Jo's Site

… how you would react as a passenger on board a failing aircraft? Would you cry? Smile? Reach for your phone? Scream?

… what it would feel like to spin your car's steering wheel towards the central reservation on a motorway, speedometer wavering at 80mph? What if you just clipped the kerb with a tyre, would you bounce straight off into the traffic? Maybe your car would flip straight over?

… if those who do that plan it? Do they wait for the right song to come on the radio? Maybe they take a CD.

… whether you'd die instantly if you did hit it?

… why there's no North-East London postcode?

… what makes people jump in front of trains? How many times have you stood near a platform edge and played 'chicken' in your mind, knowing you wouldn't, couldn't ever jump.

… if you'd pull the ripcord on a parachute. Or whether you'd yell 'WAY TO GO…!' on the descent instead? Choosing to die, with a euphoric smile plastered on your face.

… if a knife wielding maniac is concealed within the shadows when you approach your front door in the dark?

… what you would do if you heard glass shatter whilst 'home alone'? Has someone broken in? Should you investigate, or call the police? Maybe it was from the street outside...

… if you heard a scream, a cry, a shout, or perhaps a loud thud through your thick 1910-built brick wall and double-glazing; are you ignoring someone's murder? Aren't you tempted to peer through their curtains to put your mind at ease?

… how many people would attend your funeral? Who would cry? Would anyone throw themselves at the coffin and wail? If you wanted someone there who couldn't attend, wouldn't you want to rant at them for having something more important to do?

… what could be worse than choosing your own funeral song, yet ending up with Celine Dion? How frustrating if you were there in spirit! Would you even want to be there in spirit? Would you have a choice? Questions, questions.

… what's the lesser of two evils - being buried alive and waking up, or choosing cremation for that very reason, only to gain consciousness as the flames licked at your feet.

… if you'll outlive your children? Even without any, it's a huge worry.

… what would have happened if that cut on your hand had been deeper. Would you have bled to death on floorboard-effect linoleum?

… if you'll wake up in the morning? Maybe you've gone to sleep feeling poorly, or your heart has felt like breaking and you've cried yourself to sleep… will you see morning?

… if being woken by cramp in your leg indicates a deadly blood clot. What if it travels round to your lungs in your sleep?

… whether you'd reach the phone if suffering excruciating pain in your chest? Not knowing whether to curl up and wish it away, or if you'd realise you'd probably die without that telephone lifeline?

… how you would react in an emergency if you were unharmed? Would an injured stranger have to slap your hysterical face, or would you be calm, rational and composed? Would you get a medal for bravery?

… if you'll ever be famous? What on earth are you going to wear to the awards ceremonies?

... if you'll ever get into a size 10 again!

… how those close to you will die? How will you cope?

… what will get you in the end? Will you know? Will you be old? Does anyone ever actually feel old enough to die?

… how Kylie's arse stays so bloody pert?

… if it's just you who thinks this way…

© JRC

Challenge: "There's a theory, one I find persuasive, that the quest for knowledge is, at bottom, the search for the answer to the question: ''Where was I before I was born'.' In the beginning was what? Perhaps, in the beginning, there was a curious room, a room like this one, crammed with wonders; and now the room and all it contains are forbidden you, although it was made just for you, had been prepared for you since time began, and you will spend all your life trying to remember it.” – Angela Carter The challenge is simply to write about your curious room..."

My destiny was altered at birth. I might not have had a better life, granted. But circumstances changed who I was meant to be. I was melted like ice cubes and resculpted into something else. Someone else.

My heart first drummed inside a woman – a girl, in fact – who I'd never know. Never love. I remained inside her throughout the winter of 1969. Born into a new spring in 1970. She was about to change my life before it had started and she had no idea whether I'd cope, pull the plug, live to a hundred or get flattened by a bus at fifteen. Apparently, suicides are higher among those born in spring. I don't suppose she was aware of that back then when she carried me through the dark cold evenings; lying awake at night, talking to me, preparing me for the world. Her world – not mine. Perhaps she has a drink for me every April, lights a candle, writes me a card, or just plain forgets… She could be wishing me a happy life when I'm dead and buried. She'd never know.

Her body fed me, cocooned me, allowed me to grow. I should have been born as someone else: 'Alison Dawn Kelly'. But Alison disappeared before trying on her own shoes. Instead, she became me – and sometimes I'm not sure whether my clothes really fit me.

Identity crisis? Maybe. But do any of us know who we really are? How further confused would you be if your identity had been switched at birth. Your history obliterated, only to take on another family's. 'Borrowed history', I always call it.

Memories of Grandad will always be Grandad, as will those of Nan. And, of course, my parents will always be my parents. I'm blessed; truly. But there's no fooling Mother Nature. Nobody to blame but me for my fat arse, my short fuse, tears during sad commercials and the way people's pain pulls at my heartstrings. As I pour another glass of wine, I wonder if there's a history of liver disease in the family – Alison's family – not the history I adopted when my parents adopted me. Medical history is a blank. At least I don't have the paranoia of what I might be prone to die from.

My curious room is a sanctuary. Nobody else has a key. My mum probably has some idea what would be in there. After all, she's effectively taken a few of the photographs that sit on top of the bookshelves. There's the one of my parents. 'Birth parents'; 'natural parents', whatever you want to call them. He had sandy coloured hair. Hers was brown. I see them in black and white though as there's too many details missing. My blue eyes stare at monochrome pictures wondering if the images I've created are way off the mark. I'd be surprised if they both had green eyes, so black and white's easier on the imagination.

My father's father was a Methodist Minister, apparently. He's in the photos too in full get-up. That's the only 'natural' family I have. I can't miss them or love them – it's not like I ever knew them – yet the pure nature of me is as a result of these two people meeting. Nurture is a different kettle of fish. The core of me is different to that of my family, but the values and analytical approach to life is surely as a result of my upbringing. I don't feel the urge to meet my natural family, but I do stare intently at the black and white photos in my curious room. There, I can try and fathom who I am and puzzle over my destiny. I wonder how much fate's been altered. Will I die the same way that Alison would have? Would our environments change our bodies? I think she might have lived in Yorkshire somewhere. Perhaps she wouldn't be so independent or headstrong. There's no photo of Alison in the room; just a mirror. She'd look just like me so there's little point.

I keep Alison's shoes by the door to my curious room. I try them on for size occasionally, along with her glasses. I figure she'd have needed them too. I wonder if they're rose tinted and how she'd view her world.

Strange to think of a person missing from the role they were born to fill. Is it fate that she became me, or have they somehow disturbed providence by changing identities.

I lock the door on my way out.

© JRC 2006

UKA Prose Workshop Challenge: Flash fiction Based on a song Under 500 words It's slightly tongue in cheek, based on lyrics to I Should Be So Lucky by Kylie Minogue.

You haunted my dreams again last night. We strolled hand in hand down a pure white beach; sparklers danced beneath the shallow ocean. "I love you," you whispered, just before you kissed me. Only I awoke to find the cat licking my nose to tell me his breakfast was long overdue.

Isn't it obvious that I love you? Couldn't you read it in my expression across the bar…hear it in my voice when I spoke to you… I guess not. So why does it feel as though it's tattooed across my forehead? I LOVE YOU. Perhaps you just need to open your eyes. They say what you're looking for is always right under your nose. And I don't mean the cat.

It's not like I'm thinking marriage here. I should be so lucky! Just a date would suffice. Perhaps the cinema so I could snuggle up close. Or dinner, so we could feed each other strawberries across a white linen tablecloth. Of course, there'd be no expanding stains on it like in real life. One drop of chocolate sauce and five seconds later it's spread wider than a dinner plate.

Surely you must know I'd come running if you'd only click your fingers. Snap. I'd be by your side quicker than a dog. Okay, maybe that's not the best analogy.

I can't bear it when you turn up and virtually ignore me. Yes, you're polite and sweet enough, but I want more. Not just fleeting glances and hellos next to soggy beer mats and piss-covered peanuts. I'm not even sure you'd recognise me in the street.

Please, just notice me. You'd fall head over heels; I know you would. We'd make the perfect couple. Okay, so I lied. I am thinking marriage. Our kids would have your thick, dark hair – God, I bet that'd feel so good between my fingers – and they'd have my green eyes; oh, and your dimples. How I love those dimples. So bloody cute. Do you know your eyes scrunch up tight when you laugh? Already, I'm worrying about you driving and someone beside you cracking jokes. I make a mental note never to make you giggle when our dark-haired, squinty-eyed, dimply kids are in the back of our Audi TT. Actually, I'm not sure that even has back seats. Well, that's scuppered that fantasy then!

Perhaps I'll talk to you next time I see you. My heart will break if I don't say something soon. It already aches as I try and sleep at night, thinking about where your body would dent the mattress. Hollow depressions. Oh, I know all about those.

Tonight though, I'm smiling. The last word you said to me was "love". I'll never sleep now. I'd batted my eyelashes and blushed as I spoke to you. "That'll be five pounds eighty, please."

"Keep the change, love," you said as you handed me six quid for the drinks.

© JRC

Your go, darling!
Nope, your turn, sweetie
But you threw a double
No I didn't
You must have!
Says who
You moved two spaces with two dice!
Nope. Not me
Then who?
Not me! Your turn
But it's only us two playing!
Then you're wrong then, aren't you?
I don't think so!
C'mon, just throw the dice
It's certainly not my turn
'tis so
But you should want to throw again
Why?
Because you should
But why?
Because that's how the game's played!
Hmmm
C'mon, don't be silly
I'm not being silly!
Yes, you are!
What's your problem?
My problem? You're kidding me, right?
Well I sure as hell don't have a problem
Don't you want to win?
I am winning
No you're not
Am so
But you're not playing by the rules!
Am playing by my rules
Yeah, that's about right
What's that supposed to mean?
Dunno why you wanted to play in the first place
'cos I'll win
Oooh, 'ark at Mr Modesty
Don't you know it, babe
So why did I bother playing?
'cos you're a fool!

© JRC

Dialogue Challenge: There's a large country pub in the middle of wherever you want it to be. Suffice it to say that it's only accessible by car/bike/a long and tiring walk. No buses or trains stop anywhere near. Every Saturday night, however, this particular den of iniquity is packed with customers all liberally partaking of their favourite tipple. These, though, are not your normal run-of-the-mill punters. All are, in some way, connected with comedy, be they writers, editors, stand-up comedians, actors or even the characters they play. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to choose two names from the list [not included here], imagine they're holding a conversation together and write up to 300 words of dialogue. It can be solely dialogue, or you can intersperse it with descriptive passages. It's up to you. The only stipulation is that it must be funny.

HYACINTH BUCKET AND VICTORIA WOOD

"Ah, Victoria Wood! Room for a little one?"

"The little one's back soon, Hyacinth." Victoria flashed a quick smile indicating closure of the conversation.

The cutting mark, however, refused to penetrate Hyacinth's thick skin. Her buxom rear squeezed in snugly.

"Tell me, dear". Hyacinth sucked in her cheeks as though trying to reduce her size. "What Christmas plans do you have since you and Julia parted?"

"Julie", Victoria corrected. "And we've not parted."

"Marvellous. I do hate it when relationships fail."

"We just work together, Hyacinth." Victoria's voice barely audible,peeking apologetically from under her fringe at gawping faces.

Hyacinth exaggeratedly tapped the side of her nose, conspicuously mouthing the words "Secret's safe".

"I trust you received notification of our new residence? You'll be needing that for your Christmas card list, dear." The 'r' in Christmas ridiculously over-emphasised.

"How could I forget you, Hyacinth?" Victoria's eyes danced, whilst her tongue remained firmly in the side of her cheek.

"Custom-made change of address cards designed by Sir Charles Wittingbottom, nonetheless."

Victoria looked to the left trying to recall the name. Nothing came so she politely nodded, anxious to avoid conversations about the gilt-edged monstrosity she'd collected from the Post Office. Too big to fit through her letterbox they'd informed her, inbetween coughs, hiding smirks.

"Settled in alright then?"

"Well, I was only saying to Richard yesterday, I don't know how we managed without our en-suite bathroom with gold taps. And Richard is finding the utility room much more to his liking than having to use the kitchen. Although anyone would think he preferred watching the washing machine to the television." Hyacinth guffawed at what she thought was a joke.

Victoria smiled at the sheer ingenuity. The mortgage increase would be worth every penny for the solitude poor Richard had gained!

© JRC

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