Englishguru Analysis 2: eternity.forever. (Task 38)

Don’t Turn Around

Don’t turn around.
She read the words again, counting to five as she did so. Then she pressed send.

This is a brilliant opening, with a perfect balance between what we don't know (i.e. who 'she' is, who is the recipient, what lies behind the warning) and what we do (i.e. she is nervous, double-checking the message and "counting to five" before sending it). I am instantly intrigued and want to read on and fill the gaps.

Phillips walks up to me.

I really like the sudden and dramatic shift here - from 3rd person to 1st person, and from past tense to present tense. Having been sucked in by the enigma of the opening, this throws us right into the centre of events.

“Evening, boss.”
“Good day?” I gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder in return for his smile.
“Not really. Chief made me sort out his office whilst she,” He indicated at Jennifer. “And himself went through this month’s budget.” I grinned.

I like the contrast between the two characters' interactions: a punch for a smile. But there are a couple of problems with this section. Firstly, you seem to have slipped right back into the past tense, which is confusing. And, secondly, the syntax and punctuation of the last couple of sentences needs revision, as it is somewhat clumsy at the moment. Your 'aside' ("he indicated at Jennifer") does not need to be a separate sentence, and can just be wrapped in commas; and I am often unhappy with the way in which students use "himself" (or "herself"). How about: "Not really. Chief made me sort out his office whilst she," he indicated at Jennifer, "went through this month's budget with him."

“What’s going on then? Chief sounded anxious on the phone.” My hair was still wet from the shower I had fifteen minutes ago.
“Two kids were found in the alleyway back there.” He turned around and pointed at the cornered off area. I nodded.
“Any witnesses?”
“None yet.”
“Forensics here?”
“They will be. But road works are keeping them up.”
“Can I go through?”
“I don’t see why not. You are my boss after all.” Phillips winked cheekily and walked me up to the crime scene tape. I turned around quickly.
“You holding up, kid? You look a little rough.”
“I’m fine, thank you. Do you want me to get you one?” He waved the extra large cup of coffee in his right hand, and I nodded with gratitude. What an amazing kid.

This is excellent and, above all, convincing, quick-fire dialogue. I like the fact that there is virtually no narrative, and, when there is, it is on seemingly secondary details like the wet hair or the large cup of coffee. As a reader, we get a number of things from all this: that there is an element of routine to it all; that the two officers are used to working together; that they have been called to the scene when they would rather be at home (I assume, from the coffee and the wet hair, in fact, that they would rather be asleep!). And "What an amazing kid" at the end communicates so much about the speaker, and about his relationship with Phillips, with just as much economy as the rest of the piece so far.

Charlie was already hovering above the corpses, trying to peer into the contents of the dead girls’ bag – with little success, mind you.
“Well, look who we have here.” I stood with my arms folded, looking smug.
His head spun around, quick as a bullet, before his smile lit up the gloomy alleyway.
“Davie boy, it’s been a long time. Heard it was your day off?”
“It was, until Halloween got to these two.” My chin pointed to the bodies.
“Yeah, shame. Young things. Remember when we were the hooligans?” He smiled.
“I wish I could forget.” I smiled back. He gave me a brotherly hug, his big build crushing my lungs.
“Ah, sorry mate, I’m like a giant, I am. Handshake?”
I shook his fat right hand.

Again, another economic conversation, but a very different relationship. I am very impressed by the way you manage to cram so much character into a small section of dialogue with limited narrative. Little details, like the fact that Charlie "hovers" over the bodies and Davie shakes his "fat right hand", and the 'smugness' of Davie pointing at the bodies only with his "chin" - these all contribute to the authenticity of the piece, a crucial ingredient of much of the best crime fiction.

Something clattered lower down in the alleyway – it took us seconds to sprint towards it.
“What was that?” Charlie whispered. I shushed him and walked over to a graffiti layered wall, riddled with colour and crumbling with age. Two bins lay knocked over at its base.
Behind the bins was a partial opening; I took out the pen torch from my jacket and climbed through. Dust caressed my skin as I walked deeper into what seemed to be a basement.

After all the dialogue, the noise in the alleyway comes as a very effective shock. I like the description of the wall too: "riddled with colour and crumbling with age". Excellent. There is something really powerful about the personification of the dust too, and it makes the reader share the experience.

My Blackberry vibrated in my trouser pocket. 1 new message.
I opened it. The three words were simple enough, something that I wouldn’t have done instinctively if I hadn’t been a police officer.
Don’t turn around.
I turned around.

I like the short sentences here, which build the tension skilfully. The double negative of the longer sentence is a little confusing though, and the effort the reader has to make to work it out deflects from the potential power of the final couplet: "something that I wouldn't have done instinctively if I hadn't been a police officer". I am still a little confused, to be honest. However, the return to the email message from the start is expertly done, and the cliffhanger brilliantly executed. Well done.

All in all, I thought this was a very effective piece, made stronger by your economical prose and dialogue. I think the ending needs a little bit of revision, and I would still have kept the main body in the Present Tense myself - but you have clearly been taught well by your own crime fiction reading, and your adept grasp of the genre shines through throughout. :)

Payback

Part one

I have chosen Knots and Crosses by Ian Rankin because I felt that it was the most effective. I found it clever that the whole piece was around on letter and it kind of reminded me of the Jack the Ripper case and the police not having a clue about who sent the letters. I would like to adopt this technique into my own writing because I feel that having a simple object at the centre of everything is effective in creating suspense in the air. I also like the fact that the letters that are sent are identical with the “exact same message” and the police know that it comes with a “string” and is from the “same bloke” because this creates a case and a criminal out of a simple thing like a letter. Even though the ‘criminal’ is kind of telling the police that “THERE ARE CLUES EVERYWHERE” you get the idea that the person writing the letters is taking the mick out of the police and this works Rebus up because it was confusing to him. Ending it at “Then the phone rang” makes us want to read on because it’s like the answer to everything is on the other end of the phone.

Part two

“Hello, is it me you’re looking for…catch me if you can.” She read it over and over again but it seemed that every time she read it confused her more and more. Every week at the same time she kept getting these weird messages alongside a bunch of flowers –red roses, she hated them.
“Hiya…oh another message?” It was Angie, her work colleague.
“Yeah.”
“Still no idea who it’s from?”
“If I did do you think that I’d be sitting here staring at it…sorry…it’s just...”
“It’s okay; I’ll leave you to it”
She wanted to stop her. Tell her to come back but she knew that she would get to hear his voice. It was usually about half an hour after she would get to work and receive the flowers that he would call her. She would hear his voice and try to figure out who he was. Not that easy. For the last five times he has been doing it she was no closer to finding out who he was and why.
Was he an ex boyfriend? A friend trying to scare her? Who? And most importantly why? What had she done?
Before she could contemplate any longer the phone rang. After a two minute conversation she found that she completely recognised the voice. That voice belonged to Him.

The kidnapper

Part 1 knots and crosses.

I liked knots and crosses because it started with the action straight away as they said “Who brought this in, Mac?” he brought me into the story and just made me carry on and on. I never did wanted it to stop, he also had great description in his writing



Part 2 The Kidnapper

Peter was fourteen years of age, he was a man of great size, he was like the so called tough chivalrous boy, but on the other he was a sympathetic young lad with a soft heart. He had wavy blonde hair with black streaks. Peter was wearing a green wooly jumper, with brown jeans.

On a cool mid summers evening in Essex, Peter was on his way from his aunties house.
As he was making his way home Peter was suspicious of the whereabouts and he felt something atrocious had happened. He was eager to find what the issue was. If Peter was
Lucky enough to find a piece of evidence it would have been great, indeed it was. He found a brief letter of a random young kid that would be kidnapped, the most useful description was the name of the suspect.

Peter woke up determined to solve this, even though he was at the age of fourteen, the age might not have mattered but he had the love and care, he was on his way to police station to hand in the piece of evidence, when he arrived and gave in the letter, they were delighted to hear about this, as they knew themselves about had been going on.

The police were on the case, they had took the letter to the forensics were they found finger prints and DNA , they found out the information of were he lives. The next morning they were on the move hunting him down, they knocked on the door put the man to the floor hand cuffs around his arms, and searched the room were the young boy was wrapped around with a rope, the boy was flooded with tears, the boy was taken back to the police station, as the kidnapper was taken into custody and on his way to court to be charged a long sentence.

It's hard to believe..

Part 1
My favorite excerpt was the one from 'End in Tears' by Ruth Rendell because I thought that it used the show and not tell technique very well. I also liked the twist in the end; I believe that it was what made the excerpt so powerful. All the while I was reading I thought that the man was waiting for the woman to speak to her or something, but then it ended up him trying to kill her. That to me was just unexpected. I don't really have a detailed explanation for why I liked it so much; it was more because it jumped out and grabbed me then me trying to come to grasp with its qualities.
Part 2

I was there more confused than ever. It couldn’t be her. She couldn’t be dead. I spoke to her only yesterday that she told me she was going to meet her future soul mate. She was planning her wedding with him; this couldn’t be happening. No. It was a dream I was going to wake up any minute now and find that she was my next case. I never thought I would have to mix my social and work life together; I guess life is not always as you planned it out to be.

So I was there in complete shock in the room with the only person left that I trusted now at my feet, and covered in blood. She had a necklace pattern planted in her skin, shed always loved necklaces I didn’t know that it would even go for her death. She had slits in her arm which made sure that every spot of the floor was red. They were finely cut so that each piece of flesh on either side was smooth.

I took out my note book and started to record what I saw; before realizing that everyone around me was looking at my every move. So I told them each to get on with their work and to let me get on with mine. I wrote down exact descriptions of the crime scene as painful as it was. It wasn’t until then did I notice the smell, a tangy smell; I guessed straight away what it was but when I did I wish ed I hadn’t. It was bad enough seeing my best friend on the floor in front of me and everyone around me, but for her to have actually pissed it was too embarrassing in front everyone; despite the fact that she was dead.

And that was how my last case started. Finding my only full time friend on the floor dead. That was something I would never have imagined to have to cope with that as part of the CSI, but I guess that was another misjudgment on my behalf.

Crime Fiction

Task 1: one good turn by kate atkinson

i think this piece works well as it lulls the reader by describing this feeble character but as you know this is crime fiction, you expect something ominous to take place and although not entirely gruesome or described in much detail,it still manages to shock whilst also being comical ('he was the kind of person who ducked when a ball was thrown in his direction').i also like the way everything is described in such simple terms and proves you dont have to rely on vivid imagery.




Task 2: my piece....
The gentle breeze caresses my neck, waking me from my sleep, still dazed from last nights events yet not concerned with making this mess any clearer. Just then a light filtrates the single window in my room, glancing across all my possessions; the chair, the bed, the toilet, the basin and a souvenir of my mother. I pick it up and study it, occasionally dusting the top and in that moment, I suddenly wondered what it felt to die. Many experience it but none live to tell the tale, like a Sunday roast with great aunt Julie only this time it is visibly served on a plate accompanied by two over-cooked potatoes, lumpy gravy and broccoli which could break your teeth. Dad, Frank and Ian have all experienced it; in very different ways, but dead all the same. And we can’t forget mum. She died in the most painful way out of the four, but if I were her I’d be grateful, I mean how boring must it be to go to sleep and never wake up, or get shot and feel all your nerves begin to spasm? I’d much rather have had someone sever my neck with their fingernails, paying close attention to my jugular vein. Now that’s a way go!I was twelve when mum died, a happy and well-adjusted child considering my dad and two brothers had left the year before. I remember it as though it were this morning, then again its not something I’m likely to forget

* * * *

Rising from my front row seat, I opened the wardrobe door and my mothers face resembled that of a child just been told that Santa doesn’t exist. Her eyes began to fade further into her head, as her lids slowly began to shut. Although she was dead, my job felt slightly incomplete as she still looked happy, so I began to work on her head, slowly clawing away at her flesh of her neck with my fingernails, occasionally scraping the skin cells from underneath to get a deeper cut. After an hour of continuous scratching and digging I could see her trachea, which strangely resembled a hollow sausage. It was at this point I heard the sirens, quietly at first but then it got louder and began to call me and I knew my work was done and pocketed my souvenir. It was a sign.The police and ambulance arrived at the same time, like two uncles competing for the attention of their favourite nephew and in the mist of this, a fat, balding officer ran out of the house and emptied the contents of his stomach on the pavement; a few take-away curries and a full English now lay splattered across the cold stone outside my house. This puzzled me. Surely my mum wasn’t that ugly, not to a guy who had probably seen more cooked meats than Gordon Ramsey. The nice police lady escorted me to the car, still not aware that it was me who was responsible for the blood splattered walls in my mums room owing to my fantastic performance; a double bluff: a distraught youngster whilst also appearing slightly guilty. It was so perfect!Sitting in my cell, I gaze into my mothers eyes. They glare at me and I gaze back smiling at my work.They are still fresh from yesterday, and I feel I have received justice. I mean most youngsters would spend their 13th birthday going paintballing or ice-skating not massacring their mother. Perhaps next time I ask for a bike, she will listen.

My Very Own Crime Fiction - Task 38

Part 1
End in Tears by Ruth Rendell

I thought this piece of writing was the most effective because this crime extract had the best descriptive, thought provoking writing than the other four.

This crime extract made me feel like I was in it and I was there listening and answering these basic questions, e.g. He closed his hand over the mobile in his pocket, worried because it hadn’t rung. Then it rang.
‘Yes?’
‘She’s left. You want the number again?’
‘I’ve got it. A silver Honda.’
‘Right.’
‘A silver Honda. Should be along in four minutes.’

The author wanted to leave you guessing what’s going to happen and make you want to read the whole book.


Part 2
The Burglary

There was a loud hysterical unfamiliar knock on the door which woke me up from that nightmare I was having about a burglary I got up quickly, panicking thinking who would come to my flat at this time of night. “Who is and what do you want?” I whispered .I opened the door, peaking to see who it is and there… this man in an all black outfit from head to toe was there with a bag full of goods in his filthy hands. “Give me your money” said the vicious, angry man. I responded gently in a scared voice saying “Leave me alone or else I’ll be dialling 999”.
At that exact moment the man rushed passed the door and ran in to my flat, “HELP! HELP! HELP” I squealed repeatedly as if it was a siren. The man helped himself to all my belongings and replied with “Shut your mouth you stupid lady or you’ll be dead”. He grabbed me and strangled me and asked for a rope and guess what, there I was mumbling “help!” and crying because I was tied up several times to a wooden chair and I couldn’t breathe.

The man had broken into my safe and stole the money which I was going to use for university next year. Then there was another loud knock on the door. “Are you done have you have you got all the gold and money, ahahaha!” exclaimed a strange man from outside, very selfishly and loud. The man warned me if I told the police he and his mate would give me another mind blowing disturbed visit which eventually shut me up. The man ran out of my flat giggling away like it was funny joke.

There was bright shining light of the sun from outside the window, was making me cringe. I could hear neighbours children moaning and groaning to not wake up. But still there I was stranded in my very own float waiting for someone to help me.

Task 38 - Fizzy

Part 1 - End In Tears by Ruth Rendell

Out of the five extracts I found this one the most appealing. I liked the way the author expresses the scenery and the detail it's been described. I also like the realism of it, the way that it's been written is such a way that it's believable, it doesn't go over the top with the story line to put the reader off and at the same time doesn't be so dull as to bore the reader. Some of the phrases which I think stood out most to me were: "A third minute passed. A fourth", "He hated anticlimaxes", "he saw for the first time the woman he had tried to kill".

Part 2 -

The sunset was somewhat less appealing today. It looked depressed almost. The scenery would have been amazing from up there, but it didn't seem to be so amazing when he wanted it to be anyway. It was around about 7.30, none of his watches are ever usually correct so he relied on the sun instead. H e had his eyes transfixed on the window now as if he knew what was to come. His finger was quickly becoming impatient resting on the cold metal.

He had time to think. H e always gave himself enough time to think before hand. He thought of a million things, not rushing but walking through his head, at a steady calm and relaxed speed. None of them were directly relevant to why he was up there on the roof of a 68 story building in the middle of Dubai city, but they were still thoughts which had some sort of significance to his life and only his. Nothing which really mattered to anyone else was on his mind.

"Click" he made an adjustment to one of the settings on the instrument.

He readied it; it was his time to perform. The audience took their place, he could see the audience vaguely through the window now, and frankly he wasn't certain, he just wanted it over and done with now. He positioned his fingers gently over the front control, at the back for balance and placed his chosen finger on the single key which would play his melody. The same melody he'd been playing for a long time now, in fact the only melody he ever played. It was this same melody he played some few days go but on a different roof top and at a different time, but the same melody nevertheless.

"...tick..." finally he fine tuned a knob on the top of the instrument which would allow him to get the most bull's-eye precision and accuracy.

At last he played.

"BOOM", the sound echoed through the air and floated around the atmosphere for a bit. The melody was heard by all but more importantly; felt by one. The effect was; the victim fell to the ground. There had always been a downside to the beauty of his music, there had always needed to be some sort of sacrifice, usually people he didn't even know. The show was almost over, except of course; the finale. This was a fairly straight forward and predictable act, yet he performed it with such skill that it never ceased to amaze; his finale: the most ingenious disappearing act.

Task 38

Part 1 - Excerpt 3 – “End in Tears” by Ruth Rendell

One thing I noticed about the extract was that it had a combination of both narration AND dialogue, whilst others seemed to balance on one of either side. I found this interesting as the syntax varied which made it more enjoyable to read. This also added a sense of reality to the play with the dialogue setting an exposition, and the narration filling in the gaps with detail regarding the plot. The extract on the whole also is quite shocking in a sense: 'first time the woman he had tried to kill'. This is not emphasized much making it out to be quite casual in fact, this immediately adds on MORE emphasis on the event to the reader. The whole extract in fact is not exaggerated or seen as shocking, almost as if it was a general every day thing which makes us wonder what the characters are REALLY all about, with us wanting to immediately wanting to know more about them. The extract manages to build up and maintain the tension throughout the article and gives us detail through similies: 'like a bomb', which makes the whole thing more believable on the whole. Overall I think this is a successful and effective piece of the story and it would be hard to believe that the rest of the story wasn't as interesting as this.

Part 2 -

Click click bang. Three sounds I had been used to all my life. I wondered if I ever was DESTINED to be this way. Probably not. You can't mess with human nature, because it'll mess you up right back. That's what Dad told me anyways. But he wasn't here now. I had to get used to that.

I remember last February 14th like the back of my hand - like it was just yesterday. I had just come out of jail. Coincidence really considering I didn't have a valentine. But that's life for you I guess. Who would want to date a cold calculated and caniving bastard like me anyway. Well who would've wanted to, I mean. Since then I'm a changed man.

I'd been done in for manslaughter. I pleaded not guilty. I guess the jury saw straight through me, even I saw straight through me. What had happened to once the young boy waiting for daddy to come home just so he could get permission to play out with his friends because their parents had brought them new bikes? People change with time, yet I excelled that and was at a far quicker pace - if almost it being time trying to catch up with me, pulling me back into innocence, preventing me from the disastrous wrongdoings it knew I would comit in the future. It didn't really make a diffence. I'm a changed man. I've changed. It really doesn't make a difference. That was then. This is now.

Now. I stood there thinking. Thinking about my past. Wondering why I had to be the way I was. The way I was and the way I was never going to be again. And then I looked at him. I looked at my father lying there on the floor in a pool of his own blood, eyes wide open, as if to be staring at the knife in my hand dripping guilty with sin and blood. Caught red handed if you like. I thought about my past. Why did I have to be like that? It doesn't matter now. It doesn't make a difference. I'm a changed man.

Task 38

Part 1 - 1983 by David Peace

This piece of crime fiction is really enjoyable. I liked reading every bit of it. It makes you feel as if you are watching the crime scene right in front of you like ‘her mouth open......’ It uses a lot of powerful adjectives and it tells you what happens step by step. The text includes lots of simple devices which makes the text so powerful. For example the simile that he used comparing the victim with an animal. ‘The animal sound of a mother trapped and forced to watch the slaughter of her young’ was very effective in the manor he used it. I like the way it uses a lot of repetition for example ‘Contorted and screaming and howling’ I liked this extract as it makes you want to know what happens next.

Part 2 Suspect number 1

It is bad news, my dad was watching the news channel and it appeared in bold black letters: Jodie Coberly aged 13 was murdered last night just outside her house door. I was shaken. I couldn’t believe what I heard. I couldn't’t believe what I was watching. I felt a heavy tear drop of sadness droop down my cheeks. The news channel then showed an image of Jodie. When I looked at it, I wanted to see another person instead of my best friend.
After all that sobbing, I heard a knock on the front door downstairs. I ran as fast as I could, hoping it someone coming to tell us that they have mistaken Jodie for another girl.

Unfortunately, it was a detective

“Hi I’m detective Ronny. Well I just came to ask Lucy Brone some questions about the murder of Jodie Coberly”

My dad explained that I couldn't’t talk to no one at the moment, since I heard the terrible news about Jodie.

“I have to see her, it is urgent” protested the detective

I ran back to my room. I remembered that I was with Jodie last night. I was starting to shiver. Did they think I murdered Jodie? I couldn't’t. She’s my best friend more like my sister.

I could hear a familiar voice calling me from downstairs. It was my dad. I ran down to the living room where the detective was waiting.
He asked me several questions about her. Like where we went last night, and if I accompanied her to her house.

“I was with her last night, but I couldn't’t have murdered her, ask everyone and they will tell you that we were sisters instead of best friends” I said
The detective said that he will have to come back tomorrow and finish the investigation with me. He asked to take my finger prints to see if any matched on Jodie or the knife.

That night, I lay in my bed thinking of Jodie. That was the only thing that I was thinking of. I thought of all the good memories that we had together, especially the one where we went to the beach and she got buried in the sand. She left a big gap in my life. All the times we used to go to the cinema and park. I really miss her; I wish I was the one who died instead of her. Who would think of killing her? She never even hurt a fly.

The detective called the next day to assure us that I didn’t murder Jodie as they didn’t find any matching fingerprints.
He said they have to close the case because they didn’t have any evidence to who the murder was.

I wish I knew who murdered Jodie. I wish I walked with her home. I wish she was with me right now. I have so many wishes, but it is too late now...............

Task 38

Excerpt 3 – “End in Tears” by Ruth Rendell
Ruth Rendell takes a very different approach to crime fiction – blood and gore, witty detectives searching for the killer and no matter what the hindrances, always conclude the story with a “Who Dunnit?”, elegantly portrayed in an archetypal Poirot fashion; these all come to mind when I think of the swarms of books lined on the shelves of libraries or bookstores or even in my English teacher’s bedroom! I therefore completely agree with Mr. Savage when he says that the crime fiction genre has been repeated in many different ways, but all with a streak of distinct similarity. I think it’s time for a change and I believe Miss Rendell had done just that. I would like to start with the way she allows us as readers to psychologically understand the mentality of the killer. He appears to me to be an amateur in the crime game due to his uncertainty and lack of confidence in finding the right person to murder. On the contrary, the whole basis of the killing isn’t typical; I doubt a lump of concrete is the ideal murder weapon you would choose if writing an excerpt for this genre! Moving away from poison, guns and knives, it may seem ludicrous to pick concrete over ammunition, for example, yet this is what makes it original and eye – catching. You hear about it on the news; teenagers on bridges throwing bricks at passing vehicles – it’s just not eponymous to the usual way we depict murder as being a “glamorous act of the affluent”. Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie’s Poirot, Miss Marple and Partners in Crime all echo this statement. Lastly, I would like to point out that the synopsis may be an effete cliché in real life, yet it is something I have never strolled across in my experience of reading!

Sins & Skeletons
“Murder. Isn’t it a terrible thing? A thing used by cowards to run away from the truth. Tell me. When you found out your daughter was pregnant, how did you feel? Being a lawyer, you’ve got an image to uphold. Good old Richard - always comes out smelling of roses. But not this time, oh no! Surely news like this would be unspeakable to talk about over a spiffing Friday luncheon? But gossip travels, Mr. Sandford. And you couldn’t bear the thought of the disapproving sniffs on the staircase; the pointing in the common room. Does it remind you of your childhood? The only boy in the whole year who got into St. Andrew’s with a scholarship! Now that is something! Even today, you told your colleagues you had to look after a sick aunt! Is this what you thrive on? Not only are you a murderer; a murderer who kills his own flesh and blood, but you’re a pathological liar, as well!”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Oh, and he speaks! It’s a shame that’s been repeated at least four times this past half hour!”
Silence gave Lorna the opportunity to appraise Richard for what he really was, behind the thick grey hair and lightly tanned skin. He was much more modest than David Dickinson and with his chiselled features and laurel – green eyes, he was rather attractive for a man suffering from a “midlife – crisis”. However, stress had begun to take its toll – bags hung like curtains underneath his eyes and deep – set wrinkles ran paths around his face; telling a thousand tales of hardship, despair and pain.
“I know you suffered from schizophrenia and clinical depression. Wouldn’t it be so easy to just lose it? To asphyxiate your daughter and regret it afterwards. Or, was it done out of malice? Pure malice. We can only find your DNA on Jennifer. You are the main suspect.”
Richard narrowly averted his eyes. Was this a sign of guilt? Losing his wife to lung cancer a year before his fourteen – year old son committed suicide must have made him weaker; made him disintegrate; made him prone to insanity.

Suddenly, a stabbing pain sliced through her temple; she quickly gulped down a much needed glass of warm water, obtained from her cluttered desk. It was all the stress of not getting any significant leads in this investigation. Tired and irritable, all Lorna wanted to do was to soak in her bath or sleep to the lullaby of opera on BBC Radio 3. You could call her a female Inspector Morse – a Mark 2 Jaguar sleeps in her garage and she hasn’t had her fair share of successful relationships over the years. The only startling difference was the sleek and straight waist – length red hair that she sported simply in a high ponytail.
A whole hour had passed and she had achieved nothing: something in life which she detested. She decided to call it a day.
“The interrogation with Mr. Richard Sandford ended at 19:02,” and she pressed the stop button on the recorder. The security guard led Richard out of the interview room and back into his cell. While Lorna rustled her papers, she couldn't help but wonder what it feels like to not know how long you have left in police custody - if you'll ever breathe freedom again. She spent the next three minutes placing empty and replete plastic sheets into her floral monochrome paper file; and after completing this errand, she walked out, locking the door behind her. Once out of the police station, she pulled her pink cashmere cardigan closer to her body, as she quickly paced towards the car park; it may have been summer but a brisk wind hung in the shadows, making her hair flutter in the wind.
As she neared her Jaguar, she immediately realised that her car had been somewhat damaged. She hurried towards it, her white ballerina pumps silent on the ground. Her eyes weren’t deceiving her. The car was vandalised, not just by a group of mindless thugs who put Banksy to shame, but a manipulative fiend set out to intimidate Lorna. She’d had harmless death threats in the past; it was her job – controversial and notorious in the media. But this was different. This had meaning. A prominent claw – mark had been scratched onto the bonnet and six words etched in beautiful calligraphic writing were sat next to it: “I’ve got her. Now pay me.”
“A ransom. He’s back . . .”

Letters

Part 1-Knots and Crosses:

I liked this extract because it made me want to know what happened next and kept me interested all the way through. I also liked the way Rankin has used a conversation all the way through but still kept that edge of mystery. I really wanted to find out what the letter meant while I was reading. The use of the conversation makes this extract a little more realistic to me. Rankin also gives the impression that we are with the character trying to solve the mystery as if it was our very own. I think this is very effective. I really enjoyed this extract.

Part 2-Letters:

Charlie walked in angry and annoyed, his face as red as a tomato.
“Have you seen this Joe? Do you know what this is?” he fumed.
“No Charlie...Why?”
“It’s another flaming letter, that’s what it is! The fourth this week!”
“Oh.” Joe sighed. “Well maybe it’s just a bunch of immature teenagers playing a joke. You shouldn’t pay any attention to them.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t,” Charlie mumbled.
“It’s just a stupid prank Charlie”
“How on Earth do you know that? Are you the one who’s been sending me these letters?”
“I would never do that to you.”
“Oh wouldn’t you?” Charlie accused. His face was set into his ‘deep in thought’ expression. Then he sighed.
“I know you would never do that. It’s just...well...you know how I get and lately...I’m sorry for accusing you Joe.”
“It’s ok your just worried. You’ve got a lot on your mind what with your daughter’s sudden leaving.”
“Please don’t...”
“No Charlie you need to get it of your chest. It is unhealthy to keep things like this locked up, life threatening.”
“I SAID LEAVE IT JOE. OK?”
Before Joe could reply, Charlie stormed out taking the letters with him. On his way out, he kicked the fire extinguisher and moaned. Charlie winced at the pain. What was a 56-year-old man doing kicking fire extinguishers anyway?
“You're going to get yourself into trouble Charlie, bad trouble. Please just listen to me!” Joe shouted after him. His voice pleading and urgent still had no affect on Charlie.
Charlie stopped in the hallway several floors down and opened the letters. He read every word carefully searching for what they meant. Each envelope covered in coffee stains. “Coffee stains,” Charlie said to himself. “Could it be? What if she didn’t leave and she was kidnapped?” Charlie had stopped breathing. Then he read something on the most recent letter that startled him. The answers were in the letters, he just had to find them.

Task 38; Don't Turn Around

Knots and Crosses by Ian Rankin

Although Exit Music is by far my favourite Rebus tale, Rankin manages to sustain a thrill throughout all of his novels - Knots and Crosses being only one of them.
Simplicity. Rankin has perfected the use of this skill, along with speech, to keep the reader on the edge of his “queer” conversation. Rankin’s speech reads very easily, with short and to the point descriptions to help clear up Rebus’ “business”. This gages the reader, as if we are eavesdropping at the office door with our ears pressed into the wood, only to get sucked in when the dialogue indicates a change in Rebus’ mood. A varied syntax also helps to build up towards the cliff hangar, because long passages of only description can (but does not always) slow down the pace of the story. Rankin also uses Rebus’ thoughts and actions to help guide the reader, expressing what the main character knows and feels so that the reader can be with him unravelling the crime. “But why him?” – We won’t know until Rebus finds out.

Don’t Turn Around

Don’t turn around.
She read the words again, counting to five as she did so. Then she pressed send.

Phillips walks up to me.

“Evening, boss.”
“Good day?” I gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder in return for his smile.
“Not really. Chief made me sort out his office whilst she,” He indicated at Jennifer. “And himself went through this month’s budget.” I grinned.
“What’s going on then? Chief sounded anxious on the phone.” My hair was still wet from the shower I had fifteen minutes ago.
“Two kids were found in the alleyway back there.” He turned around and pointed at the cornered off area. I nodded.
“Any witnesses?”
“None yet.”
“Forensics here?”
“They will be. But road works are keeping them up.”
“Can I go through?”
“I don’t see why not. You are my boss after all.” Phillips winked cheekily and walked me up to the crime scene tape. I turned around quickly.
“You holding up, kid? You look a little rough.”
“I’m fine, thank you. Do you want me to get you one?” He waved the extra large cup of coffee in his right hand, and I nodded with gratitude. What an amazing kid.

Charlie was already hovering above the corpses, trying to peer into the contents of the dead girls’ bag – with little success, mind you.

“Well, look who we have here.” I stood with my arms folded, looking smug.
His head spun around, quick as a bullet, before his smile lit up the gloomy alleyway.
“Davie boy, it’s been a long time. Heard it was your day off?”
“It was, until Halloween got to these two.” My chin pointed to the bodies.
“Yeah, shame. Young things. Remember when we were the hooligans?” He smiled.
“I wish I could forget.” I smiled back. He gave me a brotherly hug, his big build crushing my lungs.
“Ah, sorry mate, I’m like a giant, I am. Handshake?”
I shook his fat right hand.

Something clattered lower down in the alleyway – it took us seconds to sprint towards it.

“What was that?” Charlie whispered. I shushed him and walked over to a graffiti layered wall, riddled with colour and crumbling with age. Two bins lay knocked over at its base.

Behind the bins was a partial opening; I took out the pen torch from my jacket and climbed through. Dust caressed my skin as I walked deeper into what seemed to be a basement.

My Blackberry vibrated in my trouser pocket. 1 new message.
I opened it. The three words were simple enough, something that I wouldn’t have done instinctively if I hadn’t been a police officer.
Don’t turn around.

I turned around.

Task 38 - A Message.

I thought that extract two was really interesting and the way Rankin makes the story flow with the conversation; this makes the reader want to read on and find out about the letter. Also, this creates tension in the story, making the reader think about the first letter and why this second one was received, “it’s the exact same message.”And the way the letter is described, “The paper cheap, no water-mark,” builds up the tension as well and makes the reader think about who this person writing the letter might be. I thought that the conversation worked really well because it was realistic and it was very effective.

One message but was read in several ways, in the colour red. It never made sense to her and as a riddle it remained in her hands. Unsolved questions had control over her mind and the actions she took though most of the time she did nothing.

‘So when did this one come in?’ Fred asked while he looked at the painting on the wall.

The room was clean, in its usual state but the light was off and the curtains were shut. The unusual surrounding of the room became almost comforting to her and didn’t seem to mind it as much as the others did.

‘Hmm…about nineteen minutes ago, I think.’ She said. Never sure of herself nowadays, always seemed to be in the thoughts of the unknown like the little source of light which managed to slip through the tiny gap where the curtain couldn’t cover.

‘Are you going to go to the police station again, Jenny?’

‘Yes, I don’t have a choice.’ She said. Her right hand kept shaking but she still had a tight grip of the letter.

‘This is all stupid, ridiculous, what is the point of sending them?’ said Fred, holding the other letters in his hands and crushed them till the red ink flooded over his hands.The calmness that was there seemed to have evaporated slowly into the atmosphere.

‘I only know as much as you, now will you please sit down.’

He sat down in the old chair that was next to her. No words came out of him after that.

He stared at the letter in her hands. ‘Can I take a look?’ he reached his hands out.

She handed it to him. But Jenny didn’t want to let go of it because she knew it would fill him or anyone else who read it with red bloody tears. Though she never cried; her tears couldn’t have brought much difference to the situation, anyways.

Before Fred could read the last line, the familiar sound of an envelop fell through the front door.

Task 38

1983 by David Peace

Peace’s extract contains some of the vital ingredients needed to make a crime story successful. His metaphoric referrals to the mother’s cries as reminiscent of an “animal” shows the in-born instinct within every (normally) civilised human being, only something horrifying or “hysterical” would be able to challenge their maternal instincts. He also purposely repeats the mother’s actions of “contorted and screaming and howling” on several occasions to portray the true feelings behind the already dehumanising mother, as well as trying to make it much more vivid and shocking to the reader. Perhaps the most interesting thing of his extract is his use of syntax, where from start to end there is no full stop at all until the end, forcing the reader to carry on at pace with the story which conveys the feelings of helplessness and anger radiating from the mother.


Spite
Your day has come, I promised you that old hag! Look at you, with your grizzly, greasy and grotesque serpents of keratin, Your infuriating, blue pierced eye which seems to twitch from side to side at the sight on any movement, your oh so pungent sacks of which you name “socks”, your satanic smile which seems to gleam with a dark green tinge, your outdated drapes of skin which seem to curdle at your very sight, and your apron! Oh your oh so valued apron, beaten and splattered with at least 240 different species of which you deem “food”, and I swear that at least half of them are older than me!

Look at you, with every command of “sweep it clean” and “keep it neat” you knew not the bounds of which you pushed my patience. Your constant cackles at my expense and your unbearably loud trumpeting snores; Dear Woman it drives me Crazy! As even the bible states “we know not what we do”, I do so agree with that phrase, yes…yes I know not what I do.

Just as I knew not what I did when I sent you off to Satan’s harsh demonic arms. Just the same as when I became that oh so desired servant which you so craved all these years, and did nothing ,for the three days you had left, to displease you or allow you to latch on to my cunning scheme. Yet the very moment before I did have you expire, I did have a mere flash of regret, just a flash. But I soon reminded myself of the horrors and tortures of which you expose me to every moment you are awake. Bah! You should not complain though old woman, my carrier bag accomplice did so enjoy contouring to the rough features of your gargoyle ridden face, and it’s ties did so enjoy mimicking the movement of the python’s and allowing you to suffer with your own breath. Yes woman, I had despised you, but please don’t judge me as to weigh me down with you to hell, for I merely Knew Not what I was doing.

Instinct.

For my first task, I have decided to choose 'End in Tears' by Ruth Rendell. I love the way in which Rendell takes a VERY cliché plot and uses her clear 'prosaic' skill to 'break the mould' that others had conformed to. Precise details confirm tension/suspicion within the readers head, and even as the plot progresses, the details still remain 'hazy' , why is the occupant of the silver Honda being targeted in the first place? Rendell also uses Pathetic fallacy to accentuate the confusion created by previous devices, headlights shining, 'the crash was huge, like a bomb' and even explosions. With all this taken into account, I plan to use these same techniques to craft a crime based narrative of my own.


As the time grew shorter and therefore nearer, I made a choice that would knowingly change the course of my life forever. I could have turned back, yet as my mind locked onto pursuing a potential victim, my grip tightened around the bladed object i now carried. People often refer choose to live their life by the motto 'an eye for an eye'. I tend to deem that a little weak.

The place provided an anonymous setting for my main event. Every now and then, the odd flickering street lamp would provide my retinas with a glimpse of a foreign landscape. It had been around 50 minutes since I last had the pleasure of a clear view. Yet this only added to my eager anticipation of the carnage I new all too well I was capable of creating. The last time I checked on my geographical location, I was heading in the direction of Mosside, yet as the streets became more urbanised, my route was continuously interrupted by the risk of being spotted, or just inaccessibility.

I decided to switch tactic and search for victims on the main road. By this time however pickings would be slim, only a few bums sleeping rough in the odd charity shop entrance would occur every now and again. Just as I was losing hope, I heard a distant commotion that had spilt through the streets, in the hope of finding someone to pass on all my burdens to, I investigated.

As I neared what I hoped would be my salvation, I caught sight of a young gentleman, who (by the looks of his physique and lack of co-ordination) obviously took his health for granted. My grip on the knife tightened again,this time my mind was set on passing on the suffering I had suffered at the hands of others.

Before I new it instinct prescribed a heavy dose of adrenaline through my veins like a gushing torrent of water through a fire hose. I approached him steadily, making sure not to attract any unwanted attention, yet a set of headlights cast a stream of light onto the knife causing it to glint carelessly. It caught his attention, his body froze, his lips tried to respond, yet his lungs were incapable of drawing in any air, and as I freed myself of all my past suffering, I breathed a sigh of pure relief.

Part one: from End in Tears by Ruth Rendell

I thought this piece of writing was quite mysterious in the manner of the way the story goes and leaving a clue each step but having no idea whatsoever what it is. This extract really involved me to be in it as I could see it all happening e.g. He wrote, ‘Yes?’‘She’s left. You want the number again?’‘I’ve got it. A silver Honda.’‘Right.’‘A silver Honda. Should be along in four minutes.’This actually felt like the reader (I) was talking to him. It also wanted you to keep guessing what will happen next. I was so intrigued to keep reading on but it only was an extract. Overall I think that this piece of crime fiction was really captivating.

Tears of blood.

Prologue

The dwindling light began to fade. I could hear a faint knock at the door. As I began to get up it suddenly smashed open; blinded by the light coming from the wrecked corridor, all I could see was my death at place; a gun pointing at my head, I did not know whether to run or just stand there in shock, yet I felt like it was a dream or more of a nightmare perhaps.

Suddenly a voice spoke, chillingly close: “Do not move”Standing stationary I could see that he was after something that only I would have, but what? I let out a sudden gasp as I felt I knew what he was after. “Where is it?” he murmured as his accent was not that clear.Sweat began to rush down my trembling face, “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”, "listen, don’t play around with me or you’ll face the consequences! I am asking you one last time, where is it?”My eyes were transfixed on his steady gun pointed in the direction of my chest, but before I could defend myself he fired a powerful bullet which went right through me.

The throbbing had injected my whole body; I knew that something went terribly wrong.The last reply I heard from him was “pain is good”. And that was it, my life was over.

The start of the investigation.

An unfamiliar knock at the door had awoken me from my first sleep- as I was up carousing all night at the le Duchon club. Anyway as I slouched to open the door right before my eyes stood a diminutive person holding up his ‘so called detective badge’. “Hello, I am Mr. Johnson and I would like to talk about the distressing news of Lukes' death?"

That was a shock for me, everything was thundering in my head, I was stoned for a blink of an eye. My legs were quivering, I needed to rest my body somewhere, Luke can’t be dead, he just can’t.
All of a sudden I was questioned as I was the suspect.

Just as I was about to slam the door on his grim modest nose, then he showed me a photo.
I was traumatized of what I could see, the image of Luke lying there covered in blood was absolutely ghastly, I couldn’t bear it anymore, and Luke was more of a little brother to me rather than a friend.

To break the sudden silence Mr, Jonson said: “Well it’s my job really; however I do believe you
can help on our further investigation?”

The day drew to an end, yet we still haven’t found the culprit, now I think all hope is lost. Suddenly my mobile rang and quite loudly too, I answered “hello, who is this”. A frightening voice that sounded quite familiar had then replied “I know where you live, and I’m coming to get you”. Almost immediately the phone line went dead.

Hiding under the canvas I trembled with fear, but soon later I recognised who it was and it explained how he was linked to the death of Luke. Just then he came in with a sniper gun holding it firm in his hands, as he examined the room on the left side I took a run for the door and managed escaping without a scratch on my body.

My heart was thumping uncontrollably, but I put that to one side and started to run to the police station. A bunch of tough police officers came fully equipped; I creep along with them to be safe. Smashing open the door we find that the room was deserted, yet a gust of wind filled the room, so I know that he climbed out of the window.

Unfortunately I still haven’t heard from the ‘innocuous’ Mr. Johnson, but I’m still watching my back, who knows he might return….

Task 38: Crime Fiction

Well done on your respective Task 37 attempts. I think this was one of the most deceptively tricky tasks for a long time. Wordvoodoo is all about creative, inventive and original use of language - but as soon as set you a non-fiction genre, lots of you fell, if only now and then, into Primary School 'autobiography' mode. Just remember: just because writing is 'non-fiction', it doesn't mean that it can't be creative, inventive and original too.

This is your penultimate (i.e. last but one) task of this term - and, therefore, your penultimate prose task for this year. Task 39 will no longer be genre-based - but rather a chance for you all really to 'strut your stuff' and show off all the skills you have garnered this term. But, with Task 38, I am setting you one, final, genre-based task: CRIME fiction.

You will all, no doubt, be familiar with 'crime' as a TV or movie genre: I, for one, am totally gripped by each year's new series of Waking the Dead, Silent Witness or Wire in the Blood. But I don't know how many of you have read much crime fiction.

As with many popular genres, the shelves of Waterstones are full of two different types of crime fiction: popular, generic, shallow, derivative stuff aimed predominantly at a mass market and pretty devoid of anything especially 'creative, inventive and original'; and, also, more 'literary' fare, writing that grabs hold of and wrestles with the conventions of the genre, and reworks them in a highly original and imaginative fashion. Unsurprisingly, it is the latter for which I would like you to aim.

Part One

You have all been emailed 5 extracts from different pieces of contemporary crime fiction. As with recent tasks, I would like you to choose which of them you feel is the most effective, and explain precisely why you have made that choice. Using examples to back up your points, try to get to the bottom of what, in your opinion, makes for effective crime fiction, identifying techniques which you might, yourself, try to explore in your own writing for Part Two.

Part Two

Now it is your turn: write your own excerpt of crime fiction, in which you demonstrate your own ability to interpret this popular genre in an original and compelling way. It is up to you whether your piece represents the opening of a longer novel, the end of an individual chapter, or just an 'abstract' - provided that it still works in isolation (i.e. on its own). As well as focusing on the genre-specific features of language and style, think also about the structure of your piece: few genres are more reliant on a build up to a strong (and sometimes surprising) climax. Aim for between 300-450 words (and try not to go too much below or above this).

Good luck!

This task is due by midnight on Saturday 21st March 2009.

As always, here is my attempt:

His First Case

You wake, surprised by the dark. You can smell him, although you do not realise that yet. You sit up, briefly, and hear nothing. Dreams, punctured, claw at you, vying to drag you under. You sag and fall into the mattress he bought. You can hear him, although you do not realise that yet either. Sleep comes.

You wake again; the dark is predictable now. You cannot smell him or hear him, but you think you can. Your dream has spilt over, torpid but bulging. He is in your dream; quickly, reluctantly, you rejoin him.

You do not wake. Still, listless, the darkness drinks you. He can smell you now; he can hear you too, the crackle of your congested breath half stifled by your pillow. He watches, waiting, your stale perfume tickling his senses like a red rag. The blade is the only beam, conducting light from nowhere. He shines it on your face. Your mouth. Your neck.

The cut is languorous. The metal strokes your throat, teasing the blood in one, perpetual exhalation. The white sheets purple in the bladelight. Your scent changes; he is relieved.

Freshly shaven, a pale elastoplast barely covering one clumsy nick, I cannot see when I first cross the threshold: they have left the curtains closed, left everything. I carry a small torch. I shine it on your face. Your mouth. Your neck.

I can smell him. I think I can hear him, but I can't. The blue light speaks, silently, outside the window. I buckle, bend over, vomit - ruddy specks raining through my torchlight.

Your eyes are staring at me. I cannot escape your gaze. I take out my notebook and begin.