Winter writing competition

Hi all,

Last night my co-judge, the lovely Landers, and I spent ages deliberating over the results of this season's competition.

We agreed on some things, we disagreed on others.

Most importantly, however, we agreed on a first, second and third.

But I have been pretty busy today, and haven't had a chance to write a decent post on the winners.

So y'all will have to wait another day.

Feel free to built the tension in any way you see fit.

Until tomorrow!

Due to the fact that i have not been around much and the brilliance of the entries, I have extended the deadline and the competition will now close on Monday the 30th March at midnight.

So anyone else wanting to enter you still have time

(Sorry Ramps x )

This is why I left (that is me excusing my rubbish story below) . But I felt like posting this in here. Sorry it is so crap, I will be leaving again after this so don't worry.

They all look shocked.

Good, it will give me the advantage. The alarm has not been turned on yet so only the sound of the front glass doors shattering when I kicked them in is bouncing off the walls.

“SIR! We are closed and I have to inform you that the police are on their way. Please leave now”

I kick the suit in the groin as soon as he is in range – I do it properly, knee up to waist height first then snap the leg out strait and hard. He collapses and I step out of the little halo of broken glass on the floor and walk over him. As a flourish I pause and snap the heel of my clunky boots down into his mouth. I am rewarded with a sound like crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet and a little scream.

Nice touch.

Everyone is running for the back room and trying to get behind the counter.

They slam the door behind them and cower on the other side of the thick glass.

My leg hurts from kicking in the doors and downing the suit, far too old for all this anger. I don’t limp as I walk up to the glass.

I certainly don’t blink. I am looking directly at another suit – they are wide eyed and look like this day will not be listed in their “Fridays I remember with a warm fuzzy glow”

I clasp the card in my hand and strait arm it through the glass, blood – my blood – sprays with the glass and a sharp invigorating pain shoots up my arm and I feel some knuckles break.

Some more screams, good – I have them totally focused.

I clear my throat and in my best growling Dark Night voice I calmly enquire:

“Why have you bastards stopped my card?”

“We, I can’t …what do you WANT!”

“You fuckers are messing with me and my future. This needs to go smoothly.”

“What needs to go smoothly?”

“YOU KNOW WHAT! My place. My safe place for Sarah and me. You will NOT get in the way of that. No one will!”

A hand on my shoulder shakes me. Not now! I turn ready to hurt someone. The ceiling is dark, the light slides in through the curtains, and her face looks at me concerned. I hate to see that look. A face so beautiful should never have to wear an expression like that.

“Nick!, Nick wake up! You were growling and swearing. You woke us up, are you ok?”

“Oh. Sorry. Bad dream.”

“This is the plan.  We get Velvet Underground bass lines.  We distort them to shit so nobody can tell.  We place a melody on top.  Simple.”

Harry leaned back on his chair looking smug.  In an act of contrived finality he reached into his tight fitting jeans to rescue the suffocating pack of Marlboros.  After tugging them free, he failed to release one by flicking the bottom of the pack and resigned himself to the plebeian task of trying to grip one between his finger and thumb.  The others watched in silence before Dopeman said something.

“I suppose it’s wha’ every ova band does though, righ’?”  He looked around for approval.  “I mean, The Beatles were just copying, you know, whoever they wanted.  I mean, ‘ho’s gonna question tha facking Beatles?  No one.  Which is ‘ow they go’ a way wiv it.”

Harry looked at The Dopeman while the others considered the wisdom of this revelation.  He knew the Dopeman wasn’t a cockney.  He was like him, middle class, educated and self-assured.  He also didn’t mind that he put on a cockney accent.  Harry himself pretended he was cockney half the time too.  That’s why he always left the room when his parents called.  He spoke posh to his parents, of course he did.  He didn’t want to piss them off.

“There’s gotta be only so many actual bass lines in the world anyway right?”

He listened a bit more, allowing them to reach the inevitable conclusion.  When he felt comfortable enough he leant forward again.

“We’ll call this song…” he glanced out the window “Winter.  George, get on the key board and play that bass line you know.  The one from Heroin.  Dopeman, get on the drum machine.  Do the same loop you had for Battery Sponsored Suicide.  We’ll work it out from there.”

The Dopeman and George got up.

“What shall I do then?”

Harry looked at Al.  He knew he called himself Al as anyone could tell you that Albert was way too posh for an electro-grime band.  He even wore a New Era cap for god’s sake.

“Can you actually play an instrument?”

“No.  But that doesn’t matter.  Does Bono play an instrument?”

“Please don’t bring Bono into this.  What do you do?”

“Er, I can, like, do poetry ‘n’ shit.  Rhymes ‘n’ lyrics, innit.”

Harry sighed.

“Really.”

“Yeah yeah,” Al suddenly became enthused when Harry didn’t laugh at him immediately “listen, I got bare rhymes.  Um…” he looked out the window and awkwardly cleared his throat.

“I look outside, into the street… um

The snow comes down… um

Crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet…” he stammered.

“Woah.”

Harry looked over at dumbstruck George and Dopeman.

“That was awesome.  Do that again.” 

Al grinned and began to energetically recite the things he saw around him, devoid of any rhythm or diction, his face reddening with excitement.

Harry pinched the top of his nose and frowned.  I went to college for this, he thought.

If my life were a brand, today I’d opt for Marks & Spencer. Panning out from the glacial reality of this winter’s morning, the ad break would kick in and the dulcet tones of Dervla Kirwin coo sensuously:

“This is not just sympathy. This is the cooling essence of a soothing balm, hand-crafted by a dozen devoted skin therapists; the restorative power of a thousand richly scented, candlelit bubble baths; the endorphin rush of a million melting-middle chocolate puddings... all culminating in one lllllong, ecsssstatic, shudddddering orrrrrrrrrrrrrrgasm of symmmmmmpathyyyy!”

This sympathy, however, is more credit-crunch RBS than M&S. This is a blistering, blackening, devil-red molten lava flow of sympathy: torrid, unstoppable, searing me with shame as it crackles its slow, deliberate, relentless path over my guilty body.

Nobody would buy this.

And yet, it didn’t start off this way. Like all addictions, the first shot merely stimulated and comforted. Nothing overpowering; nothing indicated how strongly I was to come to crave this, need it, feel miserable without it (ironic, really, as I had to be miserable in order to get it) – no. This was simply satisfying... and slightly naughty.

Harmless, really. A one-off.

Because obviously, life would get more interesting than this. I wouldn’t normally have to resort to these kinds of manoeuvres in order to be noticed; in order to feel as though I were participating in this pantomime of life that sang and danced so joyously around me; in order to have something to bloody well say.

Rachael always had things to say.

“Karen, I need those figures by the end of the week. Just a weeee reminder!”

“If you don’t think you can cope with your workload, Karen, let me know. I’m just a leeeettle concerned.”

“No-one’s suggesting you can’t do your job, Karen. But if we don’t get those reports in today, soooome-one’s going to have to explain why. Can you explain why, Karen? Can you?”

Course I bloody well could. But I wasn’t about to. Which is when the sympathy card suddenly seemed like the obvious, genius ace in the pack.

It was so easy. A family crisis here, a health problem there, and all required explanations just melt away. The crying was particularly effortless – oh, the blissful release of tears flooding from the loneliness and the emptiness and the utter pointlessness of everything. The crying that everyone believed had some legitimate, concrete, normal reason. Something they could relate to. Something interesting.

But now I’m here, on this freezing cold morning, shuffling around outside the church, watching everyone arrive, gossip, ponder, wait, shiver, stomp around on that crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet, shiver, wait, ponder, gossip... and, finally, start to stare, as they wonder, when exactly is my mother’s funeral going to start?

The thing about being a compulsive liar is that you always manage to convince yourself that some miracle will save you from revealing the truth.

Beneath the rapidly cooling lava flow of sympathy, I pray for a volcanic eruption.

She wasn't in the least bit surprised.

She'd known she was going to end up here from the very day she used the super-glue to tidy up Maisie's plaits after the netball match. All that lovely long hair! Gone in a snip once Maisie's Mum got to it! Stuck-up little madam – all ponies and Mercs. Who's laughing now eh?

Thinking about Maisie, she felt re-assured for it seemed that episode had rendered irrelevant the trail of emotional destruction she'd left in her path over the past 20 years. She was here because of Maisie, and Maisie alone. Not because of all those pathetic men. Not because of all those broken promises. And certainly not because of all those fractured families.

In fact she'd been so certain this was where she would be coming, that she was well prepared for it. Suntan lotion, shades, flip-flops & bikini. They were all packed.

As she clomped down the hundreds of gaily painted steps her expectant mood helped her reflect on all the positives. That her death had been swift and pain-free which meant she didn't have to deal with the sight of all her miserable relatives weeping and blubbing like 4-yr-olds who've lost their balloons. Half of them would only have been there for some self-satisfying I-knew-you-were-no-good gloating anyway.

As she descended further, the heat began to envelop her along with the hubub of what was clearly the mother of all parties going on a few floors below.

But before she got the chance to join in the craic, she was man-handled aside by an ugly little goblin and led towards an imposing door marked 'HELLISH'

The goblin shifted uncomfortably before leaning forward to pull it open.

“Not a word.” he said, avoiding eye-contact in obvious embarrassment “I know what it says in the brochure, but we thought it would be fun to have a specially designated area for the really wicked ones.”

“Excellent” she thought to herself, “no crowds, no tourists”

But as he opened the door, the chill wind grasped her throat with the hands of a thousand spurned lovers, freezing her veins in an instant.

“Here we are. Careful as you go in, they've not gritted yet this morning”

“This can't be right” she protested. “Where's the beach, the pool, the men. Hang on - WHERES THE BLOODY BAR!”

“Oh we don't have anything like that in here” said the goblin with just a hint of smugness as her distress spread rapidly across her face. “We have icicles and snowmen and crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet. Isn't it stunning?”

She looked down at her sundress and sandals and felt a shiver of goose-bumps arcing across her shoulders, down her back and into her stomach.

He smiled ruefully.

“I think you'll find that's what regret feels like” he said, before bolting the door behind him and heading back down to the party.

498 WORDS

Strolled out today and there was this strange noise all around. Funnily it stopped when I stopped walking, there was just an eerie silence all about the place, though on opening my eyes I espy lots of packets of Walkers and Smiths potatoe snacks Oh what are they called? Crisps thats it. Crisps. Thats what the sound was; a broken crisp. White snow that crunches beneath your feet would sound the same I think But I guess I'll never know now as the snow melted several weeks ago and today is full of sunshine and joy is in the air. Quite what she is doing up there is anyones guess.

Come and get it” shouted Ted. He banged the plates together and watched as the other dads and their kids came out of their tents.

He had been a bit reluctant to go on the dads and kids skiing weekend as he never seemed to fit in with the other dads.

He was always the butt of jokes at school events, just because he was an accountant and not into sports and adventure, all the other dads went hiking and canoeing, whilst he championed his son at the chess club, but dare he say it, things had gone pretty well so far he may not be the best skier but he had held his own and he felt the others were starting to accept him.
“What’s in the pot” said Rory…. Rory had been one of teds worse critics and even he had thawed towards him,

“Rabbit hot pot” said Ted..the rest of the dads and kids had gathered around they had all been a bit concerned when Ted had offered to be the chef for the trip but he had produced some amazing meals, there seemed to be a unique flavour to all his cooking and they could not get enough.

Ted served up the food and everyone tucked in, grunts of praise and thanks came from every corner of the camp, Ted beamed with pride.

“Dad “said his son john. “Yes son”. …”Where did you find all these recipes they are wonderful”.

Ted got out a well leafed book and showed it to his son, “I got this at a boot sale its called cooking in a winter wonderland , the secret is using fallen snow for your water that’s what gives it the flavour”.

His son read through the book…”Err dad”…said John handing him the book ..”what does that say..the last line”!

Ted looked at the book..he read…”finally go out into the fields and collect some snow in a bucket this will melt over the fire and add it to your pot, to make sure of the best taste possible only use…Ted turned the page….yellow snow which is usually quite close to the camp”….John snatched the book from him and forced apart the stuck page…he looked and sighed…”read it again dad!!!”….” to make sure of the best taste possible only use”…...Ted turned the page …the unstuck page 'Crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet' as this will be the purest there is….

Ted read through to the end and read ..and one last thing, whatever you do never ever collect…Ted turned the Page… yellow snow which is usually quite close to the camp, ….Ted looked up and gulped, what was he going to do….his son turned to him and said “Tell you what dad how about making this OUR LITTLE SECRET!!!

"Listen to me you little upstart, I am not having some snot nosed little rookie tell me where I can and can't work!"

"I'm sorry you feel that way Sir but it's in the constitution, the simple fact is more people believe in me than you these days, which gives me seniority..."

Boreas glared at the teenager sat behind his pine-effect desk with his ultra thin laptop and wanted to give him a clout around the head he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

His mind wandered to the good old days before he had to moonlight as a packer for Ben & Jerry's, when his powers were strong and this little whippersnapper would have been nothing but a snowman by the time he'd finished with him... and, he told himself, he'd have found the biggest possible carrot and shoved it right up....

"Are you listening to me?!"

"What?" Boreas snapped out of his memories. "What did you say?"

"I said, no more unauthorised trips," replied the arrogant teen deity from his executive computer chair with faux leather finish. "Snow in February in ENGLAND?! That's well outside your operational boundaries and created friction."

"Do you know who I am you little shit? I'm Boreas, I'm the God of Winter and I was giving people cold weather before you were a tent in your daddy's jockstrap..."

"...and that was a long time ago Old Man, when things were disorganised chaos! You dropped 4 inches of snow in some places but without any requisition forms, clearance, cloud cover control guidance..."

"Four inches? You think I need paperwork for that? Back in my day you saw a human you wanted to give a good 12 inches to and you just went in and..."

"...and created havoc, it's that kind of attitude that's got us into a mess already, have you seen Zeus' monthly bill for child support?"

"So if I want to give people a flurry of unique handmade flakes, the sight of snow on a rose, the irreplaceable feeling of crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet..."

"You fill out a F5402 in triplicate and hand it in 14 weeks before the planned weather, confirming that it is allowable under conditions 1 through 924."

"But..."

"No buts, this is how it's happening, good day."

Boreas thought about starting a row but gave up, standing up and storming out of the room, ignoring the spotty faced teen deity in his White Sabbath Tshirt.

He slammed the door and leant against the wall opposite it, glaring at the golden lettering.

Doleus - God of Global Warming.

Bloody mortals... one day they'd come up with something useful...

March 16, 2009

"Crisp white snow that crunches beneath your feet."

"No! Leaves."

"No chance. That first sparkler you ever held as a child, fizzing and biting while the sulphur ruins the air."

"I like the crunch of an apple. You can hear it crack."

"I’m sure you do. But the crack and collapse of a honeycomb is better, surely?"

"Bees. They make honey. And they sound lazy and summerish."

"But so do ice-cream vans. And lawn mowers. And laughter late at night."

"Seems like months since I smelt freshly-mown grass. I can smell it now. It actually smells green."

"Ever smelt a tree? They’re faintly woody, of course, but musty, too."

"Musty is old houses. Forgotten wardrobes. Little old sheds with bizarre drawers people haven’t looked at for years."

"No – musty is dry, and faint, but real, the smell of the badly washed. The poor."

"Poor people don’t smell. Smelly people smell. Poor people smell the same as the rich in the raw. Pink, or brown, bright, and clean. Flesh smell. A nothing smell. But a smell itself."

"But the rich smell of finery. Perfumes and scents. And they sound just like they smell. Haughty and high."

"Rubbish! They sound the way we do. But we hear them differently. We’re envious, and we’re sad, and we want to hear vanity."

"Can you hear vanity? Surely not?"

"You can hear vanity, like hatred, like scorn, and like love. Just like you smell a colour like green grass."

"A hot day then?"

"Yellow, with burnt orange."

"The sea?"

"Ocean blue. With the smell of the shore."

"Town?"

"A mix of black and browns and whites and greens, and more. With fumes, and vegetable stalls, and the smell of a baker, with a noise all round you, from nowhere at all."

"What’s the colour of butter?"

"Mild, lazy yellow, buttercups, rape fields; and it smells of nothing but cold and dairy."

"If crisp white snow crunches, what about a loaded cream cracker?"

"Different. Teeth sinking into the thud of hard cheese, exploding through a small tomato, nestling into a smear of butter, smashing the cracker itself. I can hear it as much as taste it without doing it."

"Swimming pools?"

"Blue, and chlorine, and shrieking, and rapid echoes, and rubber bands on your wrist that hurt to pull off, and cheap shampoo and rubbish chips, in snappable trays and with wooden forks."

"Breaking metal. Wrenching and creaking and screaming and dying. Sullenly grey, and profoundly dangerous."

"Padding over new carpets – you almost hear it, you always feel it."

"Or thunking shut a window."

"Or drenching the plants with the kids' paddling pool water."

"We could do this all night."

They won’t be, though.

They’ll go home, rightly, and forget what they have, not because they’re bad people, but simply because they can.

We can no more guarantee the smell of bacon than we can the noise of a telephone call.

It’s there to enjoy, very much to savour, everything to appreciate. And everything to lose.