A.M. Gray's Blog, page 18

His smile was pretty difficult to trust

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!http://writeworld.org/post/1016696652... smile was pretty difficult to trust. It was perfect. It always was. That wasn’t what she didn’t trust about it.She had tried to analyse it and she had decided that it was because it didn’t ever quite reach his eyes. For months, he had watched her and smiled at her as she sat at her desk outside of the office until he was given permission to enter. But she knew, that, too was not heartfelt.He did it so well and so often; it was as if it was a switch he didn’t know how to turn off.She suspected that he was on autopilot because she was not a beautiful woman, and nobody flirted with her. Except him.So, without strictly meaning to, she started to take more of an interest in him. Espionage was a dangerous game. The death rate was high. For a long time she had deliberately taken no interest in any of the agents. Just in case.But he made the Section Head shout loudly enough to be heard from where she sat. It made her chuckle.And as she read the field reports, she tracked him and she started to care about his welfare. He got the volatile regions. The areas that lacked everything from proper back-up to electricity and running water.His record was ... well, it looked exemplary if you went by results only. He got the job done, but he cut corners, and he sacrificed contacts. He came back with the results, but his direct boss did not approve of his methods. He broke the rules.Success in these areas merely ensured that he stayed there. Especially if people the Section Head thought of as more valuable were going to be risked to replace him.The body count grew. The trail of broken women increased as well, and yet... he kept coming back. There he was smiling at her and flirting the way he always did. A new scar on his face making him look as dangerous as he clearly was.Asked to complete a list of candidates for a very high risk job for the top department head, referred to only by a letter moniker, she added his name. She knew that the Section Head cared only for results. He should have been on it for his success rate alone and it was an oversight by her boss that she merely corrected. That was what she told herself. Perhaps she was more adept at lying than she had suspected. At least to herself.He got the job, completed it and almost caused a full interagency war. The scientist he had extracted, under the most extreme of conditions, refused to talk to anyone else but him and that scientist was supposed to be handed over to the Americans. Now, he was indispensable.When she got home that night her cat was waiting on the back step for her. “Who let you out?” she asked it.On her bedside table was a box wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. Inside it was a bracelet. It was one of those ones where you added one bead, or charm, at a time. A plain silver band. Plain; like her. There was only one bead and it was a dark maroon that matched her favourite lipstick perfectly.There was no card, but she knew who had left it.The next day he was called in. He perched on the edge of her desk rather than sit on a chair. She tutted at him and tapped the back of his hand where a rather obvious and brand new cat scratch resided. He tapped her new bracelet where it lay around her wrist.She smiled at him.He smiled back at her and it took her breath away. It reached his eyes.She realised that it wasn’t that his smile was difficult to trust, it was that he was.You had to earn it.
~~~~© AM Gray 2014

You wake up to your chest heaving and the taste of another man’s blood in your mouth

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/993... present tense messes me up every time, but I think I fixed the errors.~~~~~~                                                                                     You wake up to your chest heaving and the taste of another man’s blood in your mouth.Another nightmare.You are so tired of these nightmares. It takes hours for the taste to disappear. And days or weeks to work out the identity of the dead person whose blood is in your mouth.And then the next part of your task starts. It is kind of self-imposed. Nobody makes you track down the body, but experience has taught you that if you don’t find it, you keep waking up with the blood in your mouth. The same blood.You can’t say how you know it is the same blood, but you know it is. If you don’t look, you can’t sleep, you can’t get on with your life. The dead are so loud. They are insistent and endlessly patient. They have time to wait.First time, you try finding out who died. Now, you start with a list of all the people who have gone missing. You learned quickly that it was not all dead who used you like this; but only the unfound ones. The ones whose bodies are hidden or lost. The victims of violence. They want to be found.You are tired of searching alleys, breaking into squats or vacant houses. You have to drive roads to mark the exact spot where a car has driven off the edge; over a cliff or into a wooded gully. You can taste where is the right spot.With time, you also learn that it is mostly murders that you deal with. Suicides less so. Maybe the victims are more insistent, or angrier? They are demanding.You got arrested a couple of times. You know too much. You know the location of the body. You are an obvious suspect. Some police start to get to know you. It helps. You have people who would vouch for you.You have a friend who helps you out. You aren’t sure why she helps you; the whole process freaks you both out. Your friend tries to find a way to make money out of it. Even just to cover costs. Petrol and accommodation cost money. The dreams make it hard for you to hold down a job. You make it more difficult for yourself; closer to the dead than the living. You take too many sick days. You will walk out on a job if you have a contact or a clue. Workplaces tend not to like that.Your friend starts to take photos; to sell information and images to the press. The police don’t like that, but you need the cash. You are not so sure about it either, but you have to eat. Some grateful families pay you a reward for your trouble; a kind of finder’s fee.You are not good with dealing with the families. Grief sometimes makes them angry; they blame you. You find dealing with the bereaved more tiring than dealing with the dead.You exist like this for some time, until your friend asks why it was always the bodies of men that you found. You say that it was only the blood of men you tasted. And then you start to wonder who does this for the women victims, and how can you find them?~~~~© AM Gray 2014

The prince of darkness

Writer’s Block A picture says a thousand words. Write them.Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
Picture Source: cyrusnarcissus.deviantart.comhttp://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/100..., you have to come inside with me,” my friend begged. We stood at the bottom of an old narrow set of stairs, squeezed in between a Greek restaurant and a sex shop. It was that kind of area of the city.“It’s a nightclub, Kris. What are you worried about?”“No, it’s not that. I’ve never been here alone. And I need you to come with me. You always tell me to cool it. You drag me home before I do something risky. You’re my conscience.”I rolled my eyes. “That’s wonderful. The only reason you want me to come with you is ‘coz I’m Jiminy Cricket.”“Who’s Jiminy Cricket?”“You are sad.”She grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the stairs. “I’ll pay your door fee.”“Gosh. Thanks.” She missed the sarcasm. I was interested now. What was she so worried about? It was already late; maybe after 2am. I was ready to go home but something about her excitement appealed to me.While she paid the door fees to a woman at the top of the stairs who looked like she could do with a good feed from the restaurant next door, I had a look around. “Good Lord, it looks like the contents of a time capsule.” The woman stamped the inside of my wrist.“What do you mean?”“1960’s velvet cocktail lounge.” Tiny round tables grouped around a handkerchief sized dance floor.“It’s brilliantly done, isn’t it?”I wanted to agree with her, but I had an odd suspicion that it wasn’t a reproduction, but the real thing. And I couldn’t say why I felt that.“We get a free drink.”We collected our drinks and took up a position at a table in, Kris assured me, the best position.“Is there a show?”“Oh my gaaaawd,” she breathed. “He’s amaaazing.”“Who is?”“His name is Guy.”I sipped my drink, watched with amusement as she bounced on the velvet bench and waited for the appearance of Guy. I assumed he was some kind of stripper. Fine, I’d watch the stripper and then I’d go home.The lights dimmed, the music changed and, the announcer crooned in a low voice that the prince of darkness was in the house. Kris actually emitted a tiny squeal. I snorted derisively and tried to swallow my drink. After a suitable interval, a man stepped out from the back of the room and arranged himself on a large throne-like chair. He didn’t do anything else, but the crowd was silent. The music playing was some kind of instrumental and sounded a bit like that stuff they called ‘world music’; almost like a very slow old folk dance. But nobody was dancing.My eyes returned to him. He was thin and leanly muscled, his skin very pale, his hair dark and long. He wore jeans and a button up shirt that hung open and showed an expanse of flat stomach and a hairless chest. He moved in curious way; as if he was moving to slower music than I could hear. He lifted his head and glanced around the room. He gazed at each person in turn. I heard Kris let out a breathy sigh and then his gaze fell on me.It was literally breathtaking. I suddenly found it hard to breathe. My head spun and I could not pull my gaze away from his. Those eyes. But I did... I shut my eyes with a force of will and I made my head turn down to look at the floor. When I looked up again, he had moved on.A hand lifted and made a gesture to an attendant. They spoke quietly. The attendant nodded and moved away, and the gaze of the prince of darkness moved to others in the small bar.“Isn’t he dreamy?” Kris whispered.I wasn’t so sure. He was attractive, but it was too much; too dreamy, if that was possible. “I suppose,” I muttered.The attendant frightened me when he leaned down and spoke in my ear. “He wants to meet you.” He placed two more drinks on the table. Kris looked excited until she realised what he had said.I shook my head.“It’s not open to negotiation. You have five minutes,” he added before he walked away.Kris looked uneasy. “I’ve never seen him ask to meet someone.” She looked torn between jealous and nervous. “What are you going to do?”I shrugged but I was attracted. We sipped at our drinks and I tried to look around to see how others were affected by him. A few looked as if they were having a religious experience. When my time was up, the attendant returned and just stood next to my chair.I nervously ran fingers through my hair, checked my lipstick and got ready for my royal interview. As Kris had said, I was her conscience, she could be mine. “Come get me if I look like I need rescuing.”“Sure.”I stepped across the dance floor to him and he watched me come. He indicated that I should perch on the arm of his chair.“No,” I said, but it felt hard to deny him. I clutched my handbag to my chest.He tilted his head; intrigued by my refusal. The attendant didn’t fetch another chair until he was given a signal to do so. I sat. I tried to remember how to breathe. I was starting to wonder if my drink had been drugged.We sat in silence. I listened to the music and watched my nervous friend. I saw a man lean down to chat to her. He looked up at us before he sat down at her table. I got the idea that he was a plant. She looked pleased to chat. And being distracted, she wasn’t watching me for my signal.“Did you arrange that?” I asked him.His mouth twitched into an almost smile.“My friend says your name is Guy,” I tried.“Yes. Yours?”“Gabrielle.”He repeated it and it sounded so different when he said it. It rolled off his tongue with a European inflexion. Rolled r’s. I shivered. He noticed.“You will tell your friend that you are going to stay,” he said with an odd intensity.God, that was hard to resist, but I was determined. “N-no.” “Gabrielle.” I felt chastised.“I have to work tomorrow. I will miss the last train.”He laughed and I swear I felt heat brush down my spine. I noticed people watching us.“I get what I want,” he said.“I am not a what.”“You are a rare beast.” He put so much emphasis on the first word that it felt personal.“I am not a beast, either.”He smiled at me and that was almost more terrifying. When I had his full attention it was mesmerising. “W-why... me?” I struggled to ask.“Because you deny me.” He twisted in his throne to face me.Well that was honest. Scary, but honest. “You frighten me.” It sounded like the confession it was. I glanced at Kris but she was severely distracted; leaning in to her guest.“That is as it should be.” He waved a careless hand at the audience. “They want what they think I am, but if I was that, they would be screaming.”I took a deep breath. “B-but... you are.”That delighted laugh rang out again. “Stop that.”A languid hand reached out and stroked down my arm. I almost screamed.“Oh, you are delicious,” he told me. The lightest brush of fingertips left trails down my flesh. He lifted my hand to his mouth and placed a kiss in the centre of my palm.I looked into his eyes... and that was a mistake. They were so dark and so very old. Older than they had a right to be.I tried to blink but couldn’t. I felt that heated touch on my body, again; as if by holding my hand it was stronger. The heat brushed down my neck, and lower to caress my breasts. I gasped.“Imagine, Gabrielle,” he whispered to me. “Imagine what I could do to you.” The heat started to move lower.“I’ll die,” I whimpered.He stood, and still holding my hand, he pulled me up to standing. Our eyes were locked. I was aware of no-one else in the room. He stepped backwards gracefully and tugged me after him.And I went.But something itched at me.“My bag,” I said.“Leave it.”“I’ll lose my yearly rail pass.”He chortled. “Gabrielle, you are a delight.” Heat stroked me again. “You may not need it again.”May? What did he mean?Another step backwards.I wanted to say his name. “Guy?”“Spend twenty four hours with me and then you can decide.”~~~~~~I didn’t go to work the next day. My bag was found by the side of the railway line. Kris swore she had last seen me before she went to the club. She remembered me saying I had to catch the last train home.My body was never found.~~~~© AM Gray 2014

Don’t bleed on my floor

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/994... I’ve been messing with an original story about a magic house... ~~~~~~“Don’t bleed on my floor,” she told the man sitting at her kitchen table and about to pull his boot off.“It’s just a leech inside my sock.” He looked up at her. “I mean it.”“If I make a mess, I’ll clean it up later.”“You won’t have time.”“Excuse me?”“The house... it doesn’t like blood.”He frowned at her. “The house?”“Yes. It can’t abide a mess and blood really upsets it.”“Right.” He pulled at his boot; ignoring her.She snorted. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She continued to wipe down the counter.The boot hit the floor and she made a small noise. “Don’t panic,” he said.Stepping over the shoe, she pulled the back door open and propped it with a door wedge. He watched her do it and then rolled his eyes.As he yanked his sock off, a fat leech fell out. It had drunk its fill and then the anticoagulant it had injected into the tiny wound had let it bleed freely. He caught the swollen body before it hit the floor and gave her a triumphant look. But then he put his bloody foot down on the kitchen floor.There was a moment’s silence and then he shot out of the chair, across the room, out the open door and landed on the grass in the backyard. It looked as if a very large but invisible entity had thrown him out.He rolled over, sat up and tried to speak. “Wha?”She peered around the doorjamb. “I told you.”“What just happened?”She took pity on him. “Do you want me to bring you a Band-Aid?”“Please.” He still looked confused.She grabbed a clean, damp cloth and the Band-Aids and walked out to him. He was glaring at the house as if it had just declared war on him. She sat on the grass and cleaned, then covered the wound. “There,” she said.He didn’t look appeased.“Look,” she tried to explain. “I inherited the house. It took me a while to work out its little... quirks.”“Quirks?”“Yeah, fine... whatever.” She stood. “Did you want to try again?”He glanced at the open door. “Your house is weird.”“Yes, it is.”“Why is it like this?”She shrugged.He walked after her but he looked highly suspicious of the house. “I don't like it,” he grumbled.“You don’t have to; it’s not your house.”He had been rather hoping to tumble her into bed, or at the very least, kiss her. Now he was wondering what the heck her house did to people who kissed its owner inside its walls?~~~~© AM Gray 2014

He’s in the room down the hall… alive

Writer’s Block
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Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

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http://writeworld.org/post/1013437843... in the room down the hall… alive."“Alive?” She looked panicked.“That’s good news, surely?”“Ah... yeah... yeah, it is.”He grabbed her arm and dragged her down the hallway a little to a spot where they would not be overheard as easily. He was her group leader and she was used to following his orders. They battled for the city; a hard pitched battle. One that left more casualties every day. “Talk.”“How bad is he?”He studied her. She could walk down the hall and check for herself, but she didn’t. She was asking him. That meant there was some reason why she didn't want to face him. “Did your actions cause his injuries?”“No.”“What happened?”“He tried to...” she cleared her throat, “- his usual stuff.”“Brave and reckless.”“That’s the one.”“So why the fear to see him?”“I don’t-” She stopped talking when she saw his face. “I never could deceive you,” she grumbled.“No.”“Is he conscious?”“Why?”“He wasn’t before...”“Ah. I see.”“No.” She made an abrupt gesture. “No, you don’t.”“I think I do. I’ve known you for a long time. The only thing you can’t face is yourself. Your own feelings.”She punched the wall.“Talk,” he said, “And that’s an order.”She closed her eyes. The words came through gritted teeth. “I thought he was dying... so I told him... I told him everything.”“You told him that you loved him.”Eyes flew open. “How?”“I just know.”“He’s awake,” she guessed.A nod. “And asking for you.”“No... no, no, no. I can’t do it.”“You can and you must.”A heavy sigh. “We need him.”“Yes.”“You want him to heal. And breaking his heart isn’t part of that plan.”“Don’t be stupid, girl. He’s alive because you told him you loved him. He has dragged himself back from the brink of death for one reason, and one reason only.”She blinked. “Me?”“You have given him a reason to be alive.” He grabbed her shoulders, turned her to face the length of the hall down which his room was located. “Go.”She shook her head. “I c-can’t.”“He needs you. You have stepped with him into every battle so far. Don’t walk away from him now, because you’re embarrassed.”She took a step and then another. Before the end of the hallway she was running.~~~~© AM Gray 2014

The stakes are higher than you think

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Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

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http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/969... stakes are higher than you think. It’s the death penalty for murder, Miss Brown,” the detective said. He loomed over her threateningly and it upset me.The woman he was questioning sobbed dramatically into her handkerchief.“But it wasn’t her!” I interrupted.“Excuse me?” He eyed me up and down. His gaze had weight. I felt a sudden need to confess that I had stolen something as a child. I bit my lips to stop the words escaping. The uniformed constable behind him rolled his eyes. “Just ignore her, sir. She’s full of her own theories.”“Is she?” His eyes looked intrigued now. “So who is this theoretical woman?”I was irritated that he asked the constable. “Oh, I’m real.”“Real annoying,” I head the constable mutter.I stood and reached out to shake the detective’s hand. “Miss Cook.” I presented myself, rather than wait for an introduction.“Detective Anderson.” He actually took my hand. For a moment I was concerned he may not. “Why do you think it wasn’t Miss Brown?”“Oh.” I was astonished that he actually asked me. “The footprints in the garden under the window? They’re not her shoes.”He leaned down and looked at the woman’s feet. She helpfully held one up for him. “I see,” he said and he sounded as if he did.“You believe me?”“These particular shoes don’t match but she could have others,” he hinted.“No - look at her, she’s very well presented. She would never be seen wearing a pair of flats unless they were tennis shoes and even then her foot is the wrong size. It’s clearly a male.” I folded my arms, sure of myself.The woman we were discussing looked back and forth between us.“Constable, please go and make sure no-one damages those footprints.” He glanced at me. “Miss Cook, would you walk with me?”I took the opportunity to study him as we made our way outside and onto the pebbled drive. He limped a little. His hair was cut very short; military style and his shirt was well pressed with creases down the front. So I guessed the leg was a war wound. No wedding ring, so he wasn’t married or chose not to wear one. But I got the impression that he didn’t have a woman in his life. He didn’t smell of smoke, so a non-smoker. The bulge in his trenchcoat pocket looked book shaped and had no spiral back. So it was a novel, not a police notebook.He noticed my scrutiny. “Your thoughts on me?” I didn’t try to dissemble; pretend that I wasn’t analysing him. “Ex military... wounded and discharged. You were an officer (it was an easy guess from his speech patterns). You are not married, you don’t smoke and you like reading paperbacks... probably those orange Penguins.” The last part was a guess. He didn’t strike me as the type to read pulp.He actually applauded. “Well done, Miss Cook. Ten out of ten.”“Surely it was only eight,” I corrected.He laughed and his whole face changed; he looked very handsome and less tired. He looped his arm through mine. “Now, tell me your thoughts on this murder.” I had clearly passed his test.I thought for a minute, as we walked. “The victim was a horrible man. I honestly think that they all wanted him dead.”“Agreed.”“His wife is having an affair with his business partner. His son is a drunken sot and a wastrel. Last night he threatened to write him out of the will-”“-Now there’s a motive for murder. I assume you overheard that?”“No, the maid did and she told me in confidence.”“I see. That’s good, she might not have told police that.” He stopped and shook his leg. A rueful look. It obviously still pained him. “Does his mother get the estate first? If she remarried, he could lose it all unless the will dealt with that?” “That I don’t know. Miss Brown is the widow’s companion but she is hiding something. Thus the tears. She’s too well dressed for a mere lady’s companion.”“I did notice that. Those shoes were very expensive.”“She had good references,” I hinted.“We should check those are real.”I noticed the plural. “I think they may be. It’s why she’s here that is the mystery.”“All right, I’ll ask. Why?”“A woman who used to work for a Duchess doesn’t come to work in a house like this.” I waved a hand back at the house. It was an impressive residence but it wasn’t upper class by English standards.“True.” He sighed. “So tell me why you think she’s here.”“She searches things all the time.”“How do you mean?”“I mean I’ve walked in a room to see her hurriedly shutting a drawer. Places that she has no right to be looking in.”“So I lean on her... find out what she is looking for.”“She’ll crack. She’s not a murderer. So who is your money on?” I asked him.“The son is useless. The wife would have been more subtle about it. The business partner needed him for the success of the business.”“That just leaves the butler,” I joked.“It is never the butler.” He sounded disappointed.I laughed, now. “Ah... you’ve forgotten about the man that Miss Brown phones all the time.”“Have I indeed?” He smiled at me.“Whatever she is looking for, he is waiting for it.”“Where is he waiting?”“I should think the local hotel.”He nodded. “Something to do with the company, I assume.”“They have taken out some new patents recently, perhaps they weren’t theirs?”“Miss Cook, you may have solved my whole case for me, but there is one person we haven’t dealt with.” He raised an eyebrow.“Me?”“Mnhuh.”“My mother was at boarding school with the wife, Mrs Miller. I have always called her Aunt, even though she isn’t.”“I see.” He shuffled his feet on the gravel. “One last question, Miss Cook.”“Detective Anderson.”“Will you be staying on? In case I need answers to more questions.”“Of course. Once Miss Brown leaves, I think Auntie will need me.”“Good.” He nodded. He held my hand for a fraction too long to be a simple gesture. “Thank you for your observations and your intelligence.”“My pleasure. You are the first policeman who had faith in my ideas.”“But perhaps, not the last.” The smile he gave me promised more than a passing interest in just my theories, and I was completely happy about that.~~~~© AM Gray 2014

Looking grim, he let the door swing shut behind him

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/932... watching too many ww2 dramas?~~~~~~Looking grim, he let the door swing shut behind him. He stood for a second next to the car and took a deep breath. He found crime scenes hard to deal with. Another fortifying breath and then he leaned in the open window and picked up his leather medical bag.A uniformed officer pointed him towards the crime scene.War changed people they always said, but in his experience, it hadn’t changed them so much as exposed them for what they were. They were all discovering that as the war dragged on. And he was often called to the results of that exposure. Death. Usually violent.He switched hands to carry his bag; it suddenly felt heavy.“Ah... Doctor,” the police sergeant said.“The victim?”“A young woman.” He pointed towards the water.The body was face down in the mud at the edge of the lake. “Help me turn her over?”A young constable helped him. Mercifully she hadn’t been in the water long. Her skin was still unaffected. He wiped the mud from her face. She was beautiful. And she was barely a young woman. He would have described her as a girl. His eyes scanned down her body. He noticed her clothes; not expensive but well looked after and well matched. Her best outfit and it strained at the waist.“She’s beautiful,” said the constable in an awed tone.“And pregnant,” the doctor added. “Now there’s a motive for you.”“How can you identify the father?”“That’s your job, constable.”“Oh... I suppose it is.” “You’ll need to ask around. Perhaps I have leapt to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps she is loved and this baby is wanted and her death has nothing to do with it.”A derisive snort. “If it’s a soldier, that’ll be difficult.”“Yes.” They were in and out of town so quickly these days with leave, and they were determined to have a good time.As he examined her neck, the constable saw the bruising. “She didn’t drown.” It was a statement.“No. She was dead when she went in the water.” He sat back on his heels. “But an autopsy will confirm it.”“It seems such a pity to cut her open.”“I won’t touch the baby.”They nodded at each other.“And I’ll find out who she is,” the constable promised.“I know you will.”~~~~© AM Gray 2013

They’ve buried seven bodies since the incident in July.

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/991... buried seven bodies since the incident in July. Seven.I can’t even bring myself to imagine how that has affected seven families. They’ve lost their income providers. They worked at the company branch because it paid the best wages. Big wages for big risks.And clearly it was a big risk.The scientists had extra precautions. They were more valuable to the company. More expensive to train so they looked after them. They lived on the site. It was convenient, that was all. The townspeople did all the other jobs; deliveries, cleaning, transport and security.The first death was a security guard. Stabbed trying to stop someone breaking in the company said. That was probably their first clue that the company was different. A ram raid; where they drove the car through the security gate... that might have been predictable, but a person sneaking up and cutting someone’s throat? Thatwas different. Or maybe the person was breaking out and took some stuff with them? But why?And then the second death. A delivery van was hit by a truck. The driver was killed.  Broken neck. It was categorised as an automobile accident. It was only later that people thought that maybe it wasn’t an accident. The van rolled and it was such a mess that it was hard to work out if anything was missing. But after the earlier robbery, people wondered. The company was generous with compensation. It wasn’t their fault but they paid up, and people were pleased by that.The third was a suicide. She was a secretary. But she started to get anxious. And then she started to get a little bit over the top. She talked of conspiracies and secrets and government spies. She waved badly photocopied letters at people. Nobody believed her and as they refused to listen, she got more frantic about trying to talk to them. The company laid her off, and paid for therapy for her but no one was surprised when she was found hung in her home. A few people asked how a woman with her wrists bruised from being tied, managed to hang herself. The ropes were missing and the coroner recorded death by her own hand.The fourth was a baby born with hideous deformities. Both parents worked there. Tragic, people whispered. And then they whispered some more. They started counting. Four deaths. I worked at the library and I started to see more people searching the archives. More people looking for answers in alternative places. We all started to wait for the next death.Then came the accident at the lab. That was number five. The company admitted to one death but some people whispered that they had seen more bodies than that. A young teen was skating nearby and he told everyone that he had seen a truckload of bodies; all wrapped in blue plastic bags. I heard him telling his friend at the library, as I was stacking books in the next aisle. He also said the people who touched the bodies were dressed in full containment gear. His friend scoffed at him and said that it didn’t matter what he said, nobody would trust him, but I believed him. Pity I couldn’t tell him before he disappeared. He didn’t count as a death because nobody really cared about him going missing and there was no corpse to be found.I started trying to find out who owned the company. Who were the directors? Who did I write to if I wanted to tell them what was happening? Maybe they didn’t know? I did a few company searches and they just kept leading to other companies. The sixth death was a delivery guy, a courier who dropped one of the small refrigerated containers that the product was shipped in. The container inside looked unbroken and he just picked it up and put it back on the carved space it was designed to fit into. He didn’t tell anyone about the accident as he didn’t think of it as an accident. He died within three days; covered in lesions that looked like the plague. Or at least how I imagined the plague looked. He talked to me and I sent the photos to a friend I knew who was a journalist and he spoke to his editor about it and they started an investigation of their own.Crossing the road, two days later, I heard the motor revving and I saw the car accelerating towards me. I had time to think the seventh death is me before the car mowed me down.They’ve buried seven bodies since the incident in July but maybe I told enough people to get the truth out.Maybe...~~~~© AM Gray 2014

Nanowrimo 2014

Yes, I have decided to do nanowrimo again. Buddy me up here if you wish.I completed it last year and then did nothing with my 50+k words. Sigh… *smacks self in head*This year, I am extending a short story. Snorts. When has she ever done that before? The story was the castle of trees one posted on the blog, here. It featured a wizard and his human assistant. I liked them and it seemed to have real potential to be extended. A week later, I saw another prompt that made me think of writing it for those two characters.I do a lot of writing prompts from Writeworld, and the fantasy ones always seem to be an expansive background shot with one or two small figures in the foreground. I got the idea that to do nanowrimo, I could pretty much write a short story for every fantasy looking prompt that would fit. Voila! Fifty thousand words!So I went through my Drive file of picture prompts and found, not thirty or so of them (one for each day x1600 words makes 50k), but forty six of them! Too easy. So my Scrivener corkboard looks like this.
Then I had to think about story structure. I haven’t written a standard hero’s quest yet but I have read a lot of them. Neat. That will do. I found a Scrivener template for a hero’s quest. It already has the document set up with the standard three part circle structure of departure, initiation and return; and it has all the subcategories - ‘refusal of the call to adventure’ or ‘supernatural guide appears’ for instance.Conon was the name my Scrivener name generator gave me. He may not keep it, I will see. Second story, Conon became bisexual. If he’s really old, he would have to have tried everything. It made sense to me. Then I started to wonder why he had taken Edwin with him? What is Edwin’s purpose? Is Edwin special? If so, how? Is Edwin the Sam to wizard Frodo? Is he what keeps Conon earthed; stops him from going too power crazy? Or is Edwin the secret child/power/weapon? How close do these two men get on their adventures together? Is Edwin really the hero? Is it really HIS quest? And if so, for what? To find out who he really is?I have dozens more questions and thus, I have a story.So my nanowrimo story for 2014 is a fantasy hero’s quest bisexual love story.Clears throat. Ahem… that one is going to be hard to categorise on Amazon, eh?Wish me luck.

He was the last person I expected to see here

Writer’s Block
In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/100... was the last person I expected to see here. Standing in the doorway of my parent’s home; my sister holding his hand and trying to drag him inside to meet us all. I recognised him first. He was just trying to remember all the names and look at people face’s while she introduced him, so he hadn’t even seen me... not yet.My mind was racing. Did I say that I knew him? Did I wait to see what he did? “And this is Jake,” she gushed to Mum. I knew she was really keen on this guy. It just hadn’t occurred to me that her Jake was my Jake... or used to be.“Oh, we've heard so much about you,” Mum gushed back.Oh, crap. I held my tongue. Our eyes met and he froze; mouth gaping. Dad noticed. I knew he did. And Dad glanced at me and I was smiling but it was too bright; too fake. I shook Jake’s hand. And then he was dragged on to meet aunts and uncles. I stepped back and hurried off to the bathroom.After washing my face and giving myself a stern - but silent- talking to, I opened the door and ran straight into my father.“What?” I asked.“Talk to me.”“I can’t.”“Cat?” He always called me Cat; others called me Catherine, Cathy... anything, but Dad called me Cat. “You know him.” It wasn’t a question.I could never lie to my father but I wasn’t sure that I could admit to knowing Jake in the biblical sense. “Yes.”He pointed out the front door. Everyone else was in the back yard. “Two minutes.”I sighed.When he came out with two bottles of beer in his hand, it was longer than two minutes and I was sitting with my knees up and my arms wrapped around them. He passed me a bottle. “They’ll be looking for you,” I accused.“Nope.” He sat next to me, shoulders bumping, and said, “Now talk.”“I know him... we kind of... ah... crap.” I drank a large mouthful.“Did you go out with him?”“We didn’t so much go out as stay in.”A nod. “And Amber doesn't know that?”“No. I didn’t even tell him I had a sister, so he wouldn’t have realised we are related.”“Common family name, Murray.”“Yes.” Another sip. “And we didn’t talk... much.”Silence for a minute.“Why did it end?” he asked. “Did you break it off?”“No, he did. He got a girlfriend.”“You weren’t girlfriend material?” I had always wondered about that. It had hurt. “Guess not. I also guess that was Amber. The timing fits.”“I don’t know what to say.”“Don’t say anything, Dad. It isn’t your problem.”“He doesn’t look comfortable out the back.”“Don’t tell me that.”“You can’t avoid him.”“I know. But if I get in my car and drive back to college, Amber will be upset.”“You thinking about it?”“No,” I lied.“Liar.”I wanted to tell my father that this guy had been special to me. That I loved him. That the way we fitted together was perfect, or at least I had thought so. I didn’t come home as often as Amber did, so my parents didn’t see me mourn the breakup. But I mourned... big time. I just couldn’t show it because I had hidden him from everyone. I could not publicly mourn a man no one had even known about. “I have to talk to him.”“Yes. Work it out with him.” He finished his beer. “He’s special to Amber.”“I got that idea.” She’d brought him home to meet the family; that was a first, so he was definitely serious.Dad gripped my shoulder. “Don’t stay out here all night.” And then he left me alone with my thoughts.When the door opened again, I thought it was Dad back with another beer. I just held my hand up for it without looking at him. He opened it first and that made me look. I stood in a hurry. Ready to run.“I didn’t know,” Jake said.“No.”“Are you okay?” He actually looked concerned.“Yes.”“Have you been okay?”I’d survived. He looked great. “What do you care?” “Don’t do this, Cat.” Oh, yeah. There was one other person who called me Cat.He looked as if he wanted to touch me. He stared at his hand reaching out for me and then put it in his pocket. I folded my arms. Tried not to crush the beer bottle in my hand. “I can’t go,” he said. "We just got here.”“What? She hasn’t introduced you to everyone yet?” I hated how bitter my voice sounded. “Not like you,” he snarked back. “I bet you didn’t tell anyone about us.”Ouch. “I thought that was what you wanted.” I heard my voice shudder.“I wanted you.”“You had me. Wasn’t that enough?”He wiped his hand over his face. He didn’t give me an answer.“Wasn’t I girlfriend material?” I made a gesture with the bottle. “Don’t answer that. I already know.”“You’re upset.”I snorted.“We can’t tell her,” he suggested.I wanted to accuse him of cowardice, but  I didn’t have the first clue how to explain it to her either. We’d be cowards together. Not lovers.“I know,” I sighed. “We’ll break her heart.” I wanted to add ‘too’ but I didn’t. He heard it anyway. “I’m sorry.”“Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it.”He took a step towards me. My back was against the verandah post but I didn’t try to sidestep him. He touched the top of my shoulders and then he leaned down and pressed his lips to my forehead. And I didn’t stop him. I put one hand up and pressed the palm against his stomach. It wasn’t a push, it was a caress. “I miss you,” he confessed in a tiny whisper as if he could barely admit it out loud. We took a breath. Close. Close enough to smell him.“With her... I... c-can’t breathe,” he confessed.I closed my eyes. “Don’t tell me that, Jake.” She was my sister. I knew how she smothered things. Drowned them in love when I let them be free. Maybe too free. We were sisters but we weren’t alike. “Sorry.” A pause. “ I should go find her.”“Yeah.” I closed my eyes again so I didn’t have to see him leave.When I opened them I saw movement on the drive. Amber stepped into the light. She must have walked up the side of the house through the carport and we hadn’t heard her. She held the car keys in her hand so hard her fingers were white. I don’t know what she had heard and I wasn’t game to ask.We stared at each other and then she turned and walked back up the carport.I went to pack my bag.~~~~© AM Gray 2014