Crime

Here’s a piece of writing prompt fiction. This is a 10-minute “deadman’s switch” letter prompt. This is from one of Tim Clare’s weekly writing prompts, which you can sign up for here – you can never have too many writing prompts.

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Dear James,

it’s about time we talked. Please forgive the nature of our “discussion” but some things I could never have said to your face. I hate questions. Always have, as you know.

I was sick for a long time. You know that too. I apologise for wasting your time with things you know. I’m working my way to the core of the matter.
When I started losing my hair. That’s when it started. I was sick and losing my hair, feeling terrible. Shortly after you started coming home late, working at weekends. Sleeping at the office so as “not to wake you.”
I was sick, James, not stupid. I knew what was happening.

When you lost your job I didn’t go looking for someone who could spend money, get me the things I wanted. So it hurt. When I got sick you went and found someone healthy. And then she died and you came back for a while.
You never realised I was getting better. I wasn’t physically sick, just sick at the sight of you, at the feel of your skin, your hangdog look when you accompanied me to the doctor.

Well. I’m fine now, James. And I’m so sorry you feel bad. Hurts, doesn’t it? And the gnawing worry of the last day.
I look forward to when your pain is over. That life insurance policy should make up for a lot.
There’s no point worrying about it, God has a plan. That’s what you used to tell me.

So lie there and close your eyes. Once I’ve finished reading this to you I’m going to burn it. No don’t get up,

Goodbye.

20 minute writing prompt fiction.

As well as the usual deletions and typo and punctuation corrections I had to re-type one of the sentences. I had deleted an entire final clause as unnecessary and slowing the pace then realised that it included one of the prompts. I tried to put it back from memory as best I could.

The prompts are below the piece. Can you work out which clause was deleted and had to be re-inserted again? What would YOU have done?

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He kept the needle pointing to 60. Time to get out. His lights were off, only the faintest grey light near the horizon. There was the sound of a shotgun behind him. A howl. He’d been missed.
The village was one street, barely large enough for the lorries that thundered through it. He prayed he wouldn’t meet one coming the opposite way. There was a slope, every time he went around a bend the air felt fresher. The motor was straining. Jeff’s hatchback was the only vehicle he could get at such short notice. Another hum. More vehicles. He navigated the hairpin bend – called the Scissors locally – and looked back. No lights. They wouldn’t need them, they knew the area. Probably knew where he was going too. Would there be someone there already? Villagers with pitchforks now had mobile phones too. He had no choice but to move. While he could.
Another twist and he couldn’t see anything, the hill had risen up to blot out the sky. Almost there.
His heart thumping fast, his breath shallow. His body urged him to hurry but he needed to ditch the car. It would buy time later. There. He’d left a white painted signpost opposite it. He pulled in, branches snicked and whipped at the car, scrabbled at the metal,scraped along the windows. The car bounced into the gully and he grabbed the signpost, threw it under the car so no one else could use it.

The whine of the other engines was getting closer. He kept his arms in front as he looked for a way around the trees. If he could get past them into the field he’d have a clear run almost up to the cairn. Just had to make sure he didn’t take a tumble on the rough damp ground or get his eyes poked out by one of these branches.
He found the dry stone wall, flopped over and ran to the next, the slope the only indication of direction.
He heard the cars go past. The road got worse and they’d slow down more and more. He could still outpace them. If they caught him it was over.
He paused, the moon was returning. He could see the ground better but it made him more visible. No matter, they were coming anyway. Would they kill him or just blow a hole in his leg? Nobody was innocent in this game but things had gotten out of hand. He ran, expecting to feel the blow of a bullet. He cracked a twig underfoot and almost fell.
Just meters away and he could taste victory. There was the old Celtic cross where it was buried.
Extreme geocaching, best sport in the world.

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The prompts are:

move
twist
innocent
use
tumble

Here’s another piece of 20 minute writing prompt fiction. No changes except for typos, deletions and punctuation. The prompts are below the piece.

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I picked her pocket. A phone in a leather case with a monogram. A packet of tissues, moulded to the shape of her thigh. No money. You can get lucky with guys, a nice wallet and a phone in one go, with women it’s either a phone or a wallet. Let’s face it, their wallets (or purses if you want to discriminate) are massive slabs of plastic and paper. A friend of mine, another pickpocket, applied for disability benefits. Did his shoulder in lifting women’s wallets. Boom, boom.
I stared at a window display, an oversized bottle of vitamins, until she had disappeared from view. I pulled the phone out of its handsome black leather case. Android. Unlocked. Yes!

I scrolled around, read the last text she had received then turned off the power so she couldn’t track it.

Hav U Got IT??

Could have been anything, probably some book she needed to return to her friend. The streets were emptying, everyone scurrying into their office for the day. I bought myself a paper cup of coffee. 60p from a newsagents. Christ, how do they make it that bitter and that weak at the same time? But it was hot and sitting on the bench near the bus stop with a cup of coffee is as good an alibi as anything. I played with the packet of tissues, scrunching it up in my hand. It released a faint flowery perfume.

The paper cup was getting soggy and I spilled some of the coffee down my chin. I balanced it on the rounded seat of the bench and pulled out one of the tissues, mopped myself up. No stain on my t-shirt. Good, Nike shirts aren’t cheap. There was something else in the tissue packet. A little folded up piece of tinfoil. So she’s a party girl, is she? Checking there was no one watching I unfolded the silver. It wasn’t drugs inside though, it was a small… like a circuit board I suppose. I wrapped it up again. Tinfoil and circuit boards don’t go well together. What was she thinking?

Nobody else passed by so I made my way to a friend (another one) and dropped off the phone. Got a measly fifty quid for it. Minus business expenses of 60 p, that’s a profit of £49.40. And that’s a good day. I’m not in the high-tax bracket, I can tell you. I didn’t give him the little circuit board. No reason, except that he wouldn’t have given me any real money for it and I wanted to have another look at it.

I checked it that night after a late shift: a gent’s wallet. Only thirty quid but a clean transaction. No messing about with middle men, etc. I had a deep frozen margarita pizza, one of the ones that comes on a piece of extra cardboard so it really rises. Like fuck it does.

I turned the little circuit board over. There was …well, not writing exactly, but some kind of ink on the back. I thought it was Chinese but it wasn’t any kind of writing. I used my own phone to take a picture then zoomed in. It looked more like a design. Not decoration though. I had this pain in my stomach. I normally get it when I’m stressed, like I was missing something. If I could work out what it was then I was sure I could learn something useful. (Like don’t pick women’s pockets in future, right?)
I couldn’t sleep that night, my brain kept twisting the little board around, like it was a Tetris block. I could almost understand it. I got so into it that I actually answered the door when it rang at about 2 am. The woman. She went through the house and straight to the bedroom. I stood in the hallway, face to face with two other women. When she came out she had the little circuit board in her hand. She pressed the side of my neck gently. Almost fondly. And then I don’t remember what happened ne…

I picked the guy’s pocket. Cash and a vaper. Not bad. A woman strolled down the street. I had the oddest sensation that I recognised her, but then it was gone. She was busy, I could…

I let her go. More trouble than they’re worth, women’s pockets.

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The prompts were:

handsome
reason
measly
learn
ink

Here’s a piece of 20 minute, writing prompt fiction. Normally I don’t edit except for typos and punctuation mistakes. This time I deleted an entire paragraph for clarity. Unfortunately that means I lost one of the key words.

The key words are below the piece. Under that is the original beginning, including the confusing second paragraph for comparison.

I wanted to set the scene but all the pronouns and directions just made it confusing.

I’m more pleased with my attempt to engage the senses. As well as vision, there’s smell and touch. But I missed taste even though the story is set at a barbecue. I need to work on this.

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Love needed cold paper plates. The meat on the barbecue smelled burnt. The charcoal spat as fat dripped over it, smoke whipped across his smarting eyes.

“Darling?” He turned and waved his barbecue fork at her. She was leaning in to Cathy, telling her something funny, around her all the couples were spellbound. Their smiles were half-delighted, half-shocked. Robin excelled at gossip. Love wondered which poor sap was getting it today. The single mother in the end house had been having ‘numerous visitors’ recently. Maybe it was her. Robin saw Love waving and her smile dimmed. He mimed a plate and she waved a hand to indicate they were in the kitchen.
He sighed and turned down the heat, moved the sausages and steakettes to the top row so they wouldn’t char too much. There wasn’t much space and the Davids were vegetarians. He rebuilt the top row of meat, stacking it to the left so that there was room on the right for the slices of tofu and onion and feta parcels, wrapped in aluminium. He pulled the apron off over his head and stomped towards the house. The wind had picked up and he appeared out of the smoke of the barbecue like the last survivor on a battlefield.

“Everything good, honey?” Robin broke off her story to look up at him and took his hand, rubbing his forearm.
“I needed some plates,” he said.
“Doesn’t he smell good?” She asked the others.
“Jesus, Love! You smell like you were on the barbecue.”
He nodded and went into the kitchen. It was coooler in there. He dug the paper plates, still in their wrapping, out of the cupboard, took a beer out of the fridge and sipped it leaning against the sink. The salads were lined up on the kitchen’s island in front of him. Greek salad with halved cherry tomatoes, caesar salad with juicy white strips of chicken mingled with golden croutons of bread fried in butter. Rocket salad with gorgonzola and pear. All covered in plastic. Like his petite and charming wife. Cool and quiet in the cellar. Wrapped in plastic. What was left of her.
If they couldn’t produce a body then there was no crime, wasn’t that how it worked?
Barbecues for the rest of the month.
Then maybe sandwiches for Robin.

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The key words are:

loss
numerous
cherry
produce
petite

Originally the piece ran as follows:

Love needed cold paper plates. The meat on the barbecue smelled burnt. The charcoal spat as fat dripped over it, smoke whipped across his smarting eyes.

“Darling?” She was sitting at the table near the house. He’d been banished to the bottom of the garden to cook. Bill had come down to say hi but they hadn’t much to talk about. He’d waved vaguely with his glinting brown beer bottle and ambled back up to the table where the real party was. Their loss.

“Darling?” He turned and waved his barbecue fork at her. She was leaning in to Cathy, telling her something funny, around her all the couples were spellbound…

I deleted it because there were too many directions leading to confusion rather than clarity.

HI,

below is one of this week’s writing prompt exercises. I had to write for 20 minutes and include 5 random words. I haven’t added or changed anything since except to get rid of typos and smooth out a couple of cases where the tenses didn’t match up.

I include the list of words below. I think the car came from an episode of Narcos (second season, Blackie leaves the car and its contents in Bogota), which we’d been watching the previous evening.

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I pushed the door. The Ford’s driver-side door swung out silently. The car was turquoise, an old model but riding it was still heavenly. It was heavy and sat low on its wheels as we purred around the streets of Cincinnati. There was always that beautiful moment when we stopped: the weight of the metal swung forward in response to the brakes. And then held. Perfect control.
I stood and closed the door behind me, the mechanism ratcheting closed. Beautiful.
There were a couple guys across the street watching me. Watching my car. They were in vests and tracksuit pants. Massive sneakers. Bellies just starting to hang over the waistbands. I watched them till they looked away. The car did that for me. Riding a machine like this. Only a real bad-ass would do something like that these days. Leather jacket and pimp’s car. I knew I looked like a cliche but fuck it. I was able to pull it off. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
I knocked on the door of the brownstone I’d pulled up in front of. No response. I hammered on it with my closed fist. There was no way these people weren’t home.
A man opened the door, kept the safety chain on. “Can I help you?” He tried to keep his voice level.
“I’m looking for someone.” I pulled the photo out of my back pocket, let him catch a glance at my piece as I do so. Helps with the answers, you know?
He looked at the photo. “My God!” His face went white, all the blood disappearing into his sweater, hiding in case there was trouble. “Maria!”
I took a step back and charged the door. The guy went down on his ass, the safety chain snapped and the door burst wide, letting out a quick shocked squeak before it banged into the far wall.
He cowered, one leg half raised, both arms up in front of his face. “Please!” he said.
I didn’t have time for this. Maria was just one of the names on my list.
I stepped over him. There! A door swung shut ahead of me. I ran and busted it open. “Maria” was there with her younger brother and their mother. She stared at me wide-eyed, a stuffed giraffe in a choke-hold in her left arm, her right thumb in her mouth in cotton pajamas. Her brother hung around his mother’s neck, looking back over his shoulder at me with his face ready to scrunch up into a bawling fit. Mom screamed and the guy — at least he wasn’t a coward — came running toward me. I stepped aside and pushed him. He fell again sprawling into his family. Mom tried to say something, her free hand fluttering at me, her other hand holding Baby tightly. I checked my pocket to discover another photo. Baby Billy. Looks like this family had recently enjoyed some expansion. Made no difference to me.
I walked up to them. Dad made to get up and I just shook my head, moving my arm to where the gun was. He understood.
I pulled out a box, neatly gift-wrapped. Then another one. Then two more. “Happy Christmas,” I said. “You’ve been good this year. Congratulations!”
I left.

Maria spoke just as I pulled the front door closed behind me. “Thank you, Santa.”

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The prompts were:

heavenly

squeak

giraffe

discover

fluttering

expansion

If I could only change one thing it would be the horribly confusing: ” her right thumb in her mouth in cotton pyjamas.”