writing – Page 2 – S J Lister. Author

Do details matter?

It’s the little things. Every little helps. Little things make big things happen. Beware of little expenses.

There are many quotes about the importance of little things. Some good… Some you need to search for and then realise why they don’t make the list.

But it is in the details that stories are made. Show don’t tell right? The difference between saying a person “doesn’t wear their wedding ring anymore” compared to the character “rubbing the pale skin on the 3rd finger, they paused and as they ordered another drink, each glass filled the missing gap in their life for now. But tomorrow would come eventually.” (Not saying that is an amazing line, but the details matter).

We have characters in our minds that we try to bring to the page, not just for our reader, although obliviously important, but to bring our characters to life. For us. I always think of the Coen brothers film. To see what small detail will they give Clooney next, obsessive about his teeth or hair. A small part of the character that shows a lot about the character itself, him/her self, themselves.

“Joan waited for the aged kettle to finally come to the boil. The balance of putting in just enough water for two mugs vs the time for it to boil. Any mention of throwing it out or replacing it would bring up the same points. It’s a kettle. It boils water. Apparently these arguments are meaningless as it it all that is left from the flat. Boxes from friends and family are all they have now. But the kettle survived so must be kept.

Monday always was a tough day for Evelyn, good weekends meant strong coffee. 3 spoons of coffee, 2 sugars and a splash of milk. Each week without fail. It was her only way to get to the bus and deal with the public until ot became ocially acceptable to have a coffee at work.”

I guess I have two points here, the kettle and the need to keep something safe, and their potentiallyheavy going weekends for the characyers with a need for coffee to gey through their day. They may work somewhere there is judgement about health(ish) living.

When a character is formed, describing each detail becomes a long list. Is it important to detail each item they are wearing. It might be. But only if it is needed for the story. Having a small random detail that is just that, random, “he liked cheddar cheese”, can be OK, but is it going anywhere? Does it have any relation to develop the character about how he only likes one cheese or is it just a point to say something more, but never does anythin, for him. Will they find a partner who serves up Cheshire cheese and it starts as a reason why they become uncomfortable or possibly more? Random is nice, but is it relevant?

Also, my main point from where this train of thought is coming from, a small detail can also show a history between two characters without having to say, “they have known each other for 10 years, always being there to support each other so they know what to do.” It could be as simple as “Dave placed the tea next to Michelle as the spreadsheets were open. The familiar sigh came as she paused, picked up the cup to breathe it in and smiled. Just simple tea with oat milk. Never a word was needed between them.”

Or just someone saying “Tea?” With them bringing it out attached with a comment such as “I still don’t get how you can drink that oat milk stuff. Just weird.”

Simple.

What is my point today? Well, I am sure I had one. My main thinking is, when writing, what are the little details you have added to flesh out a character. Is it the type not cigarettethey smoke, the band t-shirt they wear, the connection between 2 or more people to show they not just know each other, but know each other well.

How have you shown, not told, a key detail about someone, or something, to help develop the story?

Happy writing, everyone.

The call for the Robin’s return

The moon perched itself up high and bright while its light broke through the clouds as they past with a mild breeze. Below danced a young maiden, her headdress was made of leaves that had been chosen for their colour and kept for this night. As she frolicked around a fire, the shadows filled the field with a myriad of shades along the rows of vines down the banks. The Kings maiden however, had not been chosen for her skills as a dancer, nor her ability to lead the people on this night when the procession forms. His steward had chosen the young maiden for how she looked, soft on the eye with her long hair flowing around her while she danced.

When one of the men from the tables on high walked to her she would gracefully twirl to collect a ladle from the pot over the fire to refill the cups brought to her. The slow steam coming off the pot was a sign that the liquid was warm but not boiling, allowing the alcohol and herbs to mix. The space around the pot filled with the aroma of fruits and spices. With a tent set around the fire the smell was strongest and as the evening went on, the young maidens dancing strengthened, powered by the mixture coming from the pot.

Up the hill, under a cover of a tent sat the King and Queen, their faces illuminated by the torches around the edges. The steward, watching his choice closely for the night, sat to the side of the King, listening. To the other side of the Royal couple sat an empty chair. Vacant, and waiting for the King’s son to appear, to take his place above the gathering to bring in the new year.

With the tables filled, the feast was brought out. A blend of the year’s harvest and gifts from those who attended the meal. The change was subtle, but as the servants brought plates out to those further from the king, the platters slowly shrunk as did the plates. By the time the servants brought out the food for the tables furthest from the King, the platters were half the size, but the chairs were double. But tonight, was not to about feasting and to engorge your stomach, it was a moment to end the year and bring in the new.

As the King picked up his knife to begin the feast a roar could be heard from down the field. The atmosphere down the field was filled with song, music and a beer being shared. The sound matched the dancing and shadows of the young maiden but the quiet music by the King was being drowned out by the guttural sound from below.

‘Go and fetch my son’. The orders were spoken quietly from the King to his steward. The sheep skin pelts of the king shifted as he turned to his steward to give him the order. The night had grown cold and the elaborate clothes of the King had become buried under layers of pelts, each a gift to show his power, carefully laid on each other to show the sheep, wolf and bear skins that covered him to keep him warm.

The steward, dressed in fine clothes collected his black fur pelt to cover his shoulders, help together by a golden clasp marking him at the Kings steward, a token he wore with pride no matter the occasion. Carefully, he rose from his seat as a servant pulled back his chair. A purposeful walk, one that he took pride in holding, he often felt dignified in walking slowly regardless of the moment. Only a rushed man was to be ordered about. With his back straight and collected posture, he felt the eyes of those he deemed below him look his way, only to quickly hide behind mugs and food if he hinted at looking down the tables he walked past.

As he walked down the hill, he felt the cold breeze brush by him, thankful for his warm clothes he strolled through the hedge rimmed path and turned down the path. He watched the young maiden dance herself into a frenzy as the string instruments tried to keep up with her path. The aroma from the warm liquid in the pot taking its affect slowly. Next to him the rows of vines stretched far to both sides, having been prepared for the new year and next years harvest. The first signs of growth and the rich fruits they will grow not yet showing. The risk of a late frost was always a worry for the farmers and the new year.

The merry singing and the cheers appear to reach its peak as the steward met a soldier on guard at the orchard gates. The smell of ale met him before the words of greetings came from his lips. The steward, often called by his title and not his name, Atolfyr, walked past knowing a conversation would neither end well, nor be meaningful. In front of him would normally be a open space with a well neatly in the middle with the sparse barns to his left. Of course, this was not a normal day, and the space for carts and sorting servants and slaves was filled with Ale drinking and dancing. Fire pits had been set up leaving space for the procession to pass later that night. But he had to push his way through. Something he had become unaccustomed to with his title, and knights usually in front doing the work for him. The more he ordered people to move, the less willing they seemed to be.

Finding the King’s son was not going to be difficult. The ale was being poured from the large barrels stored in one of the barns and the mass of people needing their jugs refilled showed him quickly where to go. It is not often to see a prince acting the servant, and when he saw him pouring drink, Atolfyr was unsure when he had ever experienced such a sight. When the prince saw him appear in the crowd, he beckoned him over.

‘Make way you drunken fools’, his voice cut clear across the crowd and the rabble moved eloquently to let Atolfyr through with no hindrance. ‘Can’t you see the steward of the King, the great Atolfyr has come to grace us with his presence.’ Although his voice was merry and cheery, Atolfyr never took to being referred to as Great from the Prince. It was never meant in a kindly manor, which was the norm for how he spoke toward him. Even the prince understood that the steward represented the King, and to speak to the king’s steward in such a tone was to insult the King himself. A complaint that had been made often.

The barn doors were wide open, wide enough for a cart to be put in the middle and for men to walk either side of it with barrels on their shoulders if need be. These had been pegged open and a table had been put in the opening to allow the crowd to stand one side while the ale and cider were collected for the merry crowd. Atolfyr was not used to standing this side of the table but the crowd did not move to allow him to go round. The noise of the crowd appeared to rise with each step he had taken towards the table and he knew he would have to shout to get his orders across.

Atolfyr stood up straight, these were the words of the King he was to relay, he had to make sure they were clear and sound. ‘The king demands your presence for the feast of the New Year.’
The crowd fell silent.

All eyes appeared to go from their own fires, friends and fellow drinkers to the steward now stood tall in front of the prince.
The prince finished pouring the horn of Ale and handed it to the man next to the steward, who standing at least 2 heads taller than the Atolfyr received his drink but did not move. Atolfyr was not sure what caused it, but something glinted in the fire light that came from the numerous fire pits that had been made for the celebrations for the night.

‘Is this not the celebration of the new year around you fair steward’. The prince pointed at the gathering of people around the barns and fires. His face jolly and smiling at those as he raised his own jug at them and drained the contents before turning to refill. Something he had clearly done many times already on this day, with the accompanying cheer from the crowd with a mug drained in their honour. The prince continued but this time looking Atolfyr in the eye, ‘Why would I want to leave this gathering to come and sit at the tables with you, while you letch after the women dancing around the fire up there.’

The crowd rustled closer to Atolfyr, with the sensing of movement he instinctively moved his hand to hold the clasp across his chest.

‘Do not think that the golden clasp of my father will save you when the wolf comes for you little man’ the Prince jumped on the table and raised his axe high for the crowd to see. ‘For the wolf is out there, waiting for all of us. We wish to meet the mother on our day, but we all know that when the day comes, too many of us are left. Left for the wolf to come and find us, to pick at the scraps left after the glory is taken by those on high’.

The crowd whispers and watches to see how the steward chooses to react to the prince. But before anything can happen, the prince jumps down and picks up his jug of Ale. ‘However, today is a day of celebration for all. Why should we be parted from our family and kin?’

Atolfyr carefully breathes a sigh of relief, fearing that the prince may take a turn that he was not protected from. It was well known that he did not act like a prince should, too often talking to those beneath his station, allowing others to speak before others above them and the rumours continued to flow to his office. His evening activities were spoken of too often for it to be ignored much longer. The balance of ruling and staying true to the way of things was a fine one. His father had defended the kingdom from the goblin threat and, although there was a great cost to some, the treasury continued to grow, and no goblin had set foot in the kingdom. The kingdom continued to be safe and that was the purpose of the King.

‘Come all, let us join together up the hill to celebrate the new year and start the procession together’. The prince’s words took a moment to sink in to Atolfyr. In the moment it took him the man two heads taller than him had moved in front of him to begin the journey up the hill.

When the Prince reached the gateway to enter the vineyard and the field with the king’s party he found a series of guards stationed there. There was nearly no place where the prince would be stopped from entering but the same was not for the crowd behind him. The poles crossed blocking the path of the crowd once the prince and gone through.

‘Let my friends passed’. The Prince, all traces of his stance from before with the crowd now gone, this was the prince of the realm. His arms behind his back and the mug of Ale being held carefully so not to spill.

The guards did not move. Only a few could give orders that meant they would not listen to him. The prince told the crowd to wait, and he would shortly return to join them for the procession of the New Year. The time had come to bring in a new year and they began to collect their torches and prepare to scare away the evil spirits that had collected through the cold months, the growing crowd could be seen by the passing of torches spreading from the guards back towards the barns down the hill.

When the prince reached the King’s table he did not sit. He stood in front and calmly greeted his father and mother. The crowd had finished their meal and he noticed his plate of food was still their, waiting for him to eat before the festivities of the night continued. Bulging with a plethora of specialities from across the kingdom.

‘Badabryn, such joy for you to join us on this night’, the King’s joy at seeing his son hid the anger at his being so late and, once again, choosing to be with the workers in the field and not his family. A discussion that they have had many times before, and would be needed again.

‘Father, on this joyous night to banish the evil from these lands, should we not be celebrating together’, the jolly prince had returned and his Ale jug in had. ‘I see the fair maiden had joined us in the frenzy of the evening and you are surrounded by those who have helped to lead the kingdom through this past year.’

The crowd had turned to watch and listen to the prince, who so often heard through rumour and not seen in public with the crowd.
‘For the leaders of the 14 territories that make up this fine kingdom, I see you have all been brought here to bask in the richness and power of the Kingdom’. Raising his mug to toast all the leaders as they returned the gesture politely.

With the last of his Ale finished, Badabryn slammed down his jug in front of his father cracking the side of it. ‘But I don’t see any of those who worked on the field,’ the words now through gritted teeth. ‘The soldiers who at coming of age have been sent to the wall to defend our rich kingdom, nor do I see any of the mothers who bore the children into this world to support us.’

As he finished a loud call could be heard from the vines, behind the fire, ‘Sire’, the wail of Atolfyr broke through the silence turning the heads to see a crowd had formed. Atolfyr was held by the man two heads above him, while the guards who had held the poles and being led forward by the crowd, their weapons no more and their helmets removed.

All eyes turned to the King for guidance but the silence was broken not by him, but by the maiden from the fire. She walked up from the tent down to the steward and whispered softly into his ear ‘You think it was by chance you picked me out you sordid little man. A quick flash of an innocent eye and a well-placed apple to be picked up and you go where the spirits want you to’.

The flash of light was as quick as she turned, but while she began to walk back up the hill, Atolfyr’s throat was cut and he hung in the man’s arms while blood poured over the ground.

The guards saw this and began to struggle, causing the group holding them to tighten their hold. Eventually they were kicked to the floor on their knees. Their fate would be sealed by the kings choice of words to come.

‘What is the meaning of this!’, the king bellowed and many in the crowd backed away from their tables to stand clear of the maiden as she hopped from table to table up the hill.

The prince quietly bowed to the maiden as she picked up a cloth to clean her knife of blood. The cloth turned red as each drip was carefully cleaned off the knife, for a moment the King could but only stand there while the maiden carefully cleaned and placed it back in the scabbard hidden among the layers of her outfit chosen by the steward.

‘For too long father some of us have sat and grown fat while others toiled the ground beneath them’. The prince carefully spoke to be heard across the crowd of people at the tables. Despite his words many could not take their eyes of the corpse of the Atolfyr, now dropped on the floor and left. The flames caught the sight of the blood pooling around his body staining the grass. ‘You see, there was a time when this event was to scare away the evil. But now it seems the spirits can only do so much as a new evil has settled over these lands.’.

The young maiden leapt onto the table in front of the King who fell backwards over his chair onto the floor in shock. Slowly, the maiden crept forward to the Queen. ‘Everyone looks to the King for power’, she whispered. ‘But the mother brought life into this world, and it is she who takes those who have used it wisely at the end.’

The young maiden moved opposite the Queen, her hands were moved slowly, removing the crown as a dirty rag and peering into her eyes. Poking and massaging the skin to look at every crevasse. The Queen sat quietly, fighting the shakes that were spreading through her body.

‘Your time has come to an end’, the maiden’s hands held each side of her head and in one motion the queen found herself pulled over the table onto the floor. The maiden dragged her to the fire where the pot was still simmering away with the mixture of aromas as it had done through the evening.

The King tried to call for his guards, but he soon realised that the only ones that appeared were covered in the same colour as the grass by the steward. His thoughts fell to his son, wondering what had transpired to cause him to act in such a way. Why was he doing this to his father, his mother. How could he allow anyone to act in this way to his Kingdom, one that he was meant to lead against the dangers outside, not create a new one within.

The cheers from the crowd moving through the vines stopped as they began hold the lords and ladies that had sat around the top few tables, letting the others move through them as they tried to get away.
The King tried to climb over the table, ‘Bada’, the calls of the panicked King to his son pierced through the joyous laughter of the group holding steady the squealing lords and ladies, and collecting what was left from the tables. Sharing the meals of the kingdom together, as was the custom for this time of year. ‘Badabryn what are you doing? Is this your will to have your mother dragged through the mud by this yald’.

The word shot through the laughter and the crowd paused. The maiden let go of the Queen staring the King in the eye at the insult called out. Every hand could be seen on a sword, axe or knife. Without warning, Badabryn, had found his sword at the king’s throat.

‘You use words your majesty that are beneath a man of such a position’. The words leaked out through gritted teeth. With each syllable the tip pressed into the skin. ‘There were wise words I once heard when I was a boy. For tradition must be respected, but convention may be broken. When I was told these words I used to believe that it was the tradition of the King you spoke of.’

Badabryn turned to the young maiden, who now had the queen held with her knife in the fire, creating a warm glow around the shimmering metal. It did not shine like iron or steel, this silvery shimmer had a glow to it where markings, not of battle, began to shine.

‘What have you done?’, the King looked at the knife fearing what it will mean, not just for his wife, but what he feared it might mean.

‘But you see dear father’, Badabryn continued with a relaxed tone that was very different to the surroundings. ‘Your should indeed, respect tradition, but you are not tradition are you dear father. No, you are in fact, convention. A convention that has lasted too long, and forgotten are the traditions that protected these lands and the people who live here’.

While Badabryn spoke to his father, the guards who the King hoped would be saving him had appeared next to the lords and ladies. Each held in place by at least two of the workers from below. The feast that had now paused and a slow hum grew from the fire pit. The blade in the fire began to steam with the heat, the markings appeared to shimmer a glow, but not of heat, a colour that is only seen in battle.

The slow hum paused and the young maiden pulled the knife out of the fire, holding it high for all to see. ‘The King and Queen of the harvest have grown fat on the many years that they have seen. It is time for the land to be cleansed of the evil spirits that has settled here. The robins are coming home to bring in the harvest’

What followed seemed to happen without question. The knife from the maiden flew through the air, leaving a trail of heat where it went. The target was the King and it sizzled in the chest. The King fell to his knees and tried to pull out the knife.

Badabryn carefully kneeled in front of his father, cupping his hands over the fumbling fingers on the knife in his chest. ‘You see father, your time has come to an end. You have turned your back on what the ways of this land. Your convention has come to an end.’

With a twist, the knife was removed from the Kings chest leaving the blood to pour over the soil. Carefully, he walked over to the maiden to return her knife. His mother was held, weeping at the sight of her husband lying on the floor. Glistening from the flames as the light from the fires caught in the pool now spreading from the king.

‘Lords, ladies and stewards’, the jolly prince greeted those who had stuck to their chairs in silence as the maiden turned back to humming her tune by the fire. Warming her knife again while stroking the queens hair. ‘Tonight our kingdom will return to the tradition that many of us have turned our backs on. We will regrow our lands, to make sure all of us can be rewarded by the harvest, and together we can keep the goblin gate strong from the threat to our north.’

Badabryn strolled to the body of the king and, using his sword, picked up the crown of the fallen king. By right, he was now the King of the Kingdom, leader of his kin. The lords surrounding him had to choose quickly what they would do or risk the same fate as the King. If they had the choice to make at all.

The maiden skipped over to one of the torches, gently picking it up. Holding it firmly she handed it to the prince. ‘It is time for the new year to start,’ she began softly. ‘These lands need to have the evil spirits cleansed, the old tree has been touched and needs to be refreshed’.
With her last words she stroked the neck of the queen, who had frozen while she listened and watched. A shudder drove through her back while the maiden’s fingers touched her.

The prince motioned for the guards to move the crowd, while the man who ended the life of the steward walked over to carry the Queen and placed her one his shoulder. The procession was to start.

Through the vine yards the crowd followed the maiden, who danced as she had around the fire. Through the paths, stroking each line of vines and the trees that grew down in the orchard. This continued with the crowd continuing their songs from before with a silence that emanated from those who had sat up on the tables. The maiden waited under the tree and motioned for the Queen to be placed on a low branch. There she clung to the tree, thoughts of rumours she had heard as a girl about the actions in the forests of those who have lived in the kingdom before they were united.

The crowd surrounded the maiden with the lords and ladies of the kingdom in front. Torches were pushed into the ground to give the circle an even glow for all to see. The songs stopped and all eyes were on the maiden, with the prince standing in the crowd.

‘Oh blessed apple tree,
We come here to thee.
Our way has become a drift,
Please accept this pleasing gift.’

The maiden paused and looked at the prince, he walked towards her and took the knife from her hand. He then turned to the queen, his mother, who was holding the tree to steady herself.

The tree was old, the fruit had dried and not come forth for many years. Around the base of the tree there were no weeds, the soil was stale, and nothing grew. The tree had cracked, and it looked like a stiff breeze would break a branch off.

Badabryn looked up at his mother and reached his hand up to her. He placed the knife in his belt and offered to bring his mother down from the tree. ‘It is ok mother, the trouble has ended. We will bring prosperity back to the orchard and the kingdom.’

Shakily, she took his hand and begin to edge off the branch. But the tradition required something big, it had been a long time since the ancient tree had been part of the new year tradition. From leaving the branch his mother sighed as her feet landed on the ground next to the tree. She blinked in disbelief that she would see the morning of the next day.

Then the horror around her met her eyes. The 14 lords in a circle fell at once to the floor. A motion she was used to Queen of the kingdom. However, this time the ground became sodden with the blood of the kingdoms. A gift from all the regions to the tree at the centre.

‘Come to help us here dear robin,
For what we need is bread.
Without you beside us here,
We would surely lose our head!’

The maiden chuckled as she turned to the queen, her eyes had changed from the young maiden dancing around the fire, the green glow was bright, empowered by the 14 lords surrounding her. The prince, taking the knife from his belt, held it out to the maiden while she chanted the words for all to hear. Calling for the robin of the orchard to return for the new year.

The Queen, recognising the words from stories as a young girl, turned to her son knowing her time had come. ‘What have you done my boy?’. The moment her last words had be spoken the warm knife found her throat.

‘The life of the Queen will bring in new life for the year ahead.’ The Maiden shrieked for the crowd to hear. The cheers followed and barrels of wood and kindling were quickly assembled into a ring around the tree and the torches were used to start it.

The merriment continued until the fire ended deep into the morning. The maiden sat in the tree listening to the crowd taking turns to jump over the fire to call out for their wishes for the year ahead. The crowd in turn, repeating each wish.

The prince, made his way up the hill back to the where his father’s body was still on the ground. The body, now covered in blood and mud from when he tried to crawl up the hill, was the old way of life after the events from down below. No longer would the new King’s people rely on just the will of the King, or the steel of the men at the Goblin Gate for protection. Now they had renewed their bond with the spirits of the land. The prince, no the King, King Badabryn. The title sounded odd in his mind. He never thought the day would come. He never imagined that it would be in a field of blood. His fathers blood. He looked at his hands, his clothes, even his sword was in a state that his father would disapprove of, for a king.

The new king looked at his surroundings. The mist was settling around the hills to bring in the new day but the festivities would last until the afternoon for some. The maiden had left the circle to join the new king. She smiled at him while he surveyed his kingdom. Then catching his eye, she smiled for the first time since calling on the robin to return.

‘Are you ready?’

The Date

Michelle watched the glass slowly fill with grape juice. At least that was what her mother had called it when she was young. It took her longer than she would like to admit, but she eventually realised that when it was called grape, it had really been fermented and made into wine. A drink she was now ordering for a second time, alone.

This was not the first time it had happened, in fact, she was starting to worry that she might be on first name terms with some of the staff soon. She wouldn’t tell anyone, but this was actually the second time within a week. It was probably the suggestion that she would need to end the night by 9.30, the need to be up early and a long day ahead was just a sensible precaution. To Michelle, this was forward planning. To let the person know that when she starts to clock watch at 9pm, it is not them but a need to leave to get a good night sleep.

Her friends had told her that this meant she was really telling the person that there was no chance of a happy ending to the evening. A phrase that always made her shudder and smile in equal measure.

Picking a place for a first meet with someone is always a difficult idea for her. Too fancy and this sends the wrong message, but too cheap implies something maybe too casual or not committed, or that she isn’t successful. Either way, too much thought had been given and trying to make a ratio of average cost on the menu to number of messages over the length of time for talking. Michelle needed to stop making spreadsheets and adapting the formula.

When the restaurant bring over a complimentary dish, this is probably a sign that they have taken pity on you for being stood up. What frustrated her more though, was that the dish looked too appealing to walk out and leave behind. So there she was, a successful, confident and independent women, drinking back a second glass of wine eating a complimentary pity dish with the eyes of all the staff, and probably half the guests too, watching her knock back each morsel.

At least I will be back before 8.30 tonight to prepare for my interview tomorrow.

GSC – Security for those that matter

Joan counted the till for a second time. She knew it could be counted a third, but the result would be the same. It was the same result from when she did a quick count of some of the supplies in the store room. Things were low. Every week Joan counted the receipts, looked at the deliveries, did a random spot stock check. They did not add up.

Sam appeared at the door behind her, his ability to quietly move around was a quality that had often supported him in the past, but Joan sighed as she did not want to ask what she needed to. She trusted Sam, always had since she hired him. The thought of having to swing on her chair to ask him with the numbers fresh and the consistent gaps worried her.

‘Have you seen these figures for the week?’. She placed her pen down next to the computer having ticked off each of the receipts.

Sam looked at Joan straight in the eyes. He did not shy away from difficult conversations by nature. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but no one here is the reason’.

Joan held his look, it was an odd feeling, but she was able to tell he believed he was telling the truth. She could never explain it, but when people lied to her she felt a warmth in the ears every time. She simply replied ‘I never said it was’. The pause felt longer than it was, it was only by counting to 5 in time with the second hand on the clock that managed to keep the weight of it come down on her.

‘I’ve checked each day, spoken to each of them on the floor’. Sam was always calm when he spoke. You would never know what happened to him outside of work. Good or unwelcome news, he was consistent in how he applied himself when he arrived. ‘No one has seen the money go or the stock disappear.’

Joan picked up the pen and hovered it over a pad of paper, bouncing the end of the pen on the paper. What could she write. No one knew anything. No one’s appeared to see anything. There was no point questioning what Sam had been told. Where others saw an issue in having him work in the shop, Joan saw it as a comfort.

‘I have to ask Sam’.

‘I know. I would worry if you did not.’

‘Have you seen anything that is a concern to you?’ The words fumbled out.

‘No. No one on the floor is a concern.’ He looked at the pen hovering over the pad. ‘I also haven’t taken anything either.’

‘I never suggested you did!’ Joan dropped her pen and jumped up, looking Sam in the eye.

‘Joan, calm down.’

The cushion on the seat is not a new one. Held together by more gaffer tape than thread. It was as Joan sat down in disbelief of the conversation some of the tape lost its grip in the struggle to hold it together.

Sam lent against the door frame, looking at the pile of bills pilling up next to the computer. Some were starting to come in with a range of phrases that all meant the same thing, pay up. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

The silence was finally broken when Olivia brought in a business card for Joan, passing it to Sam to bring to her.

‘Odd couple of guys wanted me to bring this to the Manager. Seemed shifty but nothing to write home about.’ With Sam’s thumb and finger holding the card Olivia drifted back out. Tapping the railings in the stock room as she walked out.

‘”GSC – Security for those who matter” Looks to be some security card’.

Joan took the card from Sam, it was a plain card with the name across the middle. The back was blank and all that was on the front, apart from the name, was a thin line around the margin squaring it out.

‘Looks like word is out for people to know we are losing something’.

Sam never liked the idea of someone taking advantage of him or his associates. If he ever felt threatened the bulk of him was a reminder that he would not take it lying down. As he straightened up the door frame was a reminder to where he was standing with a bump.

‘Sam, now you need to calm down.’ Her cheeks always showed a dimple when she smiled. It amused her how it could make Sam giggle when he saw them. At first it made her self-conscious, but then she realised the impact it had. There was a time and place for a calming note.

There was a knock on the door again and Sam swiftly moved out of the office doorway, a well-practiced motion for someone who has become accustomed to supporting the person in charge.

The business was still in Joan’s hand while she found herself waving it side to side. Normally, there would be a name, a number, or some form of contact detail for her to use, or chose to not use, pending who the card was from.

“For those who matter. What does that even mean?” Joan placed it above the pad of paper, which was next to the keyboard on one side, and a pen parallel to the pad on the other. Order. Through order you can be ready for anything. Joan collected her thoughts as she reviewed the items on her desk. Unlike the business outside of her office, all was as it should be.

Assumptions can be dangerous

We all do it. We don’t like it. We can be embarrassed by it. But we all do it. This can be down to when a person is in front of you, they may be in a rush and you might assume they are maybe rude, grumpy, or worse.

I am writing this on Valentines Day and I have been out doing a quick bit of shopping after work. Now you might be thinking that I have been out to buy flowers, a card or some last minute token to show love. Well if you did, tut tut. I baked cookies yesterday, iced them and brought them over this morning with a cup of tea and a card (bought a week ago).

It is thinking about the assumptions we make that has amused me lately. Being the vegetarian, with my wife who is not, I often get given the steak and she gets the veggie option. People hand her the lager and me the soft drink when I have often been the one to drive to events, so drinkies for me.

But when writing a character, the use of assumptions can lead the reader down a certain path to see if they can be tricked into thinking a certain way, or make an assumption. I use this slight idea to show annoyance or the MC in The Bus Driver between how people respond to Agatha and her husband Andy. It was an idea I wrote a few years ago and have enjoyed writing the dialogue between the two of them.

The use of the assumptions by some of the population in the story works well (I think), to show the playful relationship between Agatha and Andy. To show the little bits of humour between the two of them and how they live together to show support. However, making assumptions about how a character might behave, or using an assumption to explain how a character may behave, or a decision they may do, can limit the development of them.

Being a people watcher, especially in the airport when the flight has been delayed, I like to watch how people are around each other. Are they on a date? First holiday together? Secret meeting between old friends? Lads night out but one seems to watch the time more than the rest? Making assumptions is easy when the consequences are random conversation in a restaurant and is more of an exercise to see who can create the most elaborate story. To use a small detail to justify an element of a story. The shoes. The style of shirt. A hidden watch. A wedding band with no ring?

All details can become part of a story. They might just be a small nugget of information to deepen the character, or a small element for something later on to be relied for a climatic point later in the story arc. Used carefully, a well placed assumption can be a wonderful way to direct, or misdirect, a reader.

However, they can also be risky, in writing or real life. Assuming a detail about someone, or hoping an assumption will be picked up on, can lessen the point that is trying to be made. They can also play on someone’s prejudices, alternatively, show your own about what you yourself think about someone.

A final thought about this point. Remember when I said about details to think about when looking around the room. The missing wedding ring. Was your first thought about this to do with a cheating husband, a divorcee or a recent widow? Did a gender at all come to your mind?

Creating a story by what you see around you can be fun. Making short bio’s about people you see is an amazing way to develop your own craft as a writer. Something I need to do more often, working in retail means I have a plethora of people around me all day long (I have no excuse!) Just don’t let your own assumptions lead the story without your knowing or think the reader will always make the one you intend.

The Bus Driver. Part 8

With her shoes fixed, dress washed and hanging to dry along with a cheeky takeaway of fish and chips for dinner, the storm of the day calmed as it soaked away in her bath. Agatha eventually explained her day to Andy, who held back his giggles throughout, supported and comforted her after what was a clearly testing, although amusing for him, day.

Despite the worry and chaotic nature of the first day of going back to school, Agatha was pleased to see that even the new rush in the morning and afternoon soon fell into routine. With a regular hand appearing for more sweets back in full swing. As September sailed on, Agatha was pleased to see that the local children were, in general, a lovely group to have on the bus with only one incident that caused Del to stop the bus and get involved. To Agatha’s surprise, the child that was being rude quickly apologised and took their seat. Del, who seemed to have done very little, took control quickly and with what appeared to be very little effort on his part.

The change of leaves was always a good time to be on a bus, driving through the village lanes and seeing the watching the trees go by each day with the hints of orange, yellow and reds coming through. It was a joy that Agatha kept having to jump out of when the bus stopped at the remote stops to pick up passengers going to and from town. The bus was the connector to these parts and Agatha did enjoy meeting the different people, with some recognising her at the different pubs she and Andy would find themselves in. She was even once surprised when she was once offered a drink. Flustered, and out of an in built politeness, she accepted warmly and nearly forgot to go find Andy waiting for her in the car. It wasn’t until he came in to find her sitting at the bar sharing a half with another man, that she remembered where he had gone. Then when she introduced her husband to Nigel, she realised that the sadness that appeared in his eyes was probably from him thinking that, like him, she was a widow and looking for some company. Instead of what she was actually doing which was paying the bar tab from lunch.

Overall, with the flow of children each day, the weekly pub quiz and the growing number of friends they had both met, Agatha was, feeling at home in the new village. Tom had even, twice, tried to explain his different hobbies to her. She had made the mistake of doing the same routine that she does with her brother which was to remember details of what they said last time and then ask questions about it. This, unfortunately for her, gave the impression that she was interested. She was not. The rules of rolling dice, movement of little models and the significant of certain colours being used as paint was made all the more boring when pictures on the computer were used to help explain what they were talking about.

It was on a windy October morning that Del, having realised that Agatha had been caught by Tom by the glint in his eye, came in to save her from the conversation and suggested they needed to get moving as Betsy didn’t like to be kept waiting. Agatha was naturally polite, too much on occasion. Del was not.

‘She doesn’t want to hear about the latest rule changes and whatever you think about the value of a roll of a 4 on a dice.’ Carefully nudging Agatha to the door out of his office. ‘Besides, I am sure you really do have better things to do while in the office and a work schedule needed to get the buses all washed and serviced.’

Once they were out of the door and part way down the hall, Del paused. ‘You really need to stop letting him tell you about his hobbies. The best way, stop asking questions’. He paused, then abruptly turned to go to the bus. He walked off, leaving her behind but waited at the end of the corridor holding the door open while she collected herself.

Most buses had orange pumpkins on them with spiders or other such decorations stuck on them. Betsy didn’t. It was the one bus in the fleet, probably the county, that didn’t appear to express any awareness of the upcoming festivities. Agatha eventually asked about this the day before.

‘Betsy is not a party bus. She is not here to highlight a holiday or pick a football team.’ He managed to become more droll with each word that she was worried if he was able to speak softly to her again. ‘Also, when you decorate the bus, it only attracts more attention and I don’t want silly string in the seats again.’

Two ideas came mind, the first was the idea that there had been silly string sprayed all over the bus once and wondered how bad it got. The second, would this mean should couldn’t wear her elf costume to work when it gets close to Christmas. She might need to build up to that one though.

For now, Agatha was content in knowing that the bus system was working, her change system worked and she felt confident that with the addition of using a card machine soon will work smoothly now that the connect problem had apparently been solved so all cards could work. Well, all except American Express according to Tom.

Losing the fear

Many years ago, I had a colleague, you probably know the type, they were the one who called in sick. A lot.

Not because they were ill, with genuine health concerns, or had unseen mental health concerns. No. This colleague would call in sick because they simply couldn’t be bothered to come in. Or had somewhere they wanted to go that day so didn’t come in.

I know all this because, like all people who feel they are doing something naughty. They told me. They told me each time they did it. In fact, I was once even told before they did it. There were some tickets for an event and it was easier to have a day out too when they went.

When finally confronted about this, their response to me was something that surprised me. They had simply “lost the fear of doing it”. For them, once they had called in sick the first time, what was the problem doing it again.

This has come to lately and as a concept, it has got me thinking. Not about calling in sick, but about doing something that scares me. About how the fear is holding me back.

But losing the fear is something I need to tackle with writing. I remember sitting there last year when I first read out a piece I wrote in a writing class. Scared beforehand. Shaking through it. Followed by wanting to run out before the group could give comments on it. Thankfully, like most writing groups, they were all lovely and I left feeling that I might not be as bad as I thought I was.

So since then I have started this blog. Shared some short stories, book reviews and even some thoughts about the writing process (this piece for example). I have sent short/flash pieces off and am unbelievably happy to have a few online magazines in the process of publishing some pieces. It is therefore today I am using this fear to try something new, to the world of self-publishing with a piece on amazon this week (opening up to yet another group of critics).

It started with attempting to engage with writers via twitter (@lister_fiction) and putting myself out there, the more I share, the more the fear goes away. When, and it will be when I am sure, a negative review comes in, the fear may jump out of the box and show it hasn’t gone away. This, in itself, is a good thing, I think. Fear, a sensible level I mean, makes sure we check the quality of what we do. If we don’t fear, mixed with self-respect/pride in the work we produce, then we won’t be trying to make the best of that thought about a character and throw anything out there with mistakes that could have been found in a draft. Fear can be good, just like the biscuits in the jar in the kitchen, too many is not a good thing.

Just don’t call in sick as you had a late night down the pub and felt a bit tired that morning.

Just Write

One of the most infuriating moments I’ve had so far is when someone says “just write”. Like it is that simple.

All you need to do is sit back. Breathe. Write. Move over King, side step please Gaiman, time to sit down Cornwell. I am going to write and take over the bookshelves because I am going to ‘just write’.

This got me, I hate to say, rather angry. Like an internal carnal level of anger that was aimed at the screen. I was trying to write about a situation I had been given in an evening creative writing class set in a supermarket. I have no qualms admitting this, I was struggling. Could not see through the fog. Which amusingly became mixed in to how the story then started.

But to the advice of “just write”. Write what? A character, a place, a mood? It reminded me of that useless phrase some may say to those stressing or worse. “Just clear your head”. Having had a friend be told this repeatedly, if someone is struggling mentally, PLEASE do not use it. Help them to clear, but don’t use it as a way to get them to do it (show don’t tell right?).

So, I was sat there, not very happy with my favourite person, trying to write on my tablet. Typically, the more I tried, the less that got written. Zero words in fact. Actually, my word count went down as I didn’t like what was already there.

But here is the annoying thing. A 1st draft will always be successful. Its primary goal is to be completed. That’s it. It can be awful. It can be completely rewritten. One draft I recently did was changed from 3rd to 1st person as I realised it needed to be that way to have impact. But the 1st draft was done. Had I not completed it, I would not have created the yet undiscovered masterpiece that is now on the 3rd edit. I can hear the awards knocking on my door, or that is my dog wanting more food.

So what is it that I’m trying to babble on about. Well, the advice that annoyed so much that lovely evening, is one I wish to suggest you have as YOUR mantra. Not to say to others as you may have a pen, or worse, thrown in your direction. But have it as your own post-it note, the scribble you have in your notes or just let one of the inner voices use when writing.

In the end, something will be there. Once a dialogue has been drafted or a scene pieced together, you can then, and probably only then, begin to see what works. What phrase brings it together, did the twist really stay hidden, or have you changed something part way through that needs changing at the beginning.

The obviously way to end this would be to say to you to get out there and write. I won’t.

BUT, what I will say, is when you have an idea, play with it. Put something down. Don’t worry about what it will be in the 1st draft. Having a 1st draft is more than most ideas come to (Do not look into the statistics, it is worrying).

Enjoy your stories.

#sixwordstory joys

I am new to trying to be a writer. I say trying, as I definitely don’t feel like I am one.

I have thought about stories, made lots of different stories when I was a teacher, explored and supported students to create their own. Shared some stories ideas to help discuss. The best way to develop ideas is to also spend time talking about books. What I have read amd what others have read. I will admit, my own read pile is nothing compared to some people I know, who destroy books before I have even got through the first chapter.

But the one thing that has really helped get my brain into think about a story, about what to include and the harder one, what not to include, is making six word stories.

I first saw this as a ‘thing’ when I found a competition a while back. But I have since found so many amazing people sharing images to inspire others to share their own six word story. The writing community is, again, amazing for those who want to explore the idea of writing. Purely for the joy of doing it.

Being able to read through the different answers is always hilarious, sad and in general, fun to see where others went. Some times there is an obvious theme that many see in the picture (not a bad thing). But read through and you will find some unique gems in there too.

So if you are scrolling through and looking for inspiration, or just to get your own mind thinking for a warm up exercise when spending your time writing. Have a look and get to thinking.

Don’t be fooled though. This is not some little thing to do and be a stretching exercise. Making a good six word story is not just something before doing something ‘better’. The skill for a good one is just like a skill for writing flash or an epic trilogy. Like it is for those who do sprinting or marathon running.

Similar but different.

Have a good Sunday and enjoy writing.

Eggs

Halvor couldn’t sleep. He knew that today was the day that the local shop would be getting the latest edition of The Loyal Citizen and he didn’t want to have to wait for the second delivery in the middle of the week.

This story was inspired when I was walking home after getting the paper from the local shop where my parents live. This is a lovely quiet area in North Yorkshire and the atmosphere seemed to make this idea jump out (Not sure this is a good thing though).

Hope you enjoy.

—//—

Each white picket fence around the cul-de-sac had the morning newspaper placed in the middle of its gate. All were freshly painted from the previous weekend as the neighbours came out to paint them on the relaxing sunny day. Group activities always helped to build a community within the cul-de-sacs, the young and old, all took part and congratulated each other on a job well done when complete. Today saw how the sun rise above number 3, bathing the houses in a warm glow for the day ahead.

Erik was collecting the paper for his father as 3 cars drove into the street and parked around the car already there by number 7. People in light grey suits got out to open the doors as the Trygg family appeared from the house with their bags. Erik naturally waved across the street as Sten, his father, briskly walked out to bring him back in with the paper. He calmly waved, greeted everyone a ‘Good morning’ but swiftly turned to walk back inside.

Once inside Erik looked up to his father with a smile. After the door had closed Sten looks down to his son, his young eyes beaming back to his, and spoke clearly. ‘It seems that the Trygg’s have been rewarded with a new house. I hope they enjoy their bigger garden and new community. Now let’s get ready for our day ahead so we can go get your comic, sorry, graphic novel, and have a nice day in the park’.

Outside, with the bags packed, 3 cars quietly pulled away. A remaining member of the group locked the house, closed the gate and got into the car which then droves off. Leaving the quiet cul-de-sac with the freshly painted fences and the newspapers in the middle of each gate.

——

Halvor couldn’t sleep. He knew that today was the day that the local shop would be getting the latest edition of The Loyal Citizen and he didn’t want to have to wait for the second delivery in the middle of the week. This would mean trying to avoid all his friends, who will no doubt have read it and want to discuss it in school on Monday. He also knew that he would not be able to get out to the shop when it opens if he didn’t do all his tasks first. Maybe, with a few extra tasks complete, he would be able to have enough money to buy some sweets.

As he walked outside he pondered an odd tradition in the cul-de-sac. No one wanted to be the last house to collect their paper, but to be first was looked equally frowned upon. Today, Halvor didn’t care. He was going to get each of his tasks done before his parents even got up to make breakfast. He had thought he heard his mother moving around at one point, but their door never opened so quietly continued.

As he skipped out of the front door to collect the paper, he was expecting a quiet, empty road in front of him with the newspapers sitting in the middle of their gate. Halvor had never seen who delivered them, but they were always there when people woke up in the morning. Today this was not the scene. Well it was, but there was something new.

In front of him was a cattle lorry. It was large, black and resembled his sports shirt after playing all afternoon on a muddy day. He was amazed that it was still able to be let out in public as his mother had always sent him straight to the bath when he got home from sports. Once, he was even threatened with being hosed in the back garden to save the carpet but, as he had stopped 3 goals that day, he was carried upstairs by his father like a champion. It was as he was looking at the muddy streaks he realised the two drivers hadn’t seen him while they were talking about how to reverse back to the main road. Then they noticed Halvor, standing there, and froze.

Gleefully he called out, ‘Good morning, are you lost?’

The two drivers stood and didn’t respond.

Halvor couldn’t tell what exactly happened next, but he did know three things happened pretty quickly.

From behind his mother, Thyra, appeared out of the door and heaved him back into the house. Halvor himself was pleased that he was able to hold on to the paper and hand it carefully over to his mother once they were inside. She simply looked down at the paper while Halvor walked off to find his next task, placing his shoes on the rack to keep the hallway tidy.

At the same time a black car appeared from around the corner and 3 light grey suits appeared, they seemed to quickly organised the cattle lorry to support it being driven away.

The final thing that he noticed was how the cattle had begun to wake up and started moving around inside. This created an awful noise for the early morning and Halvor wondered if anyone else in the cul-de-sac was woken up by the beasts.

Inside, Halvor had started to set the table for breakfast. As he placed the final fork his father, Ivar, and his mother entered the kitchen and saw Halvor standing proud of what he accomplished so early in the day. So many morning tasks complete and breakfast wasn’t even started yet.

‘I think it’s time we get our new eggs open’. Thyra glided across the kitchen patting her son on the shoulder. ‘After all, we need to reward the hard worker who started the moment the sun was up.’ Slowly she started breaking and beating the eggs together in a bowl while trying to whistle her favourite tune.

Normally an eggy breakfast was reserved for someone’s birthday or a national holiday, he read this as a clear sign that he was impressing his parents with all his hard work.

Before the pan could be started there was a knock at the door. Ivar calmly paused his son from running to open it and went to find out who it was. It was not long until Halvor was called to the hallway by his father where he was met with two people in the same light grey suits as those he caught a glimpse of before. Ivar guided them all to the front sitting room where his father proudly showed guests he wanted to impress. There were family photos, prizes and certificates on show that they had all won over many years. It was only ever used for guest and if Halvor was ever found playing in there he would be given specific tasks to remind him not to be there.

Halvor had noticed no one seemed to go to open the curtains. He was called over to the sofa next to where the two guests sat in the single seats looking at him carefully. It was odd, but they were apologising to him for the inconvenience caused by the cattle truck, but all Halvor could think of was to ask if they wanted any help in cleaning it. He explained how he was recently given the task of keeping his father’s car clean and wanting to get the practice of washing other vehicles too.

It seemed the only thing that would stop him from offering the different levels of cleaning and waxing he had learnt about was his father to promise that as he had been so helpful, they would go to get his ‘comic’ once the local shop opened. This made Halvor stop talking straight away.

The light grey suit with the notebook paused. Their voice was calm and warm to Halvor as she queried, ‘Do you have a favourite character in The Loyal Citizen?’.

Halvor had never really heard of an adult wanting to discuss his favourite graphic novel. But the other suit seemed to stop the conversation before he could go on about how he loved the recent developments and how the main character had to make a choice about their two best friends. The light grey suit simply asked if he was ok after seeing such a large cattle truck in his quiet cul-de-sac.

Halvor eagerly explained what he saw, how the two drivers seemed to have taken a wrong turn, the beasts inside were sleeping when he walked out but started to wake when his mother pulled him inside. He also apologised that he was not able to help more and give directions but he was proud that he kept hold of the newspaper as it didn’t get dirty or crumpled. He then began to list the tasks he completed in the house but he was stopped short. They only seemed interested in the disturbance outside.

With a side glance between the two suits, they rose. They shook Ivar’s hand and congratulated him on his house and the one with the notebook bent down to shake Halvor’s hand as well, thanking him for his continued effort to make his parents proud.

Outside, Thyra was in the corridor waiting to see what was happening, attempting to dust an already clean corridor when the door opened. The leading suit greeted her, repeated the congratulations on a tidy and organised home. Along with praise for a helpful and responsible son. As they shook hands the suit leaned in and wished her luck for making her eggy breakfast. Commenting ‘It is always good to reward those who have worked hard the moment the sun was up. Have a good day Mrs Trygg.’

Thyra smiled as she opened the front door to bid farewell to their guests and wished them a good day.

As the door closed Halvor was looking up at his mother. ‘Mum, there is something I don’t understand.’

Thyra paused and looked back at her son who was lingering in the kitchen doorway. His puzzled face staring back at her.

‘Mother, if that was a cattle lorry, why did I see some human hands appear from the truck?’.

Thyra paused in the hallway, standing there looking at her sons inquisitive face. Slowly she breathes in. Then out. His eyes beam up at her wondering why his mother is looking at him and wondering why his father behind her has a similar stunned face. He then notices his mothers hand begin to shake.

It was at this point a shadow fills the glass in the door, then a second, and then a third. Finally three knocks follow as a fist hits the door.

—//—