Writing Challenge - Day 9
To all who are reading this,
You join us for the next blog post in the challenge, but you also join us as we pay homage to Rik Mayall, the comedy genius. I first saw Mayall on television on an old BBC 2 rerun of The Young Ones (1982 - 1984), when he played Rick. A self-proclaimed anarchist studying sociology and/or domestic science. He writes bad poetry and calls himself, "The People's Poet", and "spokesperson for a generation". I loved how Mayall looked with the badges on his blazer and found the show funny, even though my favourite character was Vyvyan Basterd played by Adrian Edmondson. The two went on to star together in Bottom (1991 - 1995), where the two brought slapstick and comedy to a new generation.
R.I.P Rik Mayall (1958 - 2014).
And now, onto the blog! I would attempt comedy, but I struggle to write that kind of thing.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 9. - FINGERS
"What's the situation?"
"Female in her early twenties. No sign of a struggle. Dead on arrival. Body has been mutilated."
"Ah, shit. Not the first thing we need on a Monday morning, eh?" Greg pulled on his gloves as he walked into the house. A young uniformed officer was erecting even more police tape around the property, and trying to shoo the children and rubberneckers away. The last thing they needed was photos of police entering the house on Turnpike Lane to be circulating on all the social networking sites.
Greg could smell cigarette smoke. It permeated the hallways and the wallpaper had yellowed with the use. He had a feeling that if he touched the wall, his fingers would come away sticky and smelling, and no about of washing would take it away.
Cigarettes wasn't the only smell though that curled its way up his nostrils. Urine - human and animal - mingled with alcohol. Sweat was pungent, as well as other body odours that made the very stomach turn over. Greg had endured worse though, as he stepped through the cloying dirt, grime and dust that covered the carpet, he began to wonder how badly this young woman has been mutilated.
"We're up here, guv." An officer hung over the handrail at the top of the stairs, a handkerchief muffling most of his features.
Christ, it must be bad, Greg thought as he moved up the stairs, his footsteps heavy.
Upstairs, the smell of cigarettes was even worse. Mixed with some form of substance that somebody had been abusing recently. Keeping his arms close to his body, he moved to the door where a crowd of white suited people stood.
"In here, guv."
Greg stepped through into a room that could have belonged to his teenage daughter. The room was painted a cerise pink, and had faded pop stars on the walls. He faintly recognised McFly and Busted, but there was also female singers. There was a recent magazine pull out propped up on the magazine, depicting a rather tattooed David Beckham advertising men's boxers.
The dressing table was filled with various tubes of mascara and lip gloss. There were sticky patches here and there, and face powder was littered all over the mirror itself. Hair bobbles, clips, combs and brushes were everywhere. It was like an artists palette, apart from the packets of unopened condoms.
The bedclothes were heaped on the floor, along with various other garments. Tiny pairs of jeans, shorts of varying colours, skimpy tee shirts, bras, mismatched socks, various scrappy pieces of lingerie...
There was a lump on the single bed, covered by a thin sheet. Greg had a feeling that he knew what was coming, and he signalled the closest person to remove it for him. The sight was shocking.
An Oriental woman was sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were wide, dark and glazed. Her skin looked waxy, and her lips were froze in a pout, a gaudy red shade of lipstick smeared across and onto her cheek.
She wore very little. It was a thin lace number, black in colour with little pink bows that matched the wallpaper on the shoulders and between the cleavage. Her breasts were small, and the material only just covered her lower regions too. A matching thong lay entangled around her ankles.
Sex crimes were always violent. He had seen plenty of them on the job. But perhaps the most worrying was the fact that the girl was missing both of her middle fingers. And they hadn't been found yet.
"Do we have an ID on her?"
"There's a passport," the officer said, as he moved around in the bedside cabinet. Besides the passport, he unearthed a half-empty bottle of vodka, a few pages of Chinese handwritten script, a guide to speaking English, a half broken figure of the lucky cat, and a red envelope, with a golden sticker o the back of it, sealing it shut. "She's Jiang Zhang. She's twenty-two, from Beijing."
"How long has she been in England?"
"It's hard to tell, but we can look into it, guv."
"Good. See that you do. Jiang Zhang didn't deserve this-" Greg pointed to the girl on the bed, without looking at her. His gaze as on the passport photo. It showed a round faced young girl, with a black bobbed haircut and happy eyes. She looked nothing like body on the bed.
This young girl was the same age as his eldest daughter, Chrissie. All he wanted to do was get back home, rouse her from her beauty sleep and hold her tight. Sex crimes when the girl was so young was something that caught him right in the chest, and he didn't particularly like to work them, but he had to. Criminals needed to be caught, and that was his job.
Jiang had been someone's daughter after all. No parent should have to see something like this.
© Copyright – Zoe Adams (2014) Currently reading: Piercing by Ryu Murakami
You join us for the next blog post in the challenge, but you also join us as we pay homage to Rik Mayall, the comedy genius. I first saw Mayall on television on an old BBC 2 rerun of The Young Ones (1982 - 1984), when he played Rick. A self-proclaimed anarchist studying sociology and/or domestic science. He writes bad poetry and calls himself, "The People's Poet", and "spokesperson for a generation". I loved how Mayall looked with the badges on his blazer and found the show funny, even though my favourite character was Vyvyan Basterd played by Adrian Edmondson. The two went on to star together in Bottom (1991 - 1995), where the two brought slapstick and comedy to a new generation.
R.I.P Rik Mayall (1958 - 2014).And now, onto the blog! I would attempt comedy, but I struggle to write that kind of thing.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 9. - FINGERS
"What's the situation?"
"Female in her early twenties. No sign of a struggle. Dead on arrival. Body has been mutilated."
"Ah, shit. Not the first thing we need on a Monday morning, eh?" Greg pulled on his gloves as he walked into the house. A young uniformed officer was erecting even more police tape around the property, and trying to shoo the children and rubberneckers away. The last thing they needed was photos of police entering the house on Turnpike Lane to be circulating on all the social networking sites.
Greg could smell cigarette smoke. It permeated the hallways and the wallpaper had yellowed with the use. He had a feeling that if he touched the wall, his fingers would come away sticky and smelling, and no about of washing would take it away.
Cigarettes wasn't the only smell though that curled its way up his nostrils. Urine - human and animal - mingled with alcohol. Sweat was pungent, as well as other body odours that made the very stomach turn over. Greg had endured worse though, as he stepped through the cloying dirt, grime and dust that covered the carpet, he began to wonder how badly this young woman has been mutilated.
"We're up here, guv." An officer hung over the handrail at the top of the stairs, a handkerchief muffling most of his features.
Christ, it must be bad, Greg thought as he moved up the stairs, his footsteps heavy.
Upstairs, the smell of cigarettes was even worse. Mixed with some form of substance that somebody had been abusing recently. Keeping his arms close to his body, he moved to the door where a crowd of white suited people stood.
"In here, guv."
Greg stepped through into a room that could have belonged to his teenage daughter. The room was painted a cerise pink, and had faded pop stars on the walls. He faintly recognised McFly and Busted, but there was also female singers. There was a recent magazine pull out propped up on the magazine, depicting a rather tattooed David Beckham advertising men's boxers.
The dressing table was filled with various tubes of mascara and lip gloss. There were sticky patches here and there, and face powder was littered all over the mirror itself. Hair bobbles, clips, combs and brushes were everywhere. It was like an artists palette, apart from the packets of unopened condoms.
The bedclothes were heaped on the floor, along with various other garments. Tiny pairs of jeans, shorts of varying colours, skimpy tee shirts, bras, mismatched socks, various scrappy pieces of lingerie...
There was a lump on the single bed, covered by a thin sheet. Greg had a feeling that he knew what was coming, and he signalled the closest person to remove it for him. The sight was shocking.
An Oriental woman was sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were wide, dark and glazed. Her skin looked waxy, and her lips were froze in a pout, a gaudy red shade of lipstick smeared across and onto her cheek.
She wore very little. It was a thin lace number, black in colour with little pink bows that matched the wallpaper on the shoulders and between the cleavage. Her breasts were small, and the material only just covered her lower regions too. A matching thong lay entangled around her ankles.
Sex crimes were always violent. He had seen plenty of them on the job. But perhaps the most worrying was the fact that the girl was missing both of her middle fingers. And they hadn't been found yet.
"Do we have an ID on her?"
"There's a passport," the officer said, as he moved around in the bedside cabinet. Besides the passport, he unearthed a half-empty bottle of vodka, a few pages of Chinese handwritten script, a guide to speaking English, a half broken figure of the lucky cat, and a red envelope, with a golden sticker o the back of it, sealing it shut. "She's Jiang Zhang. She's twenty-two, from Beijing."
"How long has she been in England?"
"It's hard to tell, but we can look into it, guv."
"Good. See that you do. Jiang Zhang didn't deserve this-" Greg pointed to the girl on the bed, without looking at her. His gaze as on the passport photo. It showed a round faced young girl, with a black bobbed haircut and happy eyes. She looked nothing like body on the bed.
This young girl was the same age as his eldest daughter, Chrissie. All he wanted to do was get back home, rouse her from her beauty sleep and hold her tight. Sex crimes when the girl was so young was something that caught him right in the chest, and he didn't particularly like to work them, but he had to. Criminals needed to be caught, and that was his job.
Jiang had been someone's daughter after all. No parent should have to see something like this.
© Copyright – Zoe Adams (2014) Currently reading: Piercing by Ryu Murakami
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