Spirit of the Beanstalk

Illustration by Michael Ilkiw

Story Shack Magazine have published "Spirit of the Beanstalk". It's a fun little piece that came about from an exercise in a writing class. The idea was to pick a well-known fairy tale and write it from the point of view of a different character. I choose Jack and the Beanstalk, and decided to write it from the beanstalk's point of view.

The fun thing with Story Shack Magazine is that they put you in touch with an illustrator. This was a new experience for me and it was great fun seeing what Michael came up with for the story.

Generating ideas

Last night's writing class involved a brilliant idea-generating exercise! We had a big box of random objects and the idea was to pass each object in turn around the class. As each object arrived on your desk, you had to scribble down the first thing that popped into your head.

Some of the lines I ended up with are wonderfully surreal... here's a sample:

• Tinkle like a gypsy bell
• Bleach the skull of Jefferies
• An English shade of blue
• Hedgehog by air mail
• Crushed beneath a marble shell
• Call yourself when young
• Snap the slate of life

After all the objects had been passed round, we all ended up with a lovely long list of random lines. We then chose one of the lines to use as a basis for a poem. I'm still a kid at heart, so I chose the item that generated the "Hedgehog by air mail" line, namely a tobacco tin bearing this picture:

Christmas hedgehog postman by Molly Brett

We then had to write a list of ten facts about the item we'd chosen. Here's mine:

1. The postman is a hedgehog.
2. The hedgehog is wearing a dark blue hat.
3. Birds are perched all around, being nosy.
4. The hedgehog is delivering parcels to a family of rabbits.
5. There are three kids in the rabbit family.
6. There are three parcels being delivered, so presumably that's one per rabbit kid.
7. The hedgehog can drive.
8. It's a bright sunny day.
9. It's been snowing. Lots.
10. The entrance to the rabbits' burrow is *huge*.

... and then we needed to write a list of five feelings we got from the item:

1. Pleased for the young rabbits, because I'm assuming the parcels are their presents.
2. Hopeful for the hedgehog that this is his last job of the day. (He looks a bit sleepy, poor guy.)
3. Worried the rabbit children may bicker over their presents (e.g. the green parcel's a lot smaller than the yellow one, which might cause a bit of jealousy).
4. Amused at the birds being so nosy.
5. Impressed how the hedgehog has managed to drive his little van over a snowy field (there's no sign of a road).
6. (Bonus feeling! 6 for the price of 5!) Worried the rabbit construction workers have not considered how easy it would be for a fox to fit through the massive entrance to that burrow.

The final part of the exercise was to write a little piece about what the item would say if it could speak. I forgot to do this bit (oops) but I'm sure Postman Hedgehog would be unable to speak as he climbed that hill - he'd be all puffed out. The rabbit children are, no doubt, squealing in excitement, and the parents are whispering to each other about how they're hoping Amazon hasn't screwed up their order.

So with all these facts and feelings and ideas, it was time to write a poem. Come on Brain, let's hear it! Give me assonance and alliteration! Give me consonance and rhyme!

Actually, no, not rhyme. We weren't allowed to rhyme. Sad face :-(

Brain rummaged in its poetry suitcase and decided it didn't know what to do. So it gave me this:


The blue hat
of the hedgehog
is dark.
Here is a line
break.
Line breaks show you're good
at poetry.


Thank you, Brain. I will print that out and put it on the wall... as a reminder not to try and write poetry any more.

Brain then decided it wanted to rhyme (it really likes rhyming), so off it went and I was forced to follow along:

The postman is a hedgehog!

Imagine, if you can,

Him dealing out his presents

From his bright red van.

The rabbits in their burrow

Peer delightedly

Out at Mr Hedgehog

Coming round for tea.

Thank you, again, Brain. I asked for something deep and you gave me something daft. And why is the hedgehog postman suddenly coming for tea? Was that just to make the last line rhyme? Yes, I thought so. Sigh.

I think that's enough poetry for now. Brain, go back to sleep.

An introduction to playwriting

Shakespeare's autograph

CLARE: Hey Mumbletoes, are you still doing that writing course?

MUMBLETOES: (Brightly) Damn straight I am. It's good fun.

CLARE: What was tonight's subject?

MUMBLETOES: We were learning about playwriting. I've never tried it before. It's kinda fun. There's no need to fuss about with description which means you focus on the dialogue more.

CLARE: Sounds good. Did you write any plays?

MUMBLETOES: I made a few attempts. I'm not really sure about them though.

CLARE: Go on then, share.

MUMBLETOES: No. (Looks down at his hands) I'm shy.

CLARE: Oh go on. (Flutters eyelashes) Let's hear them.

MUMBLETOES: Okay then, but remember this is just a first attempt. 

Characters:

• SIMPKINS is a very small boy made of marshmallow. He is very nervous and tends to run away from anything even vaguely threatening.
• MAVIS is a sweetshop owner. She regularly kidnaps marshmallow children by tricking them into following her to her shop.

#

CLARE: Hang on, that sounds really dodgy. Are you really sure you want to go with that?

MUMBLETOES: Good point. Okay, let's scrap that idea. Want to see my next attempt?

CLARE: Yeah!

Characters:

• DARREN is a writer stuck for an idea.
• BORIS is a dancer who lives with Darren and enjoys helping to fire-up Darren's creative side.

Scene: Student bedroom. An early morning in summer. Sunshine pours in through the windows and the skylight. DARREN is sitting at his desk, looking stressed, his pen hovering over the paper although he hasn't written a word. BORIS enters, clad in bright pink Lycra, and spends the entire scene contorting his limbs into a series of bizarre stretches.

BORIS: (Full of the joy of a new day) Morning! (Starts stretching)

DARREN: (Irritably throws his pen into a metal bin making it clang like a funeral bell) Do you have to do that in here?

BORIS: What?

DARREN: Stretching. Can't you practise somewhere else?

BORIS: I like it in here. More sunlight. Sunlight makes me bendier. (Lifts one leg and puts it up against the wall)

DARREN: (Annoyed) Great. (Takes a new pen from the pen holder on his desk and holds pen ready to write, but doesn't write anything)

(PAUSE)

BORIS: What are you writing today?

DARREN: (Throws pen into the bin) Christ, Boris, I have no idea. We have to write a play and my mind's gone completely blank. (Takes a new pen from the pen holder and again holds it ready to write, but doesn't write anything)

BORIS: (Grunts as he sinks into a new stretch) Why don't you write about a butchers shop? You could have a mad old bat come in and get upset when the butcher offers her tripe.

DARREN: No, no, no. That's just the example we were given in my writing class. You're only saying that because you're a figment of my imagination and all your suggestions come straight from my memory. (Throws pen into the bin and puts head in hands) Just kill me. Kill me now. I'll never be a writer.

BORIS: Oh don't be ridiculous. You're just being fatalistic. (Sits on floor and reaches out to touch his toes) Surely you can come up with something?

DARREN: Like what?

BORIS: Anything, mate. Just start writing. That's how your brain works. You won't have any ideas until you start writing.

DARREN: OK, how about I write about... (Grabs a new pen from his pen holder) ... about... about...

BORIS: A pie shop.

DARREN: Pie? Why pie?

BORIS: (Leaps up and stretches as high as he can) Because pie is amazing! Everyone loves pie. That's a great way to draw your reader in. Set your play in a pie shop and straight away everyone's head will be filled with images of warm pastry crust soaked in rich brown gravy. (Licks his lips and holds his stomach) God, I'm hungry.

DARREN: Okay, pie it is. (Writes manically) How about this for a beginning? Pie shop. Interior. Arnold Clutterbucket stands behind the counter. He's wearing giant glasses, has a plaster over his nose, and he's holding a dead rabbit. In walks an eagle.

BORIS: Hang on. An eagle?

DARREN: (Still writing) Yes, an eagle. Do you want to hear this or not?

BORIS: One sec. (Moves to the door and uses the doorknob for support as he goes into a backbend) Okay, fire away.

DARREN: (Staring at Boris) That looks painful.

BORIS: Is that what the eagle said, or are you just talking?

DARREN: Just talking.

BORIS: Less talking, more reading. What did the eagle say?

DARREN: It makes a joke.

(PAUSE while Darren looks uncertain)

BORIS: Go on then. What's the joke?

DARREN: I don't want to tell you.

BORIS: Eh? Why not?

DARREN: You won't laugh.

BORIS: Yeah I will.

DARREN: Really?

BORIS: Of course.

(PAUSE)

BORIS: Well?

DARREN: It's been too long now. (Throws pen into the bin) There's been too much build up. The joke won't be funny.

#

CLARE: Aargh, you can't end it there! What was the joke?

MUMBLETOES: I don't know. I was hoping to come up with an amazing pun about eagles and pie shops, but I couldn't think of anything.

CLARE: Hmm, tricky. (Thinks for a moment) Something about rabbits, maybe? Okay, what else have you got?

MUMBLETOES: Just a short scene. This one has a joke. 

CLARE: A real joke? Not one that you just hint at and then never come out with?

MUMBLETOES: Yep. Well, it's not a great joke. It's a joke that would probably work best as a radio play.

CLARE: Let's hear it.

Characters:

• STANLEY is a mild-mannered employee.
• COB is the intimidating boss.

Scene: Cob's office.


COB is heavy-handedly typing at his computer. STANLEY knocks timidly on the office door.

COB: (Irritably) Come in!

STANLEY: (Nervously peers around the door) You wanted to see me, sir?

COB: (Preoccupied with computer screen) Yes, yes, come in.

(Stanley comes in, knocks over a hat-stand, picks it back up again, then nervously hovers by the door.)

COB: Come in and sit down, Stanley, for Christ's sake.

STANLEY: Yes, sir. Of course, sir. (Sits down on the floor.)

(PAUSE while Cob realises he can no longer see Stanley)

COB: On a chair, Stanley. On a chair.

#

CLARE: Oh dear, poor Stanley. So, Mumbletoes, have you got any more playwriting attempts?

MUMBLETOES: I think that's enough for now.

The bright-blue helicopter

The writing exercise on my course tonight was “partner writing”. We partnered up and told each other a quick real-life story.

Here’s the story I was told by... well, let’s call her Susan.

Susan was driving down the M4 having just returned to the UK from a holiday trip to New York. The car was a Ford Ka – little more than a go-kart with an engine. She was overtaking a truck when suddenly the car went into a skid. After a terrifying few moments of scraping along the central reservation, Susan came to a halt facing the central reservation. Thankfully the motorway was pretty much empty at the time. Shakily, she got out of the car, and stood in the gap between the two barriers that make up the central reservation, wondering dazedly if she could call the police. And then from nowhere the motorway was suddenly full of traffic. Three lanes, all completely chock-a-block. Susan had no idea what to do. All of a sudden, someone came up behind her and gave her what felt like a hug from behind. She was grabbed and pulled all the way across the motorway to the hard shoulder. “I think we got you just in time, luv,” came a voice. At that very moment the car exploded. Pieces of Ka flew all over the motorway. The resulting pile-up was horrendous but thankfully the only injury was one man with a broken leg. The police later told Susan there had been a diesel spill, which is why the car skidded. Her saviours – the men who had grabbed her and pulled her away from the car just before it exploded – were two guys who had seen the accident, stopped their van, and then bravely ran across three lanes of traffic (and back!) to grab her and pull her to safety. Susan called them her guardian angels.

The exercise was to take your partner's story and play around with it, changing it as much as you wish, to create your own short story. We had about 15 minutes for this task.

I tried to think of something serious to write but as usual my mind rebelled and insisted I write something daft. So here goes.

The bright-blue helicopter

[EDIT: Oh no, where's the story? It's not here because I'm trying to get it published! Sorry!]

The Body in Eccleston Delph

Here's another story resulting from an exercise on a course I'm doing at New College, Swindon. We were given a short newspaper report and then had to free write for ten minutes to give our own version of the background to the report.

The report was about a body that was found in a flooded quarry in Eccleston Delph. The body was identified as Martin Johnstone who was known to be an international drug dealer. Police assumed he’d been “done in” and that the body had been thrown over the edge of the flooded quarry to be hidden, but the body had landed on the ledge on the way down which led to a quick discovery.

The idea was to take these sparse details and create a story about how the body came to be there. I couldn't think of anything sensible, so I chose to write a story about a gigantic purple butterfly with glittery wings. I think a lot of whodunits would benefit from the inclusion of gigantic purple butterflies, especially ones with glittery wings.

Here's the report we were given:

The Body in Eccleston Delph, Lancashire, 1979

Once it was a beauty spot. But that was before it became the watery grave of an international drugs dealer. Eccleston Delph, a flooded quarry in the heart of Lancashire, was never meant to reveal its gruesome secret. But the body of Martin Johnstone never hit the bottom. Instead it came to rest on a ledge after the perpetrators of the most notorious deed in the history of crime in the North West, had bundled him over the edge.

And here's the story:

Martin loved butterflies. He regularly went on butterfly-hunting expeditions in Karamazoople (which is one of the smaller islands off the coast of Mozambique).

“Crazy git,” everyone said. “Must be on drugs.”

One day, halfway through his 1979 expedition, he found the most beautiful butterfly he’d ever seen. It was fifteen feet high. It had giant glittery wings and a bright purple body.

Martin and the butterfly fell in love at first sight.

“Come fly with me,” the butterfly said. “Karamazoople is full of fleas and dirt and long wormy things that creep into my bed at night. Take me home and let's live together forever.”

With a cry of delight, Martin leapt onto the butterfly’s back. Together they flew to his home in Eccleston Delph. The butterfly was too big to get through Martin’s front door so they hollowed out a cave in the side of a disused quarry, and there they made their home.

Sadly, one day there was a terrible rainstorm. The rain caused a landslide which filled the cave with choking black mud, killing the butterfly. All that was left was a tiny edge of a glittery wing poking out from the quarry side.

Martin (who had escaped the landslide only because he had nipped out for a ciggie) was left stranded on a ledge, on what had once been the doorstep of his cave. Overcome with grief for the loss of his true love, he sat silently, crying into the rain and eventually died of grief. His body was found on the ledge a week later, his head in his hands. The tears and the rain had all dried away.

#

In case you're interested, here are the actual details behind the story. Sadly there's no mention of gigantic purple butterflies.

Flying ants

This is a short story that came from an exercise on a course I'm doing at New College, Swindon, taught by the talented Hilda Sheehan.

The first part of the exercise was to write down ten memories from your childhood. Five of the ten had to be true memories and five had to be completely made up.

I'd really recommend trying to write that list of memories - it sparked several handfuls of story ideas.

Once we had our list of ten memories, we had to pick one of them and expand it into a story. We only had ten minutes to do this, so I was quite pleased when my story managed to come out with a proper beginning, middle and end.

The memory I chose was: Sitting with a friend at school being taught how to catch and eat flying ants as they emerged from their nest hole in the dirt.

Flying ants

They painted the sky with smoke-black clouds. Delighted birds swooped in the billowing swarm, beaks gaping wide.

"It'll be like this for at least a week," my friend told me. His name was Tendai and he was a foot taller than me which made him the leader. Together we found one of the ant nests. There was no anthill -- just a hole in the ground, barely a fingernail in width. Ants surfaced one by one, shaking their new-grown wings in the African sun.

"They're called butter bums," Tendai told me with authority. "They taste like butter."

"You can't eat that," I said, full of uncertainty. And so the lesson began.

"Catch them as they come out," Tendai said, as he seized the next one to emerge. Holding the struggling creature by its wings, he showed me how to tear off the bulbous posterior. Into his mouth it went and was polished off by a speedy double-chew. He opened his mouth as proof, showing me the pinkness of his tongue.

"Tastes like butter," he affirmed, grabbing another. "Try it."

I reached out to pluck up an ant as it took its first view of daylight. I watched it struggle; small, helpless and lost in indecision.

[EDIT: I sent the story off for publication and it was accepted! The story appears in Vol. 8 No. 1 of Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine]