Jack liked Jill... Jill liked Bill.
Made Jack feel bad... became mega mad.
He blamed Bill... aimed a kill.
A head bled... Jill fell dead.
Jack failed bail... did jail.
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Cake' by Annette Edwards-Hill
Lydia opens the front door, it stretches from the floor to the roof. The floor is marbled, the same pattern Leah gets on her legs when they are cold.
Lydia takes her through another doorway and down the stairs, the carpet is soft under her feet.
The room is large and white, there’s the biggest piano she has ever seen in the corner. It is gleaming and as black as night. Leah stares.
Lydia notices and says “The grand, I don’t really have anywhere else to put it.” She waves her hand as if to dismiss the piano.
Lydia takes Leah to a café, they meet a friend of Lydia’s who offers Leah a piece of cake. Leah looks at Lydia. Lydia’s lips are painted pink. She smiles at Leah “isn’t that nice to be offered some cake,” she says.
Leah pulls the plate towards her “just a little piece,” says Lydia.
Lydia’s friend has asked her a question and Leah hears Lydia whisper “just the weekends, her grandmother usually takes care of her, there are problems.”
At home Lydia asks if Leah wants to sit in the TV room which is not the same room that they eat dinner. Leah thinks of the room at home with the kitchen and the couch. With her mother lying in the dark with the TV on, and when she comes home from school on a good day, her mother asking in a dry voice “hi, how was your day?”
Back in the bedroom, Leah runs her hand over the grand. They have a piano at school, a tall wooden box in the hall, the surface scratched and the keys yellow.
She touches the keys, one by one, black then white. There is a knock on the door, she lowers the lid.
Lydia takes her through another doorway and down the stairs, the carpet is soft under her feet.
The room is large and white, there’s the biggest piano she has ever seen in the corner. It is gleaming and as black as night. Leah stares.
Lydia notices and says “The grand, I don’t really have anywhere else to put it.” She waves her hand as if to dismiss the piano.
Lydia takes Leah to a café, they meet a friend of Lydia’s who offers Leah a piece of cake. Leah looks at Lydia. Lydia’s lips are painted pink. She smiles at Leah “isn’t that nice to be offered some cake,” she says.
Leah pulls the plate towards her “just a little piece,” says Lydia.
Lydia’s friend has asked her a question and Leah hears Lydia whisper “just the weekends, her grandmother usually takes care of her, there are problems.”
At home Lydia asks if Leah wants to sit in the TV room which is not the same room that they eat dinner. Leah thinks of the room at home with the kitchen and the couch. With her mother lying in the dark with the TV on, and when she comes home from school on a good day, her mother asking in a dry voice “hi, how was your day?”
Back in the bedroom, Leah runs her hand over the grand. They have a piano at school, a tall wooden box in the hall, the surface scratched and the keys yellow.
She touches the keys, one by one, black then white. There is a knock on the door, she lowers the lid.
Write-In 2019: 'There was a crooked man' by Jo Withers
There was a crooked man who walked a crooked line,
set up a crooked studio beneath a famous sign,
auditioned in his office where he set the crooked scene, pressed against their nubile bodies with his nasty crooked lean,
snapped his crooked fingers thinking he could make them dance, snapped his crooked temper when they refused to prance,
reaped awards and ceremonies in their little crooked town, seeped blackmail and alimonies when they finally brought him down.
set up a crooked studio beneath a famous sign,
auditioned in his office where he set the crooked scene, pressed against their nubile bodies with his nasty crooked lean,
snapped his crooked fingers thinking he could make them dance, snapped his crooked temper when they refused to prance,
reaped awards and ceremonies in their little crooked town, seeped blackmail and alimonies when they finally brought him down.
Write-In 2019: 'The Girl on the Train' by Jennifer Cousins
Oh
hi! – yes it’s been ages! Sorry – what did you say? – ah –
sorry - I’m on the train...Manchester – just a meeting. Sorry I
missed you last night...went to the cinema with Ellie.... “The Girl
on the Train” – yes – quite good…a bit spooky – about a
woman looking out of the train window and she sees a crime being
committed in one of the houses – but she may have imagined it. So
how is everything? You OK? …OK – that’s good….oh, that’s a
pity…oh I’m really sorry – he was quite nice from what you told
me. But never mind, it often doesn’t work out the first few
times….No you shouldn’t be embarrassed – lots of people do it.
Even my Mum had a go after my dad died – well, a few years after -
once she’d decided how to describe herself – god that was a
nightmare! She wanted to put GSOH – can you believe it! How naff is
that! She did meet some weirdos – but Gerry’s nice, steady type,
so that’s OK. It’ll be the same for you – honestly – don’t
worry…oh…hang on we’re going into a ………ah, are you there?
– sorry about that…now we’re slowing down for some reason –
oh bugger now we’ve stopped - no, nowhere near Manchester – just
the backs of some houses…glad I don’t live here, with everyone
looking in…So what’ve you been doing lately? - ah that’s
nice…what kind? Oh my God – a Rottweiler – you must be mad!...
It’ll cost you a fortune to feed – and all that walking every day
in all weathers! - ….yes, I suppose so…yea, it is a big house and
yea I can see what you mean - the garden’s huge – anyone could be
lurking – No no no I didn’t mean to alarm you! …..hey – hang
on a sec – what on earth…? … there’s a bloke on this terrace
thing waving his arms really aggressive like – and he’s Oh My
God! – you’ll never believe this - he’s hitting a woman!
Really hitting her and she’s ducking and trying to punch him –
and – just a sec…(Someone
should do something – stop the train or something !!!)
– can you believe it – no-one’s taking any notice! – looking
at me as if I’m mad – as if I’m making the whole thing up…Sarah
– are you there?....Sarah?
CLICK
Write-In 2019: 'The Delivery' by Summer Phillips
Yes, the order was for sixteen, that’s correct. It’s very encouraging to know your company employs this high level of customer service.
I’m sorry?
No, I was not informed. The text message said they’d be delivered between 3-7pm.
I’m not thrilled but I guess they’ll be alright until I get home.
What do you mean you don’t trust leaving them there? I can assure you I live in a very discerning neighbourhood.
Well you’ve delivered them. I would say that’s your responsibility.
I did not.
I can assure you it’s not my signature.
I’d like to take your name. Robert? Well young man, I did not sign off your order and if it’s Janice’s signature from nextdoor that you’ve procured, then it’s not worth the paper it’s written on. Janice and I haven’t spoken for twenty years and I shan’t acknowledge such an underhand collaboration.
I don’t rightly care about your paperwork.
They’d better not be.
What’s that noise?
What do you mean they’re alive? They’re vegetables.
No, I am not being offensive.
Now look here. I am coming towards the end of an afternoon date and it transpired well, never mind that the pie at lunch was somewhat deflated, at our age we can’t be fussy.
Do you think I’m concerned that you haven’t got the time to listen to my life story?
Listen to me Robert, I ordered my vegetables from you in good faith. You have delivered them early and they shall have to wait until I am home. It’s very likely they won’t go anywhere.
What’s that smashing noise?
What vegetables?
Well, the okra’s, of course. Very difficult to get hold of in my rural village here.
Okras, that’s right. O-K-R-A-S
O-G-R-E-S. No my dear Robert. Okra is not spelt...
Robert?
Robert?
I’m sorry?
No, I was not informed. The text message said they’d be delivered between 3-7pm.
I’m not thrilled but I guess they’ll be alright until I get home.
What do you mean you don’t trust leaving them there? I can assure you I live in a very discerning neighbourhood.
Well you’ve delivered them. I would say that’s your responsibility.
I did not.
I can assure you it’s not my signature.
I’d like to take your name. Robert? Well young man, I did not sign off your order and if it’s Janice’s signature from nextdoor that you’ve procured, then it’s not worth the paper it’s written on. Janice and I haven’t spoken for twenty years and I shan’t acknowledge such an underhand collaboration.
I don’t rightly care about your paperwork.
They’d better not be.
What’s that noise?
What do you mean they’re alive? They’re vegetables.
No, I am not being offensive.
Now look here. I am coming towards the end of an afternoon date and it transpired well, never mind that the pie at lunch was somewhat deflated, at our age we can’t be fussy.
Do you think I’m concerned that you haven’t got the time to listen to my life story?
Listen to me Robert, I ordered my vegetables from you in good faith. You have delivered them early and they shall have to wait until I am home. It’s very likely they won’t go anywhere.
What’s that smashing noise?
What vegetables?
Well, the okra’s, of course. Very difficult to get hold of in my rural village here.
Okras, that’s right. O-K-R-A-S
O-G-R-E-S. No my dear Robert. Okra is not spelt...
Robert?
Robert?
Write-In 2019: 'What They Could All Agree On' By Mark Corwin
I’m an asshole. Brought up the very subject, the one I was told not to. And I know it, and here I am—blood up to my elbows, beating the dead horse with a hammer. Staring over my own shoulder. Like my tongue was hijacked. That blundering, blustering fool. No. It’s all you. No one else. And there you go—again. “I disagree” will be written on your tombstone.
What a complete and total asshole! As if he knows anything about it? As if he knew what it was like? ‘I hear you’—but he doesn’t. And he’s always right, always so sure of it. Why doesn’t he just shut up and listen?
I married this asshole? I told him; I warned him. Did he listen? Does he ever listen? I mean, what is this even about? What is it with him? As if every conversation requires the intervention of Captain Cocksure. Cocksure—oh, does that word resonate.
@markcorwin7
formosadiary.com
What a complete and total asshole! As if he knows anything about it? As if he knew what it was like? ‘I hear you’—but he doesn’t. And he’s always right, always so sure of it. Why doesn’t he just shut up and listen?
I married this asshole? I told him; I warned him. Did he listen? Does he ever listen? I mean, what is this even about? What is it with him? As if every conversation requires the intervention of Captain Cocksure. Cocksure—oh, does that word resonate.
@markcorwin7
formosadiary.com
Write-In 2019: 'Twenty Years Late' by Stuart Atkinson
The ring from the wall phone echoed down the hall. The lost souls edged past their front doors and eyed the disruption. It seldom rang. The residents of Jury Hall had few acquaintances and even fewer friends.
I lifted the receiver watched by numerous listless eyes. A soft voice contrasted with the clamorous sound that had suddenly ceased. It asked for my name. I hesitated, and with good reason, Jury Hall was a place where you kept your identity to yourself.
The voice was calmly insistent. The watching eyes flickered into life; they knew something was up.
‘I know you killed the old guy.’
I hugged the earpiece. Those eyes have ears and they had started to move towards me.
My heart was racing, the thumps travelled up to my dry mouth. Surely the earpiece would detect my fear. I tried to gather my thoughts, but nothing came.
Then after a long pause,
‘October 1999, that old man didn’t deserve to die.’
I turned to face the residents, who had advanced into hearing range, and yelled for them to return to their miserable bolt holes. They slunk away.
‘Fifty thousand for silence,’ still calm but then with a hint of menace, ‘or I spill.’
The old man had tried to be a hero. One of those busy bodies who pokes their nose in. I had put him in the recovery position before I ran.
‘Well……?’ now with full-blown menace.
My mind raced, what a fool. I should have blasted him again. Young stupid and too soft. Now twenty years later someone had acted on his dying words.
A few doors opened, and eyes appeared. Face flushed I slammed the receiver down.
‘Wrong number,’ I blurted out, to unconvinced eyes.
It was time to leave.
I lifted the receiver watched by numerous listless eyes. A soft voice contrasted with the clamorous sound that had suddenly ceased. It asked for my name. I hesitated, and with good reason, Jury Hall was a place where you kept your identity to yourself.
The voice was calmly insistent. The watching eyes flickered into life; they knew something was up.
‘I know you killed the old guy.’
I hugged the earpiece. Those eyes have ears and they had started to move towards me.
My heart was racing, the thumps travelled up to my dry mouth. Surely the earpiece would detect my fear. I tried to gather my thoughts, but nothing came.
Then after a long pause,
‘October 1999, that old man didn’t deserve to die.’
I turned to face the residents, who had advanced into hearing range, and yelled for them to return to their miserable bolt holes. They slunk away.
‘Fifty thousand for silence,’ still calm but then with a hint of menace, ‘or I spill.’
The old man had tried to be a hero. One of those busy bodies who pokes their nose in. I had put him in the recovery position before I ran.
‘Well……?’ now with full-blown menace.
My mind raced, what a fool. I should have blasted him again. Young stupid and too soft. Now twenty years later someone had acted on his dying words.
A few doors opened, and eyes appeared. Face flushed I slammed the receiver down.
‘Wrong number,’ I blurted out, to unconvinced eyes.
It was time to leave.
Write-In 2019: 'Plat du Jour' by Grace Palmer
The sisters visited St Florence library shortly after they’d arrived in France. Books in their mother’s tongue delighted them. Their eyes slid over their language, their words. When tummies rumbled they skipped through empty aisles. The door to the outside was shut. The librarian had closed for lunch.
Write-In 2019: 'A Matter of National Security' by Amanda Jones
‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Is there anyone there?’
‘…..’
‘I got it because someone left a voicemail. He called from this number and he said it was urgent. I was trying to ring him to tell him that he had left his message on the wrong number.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’
‘… listen, it really did sound urgent and I think you need to call him’
‘…..’
‘I told you. This number was on my voicemail. I’m just trying to be helpful here. Don’t hang up’
‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’
‘…….’
‘Yes, I know it doesn’t make sense. But how else did I get your number? Yes, fine. I won’t call again. I’m just trying to help. What do you mean, ‘national security’? No, I won’t tell you where I live. Goodbye.
I watched the news for days after that. Nothing. But I figure that some things are never reported Yes, of course I still have the number. Don’t tell anyone though.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Is there anyone there?’
‘…..’
‘I got it because someone left a voicemail. He called from this number and he said it was urgent. I was trying to ring him to tell him that he had left his message on the wrong number.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’
‘… listen, it really did sound urgent and I think you need to call him’
‘…..’
‘I told you. This number was on my voicemail. I’m just trying to be helpful here. Don’t hang up’
‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’
‘…….’
‘Yes, I know it doesn’t make sense. But how else did I get your number? Yes, fine. I won’t call again. I’m just trying to help. What do you mean, ‘national security’? No, I won’t tell you where I live. Goodbye.
I watched the news for days after that. Nothing. But I figure that some things are never reported Yes, of course I still have the number. Don’t tell anyone though.
Write-In 2019: 'Silence' by Abi Hennig
Hush now and listen. In the beginning there were monsters and the monsters were fine. They talked to her and played together and laughed when she laughed and stroked her hair with their claws when she cried. When scratches appeared in the woodwork, her parents pointed and demanded and eventually shouted so loudly the windows rattled in their frames. Words lay scattered on the carpet of her room.
The monsters tried their best, but the games they played were raucous and rambunctious and fun, fun, fun; they just couldn’t stop themselves – even when the curtains were torn down and the light fitting fell from above.
Hush now. No shouting. Now just a silence that sits in the room between her and the man with horn-rimmed glasses. Silence grows and the monsters are scared. They shrink away but it catches and eats them, tail to snout. Hush now and listen.
The monsters tried their best, but the games they played were raucous and rambunctious and fun, fun, fun; they just couldn’t stop themselves – even when the curtains were torn down and the light fitting fell from above.
Hush now. No shouting. Now just a silence that sits in the room between her and the man with horn-rimmed glasses. Silence grows and the monsters are scared. They shrink away but it catches and eats them, tail to snout. Hush now and listen.
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