October 19th 09:48
Blog from Writer and CW Teacher Alex Keegan. Also publishes news from Boot Camp Keegan and Writing Competition Schedules and Results. FACEBOOK ME!
Monday, October 19, 2020
Sunday, October 18, 2020
Prompts from Saturday
01 Dandelions make you wet the bed
02 Do not cheat me of my life
03 Give the children wood, sharp instruments
04 You’re dismissed.
05 A little water please
06 Dynamo!
07 Gentle, please, slowly. Let me smell perfume
08 Our pockets were full
09 Swirl the balls around, take one.
10 The sky is swollen
11 After the music, a small death
12 McLintock found himself a woman
13 I need to shave
14 Oklahoma!
15 I have Southern Comfort, but no Coke
16 We found him, trying to take a shit
17 Butter? Margarine?
18 Goggle-Eyes!!
19 He fought a negro pugilist
20 A story beginning: “They brought him out, bearded, dirty, defiant.”
21 Play “YMCA” on repeat and write
22 A mouth full of dried insects, dead
23 TICKETS!
24 He left his bike tied to wet railings
25 A sky too big for loving
Prompts from Sunday Morning
01 A story beginning: “Someone has to wash the Fuhrer’s Clothes.”
02 Pecorino
03 A better angle, better light, for videoing beheadings
04 Cardboard, iron, Plastic
05 I am not impressed by your vows
06 No Asylum, you are too fat.
07 No disrespect intended
08 I am a right angle: You are Obtuse
09 Play Michael Jackson’s THRILLER on repeat and write
10 Some has excited the Italians again.
11 I am a novice. Can you help me?
12 June Smith is busting out all over
13 Bill Benson’s six-legged dog
14 Long-Covid
15 I don’t like Olives, except from the Chef
16 The squaw in her Wigwam
17 Cheeses Christ
18 I’m from Maryland. Here is sane.
19 A Penny for the Black Babies, Miss!
20 WW2 on Facebook
21 Ernest likes washing dishes. Ignore him!
22 We have oil lamps, but no oil
23 This is in honour of something, but nobody remembers
24 Can I have your pin?
25 When old songs were new, were old song’s the best?
Colours!
They are colourising World War One now. It is SO much better. I didn’t know that fresh blood was lipsticked bright-red, dried blood darker. They really should do something about that. People might not realise there is more than one kind of blood.
ISIS in Mosul had a white prefab media building where they orchestrated their PR. Those orange death-suits were a good choice. There were morning conferences to discuss the best lighting, the most efficient camera angles for beheadings. It was deemed important that Facebook executions maintained high standards of virality.
TBF Hitler & Musssolini were always immaculate. No-one calls Trump a scruff. Appearances do matter. If their women and children are being herded onto the trains, at least make sure the Oberleutnant looks good.
People forget: someone has to wash the Fuhrer’s underwear and someone polished Il Duce’s perfect boots. Was it a Jew who pressed the General’s perfect uniform? Did a shrunken Jewish chemist polish his Iron Cross?
Those trenches, though, all that grey mud. It seems to be one shade, even after all our trickery. Perhaps they should leave the mud grey, the uniforms grey, and like Schindler’s one red-coated girl, show only the silver glint of bayonets, the pink of boyish faces in their last second, and the blood of course, but one red for clarity.
The selective use of colour can add, no doubt about it. Except for Gas Gangrene. Do not Google “Gas Gangrene”, do not select images. It will ruin your Sunday.
250 Words
Saturday, October 17, 2020
Boats
The smuggler give the children sweets. He give to the girls sherbet lemons and to the boys chocolate eclairs, toffee and inside there is a little chocolate. The smuggler say, “Suck sweets, make them last long time. Stop you being sick.”
We hid in the sand long time and before that in hut, from the police then from Coastguard. Libyans are very bad bastards. Rancid dogs. They will kill you, rape you, take money, hit you.
We can see coastguard boats. Coastguard get money from UK, from France, Italy to catch us and bring us back to Libya. Libya very, very bad. We cannot stay. Better if boat sinks than go back to Libya.
Night get to be hard, hard, heavy, dark. Smuggler push us with AK, say, “Come on, now! And shut up all the time!” and we run across sand and get in rubber boat. Rubber boat is too small for all of us! Men sit on the sides, women on the floor, and some children stand up in the middle.
This is not our boat, smuggler says. There is a big metal boat for 600 maybe 700 people and water there, and crisps. We have to go out in rubber boat, get on big boat. Then it is only four hours he say and we are in Italy. But shut up all the time, he say again, because bastard coastguard.
Fatima say to me before she get bus some part of the way, then she walk at night-time and pay shepherd to take her across border where goats go and no soldier. He want only money and not too much.
Then Fatima pay for Toyota 4 x 4 to cross Sudan desert. People hanging off Toyota. Smuggler have gun and say, fall off truck, you die, we do not stop. In the night they go and it is very very hard and many are sick.
Then, we are across border. Desert is the same. Then 4x4 smuggler who is Sudani say he go know and we are in old house. No-one comes two days and we go crazy for water, walk to railway station for water, then back to house.
After two-three days new smuggler come. He want more money. He make us phone families, uncles, say, I gotta have money or I die here.
When family pay he take us to Benghazi City. Everything there is broken. Broken more than Eritrea or Ethiopia or Sudan. He drop us outside city and he say very dangerous. Benghazi peoples are dirty rapists, murder you for nothing, turn you into slaves. Stick together, find your people in the ruins.
We hide, then good men come, from our country. We go to place was “office-block” but all bombed to bits now like ruin. There is no water, now, no food, but another smuggler will bring rice tomorrow.
We in Libya four months. Our skin is very bad. People shit. Children cry.
Fatima teach the children. “Who made you?” “God made me!” “Why did God make you?” “God made me to serve him in this world and the next.”
Fatima say to keep your head on your shoulders, keep eyes down. She has broken bottle she hides, to stab a man.
There is a bigger boat, but it is wood and dirty, the paint iss all gone and the engine makes black smoke and bad noises. The men go inside where it is hot. The women and the children go outside on top. There are too much people here and the boat leans over and does not want to go fast.
We still are shutting up but the lights of Benghazi go small small and we are long way from Libya, no more coastguard, nothing. The boat complain all the time but throb -throb-throb like old man.
Fatima talks of food. She said once in hotel she had perfect soft-boiled eggs and English toast and on the soft egg they put black pepper and salt. Very nice. She will go to Denmark, she says, her cousin is there work in shop. The children sleep but we are cold now and wet.
It is not four hours to go Italy. Now we have three days and there is only cold water and the men inside are shouting because down there is water coming in.
We hope maybe MOAS boat find us, or Italian Navy, but the old boat stops now, engine is fucked. The children cry all together so Fatima says again:
Who Made You?
And the children all say, “God Made Me!”
But there is no rescue.
766 Words
Prompts from Friday
Friends
Friday, October 16, 2020
Friday October 16th, 18:14
More Prompts
01 We set to and began to row, the women singing
02 Perfect soft-boiled eggs
03 Ecumenical
04 No-one says, “This prose is dangerous”
05 Run it under a tap, love
06 Who Made You? God Made Me!
07 Hard, hard, heavy, dark
08 The Bucket Method
09 To hold the furnace
10 The angel I met in Tescos
11 A 4x4 to Libya
12 God and me, out on the piss
13 Men, women, buying, selling
14 My father’s rancid dog
15 Right now, a thousand women…
16 Your head upon your shoulders
17 We need to adjust our situation
18 Scarlet
19 Sherbet Lemons, Chocolate Eclairs
20 RSPCA
21 Between the body and the mind
22 Love: the bloody armistice!
23 But apart from that, how’s things?
24 Passion, a stove with no lid
25 When it’s called finished
The Sparrow
In my next story my mother will be alive. In my next story the factory hooter will still sound at five o’clock and the men will walk out, boots tramping on cobbles. Pub snugs will glow amber, kids will hang on the corner in hope. Dad’s will say, “Bugger off, ‘ome to yer Mam. I’ll see yer later.”
Was it simpler then? Full English, red or brown sauce? My mother, needle, thimble, thread. My mother ruh-thunkety-ruh, treadling at the Singer, running up gingham frocks, Whitsun clothes, red ties, Jesus.
Half-pennies filed flat on the red-brick porch for the meter, narrow streets, bobbies. Empty pantries Wednesday, pay-day Friday, Echo Margarine, porridge, coats on the bed.
It’s a boiler-breakdown, my love, not a bad night in Aleppo. There are no kids outside with Kalashnikovs. You can share my duvet. The plumber will come, eventually.
Did we buy a bigger bed? I can’t remember. Is this bed bigger or is the room shrinking? Do you have to go on your phone? Wanna cuddle up?
I always thought Dad would go first, you know, after the accident, his fags, the beer, him deciding to be old, all the bitterness, the hoarded sweets. I thought he’d go.
Wasn’t a great a funeral, was it? I guess if you hang on too lang, all your friends are dead. I’m sorry about the wake. I wasn’t going to drink at all, but there you go. Maybe I was sad.
Can you stop texting, just for five minutes? Did I tell you the story, this is true, about the monk who told some King about a sparrow?
They were having a banquet, in this huge fucking hall. The king was a heathen and the monk was his guest. The monk was trying to explain God.
This sparrow flies into this huge hall, swoops down to the king, swoops up and disappears out of the other end of the hall.
Did you see that sparrow? Asks the monk. The king says yes.
You don’t know where the sparrow came from, you don’t know where it is, where it’s going. But the sparrow is real, and for a second we were all together. This is us; where we come from, where we go, our life is just the here, for a short time. Outside is God.
Please put down the phone. Hold me.
418 Words
Prompts (13:30)
01 The Five o’clock hooter, men’s boots
02 This place, a different tongue
03 You had ONE job, Mrs Achilles!
04 Beginning? End? You choose…
05 Let’s talk about something nice
06 Parmesan
07 You may share my blanket
08 You’re talking out of your third eye
09 Marie is driving to Emergency
10 Dad’s Wheelchair
11 We are waiting for the plumber
12 Is the bed larger or the room smaller?
13 He has decided to be old
14 Daffodils EveryFuckingWhere
15 The room wanted peace
16 Too early
17 The children have Kalashnikovs now
18 As the crow dies
19 Red, Brown or Naked?
20 Not much of a funeral but the wake was OK
21 That story about the sparrow
22 Needle, Thimble, Thread
23 A narrow street in a tiny town
24 Jesus, 2020
25 In my next story my mother is alive
More Prompts
01 Your wild furies
02 Slow as the world turning
03 At first it didn’t bleed
04 They are all here, I am ready
05 A Postcard, my collected poems
06 What could make us whole?
07 I planted a tree. It died too
08 Your absence has been extended
09 This is how division ends
10 Flux
11 I’m tired, could you dream for me?
12 Mrs Pianoforte’s Secret
13 On the Street Where You Live
14 Sergeant Pepper RIP
15 I did, but not again.
16 A mouth full of dusty planets
17 I am coming down with something, Mrs Taft
18 Wait and see if anyone salutes
19 I had a friend once
20 Candle, Candle, Candle
21 The Great Poets of islam
22 Sorry, I’m a bit dead
23 Old boots, pocket-corners, smell of tobacco
24 They have moved him from Cardiff to Oxford
25 Safety Net
Thursday, October 15, 2020
and then...
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Woman.
Dear Gerald,
In your next letter, try not to lie. Take a spotless sheet of cream vellum, your fountain-pen, pause, then write me the truth. Begin, dear Joy…
Tell me of the Signal-House, the weather in the wires, the Kittiwakes and Herring-Gulls and how you feel, how you really feel out there on the island. They say it makes men mad.
Tell me of your day. The man said days are where we live (but we live, too, Gerald, in our letters). Tell me of Sundays, are they different? Do you see Monday as the start of a long week or just a day beginning M?
Those days when it snows. Write to me about soundlessness of soft snow. I do not care for your gales, the lashing rain, the scream of wind, winds so strong the light is twisted.
Do you miss dogs barking, the gentle catch of a morning milk-float, telephones?
Do not despair, Gerald. You are doing good things, saving lives and allowing little boys to dream of your lighthouse. (Don’t tell them of cold and lonely nights).
Your work is good, Gerald. You work not for Herod, nor in a filthy city.
You are not dreaming. Do not write to me again and say your fork and knife were dancing, while the spoons played music. I was not amused. Rather I feared that the island, the patient sea, was seeking you out. Desist, stay in the present, think all the things in the world we find in heavy books, The Kangaroo, the Platypus. The story of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the Slaughter of the Innocents. P lease, never again ask such horrible questions of those children. No, “what-ifs”. They are innocent by default. That is what it means to be an infant.
I know the sea rises up. I understand how fear pushed down into the belly rises up in blood to the brain, but I am real, Gerald, I am your Joy and March is but five months away.
Your light so bright it burns, is bright as life. Nothing is bad. Please do not write to say your mind is going that way, this way, that way, this. That is just the weather. And solitude.
Stay safe, Gerald, and keep our mariners safe, stay inside the lines we have painted, and in twenty-one weeks, we will be together again. Then you can be a farmer.
401 Words
I was temporarily blocked.
When blocked, a good trick is to write any old shit and the block disappears.
How Do You Know?
I found a poem all cut up -
was putting it together
when my mother said
with all these words
it could be something other
My mother now is cut up too
and she is altogether
dead. The doctor said
Let’s work together, get inside your head
and bit by bit
you can get your act together
not forever
but with pills
we soften ills
and at a glance you’re sane
but if again, you chop to little pieces
those who disagree
no more poem-parts for you my boy
no literary jigsaws
we’ll make you read prose
Flat, solid as a rock
and uncutuppable.
October 15th
Third Set of Prompts
16:18 UK Time
=======================
02 Call me joy
03 The weather in the wires
04 Doing Herod’s work
05 Believe me, this is not a dream
06 In your next letter, try not to lie
07 The fork and knife dancing
08 We live in days
09 The Platypus is False News
10 Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
11 The soundlessness of soft snow
12 The trouble with rubble
13 Dogs barking
14 That way, this way, that way, this
15 Bright as life, heavy as dying
16 They are blue, kill them!
17 It was long ago, on a dusty road
18 Paint inside the lines
19 Saddam
20 If none were innocent, what then?
21 Mother, please fuck off
22 Things I love, things I will destroy
23 Two Little Boys, Rolf, Two Little Boys
24 I found a poem all cut up
25 A dance for one-legged men
Once Upon a Time in Some Shit-Hole Country.
McLintock leans in towards me, charming as Ted Bundy on one of his days off. His voice is brown, like a fat Greek Baritone, real dark.
He says, “A man should get drunk now and then, Soc’, out of principle, don’t you agree?” The words ooze from him with the dark smoothness of an old pistol.
At the other end of the bar half a dozen of his men are getting drunk; crazy, nasty drunk, their voices way too high, screaming like the damned down an ancient chimney.
There is a certain delicious depravity and unpleasantness about this, about McLintock. It’s hard not to identify, so I nod at my glass. He pours. “Drink the fucking Hemlock, Socrates,” he says.
There were four of them, his guys, he tells me, their tax-free thousand bucks a day suddenly terminated. I know, I say. I saw it, couldn’t write about it. And now I’m getting drunk with him, their CO, a man who I know could as easy gut-shoot me as buy me these endless whiskies. Four doubles in he tells me he is not fond of bears.
An RPG took out the vehicle. Then they watched them burn, cheering, and after, they hung their corpses from a bridge. McLintock is dark but not exactly angry. He seems unphased. Dead is Dead, he says.
I am trying to not get too drunk. Maybe, drunk, I’ll say the wrong thing, but McLintock starts talking like he’s me, how this is all so fucked up.
“A long and tedious concatenation of circumstance brings us here,” he says, “And oil, don’t forget oil.” He slugs another, “And revenge.”
Then McLintock says something that sounds almost poetic, that these guys, his guys, these all-in-black hired killers are “by this life defeated,” and I think I haven’t heard right.
“What about after?” he says, “What’s to do after? A cabin by a lake, a hooker for the weekend, Coke, hunt bears? Or do I fade away, work security in some poor man’s town full of dried up women?”
I say I have no fucking idea.
“Or maybe,” he says slowly, “I could shoot a President.”
357 Words.
The prompts already posted were fresh.
This set (older) were posted elsewhere but are now here, my next challenge.
I will take a crack starting at 12:20 UK Time
| A certain delicious depravity and unpleasantness |
| A man should get drunk now and then out of principle |
| A voice whooping down an ancient chimney |
| American mutterings |
| But I am not that fond of bears |
| But whom do you address? |
| Dead is dead |
| Do not acquire knowledge through spilled blood |
| Dumas, Dickens |
| Hemlock |
| Horse Sense |
| I have momentarily mislaid my muse |
| I may waste my twilight or kill a president |
| I need the harsh smell of sage, the dry air |
| I should take a job with the Chamber of Commerce |
| It feels like a long and tedious concatenation of circumstance |
| It is a little dear here but the climate is impeccable |
| It's a tough racket |
| Knocking over gravestones |
| Not archaic, but not slangy or vernacular either |
| Or, of course a cabin by a lake |
| Some flowery dame in a hilltop house, wasn't it? |
| Talk technique when you run out of ideas! |
| A poor man's town full of nervous sisters |
| The dark smoothness of an old pistol |
| There is far too much talk about the dead. |
| Those of us here, by life defeated |
| You didn't sound that happy |
| You need to FUCK with the language Once upon a time in some shit-hole country |
My response to those prompts
=================================
Remember.
Ah, we were young and easy then, Christine Birch and me. I remember a quiet afternoon, a soft, lazy river, and daises, I remember daisies, Christine showing me how to make chains, me breathless, faintly dizzy, hoping she would ask me to play Truth, Dare, Promise? or say, “Kiss, Kick or Torture?” Daisies, and me wondering what a kiss would be like.
You are not Christine Birch. Once, Christine kissed me, on my right cheek, suddenly, below my eye, on our way back from St John’s Ambulance. We were learning slings and splints. Mrs Vacara was behind the counter. She saw the kiss. She smiled at me and her eyes were wet. Mrs Vacara didn’t have a husband because of the war. They said she came from Italy or Germany, that her husband wore a long leather coat. Every night, after she closed her shop Mrs. Vacara sang in her dark back room. One day she died.
We never had those afternoons, those aching, hopeful, breathless waits, you and I. Long before, we had put away those childish things and turned to the business of life. Did we ever make love? We fucked, but did we ever make love? Did you ever reach for me like a Christine, for peck in a sweet shop, all hope, bravery, light?
So this, my now, a room, a bed, a window. You think I’m lonely. I’m not. A poet once said, “What is this life if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?” I get that now. Did you know he lost a leg? He was Welsh like me. That’s the only poem I remember.
You remember your last words to me? You were so ugly as you spat them out. You called me a child (and you were right, you’re always right).
A child ran out. That’s what the driver said. I had no chance. We held a funeral. They had to hose down the road. My cheek burned, just below my right eye.
337 Words
I am shocked that it's been over four years!
I took a one-year writing break to recharge and get skinny and fit, that became two years, then three.
I did that then got Covid followed by Long-Covid.
I still have long-haul, joy!
But I'm back and posting flash/poem prompts
Here is a set. Write to me if you want to chat about how to use prompts (there is a real art).
I posted this set of prompts about 11:05 UK time
01 A quiet afternoon, a soft, lazy river
02 Ah, we were young and easy then
03 Time to archive our childish things
04 Remember!
05 A child ran out
06 I admit it, I am not lonely
07 We pressed your button, you began to tick
08 Far off, a woman singing
09 My Probation Officer wear Chanel
10 Never lose with dignity
11 The sea is patient
12 A long leather coat, Herr Schmidt
13 Please don’t ask me to grow up
14 Pomegranate
15 It is midnight. Why is the sky so bright?
16 If full of care, no time to stare?
17 Tack
18 This house breathes coldness
19 Seeds, water, time
20 The moon bleeds heavy tears
21 Whatever else DO NOT COUGH!
22 I fancy dark glasses, Chicago
23 We don’t make love, but fuck sometimes
24 A Room, a Bed, a Window
25 Let’s murder Mum & Dad