Task 43: Growing Cold

You promise to leave the table alone. Tomorrow you’ll just throw it again. I touch you, searching for a remainder of the fervent affection you once exuded. You swear. Conversation has been absent of late. I talk to the walls instead.

You have stained my wedding dress red, mutilated the memories beyond recognition. I got married on felicity’s death bed, vowed to cherish without God as my witness. If this is his antidote to loneliness, I advise others to turn elsewhere.

Our bands of gold grow cold in the night. We fall asleep to the never-ending thrum of forever’s false tune.

Forever Is Over

I lie on my cold bed. Alone. Waiting. Hoping.
For what? To see him again? Somewhere deep down inside me, i know that it'll never happen. I'll never see his sparkling emerald eyes. I'll never hear his booming laugh when I make one of my lame jokes. I'll never smell his strong cologne. I'll never feel his warm presence in my bed. I never thought how life would be without him. How empty and cold i'd feel. How my heart will never heal and open up to someone else. And all for what? Someone who was stupid enough to drink and drive.

Wake up call

Beams of red light party across my eyelids, disrupting my dream, but they flee as the busy afternoon pries its way into my eyes.

I take a deep breath. I smell the remainder of his presence lingering in the air: toast, latté, and aftershave. The house is hushed except for settling noises; the whine of the fridge, the clock ticking, and the water dripping of the tap.

I roll to his side of the bed, wrapping the covers around me like a caterpillar obscured within its contented cocoon. His pillow smells of him and daz. I bury my face in it.

Unfaithful Glass

I look at you. You return my hostile glance with more than a mutual stare. You wind deep into my mental lesions, sparing your pain for the flesh so far celibate from your evil. Scars don't give you enough satisfaction - they're used, soiled. I have the leading role in the film you play right in front of me. I watch myself cry; collapse to the floor. You witness it. Then you disappear. I have always been the victim. When you flee, I become my own assailant. You remain innocent. Still my silent killer.
Just look at yourself.
I am looking.

Behind Glass Walls

She stares at him through the glass panes set into the door. Her eyes are distant, dreamy, as if her mind is elsewhere.
He sits, his head bent over a pile of books, oblivious of his stalker. His pen moves quickly, a teacherly scribble, leaving behind red lines of criticism.
She drinks in every detail- the way his thick, almost feminine eyelashes throw shadows upon his cheeks, the glint of his sandy hair in the soft light.
Her hand reaches out longingly, as if to touch him, but is barred by cool glass.
Some say she's crazy. Twisted.
They don't understand.

Task 43

Gone Forever

Now I am alone, filled with so much pain. He has gone. Everything happened so quickly, that I still wonder why he left me that day. He created a big gap in my life, and from that day on, my life was never the same. I still remember his laughter, his smile, his soft voice, but they have all gone, drifted away. I trusted him, and I gave him my heart, and in return he gave me betrayal. I wish I could go back to that day and amend it…I wish I could.

Life is unfair. And it always will be.

Daughter to Mother

I’ll keep this short. Not so you don’t spend ages reading but I don’t want to waste time on something you’ll never read. I’m never able to talk to you so why write it down?

I can’t be bothered writing now. You’re never going to read it. You never take an interest in me, unless there’s something to brag. You won’t want to brag about this. I’ll be seen as weak not sticking up for myself. How can I? There’s about ten of them and only one of me.

I want to tell you but I’m weak enough in your eyes.

101 Words.

Our senses mellow together like Spring river. You don't know me. I don't know you. We're just another subject of fate. You haven't spoken for a long time, yet I already know all I need to. Life is conceptual. Just another pothole on the road to eternity. You are my eternity. I have found myself. I have found you. I disengage from this infantile flirting, confidence peaks, I touch you. Your body slowly chills under the spell of your own obtuseness. What was a game full of quirks and laurels becomes cops and robbers, a flashing hearse carries you to jail.

Perish

I lie alone. Emptiness surrounds my room. He is gone, and so is my heart. I could never understand why he left me that day, why his words pained me so.
It was a different start to the morning, I had longed for a day of peace not an eternity.
Work was rather odd, he not working by my side, sharing jokes bursting with laughter it was happiness alright, but now it has all perished.

His laughter, his smile, his anger all perished and there was nothing I could do about it.
Just me. Alone. Helpless.

Now he is gone forever.

Task 43: An Exemplar

Roxanne

A mannequin stares out my front window, her arm raised indeterminately towards the street. This evening, she wears a dress – a thigh-shy sequined shift which turns her torso into a crimson constellation. Passers-by all see stars; even the traffic lights go red.

I had always dreamed of a room with a view – until she moved in. Now I want for nothing. When I touch her, she does not reciprocate; but nor does she complain.

My friends do not understand; they linger outside, like customers, when they leave. I close the curtains and then we are alone. Love is simpler like this.

Task 43: 101 Words

Dan Rhodes is one Britain's most innovative young writers (although, given that he was born two years before me, I guess I am flattering myself to call him "young"!). Anyway, you can read more about him on contemporary writers here, and his own website can be found here.

And you can read some other interesting articles about and interviews with him here:

• 2003 interview with 3:AM Magazine
• 2007 interview with 3:AM Magazine
• Interview with Stet Press
• Interview with Spike Magazine

Between 1997-8, whilst spending his days fruit-picking on a farm, he wrote a collection of short stories called Anthropology.

The bold and interesting thing about this collection was not that it consisted of lots of short stories - many writers have done the same. The difference was that each and every one of these stories was written in precisely 101 words.

[You can read some of the stories here; and you can even view a series of short films inspired by some of them here.]

Many POETIC forms make incredible demands of the poet, essentially commanding them to write something PROFOUND, DURABLE, IMAGINATIVE, BRAVE and EXPERIMENTAL whilst also strictly obeying a strict set of rules - whether it be the HAIKU's 5-7-5 syllables, or the SONNET's octave/sestet of iambic pentameters.

But it is more rare for a prose writer to work within such confines - and Rhodes' Anthropology tales are, therefore, a unique experiment in balancing the restrictions of form with the potential of imaginative language and content.

Done well, therefore, these 101-word stories should be able to achieve all that a longer story could do, but with greater impact and power due to its distilled, concentrated form: kind of like boiling the essence of a good story down into its purest form.

What makes a good story? In short...

• A tight structure, with a strategic start and end and use of tension in between.
• A reliance on metaphor over literality (i.e. show not tell).
• A rejection of cliche and overused vocabulary in favour of something bolder and braver.
  
• An engagement and 'hooking' of the reader into the story's world.

And to achieve these three things in 101 words is one hell of a feat! In fact, more than in any other piece of writing, the writer needs to consider each and every ONE of these 101 words with interminable care and discretion: any wastage or poor choice is a missed opportunity.

As you have probably guessed by now, your task for Task 43 is to write your own story in 101 words.

To be honest, I do not mind what you choose as your title - so be creative and original. But your THEME should be something along the lines of RELATIONSHIPS.

What I want the moderators and me to see is an ambitious, meticulous approach to narrative distillation: a perfect story which makes no compromises due to its brevity, and achieves all I have mentioned above regardless.

A lazy blogger could rush this task off in a few minutes. But, in truth, I believe that, done properly, this task is actually the MOST DIFFICULT task you have been set to date; and, also, I believe that, done properly, it will actually take MORE time than any other task to date too.

So good luck - and rest assured that I shall also be attempting this myself, and will post my attempt shortly.

The deadline for your OWN attempt is midnight on Saturday 31st October. PLEASE make sure we have 100% prompt posts this time! :)

P.S. By now, NONE of you should be making ANY careless spelling/punctuation/grammar mistakes - so make sure you don't embarrass yourself or the rest of us by posting anything which hasn't been checked thoroughly first...

Good luck!

englishguru

Waiting For Something

(Ariana is sitting on the bed and fiddling with her fingers, feeling anxious)

Ariana: Marc, he's been gone for almost an hour now. What do we do? We're gonna get our asses kicked if you don't act now.

Marc: I don't know... i just need to think of a plan. Just give me a second.

(pause)

Ariana: Let's just call him, we can't avoid him forever. He's definately going to find out one way or another.

Marc: No we can't do that. He'd kill us.

(Ariana stands up moving closer to Marc)

Ariana: Think about it Marc, he'd kill us either way. We've lost the boy. We've lost the job. The Boss doesn't tolerate this kind of stuff. That's why he hired us.

Marc: So what're we going to do? We can't tell him and we can't ignore him.

Ariana: I don't know... I can't believe he escaped. How could he anyway? This place is like a prison and there are barely any windows.


Marc: And he knew we had guns. He was a brave boy. He would've been a good addition to our group.

Ariana: Yeah, he would've.

(pause)

Marc: Okay so where is he most likely to be? He doesn't have any friends or family here... Well he doesn't even know where we are.

Ariana: He wouldn't've gone to the police. We would know by now. I mean Curt would've called us. Right?

Marc: Yeah. So that's off our list. And he can only be in this town cos of all the fences and security around here.

Ariana: So are we going to search for him? It probably won't take long. I mean, he can't go to the 'neighbours'.

Marc: (uncertainly) Yeah... Yeah we could do that.

(Ariana grabs her coat off the peg on the wall and heads towards the door)

Ariana: Come on, the longer we leave it the deeper we'll get in this situation.

Marc: But won't he be there? The Boss, i mean. He's waiting for us. We're already about (looks at watch) 10 minutes late. You know he doesn't tolerate that.

Ariana: (starting to get frustrated) Well i don't see you coming up with any great ideas!

Marc: I say we just wait. The boy has nowhere to go. He's bound to get scared and come running back.

Ariana: listen, why don't you stay here and wait while i go and look for him. Okay?

Marc: (uncertainly) yeah okay... don't take long.

(As Ariana reaches for the door, it bursts open. A man of around mid 40's stands there, gun in hand, aimed at Ariana. He shoots her right in the middle of her eyes and straight after shoots Marc.)

The Boss: (to the bodyguards on his sides) Dispose of the bodies.

The Right Balance.

(Both bound by their sheer insignificance, Edward and John are two tramps who have grown dependant on each others presence ever more by each passing day. They do not like each other; they do not hate each other. In a post lapsarian life where redemption is out of the question; they both scurry around the edges of society, trying to find the right balance. Both sleep insulated from the ground by a thin layer of cardboard.)

Edward: John?

(The sound of a lone taxi horn interrupts the silence)

Edward: John, John, John are you there John? Hello?

(John provides a feint rustle but this ceases to quieten Edward)

John: I’m here.

Edward: Oh. Good. Just checking.

(Silence acts as a catalyst for the atmosphere now brewing)

John: Sleep.

Edward: I can’t.

John: Try.

Edward: I have.

John: Well let me then.

Edward: I want to try something new.

(John wakes after denying his alertness)

John: Why? We’re safe. Maybe not warm, by no means comfortable (long pause) we’re safe.

Edward: Don’t you have family down this neck of the woods?

(Lengthy silence)

John: Dead.

Edward: Oh.

John: You really do seem incapable of recognising our situation.

(Pause)

Denial? No. You’re too docile.

(John intensifies)

Maybe you just need attention.

Or maybe you’re just scared.

Scared to realise the fact that you’ll never change.

Scared to realise without me you’ll slip even further down into the gutter of society.

Of course I long for change, but I’m far from capable of instigating it.

(Long pause)

Look at me.

Look at you.

Look at us Edward.

What do you really see?

Edward: I see two men. One mind. I see You, me and not much else.

(Moves on swiftly)

Maybe someday we’ll both be rich and get beautiful wives and we won’t have to worry about what time we need to eat and we won’t need to worry about what time we have to find a place to sleep maybe we won’t even need to stress about what time it is because we’d be rich and nobody would be able to stop us. Not even ourselves.

John: I couldn’t live like that. You couldn’t live like that. We’re only where we are because we have each other.

(Deep Breath)

You have your traits and I have mine. I may hate to love you and you may hate to love me, yet without each other we’d be no more significant.

It’s all about try to find the right balance between friendship and our narcissistic tendencies. Living as one may be somewhat restrictive; yet the other side of the coin seems somewhat hidden for our own good.