Wednesday, 10 June 2015

Murder in the Chatroom

Writing out of my style, out of my comfort zone, is something I love - creating unnecessary stress on my creative senses to fuel new ideas, new ways of thinking and to open up my mind and my penmanship.

It's not like I don't have a million things I am meant to be working on (and actually finishing), but if I don't stir things up a bit, push myself that little bit differently, then I fall in to ruts, get bogged down in my safe place of my own style and thinking. Nothing wrong with having your own style and thoughts, but what if they could be even better, even broader, even more tantalising? That's where randomness is fabulous, just for-no-particular-reason I will sit at my keyboard and let the keys jabber away in an area I either don't know or a style I have not tried.

Sometimes laughter is the best medicine, with plenty of chortles born from my experimental ramblings, but sometimes, just sometimes, there's something that is a little like 'potential' sneaking out. A million light years from perfection or actual credibility, but just that little scent of something worth trying again...

So here's a one that has caught my creative attention, and got a whole lot of whirring occurring in my head. So much so I even mocked up a cover for the story below:

Hello Purplecat10. Missed you yesterday.

Hi Boosh24.

Are you having a good day?

Not really.

What’s up?

Just some bitches at school. Fucking hate them.

What have they done? Are you ok?

Photoshopped some pictures of me and posted them for everyone to see.


Yeah and Instagram. They’re not even any good at photoshopping, but they made me look like a hooker.

But you’re nothing like that.

I know, but what does that matter. Now everyone’s calling me a slut and the lads are pretending to offer me money for me to blow them off. Dicks.

Purplecat, you’re better than that. So much better than them. You’re my Purplecat and I know you’re not like that. I know you, I really know you, and you know me. You are special, remember that. We are special.

I know Boosh. It still feels shit though.

Oh my Purplecat, I wish I was there to give you a cuddle.

Me too Boosh.

Maybe one day...

Jean Atticker took a deep breath and opened the first file. This was not going to be pleasant, she knew it would turn her stomach, but this would only make her more vigilant. Every little piece of evidence was vital to a conviction. Nothing could be missed, overlooked or misinterpreted. That bastard was going to get life. Life for a life. And it was up to her to make sure that the evidence was watertight.

The case had repulsed the nation and led the headlines for months, with the search, the suspicions and pointing of media fingers and then the discovery. The awful discovery, which many had felt inevitable, but that left no one untouched by tragedy.

And then the arrest.

Jean stared down at the papers in the file, a photo paper-clipped to the front of the first document. Cara Evelyn smiled back at her, eyes bright and mischievous, her long hair falling across her cheeks and shoulders. 14 and full of hope. 14 and full of life. 14 and dead.

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