Round 4 Challenge: Weave an element of Fyor’s story into your passage. It should be no more than 450 words.
You want to see me out in the world, don’t you? A character in motion, out and about, having a laugh with my mates, taking the piss out of pikeys, that sort of thing.
I’ll try. Yesterday I was waiting on the first floor for the lift at an NHS hospital. The door opened and some tall, skinny bloke was standing there, all by himself. He was a right streak of piss. You could have fit thirty of him into that lift. So he looks at me and with a perfectly straight face says, “It’s just one bleeding floor. Can’t you take the stairs?” Maybe others in my place would have lost their rag over that but I thought it was the dog’s bullocks. Funniest thing I’d heard all month.
That’s about all the character in motion you’re getting out of me, at least the kind of motion you want. I know you’ve been through the writing programmes and memorised the rules of fiction and filled your noggin with carefully thought out ideas about what makes good writing. Action, character, backstory, development… as Auggie would say, blah blah blah. If Dostoevsky were writing Notes from the Underground you’d all have probably voted the poor bugger off before Isis.
I may have dropped my knickers too early. But you asked for a character in motion so I’m moving for you. When you only have a few hundred words, there’s no time for seduction.
Onwards to our challenge. Weave an element of Fyor’s story into your passage. That’s an easy one. That night on the roof, on my last stand, as I’ve come to call it, I was feeling hard like I usually do when I’m pissed. So when that chav called me Frodo, which sometimes happens because of my curly brown hair, I took a swing at him. That’s how the brawl began. That’s how Frodo plunged to his death birth.
Now that I’m done with my weaving, let me tell you why a misanthrope like me, a bloke who detests the Internet, who despises reality shows and writing contests, who resents the cosy buggery of herd writing, who knows that the only writing worth doing is the kind that spills out of your guts alone, in silence, unheard and uncommented upon, like the final thoughts of a man abandoned to bleed to death in a bare room… let me tell you why someone like that has decided to do something like this. Let me tell you.
Yes. Now my wheels are moving. Let me tell you. I want to be heard.