I wrote yesterday’s post as a cathartic rant about my continued failure to succeed in the writing business, which was triggered by me not making the long list of the Bath Flash Fiction Award . I will write some more about that when the wounds are less fresh. Needless to say that will feature a spicy shower scene with my best acquaintance.
However, I thought I had cartharted enough to enter another Faber Academy Friday #QuickFic competition. It turns out that I hadn’t vented enough spleen and now I’ve lost another competition. Which means I’ve mired myself deeper into the swamp of Self Pity, located somewhere to the north of Petulant Anger.
This was the prompt:
“But why pumpkins?” Josh said.
Janet grinned at him. He asked the question every year. She wondered if he was old enough to understand the truth yet.
“Because of the miracle.” She said.
Jan nodded. “Of course! Jack O’Lantern sacrificed himself to save us all.”
“Yeah, but why do we have to scoop his brains out?”
“Well that’s what the witches and demons did to him when he was helpless.”
Josh frowned. “But that’s a really bad thing. I wouldn’t want my brains to be scooped out.”
“That’s why we’re all so thankful to Jack for saving us all. That’s why we celebrate Halloween.”
“Mum?” Daisy said. She stopped hacking at her pumpkin with the finger severing knife traditionally used. “What’s a demond?”
“Well, he’s one of Satan’s little helpers, darling. A demon,” she made the ‘n’ a separate syllable, “is a being who goes around doing Satan’s evil work.”
“Like the opposite of an angel?” Josh said.
“Josh!” Jan looked around the garden, hoping nothing was listening. “You mustn’t talk about those sorts of creatures. It’s bad luck.”
“They can’t hurt you though, can they?” Daisy asked, smearing a little pumpkin flesh over her forehead as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. It looked like she was playing rituals.
“Demons?” Jan said.
“No.” And the little girl leant forwards and whispered. “Angels.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re not real. It’s just superstition. Like when someone says ‘Curse you’ after you’ve sneezed.”
The winners are here
Sometimes I feel like I might be another Tommy Wiseau. Like Tommy, I desperately want to make something that people will enjoy, yet perhaps I don’t have the skill or talent to translate my vision onto the page.
The problem is that although I can differentiate between good and bad writing beyond mere subjective taste, when it comes to my own work I cannot see how or why it’s not good enough. It’s as if I don’t understand the rules that everyone else is playing by.
Recently I’ve been doing the Quick Cryptic crosswords in the Times. They’re not as mind-bendingly difficult as the full 15×15 cryptic ones, but they can be tricky. I think they provide a good mental workout in preparation for writing as they test your lateral thinking, synonym recall and sometimes general knowledge. They’re also not quite as unforgiving as a concise crossword because you can work out an answer even if you don’t know what the definition part of the clue means.
For instance on Tuesday we had this:
3A Jongleur, extremely stout, protected by Merlin, somehow (8)
Now, I didn’t know what a “jongleur” was so if that was the entire clue in a concise crossword I would be stumped. However using the commonly known rules of cryptics you can work out the probable answer to be MINSTREL. (Extremely stout [take the first and last letters of STOUT] protected by Merlin, somehow [surround them with an anagram of Merlin]) If this solution seems like witchcraft to you, rest assured you are not alone.
My point here though is that I’ve actually learned a new word and definition. And by wrestling with the clue for a few minutes I’ll probably remember it better than if I’d just read it in some text and deduced its meaning from context.
There are, however, rules which I just don’t know. Obscure, impenetrable rules which seem to have been written by an inner conclave of crossword conspirators designed to make some puzzles impossible to everyone apart from those with special knowledge.
On Wednesday we had this:
21A Amphibian, old actor originally rescued in thick mist (4,4)
Admittedly, I immediately guessed at TREE FROG, but that’s not the point (Just because their conspiracies don’t work, doesn’t mean they’re not conspiring) FROG is obviously in there somewhere as thick mist is probably FOG and originally rescued is probably R. But where did TREE come from? The only bit of the clue left is old actor. I wracked my brains for an actor called Tree, or some sort of wordplay that might make it work to absolutely no avail.
There is an excellent website for Times Crossword enthusiasts which goes through the answers. (The guys who write this blog must be top of the murder list and arch enemies of the more clandestine crossword conspirators who don’t appear to have a website. But they wouldn’t, would they?) This is another site I can procrastinate on for hours as the comments are sometimes just as entertaining and informative as the main entries for each solution. You don’t often get comments like “I have a friend staying and on the way back from a lovely walk and lunch in Craster thought I would introduce him to the Times QC.” on YouTube. I think it’s a charming peek at the real life of people who you’ll never get to see on Big Brother and the like.
Anyway, on the Times for the Times website even the blogger responsible for the solution was somewhat bewildered by the old actor = tree scandal. Until a wise old hand revealed that: “TREE is Beerbohm Tree, founder of RADA and half-brother of Max Beerbohm, and perhaps the most hated chestnut in Times cryptics.”
This, it seemed to me, was outrageous. Perhaps the founder of RADA is a household name in other households but I had certainly never heard of him. Then it dawned on me that it really was my lack of skill and experience in this particular field that had baffled me. Veteran solvers might see “old actor” and immediately parse it as “tree”. In a similar fashion perhaps a genuinely talented writer might be able to make his point more succinctly.
The problem for Tommy Wiseau was that he didn’t really learn the rules and so his work is not seen in the way he intended it to be seen. Or is that the problem? Is Tommy a misunderstood genius who deliberately eschews the rules in order to create something that is beyond the comprehension and appreciation of his narrow minded contemporaries? Something that will be looked at differently when our brains have had time to catch up with him.
It worked for Ludwig van Beethoven, William Blake, Miguel de Cervantes, Leonardo da Vinci, Miles Davis and Vincent van Gogh. Art, music and literature would be very different if they hadn’t stuck their heads over the parapet in the way they did.
Maybe one day someone won’t care about the rules I broke when I wrote Entering the Weave or The Clockwork Butterfly or Charlie’s Worries.
I just wish I knew which rules I’ve broken.
Nothing comes from nothing.
Even if you spontaneously sit down one day and decide to write a novel, the words have to come from somewhere. They usually come from your own experiences, possibly embellished by books you’ve read, films you’ve seen or songs you’ve heard. They may arrive via a more circuitous route like dreams or inspiration, but these are most likely your subconscious organising your thoughts in secret without your permission.
So you need to cultivate your sources. Live as interesting a life as possible, read as much good literature as possible, watch… you get the picture. Eventually you will have enough raw material to start work. As a convenient metaphor let’s take this majestic fir tree.
I am forty eight and spend the majority of my working day writing computer programs. I’ve been doing it for thirty years and so my usual daily routine does very little to grow my tree. I read as much as I can, mainly novels and magazines like New Scientist, London Book Review and National Geographic, and watch a variety of films and TV series. These things probably help new branches flourish. And I feed and water my tree by watching and listening to real people and conversations.
So, if you’re lucky enough to finally have a tree like the one in the picture you’ll have plenty of timber to craft something awesome. You need to whittle away the irrelevancies, strip away the deviations and dead boughs. This is where you’ll write your first draft.
Now comes the hard part. Take your saw, wood plane and set square and set about creating something usable. It’s not going to be the finished product. And it’s going to be difficult. You’re going to doubt that you’re doing the right thing. You’re going to doubt that you have the skill to turn this massive, natural, living thing into something worthwhile. You’re going to doubt that you have the resilience to finish this seemingly endless project… how can there be so much bark to strip, so many branches to remove?
But you MUST keep going. If you stop because of doubt or because you feel it’s just too difficult you probably won’t start again. You’ll only have to start growing another tree. And don’t spend too much time looking back at what you’ve already done. You’ll notice little knots that you’ve missed, or extraneous needles which spoil your overall vision. These can all be addressed in the next draft. Or the next.
Don’t get it right, just get it written – James Thurber
Eventually with enough time and effort you should have something. Not a finished something just something with which you can fashion your masterpiece out of. I aim, and often fail, to write 500 words a day so the first draft of a novel tends to take me more than six months. Stephen King never writes less than 2,000 words per day. I’ve seen people on Twitter claiming back to back 5,000+ words per day. Each to their own. Remember, it’s all about getting the first draft.
It’s probably a good idea to lock this pile of wood away in a drawer for a few weeks. You’re too close to the work to objectively assess what works and what doesn’t. You will probably have the urge to send it out to an agent or publisher. You’ve worked so hard to get to this point that it seems impossible that someone won’t recognise the potential and snap it up immediately. However, I happen to know that professionals in the publishing world do not appreciate having half a ton of unfinished lumber dumped on their doorstep. It is a waste of everyone’s time.
Now comes the hard part. While you were chopping your tree down into usable logs you probably had lots of ideas which you wrote into the pile. Now you’ll come to see if these ideas improve or detract from the work. Have they themselves become the main thrust of the story? Or should they be transferred to a future work? There are a million decisions to be made now, but try not to edit line by line. Take a broad overview of the whole novel, look at the structure and the point of view. Ask yourself what you’re trying to say, who it’s for and what it’s all about.
Remove or rewrite any parts that distract you. That piece of bark that really catches your eye needs to be trimmed away. It might have been your favourite section of writing in the whole book, you might have felt like you were channelling the gods of literature when you wrote it, but if it doesn’t fit it needs to go.
Ensure your characters and the motivations of your characters are believable. Kick out the Mary Sues or the character cliches.
You have a novel that you can be read, but now comes the hard part. Now you need to polish. Throw away the purple prose and the literary cliches, scour away those the nonsensical adverbs. Look for the metaphors that seem insincere and make them as original as possible. Make sure every sentence, every phrase means what you want it to mean. It doesn’t have to be wordy or complicated. In fact, simple is almost always best.
One of the more subtle problems with close editing is that it can make you lose your voice. All the spontaneity you used when you wrote your first draft are one of the things that make your manuscript unique and you must do your best to keep the essence of that safe.
You should do this until you can read through the whole novel and not change a single character. That’s the impossible dream.
Once you’ve completed all these steps, you might want to try and get your novel published. That really is the hard part.
Last year I entered Charlie’s Worries into The Bath Children’s Novel Award. As usual I had high hopes and even though I knew the long list would be announced on the 5th December, I kept checking my emails just in case they’d decided my entry was so good they needed to let me know immediately.
No such emails were forthcoming, but my excitement grew as the day of destiny approached. I knew the selection process was blind. The openings of the novels were stripped of any of the authors’ personal information. My middle-aged, middle-class, middle of the road life could not stand against me here, my writing would have to speak for itself, and live or die purely on its own merits.
When I read the long list announcement I scrolled down slowly through the longlistees expecting, at any moment, to see Charlie’s Worries pop up. I was completely oblivious to the fact that they had been listed in alphabetical order. If I had been less nervous and more clever I would have realised that my entry would have been second on the list, if it had been there at all.
A few moments of rereading and rescrolling up and down the list followed. And then a lot more moments of angry silence.
These moments stretched into days of furious, unfounded accusation and quiet depths of betrayal. Surely the whole competition was a complete fix. A farce in fact. There was no doubt in my mind that the twenty six longlistees must all be the wife/husband/brother/sister/mother or father of the judging panel. It was the only explanation.
I’d like to say that this phase passed quickly, but I can’t. The long list was going to be whittled down to a short list of five on the 5th January, so there was barely a day in December that I did not ruminate upon the unjust dagger of rejection the The Bath Children’s Judges had thrust into my heart.
I pretended not be bothered on the 5th January. And I would have succeeded if a tiny part of me didn’t think that perhaps there had been mistake and I’d been left off the published long list by a word processing error. Perhaps my work of genius had actually made it to final five. That wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility, that was not a ridiculous flight of fancy.
Except, of course, it was. I was not on the short list.
The injustice of it. The single lined summaries sounded rubbish. How could any of these be better than my writing? Although the spider one did sound quite good. And the others maybe did have potential to be slightly interesting, as long as they were written properly. In fact, when I compared them to my own summary of Charlie’s Worries I realised they all sounded more interesting and unusual. And much, much clearer.
A month of soul rebuilding followed in the lead up to announcement of the overall winner. I can’t say I forgave these writers for their success, but I probably came to terms with the fact that there were other people who deserved at least some recognition for their efforts.
And then, on February 8th it really began to dawn on me that my accusations of cheating and nepotism might have been somewhat unfounded.
The identities of the success thieves were made public along with the opening pages of the five shortlisted novels.
It was galling. They were all worthy of winning. Each one drew me in and I would have read more if more had been available. I sat back from my computer, deflated.
Another month of growing up followed. In the back of my mind I’d always partly blamed my lack of literary success on the workshy policies or nefarious agendas of the agents I sent my work to. I could never bring myself to admit that perhaps, just perhaps, my writing was not quite good enough to slip through the narrow crack to publication. There was always something or someone standing in my way.
Well, no longer. Now that I’ve had the opportunity to read my competition I can fully appreciate how competitive the market it. If an agent gets over a hundred submissions a week then only the ones that are truly original, perfectly written or both will get a second read. It’s not a conspiracy. I just need to be better. And I’ll only get better by writing more.
I’d probably come to this conclusion by St Patrick’s Day when an interview with the overall winner was published on the Bath Novel Awards blog. It turns out that Struan Murray did not just sit down one day and decide to enter this competition. He’s been writing for years. This is his third completed novel and he has never given up.
Along with being a doctor, having extremely cool hair, saving kittens from trees (probably) and being a Bath Children’s Novel Award winner, Dr Murray also spends his creative time drawing parts of the world in which his novel is set – one of which is displayed at the top of this post. That shows a dedication I have only, so far, dreamed about.
So, congratulations to all the longlistees and shortlistees, but particularly to Struan Murray. I look forward to reading the full version of The Vessel when it is finally published
I dreamt a vampire was at my window last night.
Its smooth baldness accentuated gnarled ears. Its pallid skin was as white as its long, twisted canine teeth. The only colour in that gruesome face were its irises which were yellow surrounding a black, pinprick pupil.
It floated outside the diamond leaded glass so that only its head was visible. It might have been the moon turned malevolent until it raised a crack-taloned hand and scratched. Its eyes compelled me to obey. As if in a dream I shuffled over to the window. My hands were shaking as I raised them to lift the window latch.
“Let me in, mortal.” The voice could have been inside my head, but that did not make it less real or less compelling.
I fumbled as I touched the cold clasp and a craving rose in its glistening eyes. “Yes, yes,” it cackled. A red tongue flicked out between its monstrous teeth and licked its livid lips.
The window swung open.
Slowly, as if to savour the moment, the vampire drifted into my bedroom.
It was taller than I, and thin. It was dressed in corpse clothes. Clothes that it had been buried in. Grave dirt greased its dark suit where I imagine it had squeezed out of the coffin and wriggled up through the soil.
Then I showed him my To-Do list on my phone. He was fascinated and kept asking me question about how I’d organised it.
That’s the problem with dreams… they often don’t end up making much sense.
I love musicals. Most of my less evolved friends make fun of me for this. They undoubtedly associate musicals with sissiness and whimsy. Whereas I know the truth: music plus storytelling evokes emotions unable to be reached by the wittiest romcom or the explodingest thriller.
There is a simple explanation for this. Music, even in its simplest form, has the most direct line to our hearts. If you have a piano handy, I invite you to sit before it and play a C Major chord (C,E,G) You’ll hear a pleasant, perhaps strident sound. There’s no definitive emotion carried by this single noise, but if you change one note of the chord, if you drop the E by a semitone, the new chord will sound unmistakably sad. Anyone who has grown up hearing music played utilising the twelve golden notes of the chromatic scale will instantly understand that.
So, in one second, in fact in the moment between seconds music can convey a primal feeling more strongly than even the most touching monologue.
Quote: “All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die.” – Roy Batty
With this weapon in your arsenal you can then skilfully craft the music to emphasise or foreshadow or reassure and you can almost guarantee your audience’s instinctive reaction.
Obviously, some musicals don’t work and that’s usually because the music is not in accord with the activity on stage then the discordant result might be worse than no music at all. The “Jukebox” musicals are dire (IMHO) because the action has been wrestled around a body of work that was never meant to be a cohesive whole. It might also be that the music and songs are merely bad. The writer cannot just bung a few songs into a play and claim his job is done. As with any artistic endeavour, it’s not that simple.
However, when it works, it really works.
There is a moment in the aptly titled “The Sound of Music” where Captain von Trapp is singing at the festival that I can barely even think about without squirting tears out over my computer screen.
He is a proud man and, as he attempts to sing the Austrian folk song “Edelweiss” to his fellow countrymen the full enormity of what is happening to the world, to his family and to himself settles onto his shoulders. He looks around the auditorium and sees people bowed or enthralled by fascism and for a second his strength and breath fail him.
His voice falters.
Maria, who has come to know and love him throughout the film, quickly steps forward and lends him her sweet voice and then ushers the children forward. Buoyed by the support of his family the proud Captain regains his strength and finishes the song to rapturous applause.
It’s simple, but it would not be as heart-wrenchingly beautiful without the music. If he was merely making a speech and Maria stepped in to help it would be easy to see him as weak. As it is, the music carries the message in harmony with the action and the film steps beyond its celluloid medium and into the realm of the exquisite.
My problem now, is how am I going to survive my daughter’s school production of this?
As usually happens as I approach the end of the year I’m beginning to take stock of my accomplishments over the last twelve months. And, as usual, I find I’ve come up rather short of the goals I’d set myself.
I gave myself 23 New Year’s Resolutions for this year and entered them all into BigLifeDiary (henceforth referred to as BLD) along with potential Life Score Points (LSPs). (This is something that no one should ever be proud of – in fact just knowing what I’m talking about here should make you feel vaguely ashamed of yourself)
I shall now go through the list and see how I’ve done.
- Write every day – Woeful. I haven’t entered a score in BLD for since 8th February, and yet I’ve accrued -332 LSPs.
- Finish “The Motley Life of Edison Swift“ – Well I have started it, so not an abject failure. But I have only written the first 2 chapters. And the second chapter is garbage.
- Finish “The Book of Lies” – I have done nothing with this since 2014’s NaNoWriMo
- Finish “Sunnyside Manor” – It was a long shot that I’d even get to this, and lo and behold I didn’t
- Finish “The Boy Who Solved the Centurion Code” – See 4.
- Finish “The Smiths” – See 5.
- Eat Sensibly – I think I started out well this year and did lose about a stone and a half. However, my more recent diet has been comedic in its unhealthiness.
- Get weight down to 13 stone – HAhahahahahahahahahahhahaha hahaha ahahhahahahahhhahhaahahahahhhahaha.
- Read a serious article from Time, EDGE, New Scientist or National Geographic every week – How hard could this have been? Too hard.
- Read a novel every week – This I may have come close to doing. But it’s a bit of a cheat to have it on the list. And I haven’t reviewed and rated them on BLD so I have no record of my reading exploits.
- Read a non-fiction book every week – Hopeless.
- Run 500 miles a year – I did try for a week or so, but to average 10 miles a week is going to be hard…
- Learn conversational Greek – I did listen to a lot of audio lessons but it appears my mind may not be compatible with Greek.
- Do something interesting with the family at least once a month – I may have come close to achieving this, but again I haven’t recorded what I’ve done.
- Win the Prem at Lings – This is quite a specific resolution and incomprehensible to anyone unlucky enough to be reading this who doesn’t know me well. But it just means I have to win the top league at my local squash club. I used to do it regularly, but the standard has improved exponentially and now I’m lucky to even get into that league… So, for once, I can honestly say that I tried my hardest to accomplish this.
- Ride 2500 miles a year – I hardly even tried with this. I probably rode 50 miles in total. 10 of them up Mont Ventoux.
- Go to the gym every week – I did join a different gym in order to encourage my better half. So now I am a member of two gyms, when in reality I only need the facilities of 4% of one gym.
- Do exercises before showering – This was simple. Do a few press ups and sit ups before I have my shower whenever I had it during the day. I was really good for almost 6 months, but inexplicably stopped. And never restarted.
- Don’t play computer games or unduly procrastinate on the Internet before I’ve done reasonably well with this list – This year I have bought an XBox One and a PS4. I’m on level 2015 of Candy Crush and I have an awesome village in Clash of Clans. So you tell me… Success?
- Make a daily (realistic) TODO list every day. And attempt to do the things on it – This is good advice, but I have found that I’m much better at making lists than I am at doing stuff.
- Cook more – Again, this started pretty well, but recently I’ve been mostly eating takeaways…
- Work harder at Superchips – This is a bit moot now that I don’t work there full time, and I can say I’m definitely more efficient with my time when working.
- Do not not do something that I should and can do at the time – Or don’t put off til tomorrow what you can do today. I have tried and I know this will give me more time in the long run, but I guess I’m just lazy…
So, I have done… poorly.
However, with this new blog post in over a year comes a new plan. I have a new calendar app which allows me to break the day down into a timetable like I had at school. So hopefully a more rigorous approach to time management might remind me to do what I should be doing and nudge me in the right direction.
So, was writing this post on my timetable?
Don’t be silly.
We’re all denied the gaudy days, yet once I dared those decaying rays.
For a sweetness.
She had the nameless grace that only the living possess, but something more besides; a soft serenity that eloquently expressed her thoughts.
I watched as she floated amongst the headstones. She was adorned with brightness, a white flowing dress emblazoned by the baleful sunshine and crowned by delicious tresses of rampant gold.
I could not resist. The hunger was rife.
A row of melancholy yew trees stretched from my undercroft to within touching. Their twisted shadows promised a safe passage.
Without control, I shuttered my limbs up through the musty opening and crawled unseen into the shade. I jerked and crept closer, a mindless moth becharmed by the glow of the moon.
She was kneeling before a familiar grave now, her mind trammelled by the thing below.
Closer still, and closer I wriggled, my clapperclaws outstretched. I could so nearly engulf her purity.
A breeze shuffled the branches above and a stabbing fire erupted inside my hands and across my cheek. The deathly sunlight seared into my limpid skin and I wailed.
She started and shuffled back. There was fear in her aspect and her eyes, not terror.
I writhed away, spasming back along the avenue of yew tree shade.
Somehow the pity hurt more than the pain.
She is a creature of daylight, and now night is generally my time for walking.
The three winning entries can be found here
It’s been more than three months since I last blogged. I’ve been mired in self loathing, swamped by rejections from all the heartless agents of this United Kingdom.
However, NaNoWriMo has somehow come around again and I’ve started a new project (The Lost Lives of Eliot Lynton) which I hope will reignite my enthusiasm. Obviously, since I need to write 1,667 words a day I’ve taken to procrastinating and so this week’s #quickfic distracted me.
So, with the above quote, and the clues given about how topical it was (it’s the day after Bonfire Night and #EliotDay) I wrote a story about rugby.
If we win this one, she’ll be fine.
Stop thinking that. Now that you’ve thought that, it means if we lose, she’ll die.
“Crouch!” The referee calls.
My arms are wrapped over the shoulders of our two props, Greg and James. They’re so massive my feet almost dangle on the ground. I feel like Mum must do when she’s being carried from the bedroom to the bathroom by Dad. Small and feeble.
James reaches forward with his free hand and grabs hold of the opposing player’s sleeve. He’s grabbed back. I feel some jostling from behind as our pack prepares itself. The familiar feeling of excitement, of adrenalin surges through me. I grimace at my opposite number.
If we lose, she’ll die.
I’m hurled forwards as Greg and James lean into the scrum, interlocking our heads with our enemies. There are hollows, stuffed with heads and elbows and knees. Everything is hard.
I can only see the mud. It seems like it’s only a few inches in front of my face.
In comes the ball, tossed in at ridiculous angle, a cheating slant. Greg roars and heaves us forward. My shoulder wrenches back. I think I can feel the bones grinding, but I don’t care. Somehow I stretch my heel around the ball and hook it back into our pack.
Then we surge ahead.
And the ball is gone, taken by the backs.
I scramble to my feet.
If we can score from here, she’ll be fine.
The actual winners, and particularly worthy ones I think, are here
It’s Thursday which is not #quickfic day. But, in an effort to stop me from submitting to them, @FaberAcademy have decided to run the competition today.
Well more fool them because I spotted it and entered anyway!
I know why her parents didn’t want me come, but I still went round to her house after the service.
I could see them inside, slumped together on the sofa, nodding and faking smiles at all the meaningless condolences.
I stood out on the street and watched them until everyone had gone and the darkness had chased the noise from the world.
I couldn’t go home.
I crept down the side of the house, desperate to find something of hers. Something that meant something.
I saw them on the lawn. It looked like she’d kicked them off before getting onto the tatty trampoline. I nearly cried then when I imagined her playing.
I looked at the windows overlooking the garden. They were empty and dark. I scurried onto the lawn, grabbed her shoes and hurried away with my prize.
I wandered the streets then. Clasping the shoes to my breast, unaware of my tears. I went to the bridge and watched the trains. I went to the park and sat next to an empty swing.
I went to Hope Alley which was where she’d proved how much she loved me.
I placed the shoes against the crumbling wall, just where she stood when we first kissed. I fussed with them, arranging them exactly how I remembered she’d place her feet, one foot flat, the other with the heel raised against the wall.
I imagined her ankles growing from the shoes, turning to calves, knees, thighs and skirt. I imagined her waist and her arms, her neck and her face.
She was so beautiful. That’s where they found me.
I’ve edited my entry now so it’s actually 18 words too long.
The winners are here