6 Minute Story

So, you guys know I sometimes write short stories (or something like that) within 30 minutes (blame Michelle Zink). Well, I came across something on Twitter, where you ave to write a short story or Flash fiction within ... wait for it... 6 MINUTES!!!

Impossible, right?

Well, I had a go. It was hard, but I had a go. And this is what I came up with...

http://sixminutestory.com/read/paper-cranes

Yeah... I know it's my work and I had a stressful time writing, I'm not going to put it on the blog. I might change my mind. But until then... let's look at this BEAUTIFUL picture I found which was taken by Jenny Terasaki!

Body - a 30 Minute Write-Off! (Short Story)

So, every now and then, I make myself have a go at writing something out within 30 minutes. Or I try to, seeing as today, my keyboard was playing up. So, I wrote in 35 minutes (because I had to run and get batteries!). So, enjoy!

Warning - this short story deals with dead bodies. (Thanks Kathy Reichs and Tess Gerritsen).

*

I know death. I work with it. Hey, you can say we’re the best of buddies.

I am a forensic anthropologist, and let me tell you, my job isn’t exciting. Don’t believe that CSI crap. I deal with dead bodies. Whether they are burned, decomposed, mummified (don’t ask!), mutilated, dismembered or skeletal. So, they’re not exactly a chatty bunch.

I prefer working with skeletal remains. Nothing scary about skeletons. It feels safe working with them, knowing that there are 206 bones in the body. It’s like working on an old maths question you feel comfortable with.

I do not feel comfortable working with anything else. I have to pushed into the autopsy room, half the time. Mostly because I don’t have a Starbucks in my hand (other coffee brands are available). But the idea of doing a Y-incision into the dead’s chest – doing it to a female is more disturbing, but if you’re a man (or a lesbian), you’ll instinctively look at the breasts. And then you have get to the brain, which is worse because you have to cut through the scalp, collapse the face (!), and then saw through the bone.

Yeah. Dealing with skeletal remains is much better for me.

And it was dealing with a skeletal remains of a woman (black, mid to late thirties) is when I heard it.

I heard something. I wasn’t sure what, but I heard… movement?

Now that was impossible. I was the only person in the morgue. I was working late to make sure all my notes and findings made sense. I was getting dental records tomorrow and I was sure that we would have an ID for her. For her and for her family’s sake.

“He-hello?” I called out.

Nothing. As quiet as the grave.

I sighed, looked at the clock – 10:47pm – and decided that I should really go home. I was seriously behind on my Grey’s Anatomy – a secret vice no one knew about. Plus, I wanted a shower. I wanted to wash the smell of death that I knew had clung to my clothes, my hair, my skin.

I stretched, feeling my joints pop out of my sockets when I heard it about. A low, muffled sound. I stood perfectly still, arms still above my head, trying to pinpoint the sound.

There was nothing.

I should ignore it. It’s nothing. I mentally told myself. And yet… and yet, I knew I couldn’t.

So, guessing that weird the noise had come from, I walked across the morgue, pass the gurneys and pushed the doors open.

A chill ran over my skin. I felt goosebumps rise. The cold room has that effect on people. It never bothered me before. But it did now.

Eight stainless steel gurneys were taken. Each holding a black body bag. I felt my skin tightened as I walked to the first. I forced myself to work confidently. I had nothing to fear here. It wasn’t like the dead could rise again.

I checked the tag. White female. No date. No time.

Okay, that’s odd.

I unzipped the bag. Inside was a naked white female. Her skin was practically translucent. Her black hair looked wet and was pulled back, revealing a woman with a large forehead. Her eyes were closed, given the impression that she was sleeping.

“Oh, get a grip of yourself.” I told myself aloud, zipping the body bag shut. “You’re tired. You’re cranky. Go home.”

I turned to leave. I made two steps before I stopped. Okay, that time, I definitely heard something.

I turned. It had to be my imagination. Had to be. There was no way -!

Slowly, I edged back to the body bag I had just opened. Then stopped, hand frozen in mid air.

“Get a grip,” I told myself, as I took the zip and unzipped the bag.

Again, there she laid. Her eyes closed. Her hair still pulled back.

My fingers, acting of their own accord, moved towards her throat. If she was dead, there would be no pulse. If she was dead, she would be cold skinned. If she was dead –

The corpse’s eyes opened.

I gasped, recoiled, almost lost my footing and stared, opened mouth.

Her eyes were open!

“Oh – OH MY GOD!” I couldn’t stop myself from saying the words. I grabbed the gurney and kicked at the brake.

Get her out of the cold!

“Sweetie!” I said, kicking at the brake again and feeling my foot making contract. “It’s okay. I got you. You’re going to be okay.”

I hope.

I wheeled the gurney out of the cold room. I thought I heard someone.

“Call an ambulance!” I called out, hoping that I wasn’t alone.

Not Another Michelle Zink Writing Challenge

I'm afraid it is!

I know I should be sitting down and REALLY focused on my own writing, but I felt a tiny bit guilty for not doing more Writing Missions, so this morning I sneak onto Michelle Zink's website (when I was meant to be working! And I was... kinda...) and looked up this week's writing challenge. This week was one I HAD to do. In this week's task, Michelle revealed a tiny nugget from her upcoming novel "Guardian of the Gate" (a book I am going to get) and she wanted us to take the paragraph and turn it into something new within 30 Minutes. Yeah, I was at work. So, I gave myself till the end of the working day to write something and, wherever I ended, I would just upload it.

I'm not going to tell you what Michelle gave us to work with (you have to click on the following link to find out - http://michellezinkbooks.wordpress.com/2010/06/24/thursday-night-write-guardian-of-the-gate-clue/), but this is what I made of it. And I was surprised with myself because I found myself, near the end, not liking my main character. He seemed so arrogant that it bothered me. But, I like the story. Maybe, one day, I might go back to it...

Until then, enjoy!

*

For as long as I could remember, I have always been able to see them. The ghosts that are trapped here, wanting desprately to move on to “The Other Side” (I don’t believe in that “Go into the Light” crap). And ghosts that refuse. Point blank. Some out of stubbornness. Some out of fear. But most stay because they want to. It’s fun to stay and watch. They’re not ready to go. Not just yet.

And then there are those that aren’t ghosts at all. The Frighteners, as I call them. They’re made from bad energy, from what I can guess. Bad energy, evil energy. They want to be human, or as close to human as they can. Expenience human emotions. They’re the reason people get depression or have horrible thoughts. It’s frightening to walk down the road and see them close to someone, and knowing that I could help. Or try to. But I can’t. I can’t do anything.

Cos I’m a freak. A weirdo. An oddity. The curiousity. And those are the kind names people have called me. Hence why I rarely talk about my ability.

It was because I was standing in a field that I was a little afraid. The field’s openness was terrifying, though the sun shined brightly, turning gold the wild grass and swaying wheat that stretches in every direction. For all its beauty, the field left me no place to hide. If a Frightener came, I would have to run. And I tend to fall down when I run. I tend to fall down A LOT.

I sighed. The ghost had changed its mind. It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s not like I’ve met a ghost who hasn’t changed his or her mind, or worry if they are making the right decision.

It was too humid to wonder why the ghost had changed his or her mind. Plus, I had to get back and finish those English Literature assignments. I couldn’t fail with these assignments. If I didn’t get a decent mark, I basically flunked my class. I couldn’t flunk this class.

So, I turned to leave. And jumped as the ghost stood there, a little too close for comfort.

Ghosts blink. That’s why he was so close to me. Ghosts don’t walk or float up to you. Some do, but that’s a tiny percentage of the ghost populous. The attention seeking kind. The rest of them Blink. Well, I call it blinking. One moment, no one is there. The next, Bam! There they are. Most people think it’s a trick. They blink and they see the ghost without realising it. I know that they are ghosts. Ghosts don’t have auras like humans do.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” He took a step back, releasing he was in my personal space. “Are you alright?”

“I – I’m fine.” I lied. I rammed my hands into my pockets. When I lie, my fingers tend to twitch. “Just give me moment to catch my breath.”

“Okay,” the ghost smiled and fell silent. He seemed pleased that I came, as if he feared that I won’t. that I would change my mind.

He doesn’t know me very well.

“Okay,” I said after a moment, taking my hands out of my pockets and flexing my fingers. “So, I’m here.”

“Yeah, sorry.” He looked my age, wearing clothes that were about five, maybe six, years out of fashion. “I can only talk here.”

“Why here?” I questioned.

“Because I can’t leave the field. I’m stuck here.”

Well, that was new and unexpected.

From what I had been told by my Grandmother (who had the gift too – it “supposed” to have missed a generation with my mother. But I don’t believe my mum. As the song goes, “Deny, Deny, Deny”), ghosts don’t haunt one place. They can come and go as they please. Most haunt places that mean something to them – a house, a garden, a public garden. I saw one haunt one of the London Underground stations. Also, I have never come across a ghost that haunts a graveyard, much to everyone’s surprise. And I should know – I live oppisite a graveyard. It’s one of the few places I can go without hearing, seeing or sensing a ghost. It’s a place I can turn my brain off from the ghost frequency.

But to be stuck in one place…

“So, you can’t leave this field?” I said, slowly, trying to get my brain round the idea. “But you’ve been trying to contact me.” It came out as a question.

“I have.”

“How?”

“Little things. But mostly when you slept. That seems to be the easiest way.”

Ah, he’s one of those ghosts…

Some ghosts, not very many, have the horrible knack to send messages and ideas into dreams. It’s very rare. One or two of them can even enter your dreams, which is kinda freaky to say the least. It has only ever happened to me once, when I was sixteen and having a fairly steamy dream involving myself and two other people (one of them was the member of the oppisite sex) when a ghost appeared, stared over us and started screaming at me, telling how dirty and wrong it was. How preverted it was. Ever since then, if I have one of those dreams, I change it to something extremely dull incase a ghost walks in. Like tofu.

Another Writing Task (Inspired by Michelle Zink)

So, last Thursday, Michelle Zink did another one of her writing missions (I try and do these. If not on the date then a few days after.) But this time, I was determine to do this task (write a short story in 300 words or less).

Why? Well, two reasons. I fancied a challenge and, second, she talked about in her blog (which I am very flattered with. [It was my birthday and I was called a "die-hard fan of my work, an online friend, and a supporter of my as-yet-unapproved tour of the UK." [come on, Atom Books. You know you want to...?]). http://michellezinkbooks.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/thursday-night-write-9/

So, the plan was to write a short story about birthdays. Seemed the right thing to write. But stuff happened - Florence and the Machine gig and a weekend of mad - so I got down to it today. Only, I didn't write a birthday short. I wrote this instead.

Oh, the quotes from Florence and the Machine - They don;t count towards my word count. I just thought they were cool lyrics! ENJOY!

*

My boy builds coffins for better or worse
Some say it’s a blessing, some say it’s a curse
He fits them together in sunshine or rain
Each one is unique, no two are the same

My boy builds coffins and I think it's a shame
That when each ones been made, he can't see it again
He crafts every one with love and with care
Then it's thrown in the ground, it just isn't fair
“My Boy Builds Coffins” by Florence and the Machine. (Taken from the album “Lungs”)

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone
“Blinding” by Florence and the Machine (Taken from the album “Lungs”)

I awoke into a world of total darkness.
I blinked, and the blackness I saw with my eyes shut was the same as when I opened my eyes.
I took a silent breath as I lifted my head, and was surprised when my head made contact with something. Something solid. Something that made a wooden echo.
I lowered my head onto the pillow and, gingerly, raised my left hand and touched the cold surface. I felt a strange knot in the surface and realised that the surface was made of polished wood.
I moved my hand to above my head. Polished wood.
I moved my hand to my left. Polished wood.
I moved my hand to my right. Polished wood.
I didn’t wriggle down and made my feet check if there was wood. I knew there would be.
I knew. I just knew.
I was in a coffin. A simple coffin, but a coffin nevertheless.
Then everything came rushing back, almost knocking the breath out of me. I remembered the car accident. I remembered the hospital. I remembered the smell. I remembered the beeping machines. I remembered asking for a simple funeral if I did die. I remembered –
Was I dead?
My hands flew to my throat as I checked for a pulse. Yes. Yes, it was there. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I breathed a sigh. Then hesitated.
Was… was it my imagination, or did the wood feel warm? Unnaturally warm?
I froze as a small wave of horror ran through my veins. I was being cremated. Being burned alive.
I relaxed.
Shouldn’t I be panicking? Shouldn’t I be screamed?
But I wasn’t. I laid there, quite calm. I almost smiled to myself.
I yawned, closed my eyes and fell into a final sleep.

Michelle Zink's 30 Minute Writing Mission

On Thursday, Michelle Zink (an author I follow on Twitter), set up a "Thursday Night Write" on her blog. Basically, it was a test to see what we can write within 30 Minutes, based on photo.

Now, I couldn't do it on Thursday but I just had a go. And writing something within 30 minutes is hard. Very very hard. That's all I'm saying on the matter.

So, here is my attempt. Yes, you can laugh at it. I know that I am a rubbish writer when I rush and don't go back and check myself... So, sorry in advance for bad spelling and grammar.



My hands smelt of vinegar as I poured the used water down the drain.
You don’t want your windows to be covered in smears, do you? My dad always said when I first washed my car.
Those were the days when I actually listened to the liar.
“Hey!”
I looked up and smiled, setting the empty bucket on the pavement. “Hey Jacob!”
“You’re washing it?” Jacob walked towards me, his eyes watched me carefully. “You’re washing the Rust Bucket?”
“It’s not rusty.” I said back. “It has character.”
“Mm-hm.” Jacob eyed my truck with suspicion. “I’m surprised you haven’t scrapped it. It’s probably worth more as scrap metal than to run the thing. I mean, what year is it?”
“You tell me. You’re the car expect.” I replied. “And anyway, this truck has been with me through some tough times. I think Chevy should stay around for a little while.”
“Chevy? You named your truck Chevy? How Bella Swann of you.”
“You relate me or Chevy to the Twilight Saga and I will not be held responsible for my actions.” I said back, but I was joking.
I looked fondly at my truck. Chevy, a battered blue truck with large ugly rust patches, looking like bruises. I got it from my brother, Dillon, when he finally fixed it up. He started the job when I was fourteen and he sixteen. I was twenty when he finally finished the job. I never believe his “I can’t get the parts” story. I always believed he was born-idle.
This was the only true link to him now, seeing as I never saw him one month to the next. Him being at medicinal school and all.
“I don’t think it’s a Chevy. But that’s neither here nor there.” Jacob waved a hand and sat on the pavement in front of my truck. “So, what’s wrong? So wrong that you had to talk to good old Jacob Black.”
Jacob and I have always been friends. I can’t remember a time when we weren’t. We were like brothers, twins even. We knew each other inside out. I was there for him when he was stressing about his GCSEs and then his A-Levels. And he was there for me when my parents got divorced.
I sighed as I sat next to him. “Well, Taylor,” I started calling him Taylor or Taylor Launter ever since the Twilight Saga films came out. I joked about him not having Taylor’s muscles, and he would always joke that if he was Taylor, than I was Robert Pattinson.
I took a moment to gather my thoughts together. “Dad’s – Dad’s getting remarried.”
Jacob’s jaw dropped. “Sorry? Say what?”
“Oh yes. Dad is getting remarried to the evil Harpy-Bitch from Hell.” I said, coolly. But inside, I was spitting venom. It was her fault! If she never went to work for Dad, then they wouldn’t have the affair and nearly torn the family apart. Dillon cut all ties with Dad, as did Mum. But I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. “And that’s not the worst of it. He wants Dillon and me to come to the wedding. Can you believe that? The nerve!”
Jacob sighed a big puff of air. “Whoa. That’s… that’s… whoa.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Have you told your Mum?”
I hesitated. “She’s out of the country.”
“She doesn’t know?”
“No. And I don’t want her to know. Dear God, can you imagine what would happen if Mum found out?”
“I don’t like this. You should tell her.”
“And then what? Wait for the fireworks? God, it’s like the divorce all over again!” With Dillon and me in the middle of Mum and Dad fighting. Forcing us to choose sides.
“What did you tell him?”
“I’ll think about it.” I answered honestly.
“You said -? Alec, that’s worse! You should never have said that!”
“What? Why?”
Jacob sighed, looking heavenwards. “It – it just is!”
I sighed. “So what do I do?”
“Pray your Dad sees sense and marry a Weeping Angel from Doctor Who.”
“I’m serious, Jacob.”
“So am I.”
I rolled my eyes. “That would make life easier.” Sigh. “Should I tell Dillon?”
“Yes. You have to talk to him.”
“Dillon’s not going to like it…” I muttered.
“He won’t like it if he hears it through someone else.”
“You’re right. You’re right!” I held my hands up, admitting defeat. “I’ll call him.”
“Good boy.”
“Shut up, mutt.”
“Have you heard this joke?” Jacob’s eyes grew mischievous. “How do you drown a blond?”
He always blond jokes with me. I usually laugh them, seeing as I have blond hair. “I don’t know. How?”
“Throw a mirror into the water.” His smile was wide.
“That was so lame, I’m not going to laugh to that.” I stood up, hearing my joints cracks.
“Okay, that was gross.” He got up silently next to me. “Want to hear something else funny?”
“Not a bad joke?”
“Nope. Even better.”
I braced myself. “Go on.”
“Guess whose going out with Henry?”
“Henry?” I questioned. I knew three Henrys.
“Henry Edwards.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Who?”
“Helena.”
“Helena? Helena Weatherworth?”
“Yep.” Jacob looked smug.
“But – but she hates him.”
“Not from what I heard. Or saw for that matter