Ceilidh Dance Part Two

All except Dante. Taliesin Macbeth would tell anyone prepared to listen that the conception of his only son had taken place on a midsummer evening when two star crossed lovers consummated their passion whilst riding the astral plains. In reality Dante had been the product of a Whisky fuelled knee trembler by the bins of The Four Horsemen, with Carol who worked behind the bar on Fridays. Presumably a similar alcoholic haze had been responsible for the name Dante, on its own bad enough, combined with the surname Macbeth an almost crippling handicap to begin life with. Dante didn’t go to the grammar school, Dante was “Schooled at home” which early on in their relationship Connor discovered meant he was allowed to do what he wanted, seemingly without consequence, and had the run of his fathers vast house “Poets Lodge”. He also had access to Taliesin’s impressive collection of high class European pornography. Adversity makes strange bedfellows, and Connor and Dante, the only two boys in the whole of Drumcrag not to go to the grammar school soon became fast friends. This alliance was further cemented by Connors mother absolutely forbidding Connor to have anything to do with Dante. Like Connor, Dante was still in Drumcrag, the only two not to have left. They would both stand at the bar in the Four Horsemen and watch the next generation of Children preparing to leave, and just at the point Connor would be about to scream at the insanity of it all, Dante would twinkle and buy him another drink and it would all seem not quite so bad, and then Connor would roll back to his parents house, back to his small room with the bed he had slept in since he was three and the action man wallpaper that had never been changed. Back to the disapproving look of his mother and the quiet silence from his father and he would crash out in his clothes and dream of passing his eleven plus and wake up still in his clothes with a mouth like a camels arse.

PAGE TWO

COOKER

So instead of working I sit here, pushing the spoon around the coffee cup and think. Think about what the hell I'm gonna do with this situation, with this case and with my life. I wouldn't say I was happy, even content. Numb might be a better description of what I feel. I remember Romero decribing his many zombies as empty, well that's where I was and thanks to that I was alledgedly the best on the force.

So rather than venturing into the goading, leering lions den of an office I hide here in the neon lights of the canteen and wait for my shift to end. Watching the door to see what happens and who turns up, whether she turns up.

She had a red bob when she joined, now it's black and scalped back to her skull. She doesn't smile or laugh or joke or seem to have any humour whatsoever but I find her truly fascinating. I don't know why but it definitely has something to do with the way she eats.

WPC Collins always eats in the canteen. I am not a stalker yet, so I do not know when she will appear but I love to watch her take her food from the staff and then sit down so they cannot see her. She then methodically insures that no one food touches another. This can take between 2 and 3 minutes. She is so engrossed that she doesn't even notice me. I like that, she's so intent of catagorising her food that the world stops to wait.

The Ceildh Dance 1

The Laird's house at Drumcrag was empty, the windows boarded over and the driveway slowly being eaten by the surrounding woodlands. It didn't look happy, two damp brown streaks ran down the front where the gutters were blocked with the leaves of fifteen autumns. Every time Connor MacDonald passed he thought it looked as though the old house was crying. Perhaps it was begging to be loved once more, wanting to be the centre of everything, a second chance. Connor MacDonald knew how it felt. Drumcrag House had been the bright light in the village, until the Laird had been found dead in his bed one sweaty July morning and the brief candle had been extinguished. No heir to the fortune of the Robertsons had stepped forth and so the land had been taken over by the Scottish national trust. Now as he bumped along the top road, turning from tarmac to rutted cart track under the tyres of his landrover he thought about what a bad year his eleventh had been all round.

It was such a small thing, a sore throat. Overnight it had turned from a tiny itchy tickle into a roaring brain aching cold. A cold that had burned the inside of Connor's head out. Connor's mother had thought it was just an excuse and had made him go to school anyway. He couldn't concentrate on the exam, the crimson pain in his throat and the stinging lights in his eyes had made it impossible. he knew his Grammer school entrance exam was a lost cause, failed and cast into the pit. He tried to tell himself it wasn't the end of the world. Except that it was.

Not for Connor, the splendid royal purple uniforms of Drumcrag Grammar School, but a fifteen mile bus ride in prison grey to the grey prison of Loch Andrew Comprehensive. his own grey jumper hung on the peg in the hallway next to his brothers' Purple Blazers. A constant reminder to the whole family of the failure in their midst. He sometimes hid the jumper- better an empty peg, better there had never been an owner of that jumper. It was always there the next morning back again to haunt him, someone, he presumed it was his mother, always made sure it was there and to his eternal shame he hated them for it. The jumper was the figurehead of a ship that set sail the day the exam result had been announced. A ship that would not call at the ports of Alevels or university, A ship that wouldn't even skirt the coast of the local girls, whose grammar school sweethearts could wrap their purple bloody blazers around their pale shoulders on cool summer evenings. He had watched it all, happening to the children he had grown up with, watched them leave one by one, for University, the big city, high paid jobs, none of them could get out quick enough. It was like watching the rest of the world getting ready for a party you weren't invited to. They all went, including James and William his elder brothers. All went and left him behind...

OPEN BOOK

COOKER

Everyone loves the summer. I never really got it myself. Sure, when you're twelve and the endless days stretch out ahead of you like a sun drenched beach you can understand it. But when your manager is sweating because his manager's manager has promised 'results', summer's are itchy places, where you feel light headed and you soon realise you don't really know anyone.

"The difficulty with the pressure cases" Uncle Neal would regale me, "Is that no-one wants them and no-one else wants to be anywhere near them." He would then leer and burp while I wanted to stuff my thumb up through his palette. He was right though, for all that I depised him for it.

"This incident will be cleared up easily" Swaggered Chief Inspector Penn, "My best men are on the case, I thank you for your time."

'I thank you for your time'... who says that. And 'best men', best man more like! More like "The lowliest inspector I can find might be on this as well as fulfilling his other duties and making tea for the 'real' policeman. But I will insure that I phone him three times a day to show interest and harrass his sorry ass". Cock!

Well there's a start - Time of year and situation spelled out... next!

Role-Play Anyone?

Ok, don't shoot this one down straight away, but I've done this elsewhere and it is a brilliant and highly addictive way of provoking competitive and complementary writing...

The word role-play personally fills me with dread, I always think back to that wanker with the rubber swords on the set of Henry V who insisted on bragging about his 'martial prowess' with a latex appendage... enough said really.  The way in which an online writers role-play works is simple:

1. Agree a Genre for the impending role-play.
2. Post our characters, built to a character sheet (yeah, cringe, cringe)...
3. Outside some basic rules of character interaction (shouldn't be a problem, but in action orientated variants some people cannot understand the difference between 'drama' and 'murder' and attempt to 'kill' other peoples characters - clearly a silly idea!)
4. There is a 'gamesmaster' (I know - cringe!) - I will shave my head, chop my legs off and don a silly red smock.  I will appear from behind rocks and dispense justice if peeps get silly - right!  Fear ME... I might send Uni after you!
5. Have fun, the idea is to compete over the story line and have different perspectives on the same story - effectively then competing to out-do each-other in story twists, brilliant complexity or astounding writing...

And thats about it really, The next step is to agree a genre...

My votes for a murder mystery set in a 'to be agreed' time period and place with different PI's, police detectives etc competing to discover clues before the murderer etc strikes again.

House rules.

Well I'm glad to welcome Suneokun and Camp Freddy to the blog in which we can share our stories and give feedback about eachothers work, bounce some ideas and hopefully geek out a bit on the literary side. As Editor I will not be Editing your work (hence the title), but I will be maintaining the blog, updating links and blodfeeds and generally keeping shop. I will also be posing as illustrator for your pieces and hope to supply your work with drawings and paintings feeding off and to your ideas.

I hope to see regular writing going in here, pieces every few days; ideas, thoughts or just ramblings. All these need to be book related, if you want to fill another blog with abstractions about teacups, feel free I just won't be involved. Anything that you want to commit, however unfinished I will endeavour to feedback in the comments section and feed ideas, thoughts and positive vibes to you guys. I may even sum up the courage to write something in future but will concentrate on editing and illustrating the pages for the time being.

To sum up, I am in awe of the written word. I can ramble and put jokes together but creation of character, plot, suspense etc is something I want to learn. So please reach into your extensive back catalogues and let's start blogging.

Yours Devilin

Welcome one and all.

Welcome all the Cluttered fireplace that is home to the scribes of the Tome. I hope that you will enjoy reading the assorted stories here and that you will feel welcome to leave comments about the positive and constructive aspects of our writer's works. We will try to answer questions and expand on the ideas explored in these pages frequently and hope that you enjoy exploring the written word as much as we do.

Devilin - Editor