“So there you have it, openings from, ‘a truth universally acknowledged’ to ‘it was the best of times, the worst of times’ and the many that have followed, play a vital part in enticing the reader into the story, capturing our imaginations, drawing us in. Next week we’ll look at the impact of last lines, equally important narratively, as they close the circle begun all those pages ago, starting with...starting with...well, I think I’ll just leave it hanging, give you a reason to show up.” The minute he completed his sentence, the lines of Gatsby came back to him, the ‘boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly in the past’, that always reminded him of his father’s descent into dementia. Fiona always frowned when he mentioned the ‘D’ word, saying he was far too young for that, and just because his father had it, didn’t mean he would succumb too.It hadn’t stopped him making an appointment and now he was going to find out the results, he had a horrible feeling she was wrong.
The doctor was young, brisk, and kind, but honest enough not to spare his feelings – rapid onset dementia, progressing fast.The symptoms were manageable now, but best get his house in order while he could.
Fiona was predictably stoic as the disease took hold quickly. After all, she loved him, she had no choice. It was hard though, watching his behaviour change. Harder still to see him lose words. The great lecturer and intellectual, speechless.
But partial memories were worse...
...Boats against the current...
...Borne back ceaselessly...
...In the..
...Past
Showing posts with label Prompt 7. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 7. Show all posts
Monday, 17 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'A game of...' by Summer Phillips
The mouse didn’t think that the cat would chase it down the hall.
The hall didn’t think that the cat would hide in the cupboard.
The mouse didn’t think that the cat was hiding, cupboard stealthy.
The cupboard didn’t really wish to be involved at all.
A cupboard which ignored all the cat mouse business.
The cat got cramp waiting for the mouse.
The mouse which backtracked, after its cheese.
The cat pounced, the mouse ran!
The cat trod on cheddar.
Not my cheese, please!
The cat squealed.
For, snap.
Mousetrap.
The hall didn’t think that the cat would hide in the cupboard.
The mouse didn’t think that the cat was hiding, cupboard stealthy.
The cupboard didn’t really wish to be involved at all.
A cupboard which ignored all the cat mouse business.
The cat got cramp waiting for the mouse.
The mouse which backtracked, after its cheese.
The cat pounced, the mouse ran!
The cat trod on cheddar.
Not my cheese, please!
The cat squealed.
For, snap.
Mousetrap.
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'The facility' by Grace Palmer
They waited until after dark to remove the body from the secret enclosure. The visitors had gone home, fractious, jolly, exhausted after a day’s staring.
Five of them lifted the old girl onto the truck. Her head lolled and her Keeper wept. She’d be dissected. The lion.
Five of them lifted the old girl onto the truck. Her head lolled and her Keeper wept. She’d be dissected. The lion.
Write-In 2019: 'The last holiday' by Cath Barton
We set off for the place where we’d been happy lots of times, before, but I felt terrible from the first day, a stone dragging in my heart. In the evenings I drank wine to numb me, but next morning, on the long drive, I felt its leaden weight. I found myself crying for no reason, except of course there was a reason, I just couldn’t work it out.
When we reached Provence the sky was luminous and I thought it might work its magic on us again. I cooked the simple food we both loved and we ate on the terrace, overlooking the lavender fields. Anyone seeing us would have thought he was behaving normally, but he was always a good actor. There were times when he had rehearsed his parts with me, on that balcony. We had laughed together then, when there was no-one else in the plot. Now I had an unknown rival stealing all my best lines.
‘You can guess who it is,’ he said, finally cornered.
‘I don’t want to guess,’ I hissed, eyes narrowing. Though by then I knew her name. I wanted him to wriggle. Like a worm. Skewered.
When we reached Provence the sky was luminous and I thought it might work its magic on us again. I cooked the simple food we both loved and we ate on the terrace, overlooking the lavender fields. Anyone seeing us would have thought he was behaving normally, but he was always a good actor. There were times when he had rehearsed his parts with me, on that balcony. We had laughed together then, when there was no-one else in the plot. Now I had an unknown rival stealing all my best lines.
‘You can guess who it is,’ he said, finally cornered.
‘I don’t want to guess,’ I hissed, eyes narrowing. Though by then I knew her name. I wanted him to wriggle. Like a worm. Skewered.
Write-In 2019: 'The Visitor' by Sarah Mosedale
‘I confess the purpose of your visit is not immediately clear to me,” said Dr Fowler, closing down the desktop screen, removing a smeared pair of glasses and rubbing the back of her thin, pale hand across red rimmed eyes.
The small woman sitting on the other side of the desk in the consulting room said nothing in reply; it was not her responsibility to set the agenda as the doctor was well aware, her presence was quite sufficient.
The doctor shifted in her seat - as a well informed citizen she had, of course, been expecting this day for a very long time but now it had arrived she found herself awkward, at a loss, curiously unprepared.
What were the correct words for the occasion, the correct demeanour, how was she expected to conduct herself, to behave, how should she move her eyes, her hands, did any of it matter?
The visitor sat quietly, relaxed, well presented, generally unremarkable in appearance, a bit of a mouse one might suppose, though a mouse conspicuously at ease in its surroundings.
The doctor shuffled a few papers, fumbled a drawer open, closed it again, caught sight of the wall clock tick tocking through the day like any ordinary day.
Suddenly the time passing, the lack of speech, felt oppressive; surely something should have been said.
The doctor cleared her throat but it seemed the opportunity had been missed.
She could think of nothing to say, not a single word, nothing at all.
The visitor caught her eye, smiled as if politely and rose.
“After you, Dr Fowler,” she said.
They left the room.
The door closed.
The small woman sitting on the other side of the desk in the consulting room said nothing in reply; it was not her responsibility to set the agenda as the doctor was well aware, her presence was quite sufficient.
The doctor shifted in her seat - as a well informed citizen she had, of course, been expecting this day for a very long time but now it had arrived she found herself awkward, at a loss, curiously unprepared.
What were the correct words for the occasion, the correct demeanour, how was she expected to conduct herself, to behave, how should she move her eyes, her hands, did any of it matter?
The visitor sat quietly, relaxed, well presented, generally unremarkable in appearance, a bit of a mouse one might suppose, though a mouse conspicuously at ease in its surroundings.
The doctor shuffled a few papers, fumbled a drawer open, closed it again, caught sight of the wall clock tick tocking through the day like any ordinary day.
Suddenly the time passing, the lack of speech, felt oppressive; surely something should have been said.
The doctor cleared her throat but it seemed the opportunity had been missed.
She could think of nothing to say, not a single word, nothing at all.
The visitor caught her eye, smiled as if politely and rose.
“After you, Dr Fowler,” she said.
They left the room.
The door closed.
Write-In 2019: 'No matter how hard she tries' by Clodagh O'Brien
She finds it harder and harder to care about stories at bedtime. Even though he asks to hear about aliens and bears and dragons and dinosaurs. He laughs and cries as she reads because he loves words. She loved words too before she was left behind. For a secretary in a tight red dress. Alone, two books at bedtime became one. One became words in the dark. Now, he squirms while she. Watches the nightlight. Another bedtime. Wordless.
Write-In 2019: 'The day the words left' by Kim McGreal
The day I was born, the city was soaked with rain, thunderous storms that turned the sky black; the doctors told mama that I had a rare genetic disease – I wouldn’t live very long, and by the time I died, I would lose all of my words.
Mama ignored their fear-mongering and their warnings, instilling in me a child’s love for exciting new letters, then whole words, then the books that she adored; giving me enough words that it would take two lifetimes to lose them.
The first word I lost was her name, but I still knew who she was, and I realised that names were less important than the feelings those people inspire. The next words to go were the adjectives, which made me think about what I tried to say, but you don't need those to keep speaking to people.
Day by day more of them are starting to leave me, and I struggle to speak out loud. I no longer remember the one for a specific combination of letters. Soon I’ll have none of them left.
And they’ll all be gone.
How will I talk?
How to understand?
How?
---
@kimsfic
Mama ignored their fear-mongering and their warnings, instilling in me a child’s love for exciting new letters, then whole words, then the books that she adored; giving me enough words that it would take two lifetimes to lose them.
The first word I lost was her name, but I still knew who she was, and I realised that names were less important than the feelings those people inspire. The next words to go were the adjectives, which made me think about what I tried to say, but you don't need those to keep speaking to people.
Day by day more of them are starting to leave me, and I struggle to speak out loud. I no longer remember the one for a specific combination of letters. Soon I’ll have none of them left.
And they’ll all be gone.
How will I talk?
How to understand?
How?
---
@kimsfic
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