Collected lines #1

The random jottings and half-conceived ideas which come out at writing club

Twice a month, I attend an informal writing group at my local indie book store. It’s a chance for likeminded people to gather and write without pressure or deadlines, and I bloody love it. I meet interesting people from all walks of life who I would never ordinarily cross paths with. I always leave feeling inspired and fulfilled.

A lot of what I write is very random, based on prompts or activities set during the group. Some of it may feed into the novel I am trying to write, some of it may just languish in the notebook for eternity. I thought it would be good practise to share those scribblings here, as a way to get them out of the notebook and potentially into the minds of others. So here we go, issue one of Collected Lines.

For these piece, the prompt was “late”:

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The app must be wrong. She must have inputted her last cycle dates incorrectly. These things can’t be trusted right? Made by men just out for a profit aren’t they? She can’t be late. Can she?

She can’t remember the last time she even… oh wait. Shit. Bloody Ralph at the bloody summer party. She’d known it was a bad idea to get plastered but she was being plied with free Prosecco, how could she twists? Those tight-fisted bastards pay her peanuts, so she’s got to take the perks where she can get them. Although banging Ralph in the bathroom of the Wetherspoons was a perk she hadn’t really seen coming. Not that she had either, but anyway. It looked like the little perk had turned into a potentially very big problem.

As she sat staring at the notification on her phone screen, silently willing the test to change, she heard the dull chime of the town hall bells, signalling 8am. Great, not only was she LATE, now she was going to be late for work as well.

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The next activity was to write something based on a genre chosen by someone else in the group, I got “kid-lit”:

Dylan was a happy dog, a frenchie pup aged four,

He spent the long days snoozing, and barking at the door.

He lived at home with mum and dad, in a lovely little flat,

Full of toys and treats galore, enough to make him fat.

Then one day, to his surprise, a treat after the vet,

A tiny, shouty, smelly thing, he’d got his very own pet!

It had no teeth or claws or fur, and there wasn’t a tail in sight,

But despite not looking like a dog, it howled all through the night.

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The final prompt was “circus”:

She’d never really understood the term “media circus” before. It seemed to be used often in the tabloids, a way to exaggerate the allure and importance of an event. But now, as she fought her way from her front door, the sage green paint peeling in places and flaking onto the doormat, into the safety of the awaiting Uber, she got it.

She was the lone tightrope walker, tentatively taking her next step as the braying crowd looked on, willing her to fall. The hoards of photographers and reporters were sinister clowns, wielding microphones and cameras in place of juggling balls and custard pies. Inane grins were plastered on their faces as they screamed out for her attention.

And at the centre of it all, Him. The one who has upended her humdrum but perfectly pleasing life, and turned it into this ludicrous display. The twisted ringmaster of it all. Her father.

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