Thursday 22 August 2013

Challenge 3 – Lost love

This week’s challenge involved writing a rhyming poem. Love them or loathe them, people love to argue about whether or not poems should rhyme! I don’t usually write poems that are specifically designed to rhyme, so this one was tricky! With the aid of a good rhyming dictionary, I wrote this piece which I think came out alright in the end.

The inspiration for this one has come from a variety of sources. I think it is a subject that touches us all at one stage or another in our lives:

‘It had been six months since she died,
And it didn’t matter how hard he tried,
He just couldn’t get Mary out of his mind,
Plagued by the feeling he’s been left behind.

He still heard her favourite song,
Playing all night long,
To Kalamazoo they swayed,
Dancing down Leamington Parade.

But she was gone now,
And he couldn’t understand how,
He could ever sleep again,
Without her in his arms’ domain.

He wanted to hold her tight,
Squeezed with all his might,
But all he touched was cold hard air,
And the bitterness of knowing she wasn’t there.

Christmas came and went,
With friends and sons and money spent,
And he found himself staring,
Hoping, wishing, daring…

In Hamleys window there she sat,
With a bow round her neck just like that,
Crimson shimmer, Mary’s favourite colour,
And it made his heart grow fuller.

He paid the clerk and took her home,
Soft and warm and no longer alone,
He laid her flaxen head upon his bed,
And snuggled up behind her furry head.

Holding teddy close and still,
He whispered ‘Mary, darling, I love you and I always will.’’


22/08/2013
S J Menary

Tuesday 20 August 2013

Colney Hatch



Through the course of my research for the archaeological poem published earlier this month, I came accross an article about a little known disaster that happened at Colney Hatch Asylum in London in 1903. This was one of the worst asylum fires in the city's history, and the 52 women who perished have largely been forgotten.

This story, and others like it, inspired me to write this piece of flash fiction.


I stand and watch the asylum burn. I know I should feel angry after everything they have done to me, righteous even in its ultimate destruction.
But I just feel numb. Black belches of smoke vomits out of the shocked window frames, hinting deep inside at the fiery beast’s glowing heart.
Jenny was right. She was always right. One day, she had said to him. One day this place would all fall down around me, and I alone would stand firm.
I don’t feel firm now. I feel soft and limp and thin, and all the stark elements around me are threatening to cut through me like paper.
I hear the others, whooping and laughing and screaming. Running riot as they career out of the asylum.
I’m not supposed to call it an asylum any more. It’s a hospital now. It gives them better press to call it that. Not that it has really changed. It is still a place to hide away the broken ones, so we don’t offend the senses of the ‘normal’ ones.
The normal ones. Ha. The normal ones are the reason those on the top floor are burning in their beds right now, strapped down and drugged out of their minds. Locked doors and collapsing roofs.
They’ll call it an electrical fault. A patient to blame, smoking when they shouldn’t have been. But I know the truth.
I can hear the fire fighters coming now. I slip into the shadows, and disappear. My shadow trails like a black cloak, the orange fire tendrils clinging to the hem.

19/08/2013
S J Menary

Monday 12 August 2013

Challenge 2: flash fiction without adjectives or adverbs

To a writer, adjectives and adverbs are stock and trade. If you are of my generation, just the mention of an adjective or adverb leaves you reaching for a dictionary in a cold sweat. Which one is a decribing word again...?

But these are the very lifeblood of a novelist's craft. Which is why when my writer friends challenged me to create a piece of flash fiction without using any at all, I couldn't resist the challenge. And just to make things a little more difficult, I needed to use dialogue without any identifiers like 'he said' etc. Nothing like an impossible task first thing in the morning to wake you up!

So here is my attempt:

‘Ayes’ dunna seen ‘im.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye. Tis t’ truth.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Ayes’ dunna care!’
‘Well you should!’
‘Isna my dog.’
‘Billy is missing!’
‘So? Ya shuda kept ‘im on t’ lead.’
‘I did! But, there was a cat, and, oh…What am I going to do now?’
‘If youse gonna blub, I’m outta here.’
‘Please, stay and help me to look?’
‘Well, I’s got ta be sumwhere…’
 ‘I…I…’
‘’e’s probahbly not far, now, bab. Did ya look at t’ stream?’
‘No, let’s go there and check.’
‘T’ field needs draining. Water’s in me boots.’
‘I know. Mud everywhere. We should be able to see his tracks, though. Billy! Billy! Where are you, boy?’
‘There, lass!’
‘Billy! What were you doing under that bridge? Billy! Let me fuss you, boy! Thanks for helping me to find him, Mister.’
She looked up, and around the park. But the man had disappeared.
 

Challenge 1: Mundane flash fiction

Regular readers of this blog will realise, fairly swiftly, that my writing tends towards the darker, more melodramatic elements of the human condition.

As a result, my fellow writers challenged me to write a piece of flash fiction that was definately NOT dark, magic, or melodramtic. I must admit, I was fairly certain the end result would be mind-numbingly mundane. I think this is precisely why I FAILED!  However, I was quite happy with the result. See for yourself:


‘You would never have guessed that the electric carver he was using to cut her kebab had been used to stab Big Al on Saturday night.
She waited for him to put the slightly stained implement down, and hand her the brown paper bag.
            ‘Three fifty, love.’
            ‘Here.’
            ‘Ta, bab.’
Walking the short distance to the post box, she put the bag on top. She slipped her letter into an envelope. She had told him about what happened. About the unfortunate fact that Big Al’s spleen had been found in the guttering. It was a shame it had happened at 3:30. The Headmaster across the road was furious. Apparently blood spatter in the window of Bilton Chippy was less than conducive to learning. 
Sealing the envelope with a kiss, she printed the address on the front.
            ‘HMP Onley,
            Serious Offenders Unit,
            Onley.’
That will make him smile, she thought to herself as she popped it in the box.’

Memoirs of an excavated skeleton

I feel it on my chest
Constricting
Crushing
My ribs splintering under the weight
And all around me is darkness
Soil in my mouth
My eyes
My heart

And still I reach up my straightjacketed hand
Desperate for a drink
Dying of thirst
The endless urge gnawing at my throat, eating my flesh from the inside
What I wouldn’t do for one glass of whiskey
One breath of fresh air
One gold coin in my pocket

The memories of that godforsaken pool
Of the crazed loons, that gurgled and pissed in its waters
The chains that bound us to those frozen stone walls
Straw beneath our feet

The so-called physicians that stole from us
Our blood
Our vomit
Our sanity
Our minds

I hear them digging above
Scratching, searching, looking for me?
And the gleam of stark sunlight will one day cut through
And reveal to the world what they did to us
They will not be able to hide forever

Too much drink dulled my senses,
And now my head is full of stagnant, raging memories
Nightmares of the raving
My only joy condemned me
Hurled into a prison for the damned
Stripped of my rights, my clothes, my positions
Labelled forever more:
A Lunatic of Bedlam

12/08/2013
S J Menary

2013 Liverpool Lime Street Station Crossrail Excavation Project on the site of the former St Bethlem Hospital (founded 1247), the first dedicated mental health hospital in England, and the orgins of the corruption 'Bedlam' 


Friday 9 August 2013

Book Review: Just.Another.Common.Killer by Chantal Bellehumeur

Chantal Bellehumeur’s Just. Another. Common. Killer is unlike anything you will have read before.
This meticulously researched story gives the average reader a real insight into the historical killings of Jack the Ripper, and the myths that surrounded him as he became a legend. The reader is exposed to the many theories of just who Jack the Ripper really was, and Bellehumeur makes a convincing argument for her own conclusion.
Bellehumeur’s narrative takes us on a harrowing journey of graphic murder, insanity and, ultimately, escape. Her protagonist, Jack, finds himself as the modern day re-incarnation of the Victorian serial killer. We follow Jack from his childhood, through his crimes and escalating violence, to the shocking truth about his birth father, to the depths of his depravity. His psyche is explored, and even the most ardent fan of crime and horror may find it difficult to read on.
Balancing this, we see Jack’s ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ persona emerge, and how easy it is for him to hide in plain sight. This chilling reflection applies as much today as it did in the 1800’s. The reader is left wondering just how many others have escaped justice over the years, and still walk amongst us?

Friday 2 August 2013

Silence in the library

Marcie was having a bad day. No matter which way she looked at it, there was just no way she was going to be a size 8 by the end of the day.
She slumped her 16 stone arse into the swivel chair with a sigh, and shoved another custard cream down her throat.
As bad days went, this was shaping up to be one of the worst. It had begun roughly ten hours ago, with the violent hammering of her alarm clock that still seemed to be ringing around her skull. Her hair had thrown a tantrum before she even reached the bathroom mirror. Topped up by the wall of rainwater she had stepped into outside of her front door, and she had taken on the appearance of a very sad, abandoned rescue dog.
The car hadn’t started. Typical. A few good curses and a violent kick to the tyre rim had sorted that one out. And then the bloody sheep. Seriously, sheep?! She had sat in that bloody traffic jam for half an hour watching the poor drenched bobby desperately trying to round up the escaped creatures, who looked like they were damn well enjoying the experience. When the tenth bundle of soggy wool had run past her wing mirror, Marcie had seriously considered leaping out with a flamethrower and making lamb kebabs for breakfast.
Breakfast seemed a very long time ago now. Her feet were aching. Not the gentle ache of walking around the shops for too long. No, this was the hard core, feet-falling-off, power ache that only comes from lugging around large quantities of woman all day on the beck and call of the world and his wife.
The library where Marcie toiled was a dank, dark, unpleasant sort of place. Regimental council issue grey carpets surrounded by suspicious looking stains on the magnolia walls where the pigeon had gotten in again. If she had to catch that bloody thing again, Marcie was sure she’d catch rabies. Or some other terrible disease only found in Victorian slums. Well, she shrugged, at least she might loose a bit of weight if she caught dysentery. But, she hadn’t seen Sid, as they called him, in the last week so she was probably safe.
And she couldn’t really blame Sid. After all, it was marginally drier inside the drafty library than outside. Marcie figured if she was a pigeon, she would probably do just the same. Who knew? Maybe she and Sid would be friends if she was a pigeon.
She sighed again, her whole massive body slumping down until she resembled a large, fat, miserable Buddha. Over the counter, she was being laughed at by the conveniently photogenic girl on the council propaganda poster. Her library was bright and fresh, and all of her customers obviously found photogenic girl’s jokes very funny indeed. What a load of bollocks, Marcie huffed to herself.
She had never meant to end up here in this desolate place. End of the line. The last resting place of decrepit Mills and Boon and equally decrepit pensioners. And one washed-up, larger than life, 30…ish something.
Marcie had been a go-getter. Once. A very long time ago. She had dreamt of being somebody. Anybody, really, other than who she was. And by 30…ish, she thought she might have made something of herself. She would have had prestige, authority, power. She’d be someone people could look up to.
A piercing shriek of a child split through her thoughts in an instant, at that particular pitch that can liquefy a brain in a second. The brat was stomping up and down the bookshelves, his daydreaming mother gently perusing the chick lit as her offspring tore the stickers off the shelves.
Marcie forced herself not to react, and focused her attentions on her college, Rhonda, who was flicking through the glossy pages of the latest issue of Home & Country. Rhonda’s work avoidance skills were legendary, deftly ignoring the glares of the manager from the crime section.
            ‘Ohh, would you look at this, Marcie,’ Rhonda cooed. ’16 bedrooms and a billiards room. Alfred and I could settle for a place like that.’
            ‘Does it have a pool?’ Marcie asked half-heartedly.
            ‘No.’
            ‘Not interested then.’
            ‘It does have a golf course though.’
            ‘How much?’
            ‘A few million,’ Rhonda replied matter-of-a-factly.
            ‘I’ll take two,’ Marcie grunted, hauling herself to her feet.
She dusted the biscuit crumbs off her fussy pink dress. Not that the crumbs mattered much. When she met Dave off getmatched.com tonight, he would soon realise that she was not a 7ft, size 8, Afro-Caribbean supermodel. She already regretted the dress. Too much…pink. She looked like a big, fluffy marshmallow. But then, Dave was probably not much to write home about. Some plasterer from nowheresville, who’d never even left his hometown and still lived with his mother.
What a catch.
Marcie scoffed another custard cream.
The brat was screeching again. Scream, breath, scream, breath, screeeeam…
            ‘Marcie!’ her manager squawked.
A pair of mean. Beady little eyes were peering through the foreign literature at her.
            ‘Marcie Smith, what have I told you about eating at the counter? The manager half-sung in a veiled attempt to hide the venom.
            ‘Mwah? Meh?’ Marie sprayed a hail of biscuit crumbs across the counter.
Real convincing. Just be cool, Marcie, she told herself. Let it roll off you. The woman’s a grade A moron. Grand total of life achievement: nil.
The manager popped her head over the shelves, a crazed main of wild frizz encircling a heavily lined forehead and tiny-rimmed spectacles. Serengeti like, she stalked over to the counter, hunting for weak prey.
            ‘And you’ll need to do the till receipts again, the manager snapped.
‘All of them? But that will take all…’
‘No excuses, Marcie. You didn’t fold them right last time. I’ve told you this before. They need to be folded into three equal parts, not two.’
‘Can’t we just…’
‘No,’ she shook her head as if chiding a naughty child. ‘They are all bent out of shape. We can’t just re-fold them. They need to be done again. If you had just listened to me in the first place, we wouldn’t be cleaning up your mess, now would we? And some one needs to stay late to wait for the mobile library to return. That will be you then, I take it? He’s due in at 9pm. Marcie?’
Marcie had clenched her fists, fighting the overwhelming urge to smack her manager in the teeth. Tension was roiling in her stomach, running up her shoulders.
Don’t rise to it, girl, she told herself. This, this…gremlin of a woman…is nothing but spit on the bottom of my shoe. I am better than her. I will take the high road.
Despite the fact that my life has amounted to nothing. Despite the fact that I could crush this gremlin’s puny body with just one of my voluptuous buttock cheeks. Despite the fact that she has just confiscated my custard creams!!
            ‘Marcie, are you listening to me?’ the gremlin was whittering. ‘Honestly, it’s like I’m talking to myself sometimes…’
            ‘Yaaaaaarrrrgh!’ the brat yelled, swiping at the counter and stealing the scanning wand.
            ‘Marcie,’ Rhonda absentmindedly pointed to the child hurtling away, scanner in hand. The wire, still attached, was yanking the computer down the desk.
            ‘Marcie!’ the manager barked.
The voices where careening around her brain, boiling her blood. Her knuckles had turned white, her teeth grinding themselves to sharp points. Everyone needed to just shut up!
            ‘Marcie?’
            ‘What?!’ Marcie slammed her hands down on the desk, trapping the scanner wire. The brat yelped as he hit the floor.
Glaring over the counter, Marcie found herself nose to nose with the slightly-scared looking security guard, Bob.
            What do you want, Bob?’ Marcie spat.
            ‘I just came to tell you about Sid.’
            ‘What about Sid?’ she ground out.
            ‘I’m sorry Marcie, but Sid is dead. A local drunk was seen in the graveyard. He…He…I’m sorry to have to tell you this…but he…he…bit Sid’s head off. It was on Crimewatch and everything!’
            ‘Sid…is dead?’
Marcie. Snapped.
Enough was enough! Her blood was on fire, steam evaporating from her skin, her hair pinging into rampant curls.
There was only so much one woman could take!
This was insane! This town was insane!! Sid was dead!!!
What sort of twisted, freakish sickos infected this stinking spit of a town?! To bite the head off a live pigeon! An innocent bird! This place was toxic! Evil! Inhuman!
            ‘Arrrrgh!’ Marcie screamed.
Hulk-like, she grasped the swivel chair and hurled it over the counter at the snivelling brat. He ran screaming for the door.
She vaulted up onto the counter, grabbed Rhonda’s Home & Country, and tore it to shreds with her bare hands. Ripping the till from the counter, she chucked it with all of her considerable weight at the gremlin’s head, knocking her out cold on the floor.
Rhonda and Bob looked on with horror as Marcie’s fingernails grew claw like, her skin drying and forming scales. Her jaw grew long, sharp teeth protruding like fangs. And, sprouting from her rotund posterior, a long reptilian tail swished across the desk, swiping library stamps across the floor.
The Marciesaurus turned her fearsome glare upon them, and let out a huge, window shattering, roar.
            ‘SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY!!!!!!’