Sunday afternoon

Whooshing steam billows.
Crease-mountains defeated, flat:
ironing alchemy.

Mutter, grumble

Words melt into goop,
brain sharp as charred marshmallow:
a deadline is nigh.

Hellooo..? Anybody there?

Dearie me, it really has been a while this time, hasn't it? I've been in a bit of a meltdown state lately, what with the course (hate it), work (feel strangely attached to it) and general laziness (love it). I won't bore you with endless invective about the course, but suffice it to say that the one thing it surely has taught me is that it's time to stop studying how to be a writer, and instead take a proper bash at actually being one.

Work has been hard, and, at times, heart-rending. In November it was announced that the site would close due to the economic crisis (and let me say here that I am heartily sick of the jauntily alliterative 'Credit Crunch'. It's crisis; it's recession - it's people's lives). Many of my colleagues worked their last day on December 23rd - 'and a happy Christmas to you, too' - and others are due to go at the end of this month. I am among the extremely lucky few who may be safe, as there is the possibility for me to transfer to head office. Yes, it's much more travelling, but at least all that sitting in traffic will give me time to count my lucky stars. Assuming there isn't another gobshite in a van out there just waiting to ram into me...

And as for the general laziness...I'd love to tell you all about it, but I'm afraid it's now my nap time.

The course begins...

Here's an activity what I writed for my course. Day one, and I've got something written...yay!

The church clock strikes eight, so those villagers who are awake know without checking that it is six. A cock crows, and is answered by a braying donkey. A body lies across the doorstep of the church; a viscous trickle of dark fluid on its cheek is picked out by the feeble dawn light. There is a serene, momentary quiet after the chimes cease. A figure glides past the church wall, before the silence is cracked by a baby crying.
Guillermo Brown registers briefly that these sounds of normality can still exist - clocks and cocks, babies and brays. Beneath them, he hears still the incessant bass of the front, the ceaseless, brain-churning thrum of artillery and the sudden whoompfs of displaced earth. His mind adds extra sound effects: the whistling skirl of shells bearing down on him; the nasal whine of bullets streaking by his ear, so close they set off detonations in his mind, the strangled, urgent shrieks of men shouting 'GAS!', and the eerie, invidious silence of the gas itself. All these noises want him dead. And so did his friend. Guillermo Brown looks queasily at the body, and runs.

The church had seemed safe: abandoned for the night, it offered a haven for an hour or two. If only he'd known that Tommy Atkins would get religion. As Guillermo Brown writhed on a pew, trying to snatch a fragment of sleep, Tommy Atkins began to pray.
'Will God forgive us, Gil?' he whispered. '
Yes,' snarled Guillermo Brown, bunching his jacket beneath his head as a lumpy, stinking pillow.
'But we're deserting. Running away.''
Saving our bloody skin,' Guillermo Brown corrected him.
'But doesn't the Bible say, greater love hath no man-'
'Bloody hell, Tommy!' Guillermo Brown surged to his feet. 'I never made you come. If you want to go back and be cannon fodder, off you go.' He pointed with his whole arm at the church door.
Tommy Atkins blinked stupidly. 'But we're pals,' he almost whispered, his bottom lip trembling childishly. 'It just doesn't feel right. Leaving the others behind.'
'We're not stopping them from running away, if they've got the balls for it.'
A heavy silence.
'Greaser said there'd be bacon this morning,' Tommy Atkins said vaguely. 'Bacon and good, strong tea. With sugar.' He smacked his lips, then looked at Guillermo Brown with big eyes. 'Gil. God will be so angry.'
Guillermo Brown lowered his head, recognising that the die was cast. Tommy Atkins was going back. But Guillermo Brown wasn't. 'Fine,' he whispered. 'You go back and be killed like an animal. If it'll make God happy.'
Tommy Atkins took a deep breath, and began to walk away.
Guillermo Brown settled back onto his pew, then jerked upright with horrible realisation. They'd court martial Tommy Atkins, and Tommy Atkins would spill. Every word of their plans to flee hell would tumble from his frightened mouth, and then they'd be straight after Guillermo Brown. When they caught him, they'd save the Hun the bother of shooting him.
No. Guillermo Brown raced through the church, picking up a heavy candlestick as he went. He caught Tommy Atkins on the church steps, and silenced him with a single blow. He hoped Tommy, and God, would understand.

The baby quietens as Guillermo Brown runs through the drowsy village. He sends a regretful, anguished thought after the soul of Tommy Atkins. As he reaches open country, he vows he will write a letter when he gets to safety. A warm, gentle letter to Tommy Atkins' mother, telling how her boy had laid down his life, for his friend.

Gardening haiku

Surprised wormy coils
make way for papery skin:
bulbs drowse; yearn for spring.

One small step...

You may have noticed over the past several months that I found my last OU course something of a challenge. More accurately, the kind of challenge that results the inability to string two words together, coupled with overworked cranial matter dripping slowly from the ears. I chivvied myself along with the delightful notion that once the hell of study was over, I could spend a happy few months writing before the next course (in creative writing - insert appropriately hysterical noise here) begins, but I was thwarted by the aforementioned brain dribble. Even when, as recently, I had an idea, I just couldn't get the words out: I would sit, ignoring the blank screen and inwardly screaming I can't be arsed!! Frankly, this was disturbing, as I had never conceived that it could be possible for me to get any lazier.

However, by the cunning application of self-bribery ('write for 10 minutes, then you can play all the spider solitaire you want'), I finally managed to finish something. 5,000 words of pretty mediocre stuff isn't much to crow about, but it is a relief to be back in the land of characters and dialogue rather than in the scary real world. Besides, this story got me back in touch with Tyrone, and it's always a blast to spend time with him. Just don't tell him I said that.

Another Tommy Atkins

October 18th, said Tommy’s handwriting. Had it really been three weeks since his last letter? Molly Atkins settled into her rocking chair, and set it into gentle motion. She knew it was silly to worry; Tommy was so busy out there, and of course he would see to his men first, censoring their letters and tending to their needs just as she had taught him to take care of his little brothers.

She tried to read a few lines, but the words swam before her eyes as she recalled an image of Tommy newly decked out in his uniform, looking tiny and lost like a boy in a new suit that must last him several years yet. But as she clucked and exclaimed over him, Tommy’s blue eyes had filled with calm purpose, and Molly felt sure he would get through all right. It didn’t matter that the letter now blurred before her; she knew its contents by heart. Tommy’s cheerful descriptions of the wonderful, motley assortment of lads around him; jokey remonstrations against army food, and a little list of the things he hoped she would send.

Of course, she had scuttled into the village immediately and bought all the cigarettes and chocolate she could, then she hurried home to finish knitting those warm grey socks. She knew he’d love them.

A barely-glimpsed shadow passing the window startled Molly. She half-raised herself from the chair, then sank down again. The doorbell rang in unusually sonorous and respectful tones, and a gush of anguish speared through Molly’s stomach as the certainty flashed into her mind. It was Bobby Stewart, the telegraph boy.

She heard Martha clattering down the stairs to answer, and gripped Tommy’s letter more tightly. Suddenly the words leaped out at her with all the clarity and solidity of life.

Cigarettes, please – as many as you can send. And chocolate too; it cheers the lads up a treat. And you know how I am with socks!

A list of futile little comforts that had not helped him at all. Then, a line below:

Lastly, my dearest Mother, send me your prayers.

Molly shook her head slowly. Not even this last item had reached her boy in time.