Monday, 1 June 2015

Update, and a short writing game story

The edit for Spark of Humanity is finished - save for a final run-through of the ebook formatting, and any tweaks needed for that.

We had a great time at the May writing group - I couldn't make it through my short story without laughing. It was a real change of tone to my usual writing, and I really enjoyed it.

We had the following: a random first name, a random last name, and a location, and the selections I ended up with were: Joanna Holden, and a Biscuit Factory.

Here's the story (well it's more of a scene/beginning) that I came up with.

Sour Grapes

It'll be fun! That was the promise given to Joanna Holden - Jo, no ’e’, when she'd signed up for the tour. A grand historical journey that took in three of her favourite things: wine, check, chocolate, check, and biscuits. Check.

Three days into her holiday in France, in a tiny village whose name she couldn't pronounce, Jo found herself in the aforementioned biscuit factory, wandering around after closing time, wine glass in one hand, square of chocolate in the other, staring unsteadily down from the top step of a ramshackle iron staircase, watching as one of the factory workers murdered the owner in cold blood.

Jo had never seen a dead body before, so she studied the scene from her vantage point with a slightly alcohol-fuzzed perspective of polite interest and detachment. As the deep crimson stain spread around the corpse of the owner, his chest ruined by a crowbar that jutted from his sternum, Jo was only slightly embarrassed that her first thought was for the glass of wine in her left hand, “At least this is Chardonnay, not Cabernet.”

A nervous laugh giggled its way out of her throat, echoing around the otherwise deserted factory. The murderer looked up, locking eyes with Jo, whose brain, in some deep reptilian self-preservation part of itself began to stir.

She dropped the chocolate, which only served to interrupt the fight or flight instinct building in her mind for another second. The murderer yanked the crowbar from the chest of his victim, sending a further spray of Cabernet blood across the bare concrete floor, then he marched towards the foot of the stairs.

Finally, like some long-stalled car that sputtered to life on the seventh attempt, Jo’s brain re-engaged itself. She turned, and ran...

© Craig Romans 2015.

Give it a try yourself - 20 minutes, a random name, and a random location.

Happy writing!