I would be too old
WORMS
We are walking to the North end
Nine out of ten humans when asked prefer
If I knew how, I would do this delicately
They are manning the barricades, the ditches
Somewhere, a woman is singing
No THIS is clutter
PIANO
Life spared him. The others were lucky.
It is time to read out the charges
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
More Prompts and a Challenge
If you are a writer and occasionally drift in here, why are you drifting? Why not take the prompts below and actually WRITE something?
Blame it on the backlash
Revolving doors
Think about the chemistry of dying, of ooze
Wordless, wingless
Oranges and some peanuts
I don't think I'm living any more
I remember sunshine, grass, and books and dreams
Time-Lock
Something sizzles
He has risen in my estimation
six billion and eight
Men are returning to their women
They said, "Do you accept the punishment?" and I said, "No."
Lovers, Lobster
Last night above the snow, the light was wrong
Mine is a small life, of small things, and smaller dreams
Beer makes me sleep
A donkey, a piano, an old church organ
She kept wasps alive for years in a thing around her neck
The 94 Bus
Various reflections on the male erection
My father was not a forest
The finger means what, exactly?
What matters is not what "matters", mattering is deeper
Blame it on the backlash
Revolving doors
Think about the chemistry of dying, of ooze
Wordless, wingless
Oranges and some peanuts
I don't think I'm living any more
I remember sunshine, grass, and books and dreams
Time-Lock
Something sizzles
He has risen in my estimation
six billion and eight
Men are returning to their women
They said, "Do you accept the punishment?" and I said, "No."
Lovers, Lobster
Last night above the snow, the light was wrong
Mine is a small life, of small things, and smaller dreams
Beer makes me sleep
A donkey, a piano, an old church organ
She kept wasps alive for years in a thing around her neck
The 94 Bus
Various reflections on the male erection
My father was not a forest
The finger means what, exactly?
What matters is not what "matters", mattering is deeper
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tuesday Prompts at 05:00
You were not there
Where did you come from, down what light?
The smallest cage
Books to the wedding
Faith may be they anchor
Especially when it snows, if it snows
of the sea, to the sea
He lived next door, a child
Kidney
An honest man here, probably
Toilet paper
I seem them on shelves, window-cills
The dead depart? To where?
LACW Hall. S, can't you see your tattered dress...
Romans
I dreamt about Claire, Oh God, and rose at four
Tail-End Charlies
One man, one hundred thousand dead, how cool is that?
Where did you come from, down what light?
The smallest cage
Books to the wedding
Faith may be they anchor
Especially when it snows, if it snows
of the sea, to the sea
He lived next door, a child
Kidney
An honest man here, probably
Toilet paper
I seem them on shelves, window-cills
The dead depart? To where?
LACW Hall. S, can't you see your tattered dress...
Romans
I dreamt about Claire, Oh God, and rose at four
Tail-End Charlies
One man, one hundred thousand dead, how cool is that?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Prompts at 4 AM
Begin again when the light rises
Everywhere will be home
Because above all things you wanted me
I have no voice
I'll say it, then. No
There is an empty chair
To be born is to expect pain
There are soft moments, silences, village cricket, insects
We are too sad to be blind
A grey curtain
Death is never a mistake
I am a hungry bear, a scurrying rat
Don't CLING
I see a lighthouse, sending out dark
The hospital, the doctor, the squirting flower
Fucking in the shower
Face
My kids are off to Auchswitz
From unmarked box to unmarked box
04:03
Everywhere will be home
Because above all things you wanted me
I have no voice
I'll say it, then. No
There is an empty chair
To be born is to expect pain
There are soft moments, silences, village cricket, insects
We are too sad to be blind
A grey curtain
Death is never a mistake
I am a hungry bear, a scurrying rat
Don't CLING
I see a lighthouse, sending out dark
The hospital, the doctor, the squirting flower
Fucking in the shower
Face
My kids are off to Auchswitz
From unmarked box to unmarked box
04:03
Friday, January 16, 2009
Friday Night Prompts 4 (10:45)
SET 4 (24)
Nevertheless, as yet, they are not much solely on their own account
No sunrise, no glittering cafes
Pack up the moon
Nail
People Dying is Sad
People I wanted to be
Picnic Area. Good views of the massacre.
Pose your dead
Postcards From Palestine.
Radio Masturbate
Ripped from below
Say what you experience, what the world is
Search for the reason that bids you do it
I Didn’t Know Crusade Was a Bad Word
Selective photography
She will not stop dying
Silent, Shifting, Coal
Since you have allowed me to advise you
So Jesus, the Thing Is.
So the kids can go to school
Something of your own want comes through
Spreading out its roots in the deepest recesses of your heart
Steady hands
Such pure despair
Nevertheless, as yet, they are not much solely on their own account
No sunrise, no glittering cafes
Pack up the moon
Nail
People Dying is Sad
People I wanted to be
Picnic Area. Good views of the massacre.
Pose your dead
Postcards From Palestine.
Radio Masturbate
Ripped from below
Say what you experience, what the world is
Search for the reason that bids you do it
I Didn’t Know Crusade Was a Bad Word
Selective photography
She will not stop dying
Silent, Shifting, Coal
Since you have allowed me to advise you
So Jesus, the Thing Is.
So the kids can go to school
Something of your own want comes through
Spreading out its roots in the deepest recesses of your heart
Steady hands
Such pure despair
Friday Prompts 3 2100
SET 3 (23)
I cannot go into the nature of your work
And asbestos-empty lungs
I sat down at breakfast, opposite
I will lose sight of her face
I would like to finalise matters
In the bowels of a Welsh hill
Is it sad enough?
It always comes down to more or less happy misunderstandings
It’s easy, as if you are elastic
Jesus
Killing Bush
Known as Aber Mountain
Lately made of flesh and blood
Let me say that as of now you have no individual style
Like some first human being
Live without hope, work without despair
Look forward to hearing
Mint
Money for the wife at home
More inexpressible than all else is a work of art
My father I see and yet I can’t describe
Mysterious existences endure while we pass.
Never so much absence
I cannot go into the nature of your work
And asbestos-empty lungs
I sat down at breakfast, opposite
I will lose sight of her face
I would like to finalise matters
In the bowels of a Welsh hill
Is it sad enough?
It always comes down to more or less happy misunderstandings
It’s easy, as if you are elastic
Jesus
Killing Bush
Known as Aber Mountain
Lately made of flesh and blood
Let me say that as of now you have no individual style
Like some first human being
Live without hope, work without despair
Look forward to hearing
Mint
Money for the wife at home
More inexpressible than all else is a work of art
My father I see and yet I can’t describe
Mysterious existences endure while we pass.
Never so much absence
Friday Flash Prompts for 19:30
I do not appear to have received a copy
A black bomb of filth Cinders! Behind You!
Acid
Compare it to light things, to dark
Delve within for an answer
Dirty Wedding
Do not build me up
Draw near to what is your nature
Flash
Drive at thirty for a while
Each death demands its own procedures
Everywhere you go, she will die, and die, and die
Fags and matches
Far Enough from Nagasaki
Far from the sun
Food
For this reason first, we are not together
Go into yourself
Goodbye, My Brother
Hammer
How laughter knits about us
A black-faced army
A salesman who passed me his bottle
A black bomb of filth Cinders! Behind You!
Acid
Compare it to light things, to dark
Delve within for an answer
Dirty Wedding
Do not build me up
Draw near to what is your nature
Flash
Drive at thirty for a while
Each death demands its own procedures
Everywhere you go, she will die, and die, and die
Fags and matches
Far Enough from Nagasaki
Far from the sun
Food
For this reason first, we are not together
Go into yourself
Goodbye, My Brother
Hammer
How laughter knits about us
A black-faced army
A salesman who passed me his bottle
First Prompts Set 1800
SET 1 (23)
I want to thank you for its great and kind confidence.
After months I am still climbing
Afterwards, remember, consider the blemishes
Harry Patch
I can hardly do more.
All critical attention is too far from me
All the time, hope
Things are not always comprehensible and expressible
And a roof
This above all: ask yourself the question when it is dark about you
And all for hard cash
And shoes, satchels, and socks
And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you?
Apple
Are they good? You ask me?
At the bottom of Aber Tip
Avoid love
Beach, Ball
Bubbling, Brooding
A bird dives, a fish swallows
Burn the toast, let the porridge stick, smell the gas
By Men With tingling sinews of steel
A realm which no word has ever entered
I want to thank you for its great and kind confidence.
After months I am still climbing
Afterwards, remember, consider the blemishes
Harry Patch
I can hardly do more.
All critical attention is too far from me
All the time, hope
Things are not always comprehensible and expressible
And a roof
This above all: ask yourself the question when it is dark about you
And all for hard cash
And shoes, satchels, and socks
And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you?
Apple
Are they good? You ask me?
At the bottom of Aber Tip
Avoid love
Beach, Ball
Bubbling, Brooding
A bird dives, a fish swallows
Burn the toast, let the porridge stick, smell the gas
By Men With tingling sinews of steel
A realm which no word has ever entered
Flash Blast Tonight (Friday)
Boot Campers and Guests will be "blasting" tonight, writing first-draft flashes from one or more prompts from sets posted at
1800
1930
2100
2230
0000
Those on different clocks can also do this, follow the same schedule (90 minutes to write your story each time) but delayed.
Whether you write 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 flashes, that's more than you WERE going to write,
Come and join us!!
1800
1930
2100
2230
0000
Those on different clocks can also do this, follow the same schedule (90 minutes to write your story each time) but delayed.
Whether you write 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 flashes, that's more than you WERE going to write,
Come and join us!!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
People Die. Let's Get Indignant.
Let me first say that I do not condone or excuse the Israeli operation in Palestine. I do not wish for one innocent person’s death in that conflict.
However, what is happening there is a war. Israel IS being attacked, and most of the Arab countries surrounding it have clearly stated their enmity and refused Israel the right to exist.
I’m posting this, though, because I keep seeing a totally one-sided “debate” about the conflict, a series of “heartfelt” bleatings by 99% safe, closeted, middle-class hypocrites with short memories. This week we are not saving seal pups, we are “bleeding for Palestine.”
If you want to bleed for Palestine, go there and fight alongside Hammas.
Civilian deaths are a fact of war. It is a tragedy that a little over 1000 people have died on the Palestinian side in this recent conflict, but let’s remember, for example, that in minutes 2,800 died in the 9/11 attacks. Remember that. Perhaps all those people were “Part of the US NeoCon War Machine…” but I doubt if many (or any) thought they were such.
But have your statistic and wail about the evil Jews. How many of his kinsmen and women did Saddam Hussein kill in his reign of terror? How many of the dead of Palestine would not have died of malnutrition, poor water or poor health care if the various Palestinian Terrorists (or Freedom Fighters) had made peace with the State of Israel? How many innocents died in Bosnia?
But 80,000 died in the blink of an eye at HIROSHIMA. They were civilians, men women, children. So how about all the bleating Brits and Americans and French and Russians wailing about this conflict try shutting up? YOUR nation also committed mass murder of civilians. They did it again days later and killed another 50,000 at Nagasaki.
But the Japanese are peace-loving victims, right? How about the Rape of Nanking when they killed 300,000 and raped 20,000? Ok, then, maybe we can find some indignant Germans? No wait, there was WWII, The Holocaust, and fifteen MILLION exterminated merely for being Jewish, or Communist or handicapped or gay.
Still at least us stiff-upper-lip Brits know how to play fair. It’s not as if we killed 1.5 MILLION German civilians in WWII. We didn’t invent the fire bomb and the firestorm and kill 25000 in one night in Dresden or 50,000 in 3 nights in Hamburg?
We’re the good guys, remember?
SIXTEEN MILLION Chinese civilians died in WWII, 11,400,000 in the Soviet Union, 4,000,000 in Indonesia, 2,360,000 in Poland, 1.54 Million good Germans, 1.5 million in the Indian Empire, a million in French Indo-China, 580,000 in Japan, 514,000 in Yugoslavia, 267,00 sweet, unassuming French.
War kills. War will always kill. Palestinians and Jews will die. MILLIONS die in Africa EVERY YEAR of starvation, tribally-driven wars and famine. And every time one of these incidents trots its way to the surface, out will trot Poets Against Whatever. Get over yourselves. If you truly, truly care GO AND FUCKING DO SOMETHING. Otherwise all it is, basically, is masturbating in public.
CIVILIAN Deaths
16,200,000 China
11,400,000 Soviet Union
4,000,000 Indonesia
2,360,000 Poland
1,540,000 Nazi Germany
1,500,000 Indian Empire
1,000,000 French Indo China
580,000 Japan
514,000 Yugoslavia
378,000 Korea
300,000 The Rape of Nanking
267,000 France
250,000 Burma
220,000 Greece
212,000 Lithuania
176,000 Holland
147,000 Latvia
145,100 Italy
100,000 Malaya
95,000 Ethiopia
90,000 Phillipines
80,000 HIROSHIMA
80,000 Hungary
67,100 UK
64,000 Romania
57,000 Micronesia
55,000 Estonia
55,000 Portugese Timor
50,000 Singapore
50,000 NAGASAKI
50,000 HAMBURG 27-28-29 JULY 1943
49,600 Belgium
43,000 Czechoslovakia
25,000 DRESDEN
5,800 Norway
2,800 "9/11"
2,000 Finland
2,000 Sweden
1,500 MALTA
1,300 Luxembourg
However, what is happening there is a war. Israel IS being attacked, and most of the Arab countries surrounding it have clearly stated their enmity and refused Israel the right to exist.
I’m posting this, though, because I keep seeing a totally one-sided “debate” about the conflict, a series of “heartfelt” bleatings by 99% safe, closeted, middle-class hypocrites with short memories. This week we are not saving seal pups, we are “bleeding for Palestine.”
If you want to bleed for Palestine, go there and fight alongside Hammas.
Civilian deaths are a fact of war. It is a tragedy that a little over 1000 people have died on the Palestinian side in this recent conflict, but let’s remember, for example, that in minutes 2,800 died in the 9/11 attacks. Remember that. Perhaps all those people were “Part of the US NeoCon War Machine…” but I doubt if many (or any) thought they were such.
But have your statistic and wail about the evil Jews. How many of his kinsmen and women did Saddam Hussein kill in his reign of terror? How many of the dead of Palestine would not have died of malnutrition, poor water or poor health care if the various Palestinian Terrorists (or Freedom Fighters) had made peace with the State of Israel? How many innocents died in Bosnia?
But 80,000 died in the blink of an eye at HIROSHIMA. They were civilians, men women, children. So how about all the bleating Brits and Americans and French and Russians wailing about this conflict try shutting up? YOUR nation also committed mass murder of civilians. They did it again days later and killed another 50,000 at Nagasaki.
But the Japanese are peace-loving victims, right? How about the Rape of Nanking when they killed 300,000 and raped 20,000? Ok, then, maybe we can find some indignant Germans? No wait, there was WWII, The Holocaust, and fifteen MILLION exterminated merely for being Jewish, or Communist or handicapped or gay.
Still at least us stiff-upper-lip Brits know how to play fair. It’s not as if we killed 1.5 MILLION German civilians in WWII. We didn’t invent the fire bomb and the firestorm and kill 25000 in one night in Dresden or 50,000 in 3 nights in Hamburg?
We’re the good guys, remember?
SIXTEEN MILLION Chinese civilians died in WWII, 11,400,000 in the Soviet Union, 4,000,000 in Indonesia, 2,360,000 in Poland, 1.54 Million good Germans, 1.5 million in the Indian Empire, a million in French Indo-China, 580,000 in Japan, 514,000 in Yugoslavia, 267,00 sweet, unassuming French.
War kills. War will always kill. Palestinians and Jews will die. MILLIONS die in Africa EVERY YEAR of starvation, tribally-driven wars and famine. And every time one of these incidents trots its way to the surface, out will trot Poets Against Whatever. Get over yourselves. If you truly, truly care GO AND FUCKING DO SOMETHING. Otherwise all it is, basically, is masturbating in public.
CIVILIAN Deaths
16,200,000 China
11,400,000 Soviet Union
4,000,000 Indonesia
2,360,000 Poland
1,540,000 Nazi Germany
1,500,000 Indian Empire
1,000,000 French Indo China
580,000 Japan
514,000 Yugoslavia
378,000 Korea
300,000 The Rape of Nanking
267,000 France
250,000 Burma
220,000 Greece
212,000 Lithuania
176,000 Holland
147,000 Latvia
145,100 Italy
100,000 Malaya
95,000 Ethiopia
90,000 Phillipines
80,000 HIROSHIMA
80,000 Hungary
67,100 UK
64,000 Romania
57,000 Micronesia
55,000 Estonia
55,000 Portugese Timor
50,000 Singapore
50,000 NAGASAKI
50,000 HAMBURG 27-28-29 JULY 1943
49,600 Belgium
43,000 Czechoslovakia
25,000 DRESDEN
5,800 Norway
2,800 "9/11"
2,000 Finland
2,000 Sweden
1,500 MALTA
1,300 Luxembourg
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Monday, January 05, 2009
SICK!
I was sick with a cold and chest infection for the week before Xmas, bu "OK" for Xmas day
But I've been laid low again, same symptoms.
I'm "functioning" just about but this one is a bastard.
I cough so bad I can't sleep.
But I've been laid low again, same symptoms.
I'm "functioning" just about but this one is a bastard.
I cough so bad I can't sleep.
5th Prompts
Spices
Needle to Thread
Wheeling, wheeling, above the forest
No it's just five digits
Chest
Now we know nothing of those days
Imagine no colour
A line of old, sad trees
Blind Druids
The way water runs beneath the ground
Bucket
Some places really look like their postcards
SEED
I have it on authority that the trees walk the night
Words bubble up
Under the stairs
For he's a jolly good driver!
Always remember the longer you live, the sooner you're going to die
Amen
Needle to Thread
Wheeling, wheeling, above the forest
No it's just five digits
Chest
Now we know nothing of those days
Imagine no colour
A line of old, sad trees
Blind Druids
The way water runs beneath the ground
Bucket
Some places really look like their postcards
SEED
I have it on authority that the trees walk the night
Words bubble up
Under the stairs
For he's a jolly good driver!
Always remember the longer you live, the sooner you're going to die
Amen
Saturday, January 03, 2009
3rd Jan Prompts
A cockroach, another cockroach
Pandemic
A romantic movement, a heavy black book
A stubbed toe, a short-lived cuddle
Avocado
Big George
Blow me away
A passionate temperament
Teddy-bear, Church mouse,
CRACK!
Dancing
Do you hear me,?
Eighteen
Ever since my retirement
There are fewer of us now.
Flashing lights
From the offices of the company on the 85th floor
Green & White
But I know it is him.
Pruning
How black is black?
I fell in love with her almost immediately.
It could be flu
The sock factory,
No choice
Living the simple life with Paul and Linda
Lots of people will die.
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
O for a muse of fire!
On the edge of Potter's Field
Silver polish
Ruby
Some 50% some 30%
The canvas slaps, flaps, but holds
Sour Milk
Lava
Trolleys clattering, half-heard voices
Two-and-a-half, maybe three
Various tiles, laid in a diamond pattern
We know that
Pandemic
A romantic movement, a heavy black book
A stubbed toe, a short-lived cuddle
Avocado
Big George
Blow me away
A passionate temperament
Teddy-bear, Church mouse,
CRACK!
Dancing
Do you hear me,?
Eighteen
Ever since my retirement
There are fewer of us now.
Flashing lights
From the offices of the company on the 85th floor
Green & White
But I know it is him.
Pruning
How black is black?
I fell in love with her almost immediately.
It could be flu
The sock factory,
No choice
Living the simple life with Paul and Linda
Lots of people will die.
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary
O for a muse of fire!
On the edge of Potter's Field
Silver polish
Ruby
Some 50% some 30%
The canvas slaps, flaps, but holds
Sour Milk
Lava
Trolleys clattering, half-heard voices
Two-and-a-half, maybe three
Various tiles, laid in a diamond pattern
We know that
Friday, January 02, 2009
Word-Count Update
January 1st
WRITING
2,843 Words
Some diary stuff, two flashes, two poems.
I rate one flash and I like the two poems.
This morning. six hundred words before logging on to the web or email and now I have to travel (bugger it!)
Will manage at least one flash today but I need to get some longer pieces together.
READING & Critiquing
January 1st
001 Elizabeth Baines.. Condensed Metaphysics
002 Elizabeth Baines.. The Shooting Script
003 Elizabeth Baines.. Daniel Smith Disappears off the Face of the Earth
004 Anonymous BCer Three Things
005 Anonymous BCer You, Daydream Believer
006 Anonymous BCer New Year
007 Anonymous BCer Shades of Grey
008 Anonymous BCer The Missing
009 Anonymous BCer When I Remember Cathy
010 Anonymous BCer Happiness, Wishing
011 Anonymous BCer POEM To Slit Your Own Throat
012 Anonymous BCer POEM Blenkinsop's Final Parade
WRITING
2,843 Words
Some diary stuff, two flashes, two poems.
I rate one flash and I like the two poems.
This morning. six hundred words before logging on to the web or email and now I have to travel (bugger it!)
Will manage at least one flash today but I need to get some longer pieces together.
READING & Critiquing
January 1st
001 Elizabeth Baines.. Condensed Metaphysics
002 Elizabeth Baines.. The Shooting Script
003 Elizabeth Baines.. Daniel Smith Disappears off the Face of the Earth
004 Anonymous BCer Three Things
005 Anonymous BCer You, Daydream Believer
006 Anonymous BCer New Year
007 Anonymous BCer Shades of Grey
008 Anonymous BCer The Missing
009 Anonymous BCer When I Remember Cathy
010 Anonymous BCer Happiness, Wishing
011 Anonymous BCer POEM To Slit Your Own Throat
012 Anonymous BCer POEM Blenkinsop's Final Parade
Boring Prompts
I am the bastard Simpson Simpson
Happy Birthday, Angela
This is the third time this week
Tea?
Let me take you through it, step by step
I am covered in mud
Al of our neighbours are jealous
T-Shirt
Something VERY bad is going to happen soon
I might go to Edingburgh
MFI are back, they're doing lives, 50% off
It's big, but is it big enough?
All my life I have heard voices. I was fine until I told someone.
My-Black-Suit
Why does "Ox" sound better than "Bull"?
When I was a word I wanted to be a line
After midnight, creeping
On tin trays in the snow
Yellow, late summer grass, crazily downhill
Happy Birthday, Angela
This is the third time this week
Tea?
Let me take you through it, step by step
I am covered in mud
Al of our neighbours are jealous
T-Shirt
Something VERY bad is going to happen soon
I might go to Edingburgh
MFI are back, they're doing lives, 50% off
It's big, but is it big enough?
All my life I have heard voices. I was fine until I told someone.
My-Black-Suit
Why does "Ox" sound better than "Bull"?
When I was a word I wanted to be a line
After midnight, creeping
On tin trays in the snow
Yellow, late summer grass, crazily downhill
Thursday, January 01, 2009
21:06 More Prompts
We vault over the barrier
He tells her how much he still loves her
We are strictly off the record
Tea & Toast
A penguin, a piano
I wonder how it feels to slit your own throat?
She's wearing red she's wearing green
Even the husbands, even the mothers
Here comes, with a brolly and a briefcase...
Leaving the note that she wished would say more
What could I possibly need?
Rushing in again at the last minute
This is how it will happen
He tells her how much he still loves her
We are strictly off the record
Tea & Toast
A penguin, a piano
I wonder how it feels to slit your own throat?
She's wearing red she's wearing green
Even the husbands, even the mothers
Here comes, with a brolly and a briefcase...
Leaving the note that she wished would say more
What could I possibly need?
Rushing in again at the last minute
This is how it will happen
19:35 Another Set of Prompts
Absent fathers stand in parks
This morning, men are returning to the world
Applause
I am going to the house of my childhood
Chink!
My wife has installed speakers for announcements
Another Intimacy
Photographs, but they only last a day
Let us make up your mind
I have a lot of paper
The whip of wind, the sound of wet footprints
Ben Shermans
Beer makes me cry
I would like to be banned for shagging someone
Black Iceberg
We need another Diana Death
Forest
Listen to Hell under the rocks
Hallelujah!
The considerable frictions in oil
As near as damn isn't near enough
Blenkinsop's Final Parade
I might as well. What else is there?
This morning, men are returning to the world
Applause
I am going to the house of my childhood
Chink!
My wife has installed speakers for announcements
Another Intimacy
Photographs, but they only last a day
Let us make up your mind
I have a lot of paper
The whip of wind, the sound of wet footprints
Ben Shermans
Beer makes me cry
I would like to be banned for shagging someone
Black Iceberg
We need another Diana Death
Forest
Listen to Hell under the rocks
Hallelujah!
The considerable frictions in oil
As near as damn isn't near enough
Blenkinsop's Final Parade
I might as well. What else is there?
Blast it!
Boot Campers are "blasting" tonight
1800
1930
2100
2230
Just think, if they succeed they'll have 4-5 flashes by the end of the first of the year
PROMPTS
I blame it on the backlash
James!
I wanted you. you wanted me
NAIL
The tinkle of the television
A Question of Balance
BRUTE
Who loves best won't always love longest
Tapioca
We can talk about the chemistry
A gun in the kitchen
BLOCK
This is the female, fattened
The tackle of the mighty, the rumble of the fallen
CHIN
Wingless, wordless
CRAWL-SPACE
I have been looking forward to my divorce
GLUE
OK, I'll go to the shops and get your fucking fags
AROMATIC
The earth sweats and grumbles
IVY
There was an old woman who
1800
1930
2100
2230
Just think, if they succeed they'll have 4-5 flashes by the end of the first of the year
PROMPTS
I blame it on the backlash
James!
I wanted you. you wanted me
NAIL
The tinkle of the television
A Question of Balance
BRUTE
Who loves best won't always love longest
Tapioca
We can talk about the chemistry
A gun in the kitchen
BLOCK
This is the female, fattened
The tackle of the mighty, the rumble of the fallen
CHIN
Wingless, wordless
CRAWL-SPACE
I have been looking forward to my divorce
GLUE
OK, I'll go to the shops and get your fucking fags
AROMATIC
The earth sweats and grumbles
IVY
There was an old woman who
Sunday, December 28, 2008
2009 Prompts 28-December-2008
Pretty well every day now, at noon, I am sure there is a breeze.
At night, on the bare boards of the deserted girls' bedroom.
Darling, this letter is secret. That means secret, equals US Top Secret.
Though brilliantly sunny, Saturday morning was overcoat weather.
The father, the son, light a candle, kneel, and pray to ghosts.
If you really want to hear about it.
Perhaps the Cape Town Express passes in the next valley, a tree sways, a butterfly, a bird rises, and the air moves.
It is thirty-six years to the day since our wedding.
One night some twenty years ago.
Much later, the air in my hut shifts.
I hear you whispering, "This is the wind, the wind down a long valley."
The facts at hand presumably speak for themselves
Finally, the last one to know, I found out about my wife's affair.
At times, frankly, I find it slim pickings
There are many unsuitable jobs for a particularly private person; Agony Aunt, for example,
Rexler, the man who wrote all those books on theatre
What do you do about death? In this case the death of an old father?
I almost began, "My Dear Child"
This is him, making their packed lunches, two packed lunches; what could be simpler?
The birds chirped away, "Phweet, Phweet."
This is all bollocks, lies. No. Well, if it's the truth it's that GOVT ISSUE economical kind, or it's "spin".
Dizzy with perplexities, seduced by a restless spirit.
I was lying on the sofa, under a duvet with the kids, one each side.
There were, in all, six white people who lived at Sego Desert Lake
This is a sad tale about a stripeless zebra, a hyena who never laughed and a lion in a swiss zoo who wanted to learn to yodel and swim with dolphins.
Yes I knew the guy. We were kids together in Chicago.
He was a hard kid, a thin, tough body, and fire in the belly, quick to react
At night, on the bare boards of the deserted girls' bedroom.
Darling, this letter is secret. That means secret, equals US Top Secret.
Though brilliantly sunny, Saturday morning was overcoat weather.
The father, the son, light a candle, kneel, and pray to ghosts.
If you really want to hear about it.
Perhaps the Cape Town Express passes in the next valley, a tree sways, a butterfly, a bird rises, and the air moves.
It is thirty-six years to the day since our wedding.
One night some twenty years ago.
Much later, the air in my hut shifts.
I hear you whispering, "This is the wind, the wind down a long valley."
The facts at hand presumably speak for themselves
Finally, the last one to know, I found out about my wife's affair.
At times, frankly, I find it slim pickings
There are many unsuitable jobs for a particularly private person; Agony Aunt, for example,
Rexler, the man who wrote all those books on theatre
What do you do about death? In this case the death of an old father?
I almost began, "My Dear Child"
This is him, making their packed lunches, two packed lunches; what could be simpler?
The birds chirped away, "Phweet, Phweet."
This is all bollocks, lies. No. Well, if it's the truth it's that GOVT ISSUE economical kind, or it's "spin".
Dizzy with perplexities, seduced by a restless spirit.
I was lying on the sofa, under a duvet with the kids, one each side.
There were, in all, six white people who lived at Sego Desert Lake
This is a sad tale about a stripeless zebra, a hyena who never laughed and a lion in a swiss zoo who wanted to learn to yodel and swim with dolphins.
Yes I knew the guy. We were kids together in Chicago.
He was a hard kid, a thin, tough body, and fire in the belly, quick to react
Saturday, December 27, 2008
2009 Prompts. 27-Dec-2008
Do NOT Blink!
Survivors
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
I am growing old but I remember, Jenny kissed me.
By the punnet
Once there was a road here and carts passed
and that has made all the difference
I hear horns, and calling, out in the frost
We are in the business of chocolate
No time to see, in broad daylight
The echo and the blood-lust of a train
Once I was a girl, then drip, a boy became
Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was a hot August night
Some new trick, some trap
And in their turn were they fucked up, remember that
Snake
When ghosts walked the earth
An audio tape will accompany this book
And every April they would paint it pink
And I have known the eyes already, every one
and its flesh was sweet
Survivors
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
I am growing old but I remember, Jenny kissed me.
By the punnet
Once there was a road here and carts passed
and that has made all the difference
I hear horns, and calling, out in the frost
We are in the business of chocolate
No time to see, in broad daylight
The echo and the blood-lust of a train
Once I was a girl, then drip, a boy became
Ah, distinctly, I remember, it was a hot August night
Some new trick, some trap
And in their turn were they fucked up, remember that
Snake
When ghosts walked the earth
An audio tape will accompany this book
And every April they would paint it pink
And I have known the eyes already, every one
and its flesh was sweet
Friday, December 26, 2008
Boxing Day Prompts
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
In love with the chaplain
Dew on a spider's web
Desire and excitement are not the great fires
There was a tree down
I wouldn't thank you for a valentine
It's tough being a boy; all those girl mechanics whistling
BINGO!
I will keep on translating. What else is there?
In love with the chaplain
Dew on a spider's web
Desire and excitement are not the great fires
There was a tree down
I wouldn't thank you for a valentine
It's tough being a boy; all those girl mechanics whistling
BINGO!
I will keep on translating. What else is there?
Monday, December 22, 2008
Prompts, 22nd
Down by one of the fish-houses
We took turns at laying an ear on the rail
I am safe but the land is darkening
Behind everything, in little villages, in garages
Let us set off for somewhere
I have crossed the border
No dream kitchen, just the fire
The birds are massing; the sky is black
Early morning, Fairhaven, Massachusetts
A fox in the chickens
I bought some fresh potatoes
I love to go out when the weather is undecided
Nothing but blackberries
Every year you say it isn't worth the trouble
Gleaming machines
We took turns at laying an ear on the rail
I am safe but the land is darkening
Behind everything, in little villages, in garages
Let us set off for somewhere
I have crossed the border
No dream kitchen, just the fire
The birds are massing; the sky is black
Early morning, Fairhaven, Massachusetts
A fox in the chickens
I bought some fresh potatoes
I love to go out when the weather is undecided
Nothing but blackberries
Every year you say it isn't worth the trouble
Gleaming machines
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Almost Xmas Prompts
This is dangerous; it should not be left near children
iceberg
Hold it up to the light
Like a crow fallen down a chimney
In a boat without oars
A bud
Rise bird, hop branch to branch and reach the sky
ONION
it is a cold, fatty, evening
The barrows are here, the nets, but the men are gone
I have seen it, over and over and over and over
I look from the train. Two boys play football in a muddy field
What if this road never ended?
I would like to be milk
He dropped in darkness from the moving, clanking train
Problems with Fish
I have a low fire
Wild Geese flying low, smoke curling
iceberg
Hold it up to the light
Like a crow fallen down a chimney
In a boat without oars
A bud
Rise bird, hop branch to branch and reach the sky
ONION
it is a cold, fatty, evening
The barrows are here, the nets, but the men are gone
I have seen it, over and over and over and over
I look from the train. Two boys play football in a muddy field
What if this road never ended?
I would like to be milk
He dropped in darkness from the moving, clanking train
Problems with Fish
I have a low fire
Wild Geese flying low, smoke curling
Friday, December 19, 2008
Prompts, Friday
What they are not about is pain
Zena has taken the dogs away
One thousand five hundred houses
SLAG
There's a difference between being a survivor and surviving
Bloody Murder
Some New Ambush
The White Road
The Scent of Cinnamon
Various Communications from Down Under
Too ugly to be a Possum
and you will know that you have lost her
Kenna's Dilemma
Is it worth anything on Ebay?
I am not yet born, hear me!
He's broken every law there is
When fishes flew and forests walked
Zena has taken the dogs away
One thousand five hundred houses
SLAG
There's a difference between being a survivor and surviving
Bloody Murder
Some New Ambush
The White Road
The Scent of Cinnamon
Various Communications from Down Under
Too ugly to be a Possum
and you will know that you have lost her
Kenna's Dilemma
Is it worth anything on Ebay?
I am not yet born, hear me!
He's broken every law there is
When fishes flew and forests walked
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Thursday Prompts 21:25
Ivory, Peacocks
Nodding by the fire
I leant on a gate
Today we have the naming of parts
Don't ask ME!
Oh, I have slipped the pull of earth
For a journey, a journey, such a long journey
Small lawns, small people, and echoing TVs
Only the monstrous anger
They've closed the new road, try the valley
Badgers
No prayers, no bells
Bloody men are like bloody scooters
I got on a half-empty train
PING!
We walked all day through a tall, swaying heat
His black heart
He did not wear his scarlet coat
I have been so great a lover
The sky is good for flying, Mrs Jones
Among long-discarded vestments
I remember, I remember
SNAKE!
Nodding by the fire
I leant on a gate
Today we have the naming of parts
Don't ask ME!
Oh, I have slipped the pull of earth
For a journey, a journey, such a long journey
Small lawns, small people, and echoing TVs
Only the monstrous anger
They've closed the new road, try the valley
Badgers
No prayers, no bells
Bloody men are like bloody scooters
I got on a half-empty train
PING!
We walked all day through a tall, swaying heat
His black heart
He did not wear his scarlet coat
I have been so great a lover
The sky is good for flying, Mrs Jones
Among long-discarded vestments
I remember, I remember
SNAKE!
Timer!
Done Mine
Finished at 20:35 (36 minutes)
a few typos.
Posted corrected version at 20:43 (605 words)
Finished at 20:35 (36 minutes)
a few typos.
Posted corrected version at 20:43 (605 words)
Thursday Evening Blast - 1
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
What is this life if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?
Now I was young and easy
The ploughman, slowly home
The sea is calm tonight
Stop all the clocks, cut of the telephone
Who can remember Arram?
and miles to go before I sleep
Everyone suddenly burst out singing
When you are old and grey and watching reality TV
Oggle-goggle
Once I stole a bloke's Honda
There is some corner, let me sit there quiet
Firewood, iron, and cheap tin trays
Bloop
Now I am an old man, disgusting in Lycra
And seeing how I am not quite appreciated
Butting through the channel
What is this life if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare?
Now I was young and easy
The ploughman, slowly home
The sea is calm tonight
Stop all the clocks, cut of the telephone
Who can remember Arram?
and miles to go before I sleep
Everyone suddenly burst out singing
When you are old and grey and watching reality TV
Oggle-goggle
Once I stole a bloke's Honda
There is some corner, let me sit there quiet
Firewood, iron, and cheap tin trays
Bloop
Now I am an old man, disgusting in Lycra
And seeing how I am not quite appreciated
Butting through the channel
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Great Stuff Happening in BC
We've had a few ex-members return, and a fresh influx of keen newbies.
The grid has been revamped and there's a new guide to critiquing in January.
And there are GREAT special offers for 3-month, 6-month and Annual memberships
03 Months Save £18
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save a whopping 50%
These figures apply to BC-PRO
BC Standard
03 Months Save £12
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save 50%
We will also have a members-only, virtually-free, area, a "Boot Camp Annexe" for those who want to talk craft and writing intelligently but don't want or need the writing-critting regime.
Drop in at http://bootcampkeegan.yuku.com/directory
Say hello, ask whatever questions you like. Browse and see a list of links to hundreds of Boot Camper stories available on the web.
Alternatively email
alex.keegan (at) btinternet (dot) com
Cheers!
Alex
The grid has been revamped and there's a new guide to critiquing in January.
And there are GREAT special offers for 3-month, 6-month and Annual memberships
03 Months Save £18
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save a whopping 50%
These figures apply to BC-PRO
BC Standard
03 Months Save £12
06 Months Save 25%
12 Months save 50%
We will also have a members-only, virtually-free, area, a "Boot Camp Annexe" for those who want to talk craft and writing intelligently but don't want or need the writing-critting regime.
Drop in at http://bootcampkeegan.yuku.com/directory
Say hello, ask whatever questions you like. Browse and see a list of links to hundreds of Boot Camper stories available on the web.
Alternatively email
alex.keegan (at) btinternet (dot) com
Cheers!
Alex
Wednesday Prompts
My father, booting home. It rains.
You're twelve, thirteen, the door is locked.
Outside, there is nothing that I need
There you go again, diving in
A sand-box
Mummy, mummy, there's an armoured tank in the front room!
You can blame many things on ABBA
Somewhere on the streets of Paris
I will cut my hair too short and speak too loud
Frankie's gotta blade
So what IS this thing with Flamingos, the one-leg thing?
In an easy, uncomplicated way
Hood
My father shot the Christmas roast, and then turned to us
Here is a bird that will never be
I decide and feel everything begin to simmer
I may be the Mayor of Bombay
Swimming up the Amazon, patient.
I am a child. They bury me.
They were at my table, talking. They are dead.
You're twelve, thirteen, the door is locked.
Outside, there is nothing that I need
There you go again, diving in
A sand-box
Mummy, mummy, there's an armoured tank in the front room!
You can blame many things on ABBA
Somewhere on the streets of Paris
I will cut my hair too short and speak too loud
Frankie's gotta blade
So what IS this thing with Flamingos, the one-leg thing?
In an easy, uncomplicated way
Hood
My father shot the Christmas roast, and then turned to us
Here is a bird that will never be
I decide and feel everything begin to simmer
I may be the Mayor of Bombay
Swimming up the Amazon, patient.
I am a child. They bury me.
They were at my table, talking. They are dead.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Prompts
It begins as a creaking, a sort of ache
CROWS
The skyline bristles, the sky behind is red
BRAZEN
The gate will not rest
Grave men, who when near death, see with a sharper light
The magic of the persistent question
I am not sure if I'm still here
The without eye, the tongue within
There are walls that stand and walls that will crumble
Why the giraffe? Why the elephant?
He pulls at the cloth and cups spill
Sucking the decayed breasts of death
There are leaves on the water, but the water is pink
He spreads his knees, he laughs
OK, let's go!
The soot that falls from dead cold chimneys
The ship of fools is in dock
Falling and Flying are the same: only the landing is different
My father in my mirror
Black book, blank book, blank look
A Hanging
Whose woods are these?
BELLS
A confederacy of the delusional
PUS
I me a traveler, a simple soul, and quiet
SLICE
That Easter I was late leaving, things to tidy up
RAZOR
CROWS
The skyline bristles, the sky behind is red
BRAZEN
The gate will not rest
Grave men, who when near death, see with a sharper light
The magic of the persistent question
I am not sure if I'm still here
The without eye, the tongue within
There are walls that stand and walls that will crumble
Why the giraffe? Why the elephant?
He pulls at the cloth and cups spill
Sucking the decayed breasts of death
There are leaves on the water, but the water is pink
He spreads his knees, he laughs
OK, let's go!
The soot that falls from dead cold chimneys
The ship of fools is in dock
Falling and Flying are the same: only the landing is different
My father in my mirror
Black book, blank book, blank look
A Hanging
Whose woods are these?
BELLS
A confederacy of the delusional
PUS
I me a traveler, a simple soul, and quiet
SLICE
That Easter I was late leaving, things to tidy up
RAZOR
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Further Clarification
I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.
Does this dummy not think that had I wanted to be sneaky I would not have published that fact publicly?
Yes a non-charging TLC was temporary, but the onset of Writers Dock charging was SONNY's idea. Writers Dock today AFTER I had left, announced they would be charging for membership of TLC. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
The ten weeks work, the articles, the stories, the critiques (I have critiqued every single story and flash posted) was completely free.
TLC members have already posted about how much they learned and how disappointed they are.
I repeat I was NOT banned. I left because the situation was impossible.
Alex Keegan
Does this dummy not think that had I wanted to be sneaky I would not have published that fact publicly?
Yes a non-charging TLC was temporary, but the onset of Writers Dock charging was SONNY's idea. Writers Dock today AFTER I had left, announced they would be charging for membership of TLC. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
The ten weeks work, the articles, the stories, the critiques (I have critiqued every single story and flash posted) was completely free.
TLC members have already posted about how much they learned and how disappointed they are.
I repeat I was NOT banned. I left because the situation was impossible.
Alex Keegan
Writers Dock
This morning I decided to leave Writers Dock.
Shortly I will post to explain why.
But I think it's important to clarify something.
Over the years Boot Camp has waxed and waned. It gets newcomers, people develop and leave to:
Have a baby
Start an MA or MFA
Write a novel
etc
BC has always need around 24 members so that at any time 12-18 are active. We work intensely, brilliantly, successfully.
This last eighteen months I took my eye off the ball while renovating the chapel in Wales and the membership slipped. The place was still working (it still is today) but it felt lifeless.
I was a dormant member at Writers Dock, dormant, because frankly it was a very amateurish place run by amateurs, for amateurs. But there were a few souls there who wanted Writers Dock to be more and they had a new section for critiquing critiques, and that's MY kind of country.
So, as Cheesepuff, a membership I'd had since 2005, I began to post.
As is standard in these cases, certain baboons on certain rocks began to bare their teeth, but Sonny, the owner of the site confided in me that the site was struggling and atrophying and needed something like Boot Camp.
I set up an open forum "Tough Love Central" then a closed group "Tough Love Writing Group 1" and a third forum "Story Week 1", another "Story Follow-up" and a fifth for Flashes.
In just ten weeks we trebled the size of the membership
Below are the statistics. Appreciate this is from scratch in a partly-hostile environment.
TEN WEEKS
10 (08) Initial membership/True Membership
29 (24) Current Membership/True Membership
00,460 Threads (46 per week)
05,553 Posts (555 per week)
44,491 Views (4,490 per week)
01,447 New Writing Prompts (145 per week)
00,087 New Flashes (9 per week)
00,085 New Stories (9 per week)
00,004 New Stories not yet posted
00,005 Other Stories
00,181 Total Stories (18 per week)
00,975 Total Critiques (incl professional stories) (98 per week)
00,616 STORY Critiques (61 per week)
00,328 Flash Responses/Crits (33 per week)
00,007 Story Full critiques per-story average (7.25)
00,004 Crit Responses per Flash average (3.77)
00,018 Craft Threads
00,004 Professional Stories Discussed
00,003 Craft Articles (NEW)
00,003 Craft Articles (OLD)
00,002 Writing Exercises
00,129 Submissions
00,024 Rejections
00,100 Stories Circulating
00,014 Hits
00,001 Major Prize Finalist
00,001 Notes
00,005 Publications
However, when an individual was castigated by a Draconian moderator for using a TLC prompt, I pointed out (not remotely flaming) why the castigation was wrong. The baboons rose up, as they always do. However, reading the various posts in WD you'd be forgiven for imagining that I had sent nasty emails or private messages. I did not. Not one. My privileges as a moderator were removed, so I told Sonny I would be leaving as soon as I had removed my stories, my articles and the Boot Camp grid.
I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.
Yes it was, but the onset of charges was SONNY's idea. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
I've left WD (they blocked my ID immediately and have not allowed me to remove my personal files) and I have not solicited any WD member and suggested they join Boot Camp
Alex Keegan
Shortly I will post to explain why.
But I think it's important to clarify something.
Over the years Boot Camp has waxed and waned. It gets newcomers, people develop and leave to:
Have a baby
Start an MA or MFA
Write a novel
etc
BC has always need around 24 members so that at any time 12-18 are active. We work intensely, brilliantly, successfully.
This last eighteen months I took my eye off the ball while renovating the chapel in Wales and the membership slipped. The place was still working (it still is today) but it felt lifeless.
I was a dormant member at Writers Dock, dormant, because frankly it was a very amateurish place run by amateurs, for amateurs. But there were a few souls there who wanted Writers Dock to be more and they had a new section for critiquing critiques, and that's MY kind of country.
So, as Cheesepuff, a membership I'd had since 2005, I began to post.
As is standard in these cases, certain baboons on certain rocks began to bare their teeth, but Sonny, the owner of the site confided in me that the site was struggling and atrophying and needed something like Boot Camp.
I set up an open forum "Tough Love Central" then a closed group "Tough Love Writing Group 1" and a third forum "Story Week 1", another "Story Follow-up" and a fifth for Flashes.
In just ten weeks we trebled the size of the membership
Below are the statistics. Appreciate this is from scratch in a partly-hostile environment.
TEN WEEKS
10 (08) Initial membership/True Membership
29 (24) Current Membership/True Membership
00,460 Threads (46 per week)
05,553 Posts (555 per week)
44,491 Views (4,490 per week)
01,447 New Writing Prompts (145 per week)
00,087 New Flashes (9 per week)
00,085 New Stories (9 per week)
00,004 New Stories not yet posted
00,005 Other Stories
00,181 Total Stories (18 per week)
00,975 Total Critiques (incl professional stories) (98 per week)
00,616 STORY Critiques (61 per week)
00,328 Flash Responses/Crits (33 per week)
00,007 Story Full critiques per-story average (7.25)
00,004 Crit Responses per Flash average (3.77)
00,018 Craft Threads
00,004 Professional Stories Discussed
00,003 Craft Articles (NEW)
00,003 Craft Articles (OLD)
00,002 Writing Exercises
00,129 Submissions
00,024 Rejections
00,100 Stories Circulating
00,014 Hits
00,001 Major Prize Finalist
00,001 Notes
00,005 Publications
However, when an individual was castigated by a Draconian moderator for using a TLC prompt, I pointed out (not remotely flaming) why the castigation was wrong. The baboons rose up, as they always do. However, reading the various posts in WD you'd be forgiven for imagining that I had sent nasty emails or private messages. I did not. Not one. My privileges as a moderator were removed, so I told Sonny I would be leaving as soon as I had removed my stories, my articles and the Boot Camp grid.
I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.
Yes it was, but the onset of charges was SONNY's idea. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.
So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.
I've left WD (they blocked my ID immediately and have not allowed me to remove my personal files) and I have not solicited any WD member and suggested they join Boot Camp
Alex Keegan
Friday, December 12, 2008
URLs for Radio Interviews
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p001pbzz
Interview starts 2:08:18 in.
BBC Radio Berkshire
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001p9bk/Andrew_Peach_12_12_2008/
Interview starts about 30 minutes 24 seconds in
Southern Counties Breakfast ran something every day. Friday's is
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001pc2r/Sussex_Breakfast_12_12_2008/
and the interview starts 42 mins : 29 seconds in
Interview starts 2:08:18 in.
BBC Radio Berkshire
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001p9bk/Andrew_Peach_12_12_2008/
Interview starts about 30 minutes 24 seconds in
Southern Counties Breakfast ran something every day. Friday's is
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p001pc2r/Sussex_Breakfast_12_12_2008/
and the interview starts 42 mins : 29 seconds in
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Radio Interviews & Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
I'm on a few radio stations tomorrow (see below)
an also on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
BBC Radio Berkshire between 0720 and 0800
http://www.bbc.co.uk/berkshire/local_radio/
and
BBC Radio Solent at approximately 0815
http://www.bbc.co.uk/hampshire/local_radio/index.shtml
I'm also on
BBC Southern Counties Radio, some time between 7 & 10
_________________
an also on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
BBC Radio Berkshire between 0720 and 0800
http://www.bbc.co.uk/berkshire/local_radio/
and
BBC Radio Solent at approximately 0815
http://www.bbc.co.uk/hampshire/local_radio/index.shtml
I'm also on
BBC Southern Counties Radio, some time between 7 & 10
_________________
Another Interview
I will be on BBC RADIO BERKSHIRE's Breakfast Show tomorrow, Friday 12th December, the twentieth anniversary of the Clapham Crash.
Time to be confirmed.
Alex
Time to be confirmed.
Alex
Monday, December 08, 2008
Interviews!
There's a long interview of mine being run over five days on BBC Southern Counties Radio
Fred Marden's early-morning show (0700-0900)
I suspect that interview will focus on the Clapham Crash (Dec 12th 1988) and maybe the writing will get a mention on Friday.
A much more detailed interview starts soon on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog, starting Friday 12th and running for a number of days
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
Fred Marden's early-morning show (0700-0900)
I suspect that interview will focus on the Clapham Crash (Dec 12th 1988) and maybe the writing will get a mention on Friday.
A much more detailed interview starts soon on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog, starting Friday 12th and running for a number of days
http://www.vanessagebbiesnews.blogspot.com/
Thursday, December 04, 2008
WALLS
WALLS
A man thinks, of a wall.
He might rush - another man would rush - dash out for bricks, come back, realise he didn't buy cement, rush out again. What bricks? Does it matter? Do they matter? Just bricks, you know, bricks. A wall is a wall is a wall.
And cement. You need cement, I guess. And you end up with some sort of wall.
No, this man, he thinks. Why a wall? What kind of wall? A wall for shade, or in the shade? Straight, curved, straight and curved? Ornate, or a plain-Joe wall, red-bricked, solid, neat white pointing. What kind of foundations? How deep, how wide, single brick or doubled? Spaces? Ties? What does the wall want? What will the wall say?
Will people look, say, "Nice wall!" or will the wall merely protect, watch backs and small people picnic on fine grass before it? Will they breathe out as the flop before the wall; drop onto blankets, sigh, feeling something is solid here, and the view, the view, the wall behind them, a mother's skirt they don't know they hold?
Brick. Red is usual, but there are many browns, yellows, grey. Or stone, should we think stone? Brick and Stone? Stone & Brick? Are we looking ahead, thinking of sticky-footed ivy, tacked trellises, roses, Russian vines? What shall the wall carry? Does the wall need to look good now (but one day it will be beautiful) or can we have a bare wall, an under-garment, because we know what comes next, a year, two, ten, a century on? If a wall is ugly now, will they leave it to become beautiful? If we make it pretty now, will it last to become beautiful? Is pretty now death for his wall?
Or perhaps he can hide his will-be-beautiful-one-day wall. Make the wall of a house, the house of a street, the street a village (but he knows it's all about his wall). He can laugh, "It's just a wall. A wall is a wall is a wall," and avoid those questions, refuse to talk when people say, but it feels more than just a wall, did you?
He has always been fascinated by walls. Tall red walls round English country gardens, dry walls across Bronteian moors. Neat yellow-bricked and fawn walls in tidy gardens, walls under green, surrounding old orchards, marble walls and steel walls, and walls of ice, even water-walls.
Inner walls and outer walls, thick walls, thin. Speedy walls and slapdash, crusty walls, lath-and-plaster, crumbling walls, rubble.
Once he looked at walls without seeing. A wall is a wall is a wall. Then one day - was he in love, was it hot? something was different - he just felt things, felt the way walls were, sensed the way walls are, how walls would be. And he started drawing his walls. To be frank, he drew walls poorly. He sketched, he caricatured, he misrepresented. He painted a little, but he was not an artist. He took photographs, read about walls in books, watched films about walls, listened to the radio, but mostly he just lived with walls, learned how to touch them, sense their breathing, understand where they had come from, rubble and mud, shepherds' bones, clay, chiselled ash, flint, horse-hair.
Now he is ready, a wall calls, a wall waits.
He sits in the sun. If a wall was here, just so, like this, here would be a pleasant spot. He feels a wall coming to him. He is desperate to begin, but he will not rush. He will not even imagine.
Instead, he drinks a little wine. He eats a little cheese. He breaks bread.
And pyramids, temples, Berlin, all float in the air. He sees brethren, ropes and pulleys, a barn flying upright (another burning, screams), and castles battered, undermined, and peace walls and ghetto walls, graffiti, paper, lacquer, hotel walls, a black, shining wall in the Capitol, names, names, names, and he breathes softly, a shepherd, a mason, a joiner, a poet, a man. He nibbles, sips, and then the wall begins to whisper, "I am ready. I will be."
692 words
A man thinks, of a wall.
He might rush - another man would rush - dash out for bricks, come back, realise he didn't buy cement, rush out again. What bricks? Does it matter? Do they matter? Just bricks, you know, bricks. A wall is a wall is a wall.
And cement. You need cement, I guess. And you end up with some sort of wall.
No, this man, he thinks. Why a wall? What kind of wall? A wall for shade, or in the shade? Straight, curved, straight and curved? Ornate, or a plain-Joe wall, red-bricked, solid, neat white pointing. What kind of foundations? How deep, how wide, single brick or doubled? Spaces? Ties? What does the wall want? What will the wall say?
Will people look, say, "Nice wall!" or will the wall merely protect, watch backs and small people picnic on fine grass before it? Will they breathe out as the flop before the wall; drop onto blankets, sigh, feeling something is solid here, and the view, the view, the wall behind them, a mother's skirt they don't know they hold?
Brick. Red is usual, but there are many browns, yellows, grey. Or stone, should we think stone? Brick and Stone? Stone & Brick? Are we looking ahead, thinking of sticky-footed ivy, tacked trellises, roses, Russian vines? What shall the wall carry? Does the wall need to look good now (but one day it will be beautiful) or can we have a bare wall, an under-garment, because we know what comes next, a year, two, ten, a century on? If a wall is ugly now, will they leave it to become beautiful? If we make it pretty now, will it last to become beautiful? Is pretty now death for his wall?
Or perhaps he can hide his will-be-beautiful-one-day wall. Make the wall of a house, the house of a street, the street a village (but he knows it's all about his wall). He can laugh, "It's just a wall. A wall is a wall is a wall," and avoid those questions, refuse to talk when people say, but it feels more than just a wall, did you?
He has always been fascinated by walls. Tall red walls round English country gardens, dry walls across Bronteian moors. Neat yellow-bricked and fawn walls in tidy gardens, walls under green, surrounding old orchards, marble walls and steel walls, and walls of ice, even water-walls.
Inner walls and outer walls, thick walls, thin. Speedy walls and slapdash, crusty walls, lath-and-plaster, crumbling walls, rubble.
Once he looked at walls without seeing. A wall is a wall is a wall. Then one day - was he in love, was it hot? something was different - he just felt things, felt the way walls were, sensed the way walls are, how walls would be. And he started drawing his walls. To be frank, he drew walls poorly. He sketched, he caricatured, he misrepresented. He painted a little, but he was not an artist. He took photographs, read about walls in books, watched films about walls, listened to the radio, but mostly he just lived with walls, learned how to touch them, sense their breathing, understand where they had come from, rubble and mud, shepherds' bones, clay, chiselled ash, flint, horse-hair.
Now he is ready, a wall calls, a wall waits.
He sits in the sun. If a wall was here, just so, like this, here would be a pleasant spot. He feels a wall coming to him. He is desperate to begin, but he will not rush. He will not even imagine.
Instead, he drinks a little wine. He eats a little cheese. He breaks bread.
And pyramids, temples, Berlin, all float in the air. He sees brethren, ropes and pulleys, a barn flying upright (another burning, screams), and castles battered, undermined, and peace walls and ghetto walls, graffiti, paper, lacquer, hotel walls, a black, shining wall in the Capitol, names, names, names, and he breathes softly, a shepherd, a mason, a joiner, a poet, a man. He nibbles, sips, and then the wall begins to whisper, "I am ready. I will be."
692 words
Malcolm Gladwell
Malcolm Gladwell: "Outliers-the Story of Success" 7:44am
I read an article by Malcolm Gladwell about the time it takes to be very good at anything (10,000 Hours) and that tied in with my beliefs about the sheer VOLUME we have to produce to gain mastery of our writing.
Beginners and intermediates take a lot of convincing over this. I say quantity begets quality but so much of “common-knowledge” suggests the opposite.
Anyway, I had to buy Gladwell’s book, even though we’re broke and I picked up his book “Blink” which is just as good a read. In Blink, Gladwell talks about instant decision-making and how it works, why it’s often brilliantly effective. But in there is much more including how easy it is to change people’s moods AND behaviour merely by salting a conversation with key words. That was, frankly, a bit scary, as was the tests that can show, even for those of us who believe race and colour is irrelevant, just what in-built biases we have.
These books are really excellent, great reads, stimulating, but also, VERY important for serious writers.
Alex
I read an article by Malcolm Gladwell about the time it takes to be very good at anything (10,000 Hours) and that tied in with my beliefs about the sheer VOLUME we have to produce to gain mastery of our writing.
Beginners and intermediates take a lot of convincing over this. I say quantity begets quality but so much of “common-knowledge” suggests the opposite.
Anyway, I had to buy Gladwell’s book, even though we’re broke and I picked up his book “Blink” which is just as good a read. In Blink, Gladwell talks about instant decision-making and how it works, why it’s often brilliantly effective. But in there is much more including how easy it is to change people’s moods AND behaviour merely by salting a conversation with key words. That was, frankly, a bit scary, as was the tests that can show, even for those of us who believe race and colour is irrelevant, just what in-built biases we have.
These books are really excellent, great reads, stimulating, but also, VERY important for serious writers.
Alex
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Tell em What Yr Gonna Tell em
Tell Them What You’re Gonna Tell Them…
There’s a simple adage in giving factual talks: “Tell them what you’re gonna tell them. Tell them. Tell them what you told them.
I am going to suggest that’s what happens with a good short story.
See? I’ve just told you what I’m going to tell you. Has any suspense been lost? Or are you set up to pay attention? After all, I CAN’T be right, can I?
My story “Ballistics”. Well, yes, the title tells you that ballistics will feature, so no suspense there, then, and the text?
A set of car keys, fat as a grenade, is arching towards your eyeball. The tip of one key, v-shaped will precisely pierce the dark core of your eye. You're not yet two years old but this won't protect you. You are not old enough to understand that these keys, thrown in anger, began their journey a year before you were born, that maybe, a psychiatrist will say, they began even further back when a mother left a father, or further back than this, when a mining foreman, bitter, too bad for drink, strapped his wayward son.
So immediately, my premise is set out. Nothing is accident, things are not chance. Everything we do has a consequence. The story goes on to detail the accident, what happened to the child, and then the adult woman, but not before, paragraph two, we hear: One day you will marry a much older man, a man with a criminal record for violence, who shaves his head brutishly short, who has his country's emblem tattooed on his chest, but nothing, nothing of this exists yet…
The story brings the girl now woman and the now older father together. There was an affair, anger, the father threw keys, but the young woman now wants to know about the other woman, did her father love her? Perhaps the story has become richer, but still, it’s ballistics, just like the title and the opening said it would be.
Another story, “Miguel Who Cuts Down Trees” is about a guy, guess his name and what he does. It opens:
When I was a little boy, I had a wooden truck. One day the truck began to move by itself. It went around the yard and then it came back to me. I went to sleep. When I woke it was just a wooden truck.
When I was fourteen I was flying a kite. I saw an angel alongside my kite. She was very beautiful. I found I could make the angel move by pulling the string of my kite, but then I fell asleep and when I woke my kite was broken and trampled with mud.
Ask yourself. Will this be a happy story? Is the boy to be man destined to be rich and famous? You know he’s not, but why? Hasn’t the author directed you? Sure, you expect a plot, not everything is pre-explained, but don’t you sense the essence? If I show you the third paragraph are you now in any doubt about Miguel’s life?
When I was fifteen I loved another boy. He was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the angel on my string. My boy kissed me when it was dark but then I was awake and my father sent me to a far island to be a fisherman.
Poor Miguel will spend a life, use, abused, lost. And how will he end up? From the title, do you think he will have found an accommodation with the world? Do you think he has powers, or sees things?
All these stories are winners of first prizes. What do you think will be the main element of the story: An Old Man Watching Football After Sunday Lunch? Go on, guess.
I’m an old man watching football after Sunday lunch. Earlier we went to The Sun in the Wood. I had Cold Turkey, Mary had Roast Lamb, her mother looked like mutton dressed up, with mint-sauce. There we were, lording it, our Sunday-best, our table reserved as usual in the annexe, four bottles of Chateau Neuf du Pape opened and breathing, waiting for us when we arrived. El Perfecto!
My grandson plays soccer. (The manager is a clown). It’s a crap day, wet, wind, and I have to remind myself I’m a volunteer, here to watch my boy. When he pulls on that red shirt I realise he is the most important thing to me.
OK, so he’s old and watching soccer, but do you really think that’s all it will be? Why not? We know he (granddad) has a bit of “an attitude”, likes a hefty drink. We know what he does every Sunday. We know what is the most important thing in his world.
Each paragraph establishes facts and sets us up for what will come. But one hundred words in, frankly couldn’t this story go anywhere? Well, no, not anywhere, but it needs narrowing in.
Let me back-track a moment. For my pains, years back I sold my one decent novel. Now I hack out lousy copies, shadows of that first one, and for whatever reason I still get booked to talk to writers. Yesterday I was in Wales, a shit-hole seaside resort called Porthcawl – a writers conference – and I found myself visiting the town’s Rest Bay Hotel, a hotel for gentle-folks.
There’s that “attitude” again, but the guy is an old writer with an attitude, and is it not highly likely the attitude, the grandson, the idiot manager will all come together to make the story’s point?
In my story Green Glass, do you think glass will feature, and what colour will it be? Exactly!
When you say it, finally say it, when you tell her you're leaving, when you finally realise that loving her isn't enough, not if she can bring you so much pain, your anger is so great you crush the wine glass you're holding. You watch as splinters embed in your hand, as a long, wicked shard of dark green glass hooks into the flesh of your thumb, your Mount of Venus, and you watch the blood from your palm, your arm, flow magically red to the floor.
The blood is everywhere, the rug, the drapes, but she laughs at your crucified hand, your slashed wrist. She says, "My, honey, so much drama for such a pathetic little man. Rush yourself to the hospital, why don't you?"
You know green glass will matter. You can see the end of a relationship. So the story will be about a guy finding himself again, and that glass will feature. But will he love women or hate them or be afraid of them? Will the answer to that create the story’s tension? You tell me. Next paragraph.
There is a moment so black you want to kill her, then kill yourself, but you don't. You just leave. You leave her without another word, drive one-handed to the emergency room, get fixed. The nurse is older, thin-faced, with small grey eyes, a nose so sharp it looks dangerous. She doesn't much like you and when she speaks, spittle forms in the corner of her mouth. "Suicide," she says, "you need the stroke this way." She thinks this is funny, "Up the arm, and it's better with a razor."
You try to say it was an accident. "Sure," she says, and you think two bitches in one day, Jesus.
Do you think now he’ll get on the road?
The first night is anger-easy. After Nurse Ratchett has sewn you up you start driving. Earlier, you had thrown your typewriter, a bottle of Southern Comfort, a clean shirt in the trunk of the car. You check into the first motel you see as soon as darkness begins to drop across your eyes, you pay cash for the room, then you take the bottle, the shirt and the typewriter indoors.
So you know everything. This will be about how he loses then how he changes. I shan’t tell you more… and don’t forget the glass.
Who do you think The Bastard William Williams will be about?
I’m making you think, aren’t I?
I am the bastard William Williams, late of The Universal Pit, Senghennydd, then Abertridwr, and latterly the cellars of The Commercial Hotel, as pot man. Now that the dust have slowed me I am easy to find. I am still lived next door to the English Congregational Church, Commercial Road, Senghennydd. I venture from my place only for the English Cong, and in summer, if I am lucky, a visit from a relation.
Until the coaldust on my chest confined me to my front room I have been known as a hearty man. My years is matched exact to the century and for the most part it have been a good life, wholesome. I think though, with what have passed, I shall not like to be here when the clock strike two thousand.
Very quickly we get the man, his Welshness, and importantly that he refers to himself as “bastard”.
That has to matter.
We get a little bit more of “Wales” and then: I am not one for writing, and never was much of a one for talking either. I would not tell you of this, I would just let it go, but Lord forgive me, I am writing it down. I have a good copperplate strapped into me at town school which has never left me; I have my retirement pen, my Quink, a pad to write this and enough hot in me to bore a new pit-shaft. I must record the visit of the man Allen Jones. If I am not to get this out of me, I will surely be bursted, so better or worse, it shall go down.
Allen Jones, with long red hair like a woman, a liking for his own voice and him on a fired-up mission to discover his past.
And there it is, the whole set up. But then there’s this bastard thing, which must matter. Why do we know it matters? Because the author “old us.” He told us by making his title and by having the bastard nature emphasised in the first sentence.
Openings and endings, of stories, lectures, books, are important. Also the beginning and end of a paragraph are important. It’s there in a lecture that we make our big-hit points. See how in paragraph one we get “bastard” at the start and “visit” at the end. In para two we get his health at the beginning, then his age and date at the end. Then see how the specific importance (the reason for him telling the story) is at the end of a paragraph, and see how in the last paragraph his visitor is described, then the mission.
Most importantly we have all the ingredients of the story “up front”.
Mother, Questions is about a woman questioning her mother.
Wow!
The first paragraphs do a lot.
Mother, can I ask, with you and Dad, my father, how did it happen, how was it? Were you frightened, excited, was he strong, was he clumsy?
You told me once, before you died, you said, "We walked out for almost a year and then, one day, on a bridge over the canal at Alt-y-ryn, he asked if he could kiss me." You said you laughed, couldn't help it. He ran home.
So Mum, how did you get from there to being my mother? How did that shy young man learn to make love? Was he your first, Mum? Nellie said to me once, (she was drunk on gins), she said you had a beau everyone wanted, but he was "a bit of a lad, a heart-breaker", wouldn't take no for an answer.
So we know immediately that the woman wants to speak about the father and sex (paragraph one) but then paragraph two shows us these questions are being asked of a dead mother. Is the daughter well?
Note too (end of a paragraph) that the father is shown refusing to take no for an answer. Why might that be?
Like with other stories, this one could still go in different directions, but the next paragraph is:
I always wondered, wondered how I happened. I'm here, some kind of me, and I'm you, the bridge across the water, my hopeless father. Am I my sisters too, am I my brother? If they hadn't come before me, you would have been different, things would have been different, nothing, nothing, nothing would have happened exactly as it did. I wouldn't be this me, I wouldn't be able to ask these questions. How can it be that I exist without it being necessary that I exist? But how could these loves, bridges, kisses, how could they have all made my history, made me this, put me here?
So, in this fiction we have a daughter, clearly tortured, reflecting on even being alive. And we know from earlier that she’s talking to her dead mother. Would it surprise yout to discover she was in a mental hospital? And is the tone not sad? Do you not have a fair guess at where this story is headed?
I’d like you to guess about the core fact in the story The Last Love Letter of Berwyn Price. Go on, try. Did you think it might involve a love letter? Do you think Berwyn is alive or dead?
So I have given away two-thirds of the story. Have I killed it? Well “Berwyn” placed second of 5,000 entries and has earned £1,150 to date, so maybe not?
The story itself opens unusually, with a Rugby Almanac entry which quickly tells us about Berwyn’s athletic life. We discover Berwyn was a famous rugby player and won a gold medal for sprinting. Then, right at the end of the entry is a small sentence: Son of Philip Price, Swansea & Aberavon, one Welsh cap.
This is fiction. Why on earth would we need that last sentence? Could it be that parents and children, the family line continuing, would be important?
Would you think that a rugby international, the son of a rugby international, might quite like a rugby international or two for sons?
And is Berwyn dead?
Mrs Bethan Price, if you're reading this, then it looks like I must have managed it, after all. I went and over-did it and popped my clogs, just like you and Doctor Llewellyn said I would. So bugger me, I'm dead, well what do you know? I'm sorry love, but if that's what happened, then it happened. I'll bet I died happy, though. Was it at the Arms Park? I bet all I could see when the moment finally came was red and white and green. I bet I could smell the lads and the mud, see the flags and hear Bread of Heaven!
I bloody well hope it was like that. I hope I didn't keel over on the way to the stadium. You and the girls…
So we know the man, his sporting history, that he was married, that he loved his wife, that he has died (and we think we know where) that he almost certainly wanted sons, but none are mentioned, and it’s about “men things”, sport, going there…
And does the tone suggest depressing or uplifting? Do you see how much has been given to you?
A story called The Quarry… Is it about a quarry where something is mined, or about a quarry being hunted? Could it be both?
It begins with a page of a young boy describing how to make a home-made crossbow. That description is straightforward but there are words underlined (emphasised to point them out to you.) What do they do or might they do?
This is how you make your crossbow. A piece of three-by-two pine [u]you got from a building site[/u], cut it up. Make a [u]crucifix[/u], two nails at the centre, otherwise the cross-piece moves. [u]You’ll have to buy[/u] the thick rubber, but no problem. [u]Get over the wall at the back of Feraro’s Chip Shop, steal a few pop-bottles, [/u]take them back in the morning for the deposits.
Nail the rubber along the cross-piece. Don’t put the nail through the rubber. It’ll split. Use a couple of nails each end, bang them in either side of the rubber, then smash them over the rubber till it squishes down. You have to do two nails, otherwise it can come out. That happened to Colin Hicks. [u]It’s why he’s got a glass eye.[/u]
Never mind the plot, think character. What kind of kids? Are they law-abiding citizens? Note crucifix and nails. What religion is the narrator?
Approximately one page in, the instructions finish. We then get this:
Practice a bit over the Gollers, hitting cans and shooting at the rabbits. You’ll have to be a dead-eye dick. You won’t get two shots.
You use your sister, practice in the front room. You tell Maddie it’s the only way. You have to get good because otherwise, well just, otherwise...
So we know these kids are petty thieves, make seriously dangerous home-made-crossbows, that something is dangerous as they won’t get two shots. We also know it involves Maddie and they must practice until they are perfect. While you can’t precisely know what comes next, you have to presume this involves the narrator, his mate or mates, crossbows, Maddie, and great danger.
They have or quarry or this happens in a quarry.
In L for Laura; L for Love the protagonist is an “OK”, but not too bright bloke:
Ay for orses, remember that? A for orses, B for mutton? C fer yerself, D fer payment? Not sure I could remember it all. I'm not even sure if that's right, A-B-C-D.
A is really for Alice, B for Billy Smith she ran off with. C is for Clown, me for not noticing. D is for Diane my second, after we had to wait all those years until I was officially deserted.
It’s a fair bet this is about “Laura” and love. But is the protagonist a lucky guy? We know almost immediately that he’s been twice-cuckolded. What’s the betting that what’s to come is a new woman? The question is, will he finally get lucky or end up cheated again. See how little is withheld.
Ford Maddox Ford’s novel “The Good Soldier” opens, “This is the saddest story I have ever heard.” Let’s not settle down for a comedy, then!
Of course, being “up front” with the reader doesn’t always mean being direct and obvious.
But “what will come” can also be heralded subtly, with vague hints, with the tone and music of the piece as well as blatant “telling”.
In The Smell of Almond Polish the title is NOT a clue. We can only presume that almond polish and its smell will feature. And when the story opens:
Paddington, London, 1954
Bridie Collins steps down from the train, waits for the crowd to wrap her up. She looks above her; pigeons scattering under the great glass roof. Someone bumps her shoulder, rushes on. In the half-light she shivers, picks up her cardboard case and walks towards the ticket collector.
We get the date and an important character. But what about the tone? Happy? Sad? When you have decided, ask where the tone comes from, and how much does the tone steer the reading?
But why is Bridie here, and like this?
On the train, from Wales, Bridie had listened to the clattering songs in the track. "Did she do right? Well, did she do right? What could she have done? What should she have done? Was it right, was it right, was it right?"
After twenty-minutes, about an hour-and-a-half ago, the train had slowed down, clacking and slapping as it crossed points, then easing into the dark Severn tunnel. Bridie had felt her first real moment of guilt, then. How could she have left Pat, Jenny, Ronnie? And Barbara, Angela? Smoke had leaked in through an open window, but then the train emerged into light sunlight, bright, fresh English green, and she was excited. Now the rails whispered, "Of course it was right. Of course it was right. What else could you do, could you do, could you do? It was right. It was right. It was right."
We now have Bridie’s recent history. She has left home. Do we think she is a good person or a bad person? I think the tone and the music, and one line declares how she should be viewed.
But in the case of this story we do not appear to have the full story and outcome given to us (clearly OR subtly) but if this was a lecture on Bridie’s story, what is here would say “Bridie left her husband and children to run away to London, because she feels she had no choice. But still she feels guilty. My lecture will show how Bridie fights to establish herself but remember that the pull of motherhood is very strong.”
OK, in this case we have to wait and see, but nevertheless, note just how many alternative possibilities have been eliminated. The reader can be in little doubt as to the kind of read that is coming.
Should we empathise and sympathise with Bridie? Is she big and strong, money in her pocket, or tiny, timid, a leave in the wind?
The ticket-collector is a darkie. He smiles, has gold on one tooth. Bridie smiles back. Steam hisses somewhere, everything smells of sulphur. People push round her. She picks up her little case and walks out of the station into a damp morning. She has nowhere in the world to go.
Let’s hear it for Bridie!!
As I have said, many good stories, prize-winning stories can open with a clear direction and “almost instantly” declare themselves. I’ve also said they can be more subtle. This is a recent flash.
THREE BROTHERS, ONE BOAT
We are brothers, three old codgers on a shingle beach beneath a staggering moon. We are old, old, with our trousers rolled, and we are each of us and all of us, a little crazy.
We are escapees, illicit, sucking in a feeling as deliciously wicked as a hand up a sitting skirt beneath a coat, as glorious as stolen icing sugar and marzipan in a Christmas kitchen, as lucky as death pushed back again.
By now the word must be out. Discrete alarms ring or buzz, three Welshman and the night is cold – related yes, and all as mad as a cat – yes, yes, dead or alive will be fine.
There is nothing direct here, but what will happen to these brothers? Ask, what do we have. The title, gives us “boat” (and could also signify “in the same boat”. We hear they are crazy, they are “escapees”. The word death and dead occurs in the first 108 words.
Go on. Guess.[/quote]
There’s a simple adage in giving factual talks: “Tell them what you’re gonna tell them. Tell them. Tell them what you told them.
I am going to suggest that’s what happens with a good short story.
See? I’ve just told you what I’m going to tell you. Has any suspense been lost? Or are you set up to pay attention? After all, I CAN’T be right, can I?
My story “Ballistics”. Well, yes, the title tells you that ballistics will feature, so no suspense there, then, and the text?
A set of car keys, fat as a grenade, is arching towards your eyeball. The tip of one key, v-shaped will precisely pierce the dark core of your eye. You're not yet two years old but this won't protect you. You are not old enough to understand that these keys, thrown in anger, began their journey a year before you were born, that maybe, a psychiatrist will say, they began even further back when a mother left a father, or further back than this, when a mining foreman, bitter, too bad for drink, strapped his wayward son.
So immediately, my premise is set out. Nothing is accident, things are not chance. Everything we do has a consequence. The story goes on to detail the accident, what happened to the child, and then the adult woman, but not before, paragraph two, we hear: One day you will marry a much older man, a man with a criminal record for violence, who shaves his head brutishly short, who has his country's emblem tattooed on his chest, but nothing, nothing of this exists yet…
The story brings the girl now woman and the now older father together. There was an affair, anger, the father threw keys, but the young woman now wants to know about the other woman, did her father love her? Perhaps the story has become richer, but still, it’s ballistics, just like the title and the opening said it would be.
Another story, “Miguel Who Cuts Down Trees” is about a guy, guess his name and what he does. It opens:
When I was a little boy, I had a wooden truck. One day the truck began to move by itself. It went around the yard and then it came back to me. I went to sleep. When I woke it was just a wooden truck.
When I was fourteen I was flying a kite. I saw an angel alongside my kite. She was very beautiful. I found I could make the angel move by pulling the string of my kite, but then I fell asleep and when I woke my kite was broken and trampled with mud.
Ask yourself. Will this be a happy story? Is the boy to be man destined to be rich and famous? You know he’s not, but why? Hasn’t the author directed you? Sure, you expect a plot, not everything is pre-explained, but don’t you sense the essence? If I show you the third paragraph are you now in any doubt about Miguel’s life?
When I was fifteen I loved another boy. He was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the angel on my string. My boy kissed me when it was dark but then I was awake and my father sent me to a far island to be a fisherman.
Poor Miguel will spend a life, use, abused, lost. And how will he end up? From the title, do you think he will have found an accommodation with the world? Do you think he has powers, or sees things?
All these stories are winners of first prizes. What do you think will be the main element of the story: An Old Man Watching Football After Sunday Lunch? Go on, guess.
I’m an old man watching football after Sunday lunch. Earlier we went to The Sun in the Wood. I had Cold Turkey, Mary had Roast Lamb, her mother looked like mutton dressed up, with mint-sauce. There we were, lording it, our Sunday-best, our table reserved as usual in the annexe, four bottles of Chateau Neuf du Pape opened and breathing, waiting for us when we arrived. El Perfecto!
My grandson plays soccer. (The manager is a clown). It’s a crap day, wet, wind, and I have to remind myself I’m a volunteer, here to watch my boy. When he pulls on that red shirt I realise he is the most important thing to me.
OK, so he’s old and watching soccer, but do you really think that’s all it will be? Why not? We know he (granddad) has a bit of “an attitude”, likes a hefty drink. We know what he does every Sunday. We know what is the most important thing in his world.
Each paragraph establishes facts and sets us up for what will come. But one hundred words in, frankly couldn’t this story go anywhere? Well, no, not anywhere, but it needs narrowing in.
Let me back-track a moment. For my pains, years back I sold my one decent novel. Now I hack out lousy copies, shadows of that first one, and for whatever reason I still get booked to talk to writers. Yesterday I was in Wales, a shit-hole seaside resort called Porthcawl – a writers conference – and I found myself visiting the town’s Rest Bay Hotel, a hotel for gentle-folks.
There’s that “attitude” again, but the guy is an old writer with an attitude, and is it not highly likely the attitude, the grandson, the idiot manager will all come together to make the story’s point?
In my story Green Glass, do you think glass will feature, and what colour will it be? Exactly!
When you say it, finally say it, when you tell her you're leaving, when you finally realise that loving her isn't enough, not if she can bring you so much pain, your anger is so great you crush the wine glass you're holding. You watch as splinters embed in your hand, as a long, wicked shard of dark green glass hooks into the flesh of your thumb, your Mount of Venus, and you watch the blood from your palm, your arm, flow magically red to the floor.
The blood is everywhere, the rug, the drapes, but she laughs at your crucified hand, your slashed wrist. She says, "My, honey, so much drama for such a pathetic little man. Rush yourself to the hospital, why don't you?"
You know green glass will matter. You can see the end of a relationship. So the story will be about a guy finding himself again, and that glass will feature. But will he love women or hate them or be afraid of them? Will the answer to that create the story’s tension? You tell me. Next paragraph.
There is a moment so black you want to kill her, then kill yourself, but you don't. You just leave. You leave her without another word, drive one-handed to the emergency room, get fixed. The nurse is older, thin-faced, with small grey eyes, a nose so sharp it looks dangerous. She doesn't much like you and when she speaks, spittle forms in the corner of her mouth. "Suicide," she says, "you need the stroke this way." She thinks this is funny, "Up the arm, and it's better with a razor."
You try to say it was an accident. "Sure," she says, and you think two bitches in one day, Jesus.
Do you think now he’ll get on the road?
The first night is anger-easy. After Nurse Ratchett has sewn you up you start driving. Earlier, you had thrown your typewriter, a bottle of Southern Comfort, a clean shirt in the trunk of the car. You check into the first motel you see as soon as darkness begins to drop across your eyes, you pay cash for the room, then you take the bottle, the shirt and the typewriter indoors.
So you know everything. This will be about how he loses then how he changes. I shan’t tell you more… and don’t forget the glass.
Who do you think The Bastard William Williams will be about?
I’m making you think, aren’t I?
I am the bastard William Williams, late of The Universal Pit, Senghennydd, then Abertridwr, and latterly the cellars of The Commercial Hotel, as pot man. Now that the dust have slowed me I am easy to find. I am still lived next door to the English Congregational Church, Commercial Road, Senghennydd. I venture from my place only for the English Cong, and in summer, if I am lucky, a visit from a relation.
Until the coaldust on my chest confined me to my front room I have been known as a hearty man. My years is matched exact to the century and for the most part it have been a good life, wholesome. I think though, with what have passed, I shall not like to be here when the clock strike two thousand.
Very quickly we get the man, his Welshness, and importantly that he refers to himself as “bastard”.
That has to matter.
We get a little bit more of “Wales” and then: I am not one for writing, and never was much of a one for talking either. I would not tell you of this, I would just let it go, but Lord forgive me, I am writing it down. I have a good copperplate strapped into me at town school which has never left me; I have my retirement pen, my Quink, a pad to write this and enough hot in me to bore a new pit-shaft. I must record the visit of the man Allen Jones. If I am not to get this out of me, I will surely be bursted, so better or worse, it shall go down.
Allen Jones, with long red hair like a woman, a liking for his own voice and him on a fired-up mission to discover his past.
And there it is, the whole set up. But then there’s this bastard thing, which must matter. Why do we know it matters? Because the author “old us.” He told us by making his title and by having the bastard nature emphasised in the first sentence.
Openings and endings, of stories, lectures, books, are important. Also the beginning and end of a paragraph are important. It’s there in a lecture that we make our big-hit points. See how in paragraph one we get “bastard” at the start and “visit” at the end. In para two we get his health at the beginning, then his age and date at the end. Then see how the specific importance (the reason for him telling the story) is at the end of a paragraph, and see how in the last paragraph his visitor is described, then the mission.
Most importantly we have all the ingredients of the story “up front”.
Mother, Questions is about a woman questioning her mother.
Wow!
The first paragraphs do a lot.
Mother, can I ask, with you and Dad, my father, how did it happen, how was it? Were you frightened, excited, was he strong, was he clumsy?
You told me once, before you died, you said, "We walked out for almost a year and then, one day, on a bridge over the canal at Alt-y-ryn, he asked if he could kiss me." You said you laughed, couldn't help it. He ran home.
So Mum, how did you get from there to being my mother? How did that shy young man learn to make love? Was he your first, Mum? Nellie said to me once, (she was drunk on gins), she said you had a beau everyone wanted, but he was "a bit of a lad, a heart-breaker", wouldn't take no for an answer.
So we know immediately that the woman wants to speak about the father and sex (paragraph one) but then paragraph two shows us these questions are being asked of a dead mother. Is the daughter well?
Note too (end of a paragraph) that the father is shown refusing to take no for an answer. Why might that be?
Like with other stories, this one could still go in different directions, but the next paragraph is:
I always wondered, wondered how I happened. I'm here, some kind of me, and I'm you, the bridge across the water, my hopeless father. Am I my sisters too, am I my brother? If they hadn't come before me, you would have been different, things would have been different, nothing, nothing, nothing would have happened exactly as it did. I wouldn't be this me, I wouldn't be able to ask these questions. How can it be that I exist without it being necessary that I exist? But how could these loves, bridges, kisses, how could they have all made my history, made me this, put me here?
So, in this fiction we have a daughter, clearly tortured, reflecting on even being alive. And we know from earlier that she’s talking to her dead mother. Would it surprise yout to discover she was in a mental hospital? And is the tone not sad? Do you not have a fair guess at where this story is headed?
I’d like you to guess about the core fact in the story The Last Love Letter of Berwyn Price. Go on, try. Did you think it might involve a love letter? Do you think Berwyn is alive or dead?
So I have given away two-thirds of the story. Have I killed it? Well “Berwyn” placed second of 5,000 entries and has earned £1,150 to date, so maybe not?
The story itself opens unusually, with a Rugby Almanac entry which quickly tells us about Berwyn’s athletic life. We discover Berwyn was a famous rugby player and won a gold medal for sprinting. Then, right at the end of the entry is a small sentence: Son of Philip Price, Swansea & Aberavon, one Welsh cap.
This is fiction. Why on earth would we need that last sentence? Could it be that parents and children, the family line continuing, would be important?
Would you think that a rugby international, the son of a rugby international, might quite like a rugby international or two for sons?
And is Berwyn dead?
Mrs Bethan Price, if you're reading this, then it looks like I must have managed it, after all. I went and over-did it and popped my clogs, just like you and Doctor Llewellyn said I would. So bugger me, I'm dead, well what do you know? I'm sorry love, but if that's what happened, then it happened. I'll bet I died happy, though. Was it at the Arms Park? I bet all I could see when the moment finally came was red and white and green. I bet I could smell the lads and the mud, see the flags and hear Bread of Heaven!
I bloody well hope it was like that. I hope I didn't keel over on the way to the stadium. You and the girls…
So we know the man, his sporting history, that he was married, that he loved his wife, that he has died (and we think we know where) that he almost certainly wanted sons, but none are mentioned, and it’s about “men things”, sport, going there…
And does the tone suggest depressing or uplifting? Do you see how much has been given to you?
A story called The Quarry… Is it about a quarry where something is mined, or about a quarry being hunted? Could it be both?
It begins with a page of a young boy describing how to make a home-made crossbow. That description is straightforward but there are words underlined (emphasised to point them out to you.) What do they do or might they do?
This is how you make your crossbow. A piece of three-by-two pine [u]you got from a building site[/u], cut it up. Make a [u]crucifix[/u], two nails at the centre, otherwise the cross-piece moves. [u]You’ll have to buy[/u] the thick rubber, but no problem. [u]Get over the wall at the back of Feraro’s Chip Shop, steal a few pop-bottles, [/u]take them back in the morning for the deposits.
Nail the rubber along the cross-piece. Don’t put the nail through the rubber. It’ll split. Use a couple of nails each end, bang them in either side of the rubber, then smash them over the rubber till it squishes down. You have to do two nails, otherwise it can come out. That happened to Colin Hicks. [u]It’s why he’s got a glass eye.[/u]
Never mind the plot, think character. What kind of kids? Are they law-abiding citizens? Note crucifix and nails. What religion is the narrator?
Approximately one page in, the instructions finish. We then get this:
Practice a bit over the Gollers, hitting cans and shooting at the rabbits. You’ll have to be a dead-eye dick. You won’t get two shots.
You use your sister, practice in the front room. You tell Maddie it’s the only way. You have to get good because otherwise, well just, otherwise...
So we know these kids are petty thieves, make seriously dangerous home-made-crossbows, that something is dangerous as they won’t get two shots. We also know it involves Maddie and they must practice until they are perfect. While you can’t precisely know what comes next, you have to presume this involves the narrator, his mate or mates, crossbows, Maddie, and great danger.
They have or quarry or this happens in a quarry.
In L for Laura; L for Love the protagonist is an “OK”, but not too bright bloke:
Ay for orses, remember that? A for orses, B for mutton? C fer yerself, D fer payment? Not sure I could remember it all. I'm not even sure if that's right, A-B-C-D.
A is really for Alice, B for Billy Smith she ran off with. C is for Clown, me for not noticing. D is for Diane my second, after we had to wait all those years until I was officially deserted.
It’s a fair bet this is about “Laura” and love. But is the protagonist a lucky guy? We know almost immediately that he’s been twice-cuckolded. What’s the betting that what’s to come is a new woman? The question is, will he finally get lucky or end up cheated again. See how little is withheld.
Ford Maddox Ford’s novel “The Good Soldier” opens, “This is the saddest story I have ever heard.” Let’s not settle down for a comedy, then!
Of course, being “up front” with the reader doesn’t always mean being direct and obvious.
But “what will come” can also be heralded subtly, with vague hints, with the tone and music of the piece as well as blatant “telling”.
In The Smell of Almond Polish the title is NOT a clue. We can only presume that almond polish and its smell will feature. And when the story opens:
Paddington, London, 1954
Bridie Collins steps down from the train, waits for the crowd to wrap her up. She looks above her; pigeons scattering under the great glass roof. Someone bumps her shoulder, rushes on. In the half-light she shivers, picks up her cardboard case and walks towards the ticket collector.
We get the date and an important character. But what about the tone? Happy? Sad? When you have decided, ask where the tone comes from, and how much does the tone steer the reading?
But why is Bridie here, and like this?
On the train, from Wales, Bridie had listened to the clattering songs in the track. "Did she do right? Well, did she do right? What could she have done? What should she have done? Was it right, was it right, was it right?"
After twenty-minutes, about an hour-and-a-half ago, the train had slowed down, clacking and slapping as it crossed points, then easing into the dark Severn tunnel. Bridie had felt her first real moment of guilt, then. How could she have left Pat, Jenny, Ronnie? And Barbara, Angela? Smoke had leaked in through an open window, but then the train emerged into light sunlight, bright, fresh English green, and she was excited. Now the rails whispered, "Of course it was right. Of course it was right. What else could you do, could you do, could you do? It was right. It was right. It was right."
We now have Bridie’s recent history. She has left home. Do we think she is a good person or a bad person? I think the tone and the music, and one line declares how she should be viewed.
But in the case of this story we do not appear to have the full story and outcome given to us (clearly OR subtly) but if this was a lecture on Bridie’s story, what is here would say “Bridie left her husband and children to run away to London, because she feels she had no choice. But still she feels guilty. My lecture will show how Bridie fights to establish herself but remember that the pull of motherhood is very strong.”
OK, in this case we have to wait and see, but nevertheless, note just how many alternative possibilities have been eliminated. The reader can be in little doubt as to the kind of read that is coming.
Should we empathise and sympathise with Bridie? Is she big and strong, money in her pocket, or tiny, timid, a leave in the wind?
The ticket-collector is a darkie. He smiles, has gold on one tooth. Bridie smiles back. Steam hisses somewhere, everything smells of sulphur. People push round her. She picks up her little case and walks out of the station into a damp morning. She has nowhere in the world to go.
Let’s hear it for Bridie!!
As I have said, many good stories, prize-winning stories can open with a clear direction and “almost instantly” declare themselves. I’ve also said they can be more subtle. This is a recent flash.
THREE BROTHERS, ONE BOAT
We are brothers, three old codgers on a shingle beach beneath a staggering moon. We are old, old, with our trousers rolled, and we are each of us and all of us, a little crazy.
We are escapees, illicit, sucking in a feeling as deliciously wicked as a hand up a sitting skirt beneath a coat, as glorious as stolen icing sugar and marzipan in a Christmas kitchen, as lucky as death pushed back again.
By now the word must be out. Discrete alarms ring or buzz, three Welshman and the night is cold – related yes, and all as mad as a cat – yes, yes, dead or alive will be fine.
There is nothing direct here, but what will happen to these brothers? Ask, what do we have. The title, gives us “boat” (and could also signify “in the same boat”. We hear they are crazy, they are “escapees”. The word death and dead occurs in the first 108 words.
Go on. Guess.[/quote]
Friday, November 21, 2008
Prompts Friday for 21:30
My mistress asks for a bracelet
Bread Pudding, the top crisp and black
SPEAKERS
The moon was up, the lake was clear
Late August, and after heavy rain, the sun broke through
CHAIN
I remember playing musical chairs, and girls, Oh!
RED
Red sky at night, God is bored and showing off
I turn to ducks, I mean, really, ducks?
The call it the mother of the earth
Dreary midnight and I'm tired
Gently, pick him up, move him from the shadows
A fire in my head
This world is whacky, whacky, whacky
Jamaican philosophy. Am I a vegetable? I fink therefore I'm a yam
Red buses, throbbing black taxis, light overhead
Washing on the line, the smell of boiling clothes
Bread Pudding, the top crisp and black
SPEAKERS
The moon was up, the lake was clear
Late August, and after heavy rain, the sun broke through
CHAIN
I remember playing musical chairs, and girls, Oh!
RED
Red sky at night, God is bored and showing off
I turn to ducks, I mean, really, ducks?
The call it the mother of the earth
Dreary midnight and I'm tired
Gently, pick him up, move him from the shadows
A fire in my head
This world is whacky, whacky, whacky
Jamaican philosophy. Am I a vegetable? I fink therefore I'm a yam
Red buses, throbbing black taxis, light overhead
Washing on the line, the smell of boiling clothes
Prompts Friday 20:17
Never such innocence again
This is our beginning; a picture
Someone will think there's a moral in this
I am not there. I do not sleep
Buds of chestnuts, ferns, birch-branch
Ice to river, river to sea
BONK!
I don't want you. Don't tempt me
But otherwise everything is fine
A book, but not as we know it, Jim
In black and white
I will, I think, I might, I am
From this, deliver us, to that, deliver us
SWEEP
The hills above the water, dark animals asleep
If you can keep your house, when all about you are losing theirs...
Dirty British Coaster
And the afternoons, the evenings, the nights
Very Black
This is our beginning; a picture
Someone will think there's a moral in this
I am not there. I do not sleep
Buds of chestnuts, ferns, birch-branch
Ice to river, river to sea
BONK!
I don't want you. Don't tempt me
But otherwise everything is fine
A book, but not as we know it, Jim
In black and white
I will, I think, I might, I am
From this, deliver us, to that, deliver us
SWEEP
The hills above the water, dark animals asleep
If you can keep your house, when all about you are losing theirs...
Dirty British Coaster
And the afternoons, the evenings, the nights
Very Black
Prompts, Friday 7PM
Beneath the Rubble
Why should not old men be mad?
How We Lived Then
Because we love the hills, the falling dark
Accidents in the Home
Here, pausing at the entrance
If anybody half as fair
I call on those who call me brother
I met this bishop in the Turkish Baths
Three old codgers on the beach
A murmur of too-soft words
The Dublin Gutter
There is safety in derision, the pack surrounds
The moon is staggering
How long will it take will it take, to hit the ground?
Much did I rage before
A noble horse, a dog, and faithful both, are dead
Why should not old men be mad?
How We Lived Then
Because we love the hills, the falling dark
Accidents in the Home
Here, pausing at the entrance
If anybody half as fair
I call on those who call me brother
I met this bishop in the Turkish Baths
Three old codgers on the beach
A murmur of too-soft words
The Dublin Gutter
There is safety in derision, the pack surrounds
The moon is staggering
How long will it take will it take, to hit the ground?
Much did I rage before
A noble horse, a dog, and faithful both, are dead
Thursday, November 20, 2008
2300 Prompts
The Bee-Keeper
Quality, Quality
No added salt
The fire crackles; outside the trees strain against the night
Mr Bleaney slept here
I'm sure there's nothing going on
A big three-wheeler motor-bike
Asparagus? Nah, Chaffinch
Sometimes I stop and walk backwards for a while
I am trying to be smaller
Uniformed, uninformed, cerebral cortex hardly-formed
This little piggy
Quality, Quality
No added salt
The fire crackles; outside the trees strain against the night
Mr Bleaney slept here
I'm sure there's nothing going on
A big three-wheeler motor-bike
Asparagus? Nah, Chaffinch
Sometimes I stop and walk backwards for a while
I am trying to be smaller
Uniformed, uninformed, cerebral cortex hardly-formed
This little piggy
Prompts at 21:00 Thursday
Google "Glimmer Poo" and follow links until...
A story beginning, "If I had to fuck a bear, I'd choose Paddington"
A story ending, "If I had to fucj=k a bear again, I'd choose Paddington."
or use
A terrible beauty is born
We sat together one summer's end
The TV in another room
Around me the images of thirty years
You and I, and her. We talked of poetry
If I became a broken man
Let's enumerate old disputes
Murmur names, names, names
I have met them at close of day
A message arrives: PING!
I have seen the lights go out
Before the world was made, there had been a run on hope.
Three women, that'll do
Love like a cold night in November
A story beginning, "If I had to fuck a bear, I'd choose Paddington"
A story ending, "If I had to fucj=k a bear again, I'd choose Paddington."
or use
A terrible beauty is born
We sat together one summer's end
The TV in another room
Around me the images of thirty years
You and I, and her. We talked of poetry
If I became a broken man
Let's enumerate old disputes
Murmur names, names, names
I have met them at close of day
A message arrives: PING!
I have seen the lights go out
Before the world was made, there had been a run on hope.
Three women, that'll do
Love like a cold night in November
Prompts at 20:00 Thursday
A story beginning, “You realise I will lie to you?”
A story ending “On my mother’s grave…”
Or Google “Toffee Penis” and follow links until something on the web prompts you to write a story
When I have those fears that I will cease to be
Extra Strong
Gary's at the match, I'll need to be
Whoever guesses, thinks or dreams he knows
NAIL
Methodical, wiping spit, a little sun cream
PIN
My life has waited in corners
Hey bud, I could commentate
There’s a certain slant of light
Potatoes
Sometimes you only hear about it second-hand, or fifth
April 19th, Driving
There are things we need and hate and need to hate
Fires & Human Behaviour
The burn after shaving
Catching Life by the throat
Coming this way on a different line
Why we have a navel
Mr Dickory and Jennifer Dock
Bunsen
Here, take my picture
Catch a falling star
Teach me to hear the mermaids singing
A catastrophe of charlatans
I love Sally Smith
One morning, I saw these three
You say Tomato
McDonalds, burning flesh upon the air
The difference between a grandson and a cactus
A story ending “On my mother’s grave…”
Or Google “Toffee Penis” and follow links until something on the web prompts you to write a story
When I have those fears that I will cease to be
Extra Strong
Gary's at the match, I'll need to be
Whoever guesses, thinks or dreams he knows
NAIL
Methodical, wiping spit, a little sun cream
PIN
My life has waited in corners
Hey bud, I could commentate
There’s a certain slant of light
Potatoes
Sometimes you only hear about it second-hand, or fifth
April 19th, Driving
There are things we need and hate and need to hate
Fires & Human Behaviour
The burn after shaving
Catching Life by the throat
Coming this way on a different line
Why we have a navel
Mr Dickory and Jennifer Dock
Bunsen
Here, take my picture
Catch a falling star
Teach me to hear the mermaids singing
A catastrophe of charlatans
I love Sally Smith
One morning, I saw these three
You say Tomato
McDonalds, burning flesh upon the air
The difference between a grandson and a cactus
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Calling all Ex-BootCampers and Gridders
I have a Facebook presence now as:
Alex Boot Camp Keegan
and I've set up a group:
Boot Camp Keegan & Gridders Alumini
(sorry about the spelling)
We are trying to link all those misbegotten souls who were with us in the early days (eg Mimi Carmen, Geri Borcz, Suzanne Proulx, Benjamin Graber) and all those who were with us when we were in MOVING PEN, then those who survived the SCRAWL WARS, those who were with us when we had the Yahoo Gridders presence, those in Boot Camp (not on Yuku) and lastly those in TLC at Writers Dock
Join us, link to me as a friend in Facebook and I'll invite you into the group
Alex
Alex Boot Camp Keegan
and I've set up a group:
Boot Camp Keegan & Gridders Alumini
(sorry about the spelling)
We are trying to link all those misbegotten souls who were with us in the early days (eg Mimi Carmen, Geri Borcz, Suzanne Proulx, Benjamin Graber) and all those who were with us when we were in MOVING PEN, then those who survived the SCRAWL WARS, those who were with us when we had the Yahoo Gridders presence, those in Boot Camp (not on Yuku) and lastly those in TLC at Writers Dock
Join us, link to me as a friend in Facebook and I'll invite you into the group
Alex
Monday, November 03, 2008
CiN Details
Children in Need 2008
For the last three years we've held Flash Blasts for Children in Need (CiN) and these have raised well over £10,000 for the charity.
The format is simple. We start at 1800 Hours on the Thursday and write non-stop until midnight Friday.
Naturally, only about half-a-dozen hardy souls manage the thirty hours, but the idea is to have SOMEONE writing at all times. Many write 1800-2400 both days, and a bit in the day on the Friday.
We raise money in two ways.
First there's an entry fee of £30.
This breaks down into
£10 for prizes (all the prize fund is paid out)
£10 for CiN
£10 for a copy of the anthology (may be 2 copies)
SECOND, individuals collect sponsorship for their writing over the thirty hours. They deal with this separately but we total the amounts
All the stories/flashes/poems arrive anonymously and after the Blast we select the best XX for an independent judge to choose the 1-2-3-4-5
PS I disqualify my stuff from the competition
An anthology is produced of the best stuff but we try to include at least one piece from each participant. Obviously sales of the anthology (£10) will raise further monies for CiN
With a large organisation like Writers Dock we could easily get 100 participants, and that £10,000 raised could like like chicken-feed.
I should say, for those who have never tried "blasting" the results can be incredible. Many first prizes have evolved from CiN Blast work
So sign up now
Next post will show the list of people (pseudonyms are OK) but we would like their place of residence
eg
04 Aristo Belgium
05 Tommo Northern Ireland
For the last three years we've held Flash Blasts for Children in Need (CiN) and these have raised well over £10,000 for the charity.
The format is simple. We start at 1800 Hours on the Thursday and write non-stop until midnight Friday.
Naturally, only about half-a-dozen hardy souls manage the thirty hours, but the idea is to have SOMEONE writing at all times. Many write 1800-2400 both days, and a bit in the day on the Friday.
We raise money in two ways.
First there's an entry fee of £30.
This breaks down into
£10 for prizes (all the prize fund is paid out)
£10 for CiN
£10 for a copy of the anthology (may be 2 copies)
SECOND, individuals collect sponsorship for their writing over the thirty hours. They deal with this separately but we total the amounts
All the stories/flashes/poems arrive anonymously and after the Blast we select the best XX for an independent judge to choose the 1-2-3-4-5
PS I disqualify my stuff from the competition
An anthology is produced of the best stuff but we try to include at least one piece from each participant. Obviously sales of the anthology (£10) will raise further monies for CiN
With a large organisation like Writers Dock we could easily get 100 participants, and that £10,000 raised could like like chicken-feed.
I should say, for those who have never tried "blasting" the results can be incredible. Many first prizes have evolved from CiN Blast work
So sign up now
Next post will show the list of people (pseudonyms are OK) but we would like their place of residence
eg
04 Aristo Belgium
05 Tommo Northern Ireland
Children in Need 2008 (CLICK HERE)
I've been sick for two weeks so this is late but our charity fund-raiser for kids will take place again this year.
For those interested in face-to-face meetings and mutual support I'm opening up the Chapel in North Wales to all-comers
For those interested in face-to-face meetings and mutual support I'm opening up the Chapel in North Wales to all-comers
Friday, October 31, 2008
The Chapel
We stopped for a few days in the Chapel this week, officially a holiday (ha-ha)
All that's left to do now is clean and polish the terracotta floors and put up a few more bookshelves.
There will be music and books in every room and I'm in the process of transporting more than a thousand books into the place, mostly good literature, plenty of craft books etc
There are four computers there, broadband, dining for twelve
Three showers, three loos, a bathroom and non-stop piping hot water
There's Sky HD-TV with all the extra channels, and an antique bar-billiards table.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)