Short story- The order of the black Dog

THE ORDER OF THE BLACK DOG

My family. Here we all are, sitting around the circular dining room table- flecked with bits of gold. Ma sits under a hanging portrait of this Christmas just gone. Three weeks ago. We are all smiling in it including Poppy. Poppy sits playing with her Annabelle doll, on my husband’s lap. Sat opposite from Ma, closest to the electric fire hearth is Gran. I find myself sitting across from Gran. An iciness breathes mist over us. It separates me from them, cloaks me in a fog. I try to swallow. The air is so thick it chokes me, I’m forced to put my hands to my throat. Nobody notices me.  Nobody notices me the way they used to. I tune in to the conversation-taking place.

‘Of course I’m not suggesting this is your fault.  I should have known. Done more…’ Nan bursts into tears. A cry out for:

 I need attention I’m suffering the most.

My skin bristles. Nan pulls her scarf tighter around her neck, and then throws out a familiar comment about it being draughty.

‘You know I could catch pneumonia with my Asthma.’ She coughs. Ma gets up to put on the electric fire.

‘I didn’t take her seriously. You know what Angie was like?’  Ma’s eyes are red as the rosary beads she is thumbing; she looks over to an unusually quiet Poppy.

‘Did she just do it to spite me?’ How could she just leave her own…?’

 My husband throws a warning look at Ma,

‘Marie, for Poppies sake.  Our Angie suffered more than she let on.’ Ma sits back down. ‘Let’s put on a cartoon, luv?’  Poppy shakes her head.

 She doesn’t look at us.  I look straight at her, willing her to leave this table. Leave this conversation. She lifts her head and looks me dead on in the eyes. I instinctively smile. Eddie and me always stood together when it came to Poppy. Her face is pale, her eyes sunken, her skin is drawn in so tight I can see cheek bones protrude. Beneath her eyes-, veiled shadows betray her youthful face. She clings onto Annabelle, still looking me dead on in the eyes.

‘When’s Mummy coming home?’

 Silence. Her words enmesh with the silence. Her question disarms me. Marks me. The arrow leaves its bow splintering my heart. I open my mouth to scream out as many words as I can. Condensation steams the air distilling me into silence. I reach my hand across the table to grab hers. She doesn’t see me. I glare at my family sitting at the round table. They say nothing. Smothering themselves in sorrow, they witheringly curl inwards. I urge to shake them, uproot them from winters glaze.

-Answer her! Answer my daughter.

Instead, Gran succumbs to a puddle of wrinkled tears, mechanically Ma gets off her chair, attempts to console Gran and naturally it’s  up to Eddie to mediate.  My calm, rational Eddie. His eyes read as vacant –his beard is wild and unkempt.  It’s impossible to read his face. He clears his throat,

‘We’re gonna see Mummy when we give her… say a proper goodbye.’

Gran flounders in her anglers net of remorse.  Great splotchy splashes of grief escape. She wails,

‘She’s with the angels –looking down at you, darling!’

 I roll my eyes. Of course I love her!  Lately, she grates my skin more frequently with her, melodramatics.

– Confess how you truly feel. Relieved!

I’m so fixated on evoking a response from Gran; unnoticed, a light flickers with an intensity to match my own.  Eddie carries Poppy over to the sofa, sits her down to watch a cartoon. He covers her with a blanket then kisses her forehead.

‘We’ll see mummy soon? To say goodbye?’

 Eddie nods his head, his voice cracks.

‘Aye, love.’

‘When will mummy come back from saying goodbye? In spring? My teacher says it’s winter – everything goes to sleep like her?’ Poppy points to ‘Sleeping Beauty’ on the television.

 Eddie focuses on the image. The Prince is just about to kiss Aurora on the lips. He turns his head away from the television before he can see Aurora wake up to her true loves kiss. He grinds down on his teeth. Poppy’s eyes remain transfixed on the television. Eddie gets up, crosses the dining room table; I’m compelled to follow him, I have to stop him. Tell him I’m still here. I haven’t gone anywhere. I’ve so much to tell him.

 -There is no God! We were right all along. Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves.  We were right to take the piss.  

Eddie flinches, puts his hands in his jean pockets. I follow him down Ma’s hallway and into the bathroom. He closes the door on me. It doesn’t ever close fully. I slip through the crack of the door that is always ajar.

 Head down. Still. He sits on the toilet seat.  I kneel down before him; go to lay my head on his knee. He flinches again. Hits himself in the head. Bangs his fist on the wall screams out:

‘Why? We could’ve figured it out, you fucking stubborn mare’ I bring out the best and worst in Eddie. Till death do us part. What are the chances?

He still refuses to let me go. Stubborn.

My symptoms intensify in the days leading up to the funeral. Everything‘s heightened especially emotions that seemingly walk precariously on stilts.  I can’t walk through walls or levitate. Nothing like any of the horrors Eddie and me used to watch together, on the sofa. 

Unheard, I bellow continuously,

-Just let me go!

 Every time I hear my name called reflections of nostalgia flash and beam over and around me. Prompted, I gravitate towards the source. Someone needs me.  These past three weeks, I’ve been teleported from one conversation to another. I find myself in a room; familiar or not familiar, with people I know and people I don’t know.

Today I’m summoned to the usual bickering between Ma and Gran. The familiar sound of Gran’s kettle boils in the background.

‘I want that picture of her on her graduation day and flowers- blown up .With azaleas. And roses – she loved roses- pink.’  

‘She hates that picture! And she loves- loved yellow roses…’ Ma’s wobbly voice mirrors her jelly struck legs propping her up in her work shoes. She staggers backwards. Like the black dog with a bone, Gran won’t give in,

‘No, she’s my eldest grand daughter and I know her – it is… was pink!’

 Ma sits down, doesn’t speak. I go over to her to put my arms around her then she dissolves into tears. Gran bulldozes her way over to us. Intimidated, I move out of her way. Gran holds Ma and Ma lets Gran hug her. Ma calms down, mentions something about pink and yellow roses

Vexed, I shriek

 – don’t back down Ma, I love yellow. Yellow roses. The kettle whistles for attention. My voice is lost to an object.

‘I’ll go make that cup of tea’ Nan retreats to her kitchen.

Another opportunity to get close to Ma again.   I need to hug her, give her some of my energy. As if on cue, Mum’s tear-stained face crumples just like my heart. A poking hot iron burns a hole right through it. Gran re-enters the room I scarper.

‘Here you go, love. Lost three of my own …, as you know, mind, they never got to Angie’s age. Yellow’s more of a quirky colour like our Angie… was.’     They smile at each other. I move back, the distance seems to illuminate their smiles.

Tonight, I beg for there to be a heaven. This has to be hell. The familiar, incongruous, gravitational pull lures me out of my cavernous abyss. I blink my eyes several times to focus: orientate myself. Hung up around the wall are vintage Disney posters. My eyes settle on Poppies bed. Eddie bends over Poppy and kisses her goodnight,

‘Mummy loves you just as much as I do.’ He tucks her in.

He switches off the light before walking out. I stand and watch my worn out daughter in her bed. She sings herself to sleep just as she does every night. She sings our song:  twinkle twinkle little star. With each inflection of her sweet singing voice, the words serve as a needle. Each word stipulates smelting hot ink into my flesh. My neck is ablaze.  Before closing her eyes, she whispers,

 ‘I love you mummy.’

When I reply, scorching chains wrap and lasso me around my neck. My skin swells up in blisters. The familiar sound of her breathing evaporates the pain.  I need to be close to her, I need to smell her, kiss her. Carelessly, I run over to her bed to touch her sleeping head. Startled I lunge backward as Poppy instantly wakes up screaming.

– I’m powerless

. Eddie barges into the room, throws on the light and takes Poppy into his arms. I watch her body stiffen; then relax. I watch him settle my daughter back to sleep. My hands ball into tight fists.

-She must know I’m here.

Before I can touch her face, she wakes up screaming like – like she has seen a- ghost.

-I’m that Ghost! I put my hands to my mouth in horror.

 Envy bubbles inside me as I witness Eddie consoling Poppy again. I’m half hoping he won’t succeed.

What kind of a mother am I?

I’ve been telling everyone to let me go.

Where will I go?

I can’t drive, no one can see me. There are no other lost souls wondering about telling me to join the dead community!

I won’t give up on my daughter. She needs me. I have to be here.

 The stroke of our clock announces its time; a primitive realisation slithers down my very core. Nausea spirals up into my throat. I run into our bathroom, heave over the toilet, nothing comes out. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror; I see vicious V-shaped welts where the noose of the rope has cut into my neck. This is what Eddie came home to.

The cloying black dog of depression haunted me. Its delivered dose of pain was exquisite- nothing took it away. Not drinking, overdosing, drugging myself, talking-nothing. Eventually, I told it to sit down.  I told Eddie repeatedly,

– I just want to disappear.

– How can I help you?  His eyes pleaded for an answer.  I would always lash out,

-Unless you help me disappear, you can’t!

 I remained imprisoned in our bed and he would go back to work and look after Poppy and the house. He could walk away from me. I couldn’t. I resent him for that. I can see myself now, googling the various ways people commit suicide. One article struck my eye ‘Men are more successful at committing suicide’.

  -They don’t mess about with poisoning themselves –they resort to more violent means.

That is the moment I reached out to the wrong Alpha.

The black dog and I began sleeping together. It became my obsession. Up-close, I could analyse it, experiment with it. As a couple, it didn’t take much to find that Alpha rage. One phone call from Ma,

-Just snap out of it. If you’re going to do it, get on with it.

-Fine, I will!  I hung up on her before she could hang up on me.

My impulsiveness finds me trapped within this mirror. It’s cold. Everything I read is back to front. Everything I do is back to front.  It doesn’t reflect my true intentions. When I reach out, in fact, the more I reach out the more pain I inflict. I back away from the mirror until I’m pressed up, with my back against the bathroom wall.

 What have I done? 

 What right do I have trying to tell my family how to deal with their loss?

Eddie will never know that I was messing about; I didn’t know if I could actually go through with it. From a great height in a corner of the bathroom my body feels cut loose from itself. I can see it happen in front of my eyes. Like a rerun episode, I can’t pause. The noose around my neck, in the shower. Steam shrouds the mirror, with slippery feet, I accidently knock myself off that chair and in that moment I realise,

– I don’t want to die.

I can’t scream and tell anyone. I made the decision when I decided to sleep with my enemy. I’ve interrupted the natural course of life. A lost soul in life: a lost soul in death. There are no bright lights to come with this epiphany. I exit the bathroom, stumble down the staircase, out the front door, and walk aimlessly down the street. I sense a familiar pair of eyes examining me; I look up and see the black dog in its true form. It waits for me to catch up.  We walk side by side. I don’t look back.  I am the one preventing people from moving on. I have to let go.

Advertisements

What do you know?

What do you know about life?

roaming in the streets with a bag of foam E coloured, banana sweets, a flat cap to accompany your flat ale.

My mind can’t take the stairs to your psychopathic fuelled attic.

Try know about life.

I ask myself why.

Got plenty worries to wait on.

there’s nothing but your conditions dictating every one of our conversations.

I’m lost-

feel dead. rehearsing what to say is futile , when face to face , with your condescending glare.

Whispers-hard of hearing , harder to crytallize a picture of a time you were ever sweet

I keep on overthinking.

I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough.

Yet, I still bloody cared

for I know not what.

For a sign of a heart that was ever moulded into a moment so fair.

Make my amendments with the one who is the true enemy.

I nearly fell for the bastardization of the one with a tumorous relation.

I ‘m done over thinking.

I thought I was wrong,

but then I look up and see it’s you on the side of the serpents infantile tongue.

What do you know bout anything but the base life?

African synthesisers — backdrop safari park- full of savage humans.

Ooh wee-what is this shit?

every time we meet he wants to get an oo wee

Haibo,voetsek! Hamba

I want you feel what I feel tonight.

feel scared of this daughter of mama Africa –

hamba.

my body will be dancing!

feet stilettos connecting with your underbelly

weak spots identified for a finale.

macabre

macabre

-I don’t like your style at all.

Seen more compassion from wild monkeys beaten to perform.

What do you know about life?

I’m the one who is always so sorry-I’m left

Sipping up more stupid flavours itty bitty

who are you ?

ask yourself in a clean mirror -are you satisfied with what you see?

you speak about pain and suffering yet understand nothing about another’s fight.

I’m so strong-where did I get it so wrong?

Im not sorry — you deserve a room date with perverts in sodamy.

what do you know about human emotion?

Here we go

-I’m done trying to figure out your distilled mind.

I’m lost

I’m scared-damn right, you hurt me to my very core.

I forget how to breathe-only cos you disgust me with you brash audacity.

What do you know bout life?

I’m cross, I’m marred, I’m completely impaired.

what do you know except shouting down opinions?

you so damn selfish and you could do something about it,

if you cared.

You look at me right now, you don’t ask how I am.

Its all about you and your bruised ego.

You selfish bastard-you know nothing ’bout life.

Pained infliction

authentic words of describing the real you.

what the hell is wrong with you?

you are utterly a definition of disgrace.

you don’t know bout nothing.

You only care about your own suffering

I never want to be so ignorant to other lives, eras and genres of people who have a clue.

jungle vibes don’t mean you have to lose your chivalry.

you!

I don’t wanna walk like you

or, talk like you.

what the hell did I see in helping you?

I feel the open wounds- ,I see you take pleasure in openly mocking my new acquired pigmentation.

You know bout nothing -care only bout your own suffering

Lying faces,

sometimes don’t even pretend to be your friend

Lying faces come in different suits.

Proof comes from not recognising their blatant ,arrogant style is their truth

Hear these tears-you can’t look !

bass

turn it up

Music files away the pain.

rain drops cleanse away the ebony and ivory keys layered , over the bruises, of yesterday’s insults aimed at me.

I’m kind of feeling bad right now.

Peace maker?

-you should come with a pacemaker warning label

A pacifist?—

not a clue -what’s the definition –

the kook who can only mutter

‘what -a muppet’

-you don’t know this is serious!

You’ve got your addled mind with amnesia.

you rape your mothers heart repeatedly.

patterns transferred with a motion of akinesia.

Around you,

every person could be convulsing in an epileptic seizure.

you still wouldn’t know it. —

to afraid to part with 15 year old love poems written to yourself in Rhodesia

you speak of peace yet you make dividend equations

,using your thoughtless cowardice utterances, by mc-ing disambigous multiplications as an excuse for regressive aggression.

Hi Lo Perspective

*If you want to find out more a bout the inspiration for this piece and raise awareness against all forms of violence and abuse-Trigger pictures of me looking bruised -HEAD OVER HERE

share #It’sok2talkaboutabuse

If not read below.

It’s not Saturday and I’m feeling non conformist. I guess its kind of my way.

Haven’t done much this weekend — except nursing bruises, swellings, scrapes and down right painful blisters on the mouth.

I’m fuming.

The lows of last week found me beaten to a pulp like a survivor from a war jump.

Didn’t get no gangrene or scurvy-I suppose that’s better than dying on a row boat at Dunkirk – on sheets of ice.

Spinning around not a La Kylie Minogue mode.

I’m over the worst of the beating-

I “secretly” hope these two bastards gets their come( t)uppence.

It would be easier to get high and escape from the down side-

Look out my window and the skyline is blocked by housing estates.

Crumbling – it’s always a better view at low tide.

Three a.m. wake up calls for months-every  time.

The creative freaks come out so, I suppose I’m in good company and I will be..

just fine. 😀

Physical strength is the only thing that let me down in this fight against the Alphas.

If guns were legal I think I would use the second amendment to plea —

Y.ankee

O.scar

B.ravo

S.ierra –

Give at least one of the limp cocks a belter.

Only one would be laughing — this bruised weed — always making sure her brood is out of the firing line;

Standing in the shelter.

Ballroom blitz and shammy with my king.

Oh how we will dance!

— cowards should carry around organ donor cards.

On second thoughts, who would want the innings of someone who can’t fight to their  own strength —

Run little boys to your Audi and drunk mommy-

The one you beat up on a regular basis.

You think this is a female annihilation version of the crusades?

I’m low not in mood but my body says — sit down and feel your boo boos

My head says life is for living.

I don’t want to walk out of my house,

like a beast or looking like a victim of domestic violence-

Here comes the freak in an endless hued complexion of distracting tutus

The highs are the times when I hear my child laugh, my husband he bathes me and kisses me tenderly,

loves my sense of spirit when I look bloody unsightly.

In truth I look hideously ghastly—

Green beans and asparagus — home made by La Bonne chef, ma Mere.

I struggle to eat more than ever, but I won’t let two stomped out cans put me off the future horizon I’ve cut out —

The scenic view from here is a — plethora of orgasmic sight sees.

Lows inevitably come with highs.

I’ve accepted a hand

taken that step off the top roof.

The next time I’m up their , I’m going by lift.

Agenda?

To dance and rub shoulders with people channeling the same level — hearing a sub woof.

Clearly better days ahead.

Wasted time on talking pin heads.

Its fine, its mine, Its life.

Yesterdays news is on current recycle mode.

This Mary Poppins has already started making UP fresh linen beds.

A break from the toxicity of incurable idiotism — helps me see far up the winding road.

Perspectives easily imagined —

There goes a heavenly striking stair case.

It may not lead to a conventional heaven .

I’ve already stated my unorthodox ways right at the beginning .

I missed the word that rhyme ending three sentences up,

So, I’ll close SOCs by stating:

I’m recharging my load.

I’ve missed LINDA G’S. SOCs -today’s prompt -High and lows

Good to be back – Take part its fun heres a link!

socsbadge2016-17

Cassidy – a mind butchered

Go with the flow.

Instigate the wrong blow.

Cassidy never knows that what she reaps is what she will sew

Calamity caught stitching — a bleeding heart— on the floor in the kitchen

Screams and howls.

 Blowing off steam.

If only this was some form of dream.

Think not .

Think nothing — don’t go over each scale unless you are  retuning for the next —strumming.

Take a hammer to dead cartilage

 What’s the point in discriminating?

We all dine in silence  secretly trading  under the table of  Carthage.

Dead mothers — don’t miss them when they disappear.

Lucky girl-she is the true foe.

Deny a  credible witness but accept one day of fake snow at Christmas.

If there is a will there is way-understand the burden is useless-all that we inhale.

Heads talk of the grand hubris of being impaled.

Brain dead wrote this amongst a pesticide raid.

Shades of locust.  Supposed to be more focused.

Blanks fill this page.  The dud is conscripted to engage.

Failed .

Nailed.

Breath wanton to exhale.

 

*Just something I knocked up when I was in a bad head space a couple of months ago 

#BeInconvenient

Be a bad ass

roll around under grey skies — make out the back of a conservative party littering the sky with trials of rhetoric crass.

This is Glastonbury.

Where would you choose  to land for a stay in paradise ?

Choose to land in a vessel with a bunch of optimists — no happy clappers — crossing themselves — for having faith in an ecclesial being.

Scientific velocity.

Cause and effect

serendipity.

Late riser — godspeed little  Jahew.

The hare won the final battle — drop a batch of cat nip into that speed walker in denial of its  ferocity.

Dandelion mascots roar out visions of men staking out fresh empires.

Oxygen flavours-

Peach ,Melba , NICE custard, vanilla —the world we live  in  is an incovenient truth .

Mirror your actions.

Be inconvenient.

Rebel military children — turn left when the governments urge you to turn to the right.

Enfant terribles flash a revolutionary  selfie.

Write a summary of your own investigations.

Be the girl that silenced the world for 5 minutes.

United irregulation

 Nebulous globules whitewash  by contactless  autocratic judgment.

Nixon – made jokes about an assassination.

Impeach my derriere in circular tinned  seats — rest will fully for the sign cursive —

 at what point did we misunderstand that a squelch is a tall order  we’ve  asked our  hyper  sensory earthling dwellers to  endure.

Lament for nerves of each  slow death of crustacean .

Wilful blindness — what  degree of spirit level have you  leaned into for  crucification ?

Modern times call for a no nail nails celebration

Yellow roses indicate  a gesture of friendship without the illusion that life can’t be avoided by sudden pricks.

Little but often — tolerance build up  mops up all tears of  solo inaction.

It’s not just me syndrome –  Abandon the anti virus inoculation .

Germ free assholes plugging open mic for their 5 minutes.

colour of bleach –  distress call driven to cling to the skirtboards.

 Times picked up a pace

where even physics  misunderstands sound waves

not even  titled planet’s  children’s pleas of ‘when will we get  there?’   get’s an echo

unless played in reverse.

Influx  of Catholics  priests leaving trails of 30 year old pubic  hairs

Twisted grey –  Sexualised souls.

Perhaps a few of those clams had a chance to spit out a pearl.

The walrus put a stop to that .

Mother nurses her brooding loss over a swim in a tank of gin on the rocks.

7 days it took to rise to this state of rant ism effectual verbalism.

Ginger tea dispelled the myth that my expectations were indeed too great for a scorching third degree inquisition.

Latin languages pour  waxen lyrics  into my ear—honey orgasms.

dada ism and punk causes vertigo to incite a tremour of  silence-

Delirium tilts my glasses askance –

I’m living in world of dirty ole bastards spitting out words that rhyme with a shimmy shammy.

Take me to the broadway headline

 “she’s back in business now. “

Malefactions disorders under control not by  the kaiser state nor the twelve step oracle of fate.

Sobriety comes from a just say no policy.

Hermits don’t need a chorus of you can do it supporters.

matter over what’s on the mind

Mind over what matters.

we are family.

  chanting — watch your latest DNA   protege win the race to the finish post   with that line  in mind

Mystic  seance offering continental table wine and loafs of bread of support —

the language of OOK.  I cannot support.

Soft ware programmes for orang-utans. –

Let words never lose  their meaning

Sometimes we think we want to be understood

but remember how much more fun it is to have a few — put in their unoppressive input.

Sincerely lost all three egos to a winter in Calcutta’s harshest snow.

Climate change —

mood change — the moon has landed-

No body saw the side of Trump the media is willing to show

Messing about with a’ little boy’ – innocently having fun..

No king of the castles and dirty rascals

 Competition lay in who laughed the loudest.

A couple of dying stars gave birth to a twin set — millions of light years away

Name requests required  to ascertain their  current deformity.

Perfect dwarves-

Theseus and Selene

Godparents put up a banquet  on a strip arrested by brazen lights .

Bring your best boulder and limbo moves — Caesers palace  requests a baptism of fire breathing  adornments.

There she goes- walking in sharp angles

Mistaken identity-

Anorexic nervosa Dion mustard sings-

all by myself

stop throwing up regurgitated chunks of emotion.

Men don’t understand the biochemistry  off set brewing under  three layers of endocrine.

Lunatics stain sheets with blood –

Curly sue inphallicaly  dismissed for a promotion to  children  balloon entertainer on grounds of not measuring up  to  histories greatest.

Still humming to the   blues -all I want is my equality. 

Mother Earth – in shah Allah

– poke,me ,turn me , burn me, piss on me, spread faeces-

defacate plastic attacks and call it Art.

The magic money tree   belongs in  the book of Exodus

A club house anthem – dropped by  a basket -case , sudden  short-lived career change  by MC  Moses .

Liar liar —    some morals  get the thumbs up for their choice in cider.

Live, love – consider the Joshua tree

Crush on   Dick in  vintage van’s and full  Dycke.

 supercalafragalistic expealdocious  attunes to the one man band  who sees the sultry  feline in that cat caught on the other side of the  brawl – with her weave on  AWOL

One painted fingernail cannot make  up for not   being able to  fist  with the patriarchy

How low can  this weed go?

Look around – inspiration doesn’t fall far from Gayes  grapevine .

Clarifaction?

Are we to trust all we hear via a grapevine or take it as a given that nobody up to any good will walk away unstained –

gossiping ,

Intoxicated .

Indeed feet offend  an entire  continent  predominantly ahead of the pack .

  • Stream of consciousness with a few word verifacartion  included

This weed looks up & sees results

I think I am going to faint.

TMA 3  results back in for my Masters.

83% a high merit and incredible feedback.

Current score

  • TMA 1 62% (Script genre)

  • TMA 2  82%  (Fiction genre)

  • TMA 3 83% ( Script genre)

Here is the 700 -ish word commentaryI submitted for my  TMA 3 and the feedback.

I believed I couldn’t do this MA. I believed I was shit at writing but maybe…… with practice I can be a better writer and achieve great things.

Writing a book is less of a goal.

Using my words to change society -however insignificantly, is a goal of mine.

mahatma-gandhi-almost-anything-you-do-to-help-humanity-will-seem-insignificant-but-its-very-important-that-you-do-it

COMMENTARY TM3 Approaching script writing the Aristotelian way.

My challenge was to write a whole play in 18 minutes. I believe that there is too much exposition and would suit as a longer script. When I cut, or slowed certain dialogue-it’s original appeal became lost to a different type of play. The characters lost what made them unique.  This is where I rely loosely on morality play techniques. This story could have started in many ways. I felt it best to reveal the turning point and the how and why’s at the end of the play. It is linear and has a beginning, middle and end reminiscent of Greek Tragedy plays.

I often use a stream of consciousness technique to get into a writing zone. For scene 1, I started typing on a blank page and let characters come to my head and speak whatever they wanted.  This was how the first scene was produced. I was tempted to discard it until I received positive and constructive feedback on the TGF forum.

A possible subconscious influence for early drafts came from reading the chapter on David Edgars’ how to write a play, (chapter 2 page 17). In TMA 2, I focused on creating characters to reveal the plot and as exposition. Upon reflection, after reading the on-going debate about the primacy of plot versus characters, I think to an extent this true of, e.g., medieval genre morality plays.

Difficulties arose to make the characters more 3-dimensional when using archetypical/universal characters. I relied heavily on a strong plot to drive the narrative and the characters through to the conclusion of the script. TMA3-  plot informed the characters and their motives.

Other influences came from conversations with my blogger acquaintance, Clarissa Simmens( Simmens C. 2017) who is from Roma gypsy descendant, and my own great -grandparent’s lineage who fled the Russian 1918 revolution to live a life in the slums of Paris. The setting and background gave the characters more complex motives and inner conflict. Panacea is an old woman who was left with her second sight and not accepted by society or her Nephew.

In this world, it seems society is lured by visual aids. Vladimir was more ready to accept Eve’s gift of soothing people’s problems because of how she appeared outwardly. Vladimir is complex, he was left with third-degree burns from the 1903 revolution, lost his parents, went to live with his “strange” grandmother.

Hopefully, a writer will get a true sense of Vladimir’s character by the end of the play. He did what he had to do to survive. He is human. Flawed. He didn’t stop and analyse whether he should save baby Eve in the Revolution; instinct took over.  My inspiration for how he and Eve arrived in Paris (maintaining a high-status life during and after WW1) is taken from George Orwell’s book ‘Down and Out in Paris and London’ set in 1925.  There is reference to espionage and a secret Russian society, whom, paid people to convert to communism after the war (Gutenberg.net.au. (2017).

The music in the piece serves as a device to vary the pace of the play. I hope that the melancholy moments of when Eve/ Panacea plays will give the audience a time to pause, or at the very least, vary or change the pace of emotion.

Genre: this play is not one type of play. I describe it as experimental, immersive drama with elements of morality play themes because, the characters do indeed impart the audience with a strong message.

Humans are complex. There is a clear theme of choices and consequences.

I don’t want to ignore any doubts about this piece: H.R. made constructive comments on the language and the exposition of the piece (refer to XX FEEDBACK (2017)).   I hope that the timelessness of dialogue and language could very well take place in Paris, or indeed a modern society setting of today. My choice of setting reinforces to emphasise that these stereotypical characters still function inside time. Does Eve deserve her fate? Probably not.

Time has moved on, wars still occur yet society still seems to dwell on escapism i.e. Piano music metaphor to deal with life, dwelling on people who seem to have the illusion of the perfect life/ status. Society still struggles with acceptance of identity, race, ethnicity, mental health status etc. We’ve made advancements in technology/society but what about advancements in what type of human we should strive to be?

 

MY TUTORS FEEDBACK –I have kept her name anonymous for obvious reasons.

PT3Thank you for handing in TMA03.

This TMA accounts for 35% per cent of your continuous assessment mark for the module.

There are three parts to TMA 03:

a creative writing element;
a commentary;
extracts of peer review contributions.

Write a stage script ?18 minutes running time.
Write a radio script ?18 minutes running time.
Write a film script ?18 minutes running time.
Please state clearly on the first page which medium (stage, radio or film) you are writing for.

Your script can be either a stand-alone work, complete in itself, or it can be part of a longer play or film. If the latter, it should be structurally resolved (e.g. it might be a complete act from a larger piece; it should not finish mid-action or mid-scene). If providing a section, provide a summary of the larger project ? no more than 200 words ? situating the submitted section in relation to the larger work and offering some context. This summary will not be assessed in itself, and it won’t feature in the word or page counts.

Your script should not be an adaptation of work by another author or an adaptation of a piece of your own work which has been submitted for an earlier TMA.

This part constitutes 15% of this TMA?s grade.

Write a commentary (700 words) about the process of creating your work, the context in which it was developed, and your relevant further reading.

WHERE YOUR TMA SUCCEEDED

A Fair Wish World is powerful piece about loss, vision (actual sight and second sight), mental health and how war and conflict shapes or rather twists people.  It’s full of big ideas and you work within a very imaginative immersive theatre setting.  Also you have two people, one of whom has apparently saved the other, when it turns out that Vladimir is more reliant on Eve.  History is full of unusually talented women who have surrendered their power to a man (Doris Day’s third husband was abusive and stole her money, Billie Holliday was permanently attracted to abusers).  There’s a link here to the depressing litany of young women and their exploitative lovers, so this theme has a timeless resonance (although Vladimir isn’t a villain).

https://broadly.vice.com/en_us/article/the-music-industry-men-who-got-away-with-exploiting-female-pop-stars

There is an interesting piece I’ve linked below here about Peter Brook (he’s 91!!) and his latest production – how stripped back and bare it is and how for example a single piece of cloth can represent several things, eg a piece of cloth is twisted into a snake at one point.  This is, in my opinion, a true sense of live theatre, where the audience invests their imagination as opposed to being passive observers – as we are a bit with television. (Also it keeps costs down!)  So your idea of the immersive, promenade production is a good idea as well as showing that you are using the medium of theatre as fully as you can.

https://dctheatrescene.com/2017/03/31/peter-brooks-vision-battlefield-stage-kennedy-center-review/

All the characters resonate, but none more so than Panacea (I’ve got this image of Coco Chanel in my head) and Vladimir, the Russian aristocrat.  Panacea because of her contrasting powers and down to earthiness but Vladimir because it was only a few years since the entire Russian imperial family, the Romanovs with their five children were murdered at Ekaterinburg in 1918.  The British royal family offered mealy mouthed excuses for not offering them shelter but the real reason was they were afraid of a similar revolution in England, as I’m sure you know.  I read the play a couple of times before I read the commentary, so I wasn’t pre informed. I really like the way that Eve can ‘see’ certain things and how when her sight returns, it becomes a curse.  You may to have to indicate this quite strongly to the audience but it’s a bold and exciting idea.

CONSIDERATIONS FOR THE NEXT DRAFT

I have a few suggestions for the next draft (and I really hope you continue with this play).  Firstly it would be to add some more movement to scene one it as it’s currently a little static.  I’m wondering if Eve could get up from the piano and be doing something – getting dressed perhaps in her evening finery?  Panacea could offer to help her lace her boots or maybe at some point she could loosen Eve’s corset so she can breathe or brush her hair?  You could even have Eve trying to find things which have been placed among the audience – depending on whether you want the audience involved or not.

(I recently went to a promenade production of ‘Jane Eyre’ in a stately home.  At one point, the actress playing Jane had placed the sketches she was going to show to Rochester on a piano and an audience member was leaning on the piano without realising.  There was an awkward un-Bronte moment as Jane tried to yank the sketches from under the audience member’s elbow!)

Because Panacea comes across as a slightly mystical character who just shows up, I wonder if she could be slightly earthier, in contrast to Eve’s more romantic language.   She does have some lovely moments such as her laughter over how useless mirrors are to her, but as much of the play is between her and Eve, and she is a magical creature, perhaps making her the more down to earth seeming would contrast more brightly with her supernatural gifts.  See my L4 comment.

In the final scene there is quite a bit of explanation and it feels just a bit squashed.  With maybe ten or fifteen minutes more you could find a way to blend in the back story a little more but I understand the difficulty of covering an entire play in eighteen minutes.

Overall, I think you’ve written a big, brave play, which tackles big subjects.  It has flaws and needs some development but it’s part of your development as a writer that you take some risks, and personally, I don’t think you can really tell whether a play has legs until you’ve heard it spoken out loud by other people.  But I’ve read it out loud and it packs a punch.

You’ve probably already heard of the London Playwrights Blog but if not, they publish opportunities every week.  There’s no substitute for

http://www.londonplaywrightsblog.com/

COMMENTARY

In your commentary you discuss the process of writing the play, in comprehensive detail including the difficulties, and with references to course materials and a commendably large amount of outside reading.

As this is an MA, a high level of both analysis and presentation is required, and your presentation is fine here.  It can be helpful when you are sick of the sight of your script/story to give it to a trusted friend or at least leave it a while to give yourself some space.

You don’t have to agree with course or outside materials, either, just show that you have reflected on the ideas within and show how they might have affected your own creative choices.    It’s also helpful to explain briefly what you intend to reflect on – such as characterisation, structure and dialogue (maybe picking one area you feel confident in and another where you may feel less confident).  Your tone is good, in that you are aware of your own style and what you are trying to achieve without adopting the I-have-achieved-a masterwork-and-now-I-will-reflect-on-aspects-of-its-awesomeness. Instead your tone is curious and questing and always willing to learn.

Thank you for the peer group references.  You have always been very active on the forums.  Also your references are very good.

I’ve given you a high merit for both the script, and the commentary, an overall high merit pass of 82%  As mentioned, scene one is a little static, and the final scene has a slightly ‘expositiony’ feel, but these are very fixable.  What I would suggest now for the script is to read out loud and perhaps workshop it as the most difficult bit is letting it out of your head and into the mouths and bodies of actors.  You’ve done really well Tasha and taken risks with your writing.  Well done.

If you have any questions please feel free to get in touch.

Kind Regards

MY  TUTOR

I can’t believe it’s Easter already. This will be the first Easter where me and my family don’t go and see my Gran in her care home. I’ve mixed feelings about this.

I don’t get to see my gran – 😦

I don’t have to go into a care home this year 🙂

credit to all the care workers out there who deserve a hike up on their wage. We should invest gratitude and time and resources to the people who look after the vulnerable people in society – in my opinion- of course.

We are all going to my Ma’s house on Sunday (family tradition). Gran will be in our thoughts.

How do other people celebrate Easter?

Happy-Easter-300x182

❤ Daisy xoxo

Love has a fixed abode

Beggers society.

true love insatiety.

Two lovers with no fixed abode.

Pariahs to a culture in the quest for a monetary load.

Shelter over head versus security locked on the inside.

freedom in exploring lovers spell,

remember even outcasts have rights to claim base to a premise.

Basic needs

Allow Emotion necessary feeds.

inconceivable,

two teens choose homelessness!

Why allow increased suffering and sorrow into the hearts of a young generations bliss?

The fault is not with those who choose companionship.

The system fails us all.

Digits in  Information Data protected code.

Silicon domain ship drives the latex whip.

Norms of society don’t make for a decent person.

Laws in place to follow obediently -can’t find a pulse – humanity is cursing.

No religious books needed to teach us how to know right from wrong.

Morals are instinctive-passed down a DNA cell telethon.

Spirituality and science

is empathy responding in defiance.

Scrutinise the tramps

for he who makes not a wage sufficient to put in our governments’ banks.

Gleam citizens of society!

Feed your families by working for a legal, unethical corporation.

Where will you take your possessions when nature sheds a hernia?

Blood bank Sponsorship in need of a  different type of currency.

Fear

we have lost.

Not long until we see all genders in mass hysterization.

Followers, likes, tags, social status

irrelevant.

War on the photoshop Generation

 insert a sultry slavering pavlova condition.

wear the no makeup look – wear less makeup.

no need for a  two-hour trial and a  tutorial book.

A means to an end.

Look at how we teach our children to defend

themselves

alone

for one day we must die.

How can we continue to justify how we live life?

continuously living in hope of being upgraded by united airlines,

feet up in the sky

‘on the high’

*FEELING frustrated for multiple reasons. Still waiting for my TMA 3  mark. Started on my EMA for my MA. I’m doing act two from ‘the homeless teen couple in love’ script that  I started way back in November 2016. I’m still 100% passionate about finishing it, however, I have learnt a lot about writing this year. I’m going it act two with a new approach.*

MUCH LOVE TO ALL OF YOU ON HERE.

THANK YOU, TO ALL THE NEW NEW WORDPRESS BLOGGERS FOR YOUR RECENT FOLLOWS. 

card-flowers-daisies-thank-you-card-flower-chamomile-thank-you

I’ve so many blogs to look at. Welcome to the willows.

A place that never stays the same.

Don’t know if that is a good or bad thing, it’s how this mind works.   ha ha!

36186390-368-k525336