My desk

Well, I haven't done any OU work since the last post. Told you it wouldn't last. Anyway, here's a piccy of my desk before I tidied it up. I suppose I'd better take a piccy of it tidy before it all deteriorates again.

Oops.

Apparently I shouldn't be publishing any work here, as I might want to use it for my marked work, and if the OU anti-plagiarising tools trawl the 'net and find it I could be accused of plagiarising my own work.
So I'll just have to use this blog for recording feelings about the course I suppose.
I'll keep the offending two posts on, and make sure I don't develop them into stories until after the course finishes.

By the way, any fellow OUers who are reading this. I won't stay ahead for long. I always start off enthusiastically with any new project, then slow down as new interests grab my imagination.
I chase this dream of being perpetually and perfectly organised and wow is it a battle.
New inks arrived yesterday, Noodlers' Ebony Blue and Private Reserve's La Coleur Royale. I got my fingers covered with ink filling my two pens.
This reminds me of my messy school exercise books. Blots everywhere. (I'm left handed) I wouldn't mind but I do most of my writing on the computer.
But you see, having some good pens and inks gives me an illusion of perfection. I AM A WRITER.

just testing

2nd exercise

We are looking at genres, and how the author can play around with them. We had to write 500 words for the beginning of a story (and playing with genres) I decided to do post-apocalyptic cum fairy tale. Here it is.

Activity 1.5 (Start story (500 words) in one of the genres mentioned. Go with and/or against the grain of the genre.

Post-apocalyptic (Seafaring)
Tanda picked her way over the dusty rubble, cursing her lack of footwear. Dust choked her mouth and dried out her eyes. Where was she? There were no landmarks left. Only this desert of brickwork beneath an orange sky. And where was Pauoro? He would know what to do. Where to go.
But Pauoro was gone. How did they get separated? She could remember little. One minute they were walking along the uncannily deserted street. She remembered shivering, and tucking her arm into his. And there was a face at a window, peering at them. Then, the explosion, and nothing more.
A voice made her jump. ‘Hey. Here. Come down here,’ it whispered. There was a hole. Tanda lay down and peered in. An old woman crouched there, gnarled as wire. ‘Come down’, she urged. ‘They’re afraid of the dark. You’ll be safe here.’
‘Pauoro. I need Pauoro,’ Tanda whimpered. but she clambered down obediently. What else was there to do?
‘You’ll see Pauoro again’, the old crone consoled. ‘I was watching from the window. He’s a brave lad. He hid you beneath the rubble before they came, but they took him away. They won’t hurt him. They need young men like him. They’ll feed him and woo him and maybe even brainwash him, so it will be hard for you to win him back, but you will. I know you will.’
‘But where is he? Who are they and what do they want him for?’ Tanda cried?
‘I will tell you. But first, some history. This land that you chanced upon wasn’t always bricks and mortar. It was once the milk and honey of a promised land. Rivers and streams refreshed the meadows and children played happily while their parents worked the land. I was old even then, and watched and listened when they thought I was asleep. There were greedy men among them. Contented wives and healthy children meant nothing to them. They were restless. They wanted more. They had heard of the Gorgoids, living in metallic splendour far across the sea. They wanted the same. To sit on thrones, with lesser beings waiting on them. Six of our men set sail one night, when the moon was full. Yes, it was madness. They had no map. I tried to stop them, but they just laughed. One of them grabbed me, and said I would do as a cook, and so we went, ploughing a path across the silver sea.
I won’t tell you of the hardships we endured, of the horrors we saw. Many a time we nearly died, and I longed for the comfort of my narrow bed at home. But one day, as the sun was rising, our boat scraped rock, and we found ourselves up against an enormous cliff, studded with silver and emeralds. Some evil god had kept us safe, and guided us to this place. And now our troubles really did begin.'

Haiku

Just spilt some coffee
All over the Big Blue Book.
Is this an omen?

I can see the mistakes

Yes, that story I just completed has too much repetition in. It's because I had to write a further 500 words. I would have been happier with 400 words. That's the trouble with following an assignment. I think stories should be as long as you want them to be. (Bearing in mind that for publication, you might have to knuckle down to a given remit.) I'll redo the piece, but won't post it here again. Just be assured that it will be 100% perfect!!! ;-)

It's arrived.

Yes, the course materials arrived today, and although it doesn't start for another month I've done the first activity. We are looking at genres, and looked at an opening paragraph of a story. We were then given five different titles, which would point to different genres. We then had to write another 500 words using one of the titles. Here's my version.

Activity 1.1 (Carry on the story for c. 500 words (we’re thinking of genre)

Woman in the Wind

The church clock strikes eight, so those villagers who are awake know without checking that it is six. A cock crows. A body lies across the doorstep of the church, a line crumb-carrying ants marches across the fedora covering its face. There is a serene momentary quiet after the chimes cease. A figure glides past the church wall, before the silence is cracked by a baby crying.

The gentle breeze starts up, caressing the body and stirring the linen folds of the figure’s habit. Sister Agnes pauses a moment, then disappears into the graveyard. All is quiet again. The baby sleeps.

It is an hour before Father José arrives, bleary eyed from a night too full of drink. His carthorse feet stumble against the body, and he grazes his hand against the rough stone wall. A gaggle of his devotees arrive, and this is how they find him – standing over Guillermo, sucking the blood off his palm. There is no nun.

The gaggle send up their prayers. ‘Holy Mother of God’’, Jesus Mary and Joseph’, ‘God help us,’ they squawk, and soon the whole village is there, all except the baby and his mother, who are sleeping peacefully at last.

They know what has happened. It was bound to happen, they say. Guillermo was too free and easy with the women. He angered the men. Him with his city money and city ways. He had it coming to him really. But which one of them has done it? They look at one another surreptitiously. Giacomo is too slight. His asthma makes it unlikely to be him. Alberto wouldn’t have the guts. Fr José is there with blood on his hands. Surely not.

The vigili soon puts their minds at rest. ‘This is poison. See his mouth? Look at his footsteps in the dew. He was poisoned elsewhere, and ran here to make his peace with God. Too late. We must leave his fate to the good God.’

Sister Agnes smiles into her pale hands as the breeze ruffles her skirts anew. It is good to be outside. To feel the wind on her cheeks again. It’s been too long.
The consternation of the villagers reach her from a long way off. They would thank her for it if they knew. The women would miss him, but their souls would be safe. The men need no longer think murderous thoughts in their hearts. Yes, she has done a good thing.

But it isn’t out of goodness. Oh no. What does she care about the mealy mouthed women and the weak willed men. She cares for no one.

But once, long ago, she had cared. She had cared for Guillermo, and he had cared for her. They had made a secret pact. Forsaking all others they had said, that summer, long ago.

Well now he is no more, and she is avenged. He will betray her no more.

The summer breeze whips up into a swirling wind. It tosses the deadly nightshade out of her hands and into the air. With a laugh, that could have been the whinny of a horse, she leaps into the gale, and is carried away up, up, and then down, into the vaults from whence she came. She hears nothing there, but maybe, just maybe, the faint sound of a crowing cock.