Stage three: one month in

I have been very bad with updating what’s going on, school is really rather busy. So a brief update on what’s happening: not a lot.

It hasn’t been moving as swiftly or as productively as hoped, for various reasons: struggling to get us all together at the same time; lack of concentration and interrupted rehearsal (though one interruption did see a fire engine come and put out a blaze in a car).

Not too happy with how rehearsals were going I got ‘stricter’ during them and this did see us getting somewhere. Mainly working out where the Voice’s lines would come and how lines are said. With small rehearsal spaces acting isn’t too easy but that’s been ok for the first few weeks; now I’m keen to rehearse in our performance space as much as possible, which isn’t proving easy a the room is unavailable apart from on Fridays.

Aware that it’s hard for the actors to learn their lines without the motivation of a definite date or performance in sight I went to Miss Blake and asked if a performance date was possible. Her response was we can do something before Christmas even if it’s just an informal one; this idea wasn’t met with much excitement from the cast. Oh dear.

The most recent Friday rehearsal finally saw some enthusiasm all round, I must say it left me with yet more questions. Miss Blake now said that there was a monologue night in January and we could do something there or on another evening, a snippet. That’s a really long time to do a snippet with the whole of the Christmas holidays to forget it. However, on a positive note (I really have been a bit of a whiner) the room is going to look great: we’ll make it look exactly like a Therapist’s office making the whole play far more intermit and realistic.

The rehearsal made me realise that I’ve maybe focused too much on the script, as I believe that the best play has to start with that; however, I think we should look deeper into the characters. In the next few rehearsals we’ll do some off script improvisation and hot seating (asking the characters questions irrelevant to the script about their life). This will hopefully make the actors more at one with their characters and remove the block of written words confining how they feel. The hot seating will be interesting here as Mr. Big won’t be able to answer the questions for he believes what Jane beliefs he is. He is the interpretation of the view she has towards her brother.

So then, onwards and upwards…

Stage three: Rehearsals

 Back at school and the rehearsals have started. A little slowly as I had to sort out some things first: where it would be, when it would be. Coming out of those meetings with the drama teachers (where I got tea!), I have the same back room, but no date. That is because things will be taken a little slower. Ms Blake said she preferred the first half to the second and at the moment it’s a very sophisticated play written by a 14 year old and she just wants to make it a sophisticated play. Which I don’t disagree with.

So the first rehearsal coming up this Friday.

Sending off and waiting

Scripts are sent.. well were sent about three weeks ago. Had a little trouble with the Therapist's as foreign computers and Word documents on Apple fail to play ball.

Then it was just a long, long waiting game for the most of the summer while I hoped to hear back about a date for performance.

There's yet no date and no theatre so a few things are needing to be rethought. It's not just scripts that have rewrites, but ideas and visions too.

Haven't been able to do a rehearsal schedule without a date so feeling a little unorganised and out of touch with it.

Will see what happens when the term commences...

Stage one: Checks

These last few, days before I send off the scripts, (must get to B before she pops off to Spain) have been days of final checks. Final read throughs with my mum so I was sure to be sending off a 99% correct script, My mum seemed to think the voice was that of a gremlin…

Having gotten Lisa, a school councilor and previous ChildLine operator, to read through it, she flashed up the issue of ‘content matter’. It hadn’t occurred to me that for some this play could be disturbing and stir secreted memories.

So, it’s necessary to run it through the correct channels at school, but not up to me to do this; I will inform the head of Drama along with sending him the script.

One of the main reasons this issue didn’t flash up with me is I’ve focused solely on schizophrenia, having done all my research here. However, what I put in for a dramatic reveal, is a far more common issue, that of abuse. There are high possibilities that audience members will have experienced abuse themselves or known others that have. Which is why we must tread cautiously; she did, though, say the play was sensitive enough not to offend, so there were no changes I had to make (thank god).

As a way to see who comes away effected by what I will set up two charity boards and buckets, one for domestic violence and one for schizophrenia. I think one will be a local charity and one a national one, I’m thinking along the lines of the NSPCC.

She also gave me some helpful information: the chair isn’t to be comfy as you want them to be uncomfortable, this way you can tell a lot from their body position. 

Stage one: Marking with a red (black) pen

 Here’s where I play the teacher, this part I do find fun. My granny told me you must never correct your work on your computer, you must print it out! Despite being a pain if you have 35 odd pages to print, but it must be done. And I much prefer correcting in the flesh. It was also quite exciting having the first print out copy of my very own script.

The main thing I was checking for was making sure things flowed, reading it out load and adding commas where needed (I need to use more commas), changing those words that seem pot holes to the flow.

There were also a few paragraphs I needed to change, improving on things etc. But here I wasn’t making big changes to whole sections.

Then I simply went through the printed copy and online copy making sure they matched (a little boring but gives time for another check).

Stage one: Alterations

 I hate this part the most, it doesn’t matter what I’ve written, but I dread it. It’s where my mum and I sit down to dissect my work. She brings up everything that doesn’t work or I’ve made to obscure (well you know what they say: show don’t tell). I started off this session with reminding her that anything she said I wasn’t going to write down, and it’s funny but (no offence mummy) everything she suggests or writes down in the notes, sticks out like a sour thumb when you read it. The voice really is in the writer’s head.

I recently learnt that when editors edit novels the majority of changes they make are structural and I think this is due to the latter.

Really reading through and scrutinizing the script has improved it dramatically, it’s a chore that must be done. It also clarified what I already knew: areas that worked really well and those that were just too confusing.

It’s a tense process, I’m not going to lie, as I counter everything she brings up, but this is a good balance. One of the main issues I found doing this is people, after listening to it, were saying ‘this area needs work’, but that was pretty much all the direction they gave. And without knowing what I needed to change I couldn’t change it, most frustrating.

When we’d reached a sticky point half way through where the things that needed changing just weren’t taking the changes that were needed, I got colourful with my felt tips:

Here I was working out each section in the play and what the point of that section was.

I met an amazing tutor who told me ‘everything you write needs to have a theme and structure’:

‘Do you notice my skeleton?’

‘No.’

‘Would you notice if it wasn’t there?’

And you see what I mean, so the structural element of White Flies is the secret and big reveal at the end, the themes: people know what’s it like to have schizophrenia and working out Jane’s trigger.

Now everything I write revolves, links and has to be relevant to those themes. (Another example being in my, ‘in progress’, novel the theme is: love leads to self discovery) Knowing your theme makes a huge difference to your writing, it’s like the coat hanger to which you hang your creations. This may not make sense now, but when your writing and constantly thinking about your theme it makes everything so much clearer. And means you don’t write waffle, every word, character and idea has a purpose.

So my themes were in the middle (dark pink); section numbers around the edge (dark, dull green); relevance of those sections to the play (grass green) and what I needed to change or add to those sections below (pink). The big purple scribble up the side is the reveal and other notes just buzzing brain ideas I needed to get down.

By the end of the evening (midnight, when I really do write best) I had sorted my most confusing section, changed me reveal and re-written my ending.

This has taught me that you may think your first draft is fine and things do make sense because they do to you, but it’s called a first draft for a reason.

I’m just worried about how many drafts I’m going to have as I need to get the scripts to them for their line learning.

Great idea: if you’ve written a play then record it to your computer and plug it into your car: you have your very own radio play for when your stuck in traffic. Or just record yourself reading your kids favourite story!

Stage one: Touching up

A creative writing course in Purbeck, with the newly published author Joanna Rossiter, gave me a great amount of time to just sort my script. I had lots of little sections that I just needed to link together and put things in an order that made sense. 

On the Wednesday we spent the afternoon on a very rocky sea side where Gemma, Jemima (Banks) and I decided to record the play, on Garage Band (laptops in wildlife). It worked well and the girls read it brilliantly considering it was the first time they'd seen it, Jemima should have auditioned! 

Playing the recording to my mum she said there were still structural changes to make which I think I will struggle with.

The problems I'm encountering perpetuate from the fact my play is just dialogue. There's no movement or scene changes, there are only two actors and they stay the same characters throughout the 45 minutes (which I now know is 36 pages of font 12). I have to make the play interesting, dramatic and with that 'arch' but still make it as true to a therapy session as possible. It's proving a task.

I do have an underlying secret for that dramatic ending, and this secret is hinted to throughout the play; but that's the only clear structure, as the rest of the sections simply run into each other. I've tried a 'summing up' activity half way trough and have had Jane ask what there doing in the session at the start; but without really knowing what clear things need to change I'm unsure what changes to make.

At the moment I have a script and I do have a play, putting it on as it is will make a good production but I want to make it an excellent production.

(Ans just for you Gemma: Many thank to Jemima Banks)

Stage two: Auditions

Being one of the girls that don’t ‘Shellcialise” after supper there’s a 90% chance that if you’re a boy I really don’t know your name (not because I don’t care, but I really can’t remember names, thanks dad). So when people actually turned up to auditions, especially boys, I was in shock. I was also surprised because I didn’t think any were into acting; but I was delighted, so very delighted.

I held auditions over two days, 5-6, in the theatre. The parts up for grabs were the therapist and the voice, as Jane the main character, I gave to Gemma Daubney (the other drama scholar in the year). She did a marvellous job in the auditions.

Boys are funny when they audition: you can tell they really are trying but they have to maintain that ‘cool, I don’t care’ demeanour. It does make me laugh; but I wish they’d audition for more school plays as they really are good.

 The audition piece for them was a poem from the play:

         I am nothing

         I wonder why I am not dead

         I hear the deadly truth

         I see the destruction I cause

         I want to die

         I am nothing

         I pretended I live

         I feel worthless

         I touch the hour of death as it ticks by

         I worry that death won’t find me

         I cry too much

         I am nothing

         I understand that nothing will love me

         I say too much, always too much

         I dream of the end

         I hope for the end

         I am nothing           

I chose this, as it’s one of the few chunks the voice has; but if I were to do it again I would probably choose another section as they found it hard to read it sarcastically and this is what I was really looking for, someone who could change the tone of their voice and had a subtle yet domineering presence.

I wasn’t to bothered about them getting it right away as that’s something we can work on, but I needed to be sure they could get it. And sure I am about Ollie, (who I’ve chosen) he said this one line and I just though: yes, that’s it he’s got it. He also has a voice most like Gemma, which is key to the play. But I did consider anther boy, Max, who had a much deeper voice, but he was more of a risk and I just wasn’t sure if it would work. So Ollie it is.

The auditions were great fun and suddenly made everything feel so real. Having my play read out in the theatre was so cool and I sat there making those little director notes:

X: sounds a bit too much like Charlie, can’t change tone of voice

Y: really friendly, only acts when speaking, good smile, not that much presence

The girls audition piece was taken from the roll play over making a new friend:

Therapist: I’m afraid not, but this week another little step in this goal, I thought we’d do some role-play. The scenario being: your library when you see me, a stranger, reading the same book as you or just one you’ve read. I want you to talk to me like I am a possible friend.

Jane: (readjusting herself) Hello.

Therapist: Hello.

For this the rules were reversed as I sat on the stage and them in the audience (this is where they’ll actually be). In the therapist I was looking for someone who had great presence as they wont have that instant ‘stage presence’. They need to be calm and controlling but friendly, as Jane has to want to talk to them. It was a lot harder to choose then I thought and I had to re-audition people in their dorms. Most of the girls that auditioned did something that was great and something that wasn’t, so I had to choose whom I thought could take direction the best. In the end it was between two and I decided finally on B because she didn’t look like she was acting and she has great presence. Just needs to work on that smile over the summer J I told her to practice being a therapist during family suppers (touch of Stanislavski method acting).

I’ll be sending out the script to everyone involved over the summer so they can get line learning!

Stage one: Writing

Before any actors or lights or costumes or directing comes the writing. Hard, tiresome and brain tangling writing. At the moment I’d say the most stressful bit but I reckon I’ll say that for every bit.

I’m not entirely sure where the idea came from, I just remember getting very into it on my 13^th birthday weekend and buying my favourite thing to write in: a thick pad of lined paper. Safe to say my first attempt was awful and I would not advise trying to write a whole play by hand (Shakespeare, I commend you). My biggest issue was, as per usual well pointed out by my mum, ‘too poetic, not real enough, no one would say that.’ And of course she was right, it was a true disaster, I’ve searched out an extract to show you:

Beth: You have to begin to prepare it three days in advance. You start by making the rose broth; you must use fresh roses, my favourite being red. Despite my best efforts I always manage to prick myself; father told me ‘you mustn’t get blood in the broth as it will alter the taste’. To the roses you add wine and water. Leave for twenty- four hours then add saffron. After another twenty-four hours, a pinch of salt and your bird. Cover and allow to infuse for a day. It’s best served with freshly baked rye.

Don’t worry a lot has changed, for a start she’s no longer called Beth. I’m sure you can see it’s issues, no one talks like that and no one makes bird poached in saffron and rose. The first draft really wasn’t my finest.

Safe to say things could only go up; but for a while White Flies remained sea level. I think it was a number of distractions: secondary school entries, leaving school, making new friends, boarding. The every day got the better of my writing and White Flies was not forgotten, it just wasn’t at the forefront of my mind.

It was the long boring prep sessions that reignited my fire for it, Sitting in your JCR (junior common room) for an hour with nothing to do and the need to be silent, really isn’t fun. Hating to feel I was wasting my time I cracked out my laptop and cracked open my bottled idea.

Last term saw me get a substantial amount done and this term to. My main time for writing being in Junior Play rehearsals, my part being an extended member of the audience (Shell: scum), I tell you there’s only so many times you can laugh at the same joke. So, my problem at the moment is trying to fit all the different sections together.

Writing a piece for an English Prep about a twin dying (I am a happy person), saw me do some research which adds so much depth to the writing; I realised I hadn’t done any research on schizophrenia. To the IT room I went to print out 60 pages of information of which I sieved through during prep.

Orange highlighter: relating to Therapist.

Blue highlighter: relating to Jane.

Yellow highlighter: general information

The idea isn’t to bombard the play with facts but if you have that knowledge the words make much more of a point.

At the moment I’ve reached a sticky point; what I wrote pre-research is a lot more dramatic and unbelievable compared with what I’m writing now. I don’t want to get rid of it as I think the play would be interesting with some really dramatic episodes but I do want it to be as realistic as possible.

A more theatrical extract:

Jane: Fate.

Therapist: Indeed.

Jane: I don’t think fate will ever find me.

Therapist: And why do you say that?

Voice: Fate is blood dripping with blood, your blood, your own blood. Like Oedipus slaughtering his father and mixing blood with his mother creating little deathly blood drops. Drops of red sin.

Jane: I’m never going to find the right man am I? Not while I’m like this. Not unless they’re the same as me, as crazy as I am and then imagine the messed up kids we’d have? Talk about a mad house.

An extract from my most recent, rehearsal, writing.

Therapist: Have you worked on those goals we set last time?

Jane: Of course.

Therapist: So what sort of steps have you tried to take?

Jane: Making a new friend is hard, I’ve tried to go to places where friends may be but I haven’t found one.

Therapist: What sort of places?

Jane: Libraries, as I want my friends to be intelligent so we have something to talk about, parks because people in parks are usually fit and like the outdoors. No pubs or clubs as I don’t like them so I don’t want my friend to.

Therapist: And what kind of person are you hoping to find here?

Jane: The perfect friend.

I much prefer this, as although it’s a little more realistic it’s still odd. Looks like there will have to be some rewrites.

A boarding house and a laptop just isn’t the place to sort my ideas so I’m waiting for that first week in the holidays where I can get it up on a big screen and not have people asking if they can borrow a top.

Little tip: phones are excellent places to write things on, essays or poems as you always have the on you and your work becomes pocket-able, though you do run the risk of looking extremely anti-social.

White Flies: the making of a school production

Ah! Feels like a breath of fresh air has been breathed into my blog (about time I changed the age). I’ve decided, after the brilliant idea from my mum, to tell you about the creation of my play: White Flies.

At the moment I’m coming to the last term of Shells (first year of secondary school, and the scum of the school); why we are called Shells I just don’t know. My theory is it has something to do with coming out of your ‘shell’, others say Latin, but everything’s linked to Latin.

Anyway, throughout the year I’ve been chugging away at this play and with the script almost finished I couldn’t help feeling the absolute urge to put it on. With a school of excellent Drama facilities, and a group of people stuck here 24:7 you can’t really ask for better conditions.

I suppose I aught to tell you what it’s about. I’m fascinated with mental health issues, the theme does pop up a lot in my work, a mind that works so distantly from the mind of you and me makes a wonderful topic. And I find, because it is so hard to understand, we feel so vacant from it, as though watching crashing waves through a window. This had to change, even if I’m only affecting the few people that turn up to the final performance those few people, for forty-five minutes, have to experience exactly what it’s like to have Schizophrenia. The title White Flies comes from the subtle sound of the fly heard in the play and it also sounds like another little phrase…

The play is as simple as it can be: a therapy session, two people acting, one light setting and no scene changes. But don’t worry, it’s not as arbitrary as it may seem, the therapist sits in the middle of the audience, getting them directly involved so there not watching something with that barrier between them; and the voice she hears in her head, Mr. Big, is projected around the audience meaning everyone can hear her thoughts.

It’s not a play of the conventional story lines but one of discovering realities and seeking out truths in Jane. Plain-Jane with a mind like Fancy-Nancy.

To get my play in full swing, and make me finish it over the summer, I had to firstly ask for theatre space (the musical is in the next term, and at my school that’s a big thing). Head of department seemed delighted, thank god; otherwise this would have been a lead balloon. Though he did say ‘a theatre could be hard to fill and the back room was always available’; right then people, time to make this a stage worthy production.

Out in the Dark

Our English Prep: to write a piece entitled Out in the Dark. I don't think the story speaks for itself, but I actually had to do some research for my writing. Came as a shock!

Out in the Dark

Rhyming couplets are complete: they stand together yet apart from other words. If you hear them you can spot them, distinct and obvious.

Eyebrows sit above the eyes, meeting centrally then branching out. We always see them together; we never think anything of it, until one of them is missing.

Twins start to play with each other at fourteen weeks. Ultrasounds have proven that they touch each other more then they do themselves. Wombs are dark places, and we know we’re both there. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

I was born at 12.47, Molly at 12.51 that makes me the oldest. Molly came out quickly to be with me didn’t want me to experience a single thing without her; Georgie and Charlie came out two hours apart from one another because they’re not like us.

When we were born Granny almost fainted, as mummy hadn’t told her she was having twins, she wanted it to be a surprise and mummy said she got one. We were dressed in baby blue suits. We were meant to go home that night but mummy had to stay so the nurses could look after her. Molly and I looked after each other until the morning.

The average weight for twin is 5lbs and 5oz, I weighed 5lbs and 8oz, Molly weighed 5lbs and 3oz; daddy always says I stole some of her sugar bags.

Derek the dog didn’t really like us: we would always pull his ears.

Daddy’s favorite book to read us was about Bears, all the different types of bears in the world: the Asiatic Black Bear, the Brown Bear, and the Panda bear. Mummy is like a Polar Bear as they always give birth to twins. I don’t think she could have managed triplets.

Uncle Stan sometimes came round, he would bring his little girl Rosie. Rosie couldn’t understand why we dressed the same or what we would say to each other. I think I liked Rosie, but Molly didn’t, I’m still not sure about her.

Once, during one of Uncle Stan’s visits we were all on the trampoline. It sat in front of our pine trees; we were all bouncing when Derek started running round us like he usually does. Derek started barking loudly, growling and showing his teeth; Molly and I were scared so Rosie bravely went to get Dad. You see Molly she’s not too bad.

Molly and I are in the 40% of twins that create their own language.

When we started school we refused to be in different teaching groups. I think that upset some people, but school’s a scary place for twins: lots of kids want to play with you and just you. And you realise that you’re both good at different things, I’m good at science and Molly at music and maths, she also drawers birds. Once she told me that she wished she could fly.

Fly over our pines to the grey skies beyond.

There was this one boy who liked Molly he was called Frank Turner. He tried to kiss Molly behind the gym so I hit him in the nose. It only bled a little but mummy made me go to bed without supper; she doesn’t know that Molly brought me some chocolate pudding.

Some people call a twins connection ESP.

At one party we gave the birthday girl, Sally, a massive fluffy Polar Bear as her mum was pregnant with twins. Her tummy was so big through her tight frilly pink dress. When we were eating cake I asked her if she could eat three slices as she was feeding three people. Sally’s mum only laughed, saying ‘she wouldn’t be eating any cake if she wanted to get rid of the baby weight’. You have to run to get rid of baby weight.

If she gives birth to fraternal twins she’s three times more likely to give birth to another set.

Being a twin girl I have twice the chance of giving birth to twins. I will never get a big tummy that shows through a frilly pink dress: humans are fragile but twins are the most delicate of us all.

Twins share the same DNA but do not have the same figure print, sometimes we share things but only once may carry it on. Like drawing birds.

TTT’s, also known as: Twin-to-Twin transfusion syndrome; fetal transfusion syndrome or fetofetal transfusion syndrome is a rare disease in the placenta, where during the development of identical twins they share the same blood vessels meaning the blood can flow unevenly. One twin takes the others blood. It didn’t hurt my heart.

In the other twin, in Molly, it can cause severe anemia as they are giving all their blood to their sibling. Anemia is easy to hide in a twin, when I can be Molly in gym, or I can finish her chocolate pudding.                 

I only noticed her heart beat quicken in the moon; everyone noticed it stop.

Uncle Stan called us in for fish fingers, Derek ran off chasing a bird and daddy him, trying to save the bird and mummy complained that our carrots were getting cold whilst also trying to save the bird. Rosie jumped from the trampoline and ran into the house. I told Molly she should hurry up and jumped from the ladder. The bird got away, Uncle Stan had cooked the chips and Derek was inside. Everyone was inside. I started running back to the trampoline.

“Molly!” Her red coat fell and bounced.

Uncle Stan was getting coffee; Derek was at the neighbors; mummy and daddy were trying to save a different bird. Rosie was holding my hand whilst I hid in Molly’s coat.

All the machines, all the doctors, all the drugs were trying to save her; but Molly had already told me she was leaving.

You’d already told me that birds and grey skies were closer then we thought.

Experts say that genetics account for 60% of the occurrences of disease, whilst other factors, such as infections or exposure to toxins are responsible for the remaining 40%.

Molly, I didn’t know I was stealing your moonshine, please come back, I’m lost. One star can’t shine alone.

Talk to Me

We had to write dedicative stories at school. This is unlike my usual style as it is more narrative based, but still dark. I am thinking of turning it into a radio play, our next assignment.



“So you killed him?”

“No I just found the man that did.”

*

The smell of ethanol was intoxicating, it was evidently more concentrated on certain parts of the body: a few fragments of singed hair remaining, yet exposed bone cooled in the night. The sound of police sirens whined in the background as he snapped up the needed photos, printing them on the scene. Little faces watched him from a silenced bar; he took his last mental image of the blackened corpse; the final ashes of a man.

Images of the scene littered the room, pinned to hanging string, and hiding forgotten furniture. A dying bulb flickered off stained windows, unopened, for the fumes of rancid food to clog the air. He sat at his only table examining the particular image of a burnt chest occasionally munching on his charcoal toast.

Dusk illuminated the pictures.

Early sun shimmered through the dirt.

Midday issued an uncomfortable heat.

Light afternoon sun drew back on the day.

Darkness entailed.

His suspicions habituated, like the passing of a day.

*

“What are your main interests? Apart from the obvious?”

“I’ve always liked to play with fire.”

*

He’d seen her a couple of times: people generally stay to their known neighbourhoods of San Francisco. She was Spanish, slender, brunette.  An actress or a dancer, he presumed. It made sense having a boyfriend who wished for a career in Directing, not so helpful now he’s in a grave.

Her daily activity had been altered by the death; she no longer came to collect her milk at 8.05 or her Marie Claire magazine at 8.40. In fact she no longer left the house.

Time to pay a visit.

Milk deliveries made it hard to reach the door. “Isabel Alvarez?”

“What do you want?” She emerged like an animal from hibernation.

“I was hoping to ask you some questions?”

“Who are you? I answered all the questions the cops had.”

“I do not work for the Cops Isabel Alvarez.”

“How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“Sam Simpson.”

“Well get away from here.” She tried to close the door but his foot stopped her.

“Please I only have a few questions, I’m a professional detective.” Her grip lightened on the door but only just, this was enough to tell him he could stay. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

“It’s cold.”

“I’m warm.”

“I see. “ He watched her for a moment, her fragile features changing through emotions: trying to decipher him.

“Well what do you wanna ask?”

“Did you and your boyfriend get on?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I was just wondering if there were any domestic arguments.”

“We were fine.”

“Not a massive fight that made him storm out to the bar. About careers possibly? Priorities?”

Another slight relaxation on the door, she said nothing for a moment, gathered her thoughts and answered directly.

“Every couple have their arguments, it means nothing.”

“It means something if a murder entails an argument.”

“How do you know we argued that night?” Her grip hardens on the door once more.

“I heard the shouting, saw the vase smash against the window.”

“You live in the building opposite?”

A light wind caught her brown hair blowing it across her eyes whilst his remained stark and unmoved.

“No.”

“Then how did you, how did you- don’t come back here, you’re not to come back here. I’ll call the cops if you do.” The door slams in his face sending milk across his feet.

*

“Why fire?”

“Because it causes beautiful, dazzling destruction.”

“Beautiful destruction? A bit of a contradiction don’t you think?”

“No: ‘cause it’s beautiful when the flames dance and devour their victim but the forsaken ash then reminds you of flames ability to destruct.”

*

He stayed by her house for the rest of the morning, sitting on the steps of the opposite building. There was little movement from within the flat, he found this annoying. As though he’d expected her to pack up and flee the country on his departure, but not all cases are that simple. He only glanced her occasionally when she peaked at him through her white lace curtains. Despite her remaining he still held suspicions over her. She would not get off that lightly.

His day of interviews was not yet done.

The bar is one that has been overused over the years but has managed to obtain its original charm. Large windows at the front and back give it an airy feeling during the day and mysterious during the night. Some people like it, some don’t, the thought that someone’s watching you. The front windows look onto the neighbourhood’s high street, the back a cobbled street.

The bar had been closed for the night whilst the cops did their thing but the owner was keen to get it back up and running as soon as possible. In the hope that Saturday’s murder wouldn’t tarnish his reputation too much.

“What are you doing back here?” Dan Edgeways, the owner, looked up from filling the beer pump.

“I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“Well we’re not open so you can’t”

“But you’re always open for lunch. You fill up you beer pump, check the chefs ready, write the specials on the board and open the doors for lunch.” Dan eyed him slowly placing the beer down.

“Who are you?”

“Sam Simpson, the professional.”

“Professional what? Stalker?”

“Detective.” The chef now came out from the kitchen after fiinishing a conversation with someone, he leaned against the doorway.

“I don’t believe you. Get out.”

“Excuse me Dan Edgeways but if you don’t agree to answer my questions I’m going to have to take actions into my own hands.”

“Who is this guy Dan?” The chef spoke in a low monotone.

“Just leaving.”

“Dan Edgeways I will not leave until you answer my questions.”

“Mine first, how do you know everything I do in such detail, how do you know my name and why the hell were you here taken pictures of that murdered man and not even bothering to wait for the cops after.”

“I’m a detective, it’s my job to know who you are and what you do. “

The chef moved away from the doorway next to his boss. He was whispering to Dan.

When Dan spoke he was careful with his words, “If I answer your questions will you leave, no harm done.”

“That’s all I want. Did you know Lee Johnston?”

“Not personally, he’d come here a couple of times.”

“And was he known for having fights?”

“Not really, he was pretty pissed the last night he was in here. The two guys that fought were, well, both angry drunks.” The two men watched Sam has he moved across the bar, their gaze didn’t falter.

“And what was the fight about?”

“I dunno, I think they were both trying to pull the same girl or somin’”

“And can you describe the fight?”

“I was round the back when it started. I heard a glass smash so came round to tell them to take it out the back if they wanted at each other.”

“And this was the last of Lee Johnston you saw?”

“Yeah cause then… then…”, the Chef’s voice was low as though debating weather to say something, bottling anger. Dan nudged him in the rib.

“That’s the last we saw of him, yeah.” Dan was keen to cut him off.

“And what about the other man? Did he come back?”

“Ran off somewhere.”

“Did you hear anything before he ran off.”

“A cry.”

“Thank you Dan Edgeways, if you don’t mind I’ll take a look at the scene again.” With this he headed out the back door.

*

“When they are unhelpful, fail or are unwilling to answer questions it always raises my suspicions.”

“But lots of us our hiding things.”

“Ah, but not all of us our murderers.”

*

The day was during to a close. He stood in the centre of the murder trying to relive the scene: two drunken men stumble out the back door, they try to get at each other when one throws the ethanol over Lee, he then sets him alight with his lighter.

The two drunken men stumble out the bar beginning to fight. After a couple of punches have been thrown Isabel Alvarez storms out the bar ethanol and lighter in hand. She screams at Lee, livid, throws the ethanol over him, she the sets him alight with her lighter.

They stand back watching his flame torn body fall to the ground. Convulsing in agony as amber sparks twist and curl around his ethanol soaked clothes; disintegrating the material then igniting upon his cremating flesh.

The bar falls silent as they watch the show. Someone from within screams, there’s the light cry and the cops are called. Everyone is watching one tall, thin man, pale of skin and black of eyes. White hair plastered to a cracked face.

Sam Simpson smiled: intoxicated with pleasure.

*

“But not all of us are truthful. Are we Sam Simpson?”

“I only lie when I need to. Little white lies.”

“Have you ever touched white ash?”

“Yes, it’s hot.”

“So white lies aren’t as innocent as they seem are they? Especially when they involve a death.”

“What? His death gave me a game, just like I used to play.”

“Who did you used to play with?”

“The odd animal. But you see now I’m professional.”

“A professional?”

“Detective, a professional detective.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because flames can’t reduce things to ash and then wonder if it was the rain.”

Sea Burnt Lovers

This is a poem about two lovers, well past lovers, who are now on the same ship; one has become so outraged and love crazy with the other that they have set fire to the cruse ship they're on. The italics are the couples past. I explain the poem as it doesn't make too much sense as the lines are taken from picking random words from a book. Which amazes me that it can actually create such beautiful and understandable verse.

Sea Burnt Lovers

They no longer cared for themselves

Heart beating faintly; twisted in the deep shadows

Silently, slowly: he smiled

Flame flickering like beating drums

Rhythm, music, fire

A flame that burnt the picture into the hearts and minds;

Blessed oblivion

Dusk

The lights drawn in bed

Softly, eyes lying between them

Clear: what was to become of the inevitable

Even in half light a pleasant open- face

‘I can’t resist leaving you’

You were right: there is no magic

Music, dancing, dance all day

Months living high

Seas living free

We are of the same blood

Not time

We are of the same time

Not blood

We shall live reasonably

‘So eggs split wide open, starving souls’

Well, not for you

In any scheme all you need is courage

The end of a bad dream

To grin and say, so what?

The beginning of what lies in store for you

Night, midnight

The darkness beaming, great moon faces

Feeding their guns and squeezing their triggers

Too close, too powerful

Incandescent brilliance, dazzling, magnificent

Fiercely inevitable

Alight with joy

You, you, me

Hope

Lost contact

Am continuing search

“Lost contact!”

The sea was on fire

Flat, calm

A vast carpet of licking, twisting flames

Heart stopping

For flames devour all life

He’s drowning:

Grave, lips

She fought

In a bad dream

Bit of time: get clear

The pain

The night

Your hands

I’m afraid

A low voice

Splutter

Heavy

Sinking