Post by Surreptitious Cardboard Box on Dec 9, 2007 17:35:47 GMT
Name: Triptych
Type of writing: Prose
Subject: Three separate stories on different issues
Genre: General
Summary: Three short stories. These are the three parts that comprise my entry for a creative writing assignment that I had to complete. Each had a limit of 500 words.
Status: Complete
Christmas Shopping
My mummy said a naughty word when I told her I'd lost my glove. If we had been with daddy, he would have told her off for not being careful about what she says in front of me, but I don't understand why. Mummy says that that when you say a naughty word, you don't mean to, but it comes out anyway. It has nothing to do with being careful, she says.
Anyway, when I told her, she used a naughty word, but she wasn't angry with me. A slow, old lady gave us a grumpy look when she shuffled past, but my mummy didn't notice.
“Oh, Roy, sweetie. How'd you manage that, eh?” she asked.
“I dunno',” I said.
“Where did you have it last?”
“I dunno'.”
“Alright, then, we'll just have to buy a new pair,” she said, smiling at me.
“But I like these ones.”
“But you can't wear just one glove, can you, Roy? Your hand'll get cold. You wouldn't like that very much, would you?”
“No.” I looked away. Right behind where we were standing, there was a bare tree hanging over into the street. Last week, Mrs. Figsdale taught us that some trees lose all their leaves in the autumn, which is why they're bare in winter. But some trees were made to be able to protect themselves when it gets cold, and people like to use these trees to decorate their homes sometimes. And then I remembered where I had dropped my glove.
“Mummy! I touched the spikes!”
“What's that, sweetie?”
“On the Christmas trees. I took my glove off, to touch the spikes.”
“Do you think you left your glove where the Christmas trees are?”
“Yeah. I took it off, didn't I? Can we go look?”
She said that we could, as long as it didn't take long, because we still had to buy wrapping paper for all the presents. We hurried back to the garden centre where they had the Christmas trees, and I almost got knocked over by a huge man who had stopped in the middle of the pavement. My mummy shouted at him, but I continued running, so she didn't have time to finish. When we got to the centre, I found the tree with all the fairy lights on it, because that was where I had taken off my glove. But when we looked, we couldn't find my glove anywhere. Mummy even asked some ladies, but they hadn't seen it.
“Don't worry,” she told me. “We'll buy a new pair. Put your hands in your pockets for now, sweetie, so they don't get cold.”
We started to walk back down the street, and as I put my hands in my coat pockets, I felt wool against my bare skin, like when you stroke a sheep at the farm, and then I remembered that I had put my glove in my pocket so that it was safe while I felt the spiky needles of the big Christmas tree.
Apathy
Jess has always wondered what it would be like to chuck hot coffee into somebody's face. It's the sort of thing you see happen in movies. Of course, in real life, hot liquids can be very dangerous, so you would need a very good reason for doing such a thing. Right now, Jess is sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Some tightwad from Accounting has just come up to rant at her. Jess isn't listening to what the woman has to say; she's not interested. Instead, she's got her eyes closed (she would just end up squinting if she tried to look into her cup whilst drinking), and she's imagining what it would be like if she had the guts to just lean forward ever-so-slightly and tip, tip, tip ...
The office is busy. With her eyes closed, Jess' other senses seem so much more acute; she can hear the intermittent double-pip of the phones, which emanates from various places, so that the same sound is layered over itself several times, bringing to mind a terribly unoriginal orchestra, consisting of a single 'instrument' . The Xerox machine is droning on; some idiot intern accidentally keyed in two-hundred copies, when really he only needed five; he's been hanging around nervously for the past few minutes, clearly mortified by his mistake. Somebody is dragging their fingers across the keys on their keyboard, making them rattle in a most irritating fashion.
The accountant is still having a moan. She asks – no, demands – that Jess pay her attention. Jess merely opens her eyes and lowers the cup. She wishes she didn't. It has never been a particularly attractive office; the sloping walls are greying, covered in rough, sharp stipples - the result of the tragic decision to use Artex - and the desks, too, are grey, and plastic looking, and certainly not large enough. The windows are rather dirty, and poorly looked after, and several of the panes are cracked, though Jess has no idea how that could have occurred. And then there is the wall she is now stood beside; there had been a work party of sorts one night, last week, and when everyone had come back in, the next morning, they'd been greeted by the unexpected sight of a large, bright mural painted haphazardly on the main wall, excepting the space where the notice board is pinned up. It had brought a little excitement to their otherwise dull jobs, but that was gone within two days, and now they are back to the usual monotony.
Jess has the inexplicable feeling that the accountant has just asked her a question, but she has no idea what it was. Really, she wants nothing more than to be left alone. She can go home in less than an hour. She could put some chicken breasts on the grill, and relax in front of the TV. She knows how to get rid of the woman. Slowly, almost casually, she leans forward, and tip, tip, tips ...
Assigned
The key faltered slightly before turning in the lock. Hawkins knew he probably should have bought a new suitcase years ago, but it was one of those things you just never got around to. The laptop was safely secured between layers of clothing, and once satisfied that it had not been tampered with since he'd flown out from Washington D.C., he closed the suitcase back up, locked it shut, and placed the key in his wallet. He was supposed to be convening with the local police in just over three hours, so until then, he decided to run through the assignment in his mind. He got up from the bed and strode softly towards the door of the hotel room, where he peered out into the corridor through the peephole. He'd made a cursory inspection of the room when he'd first entered it, but now he took the time to fully familiarise himself with his surroundings. The hotel itself was a fairly modern building, but assumed a laid-back atmosphere. It certainly wasn't the sort of place you'd expect FBI agents to be staying in.
The window was huge, taking up most of the outer wall, and provided a rather invigorating south-facing view of Victoria Street. It dwarfed the room, which Agent Hawkins supposed to be little more than eight by ten feet. He lowered the blinds so as to not be distracted by the setting sun. He then stepped towards the bedside table, and began searching the drawers. In the second , he found a small button, which he disposed of in the en-suite bathroom's wastepaper basket, then he returned to the bed, lifting up the mattress to check underneath.
He continued this methodical process for another ten minutes, then grasped the ladder-backed chair at the desk, swivelled it round on one leg, next to the window, and lowered himself into it. He then proceeded to watch the traffic - far, far below - as his mind wandered to the action that would inevitably be taking place later. In many ways, he wished he hadn't been assigned to the case. It was dangerous to mix work with your personal life, especially in a profession like his, and he'd never been one to make that mistake before. Now, however, it was very difficult for him to not view the target with a more personal perspective. The FBI had been cracking-down on botnets - networks of hijacked PCs – for months now, and they'd managed to identify the supposed ringleader of a cyber-crime group that had set up one of the said networks. He was barely eighteen years old, and they'd located him in New Zealand, of all places, which was why Hawkins had flown out there. Normally, he would have been able to view the entire operation from only an objective viewpoint, but armed with the knowledge that he himself had almost fallen victim to one such infiltration, he was going to find it hard to separate revenge from justice.
Type of writing: Prose
Subject: Three separate stories on different issues
Genre: General
Summary: Three short stories. These are the three parts that comprise my entry for a creative writing assignment that I had to complete. Each had a limit of 500 words.
Status: Complete
Christmas Shopping
My mummy said a naughty word when I told her I'd lost my glove. If we had been with daddy, he would have told her off for not being careful about what she says in front of me, but I don't understand why. Mummy says that that when you say a naughty word, you don't mean to, but it comes out anyway. It has nothing to do with being careful, she says.
Anyway, when I told her, she used a naughty word, but she wasn't angry with me. A slow, old lady gave us a grumpy look when she shuffled past, but my mummy didn't notice.
“Oh, Roy, sweetie. How'd you manage that, eh?” she asked.
“I dunno',” I said.
“Where did you have it last?”
“I dunno'.”
“Alright, then, we'll just have to buy a new pair,” she said, smiling at me.
“But I like these ones.”
“But you can't wear just one glove, can you, Roy? Your hand'll get cold. You wouldn't like that very much, would you?”
“No.” I looked away. Right behind where we were standing, there was a bare tree hanging over into the street. Last week, Mrs. Figsdale taught us that some trees lose all their leaves in the autumn, which is why they're bare in winter. But some trees were made to be able to protect themselves when it gets cold, and people like to use these trees to decorate their homes sometimes. And then I remembered where I had dropped my glove.
“Mummy! I touched the spikes!”
“What's that, sweetie?”
“On the Christmas trees. I took my glove off, to touch the spikes.”
“Do you think you left your glove where the Christmas trees are?”
“Yeah. I took it off, didn't I? Can we go look?”
She said that we could, as long as it didn't take long, because we still had to buy wrapping paper for all the presents. We hurried back to the garden centre where they had the Christmas trees, and I almost got knocked over by a huge man who had stopped in the middle of the pavement. My mummy shouted at him, but I continued running, so she didn't have time to finish. When we got to the centre, I found the tree with all the fairy lights on it, because that was where I had taken off my glove. But when we looked, we couldn't find my glove anywhere. Mummy even asked some ladies, but they hadn't seen it.
“Don't worry,” she told me. “We'll buy a new pair. Put your hands in your pockets for now, sweetie, so they don't get cold.”
We started to walk back down the street, and as I put my hands in my coat pockets, I felt wool against my bare skin, like when you stroke a sheep at the farm, and then I remembered that I had put my glove in my pocket so that it was safe while I felt the spiky needles of the big Christmas tree.
Apathy
Jess has always wondered what it would be like to chuck hot coffee into somebody's face. It's the sort of thing you see happen in movies. Of course, in real life, hot liquids can be very dangerous, so you would need a very good reason for doing such a thing. Right now, Jess is sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Some tightwad from Accounting has just come up to rant at her. Jess isn't listening to what the woman has to say; she's not interested. Instead, she's got her eyes closed (she would just end up squinting if she tried to look into her cup whilst drinking), and she's imagining what it would be like if she had the guts to just lean forward ever-so-slightly and tip, tip, tip ...
The office is busy. With her eyes closed, Jess' other senses seem so much more acute; she can hear the intermittent double-pip of the phones, which emanates from various places, so that the same sound is layered over itself several times, bringing to mind a terribly unoriginal orchestra, consisting of a single 'instrument' . The Xerox machine is droning on; some idiot intern accidentally keyed in two-hundred copies, when really he only needed five; he's been hanging around nervously for the past few minutes, clearly mortified by his mistake. Somebody is dragging their fingers across the keys on their keyboard, making them rattle in a most irritating fashion.
The accountant is still having a moan. She asks – no, demands – that Jess pay her attention. Jess merely opens her eyes and lowers the cup. She wishes she didn't. It has never been a particularly attractive office; the sloping walls are greying, covered in rough, sharp stipples - the result of the tragic decision to use Artex - and the desks, too, are grey, and plastic looking, and certainly not large enough. The windows are rather dirty, and poorly looked after, and several of the panes are cracked, though Jess has no idea how that could have occurred. And then there is the wall she is now stood beside; there had been a work party of sorts one night, last week, and when everyone had come back in, the next morning, they'd been greeted by the unexpected sight of a large, bright mural painted haphazardly on the main wall, excepting the space where the notice board is pinned up. It had brought a little excitement to their otherwise dull jobs, but that was gone within two days, and now they are back to the usual monotony.
Jess has the inexplicable feeling that the accountant has just asked her a question, but she has no idea what it was. Really, she wants nothing more than to be left alone. She can go home in less than an hour. She could put some chicken breasts on the grill, and relax in front of the TV. She knows how to get rid of the woman. Slowly, almost casually, she leans forward, and tip, tip, tips ...
Assigned
The key faltered slightly before turning in the lock. Hawkins knew he probably should have bought a new suitcase years ago, but it was one of those things you just never got around to. The laptop was safely secured between layers of clothing, and once satisfied that it had not been tampered with since he'd flown out from Washington D.C., he closed the suitcase back up, locked it shut, and placed the key in his wallet. He was supposed to be convening with the local police in just over three hours, so until then, he decided to run through the assignment in his mind. He got up from the bed and strode softly towards the door of the hotel room, where he peered out into the corridor through the peephole. He'd made a cursory inspection of the room when he'd first entered it, but now he took the time to fully familiarise himself with his surroundings. The hotel itself was a fairly modern building, but assumed a laid-back atmosphere. It certainly wasn't the sort of place you'd expect FBI agents to be staying in.
The window was huge, taking up most of the outer wall, and provided a rather invigorating south-facing view of Victoria Street. It dwarfed the room, which Agent Hawkins supposed to be little more than eight by ten feet. He lowered the blinds so as to not be distracted by the setting sun. He then stepped towards the bedside table, and began searching the drawers. In the second , he found a small button, which he disposed of in the en-suite bathroom's wastepaper basket, then he returned to the bed, lifting up the mattress to check underneath.
He continued this methodical process for another ten minutes, then grasped the ladder-backed chair at the desk, swivelled it round on one leg, next to the window, and lowered himself into it. He then proceeded to watch the traffic - far, far below - as his mind wandered to the action that would inevitably be taking place later. In many ways, he wished he hadn't been assigned to the case. It was dangerous to mix work with your personal life, especially in a profession like his, and he'd never been one to make that mistake before. Now, however, it was very difficult for him to not view the target with a more personal perspective. The FBI had been cracking-down on botnets - networks of hijacked PCs – for months now, and they'd managed to identify the supposed ringleader of a cyber-crime group that had set up one of the said networks. He was barely eighteen years old, and they'd located him in New Zealand, of all places, which was why Hawkins had flown out there. Normally, he would have been able to view the entire operation from only an objective viewpoint, but armed with the knowledge that he himself had almost fallen victim to one such infiltration, he was going to find it hard to separate revenge from justice.