This week was all about places and how they affect the telling of a story. This is my adaptation of a group exercise to suit the imagery of a collage I created in class.
Yuri is a Gardener, he's gardened all his life. For 60 years he has tended the gardens of the Grand Palace in the former Soviet republic of Krippleblockistan and it is said that his cutting of the lawns is the only thing that has remained agreeable and constant in the turbulent life of this small and obscure country.
All is not how it seems however. With both his sons lost to tragic accidents in the now long departed Soviet army, cancer having taken his beloved wife from him and personal debts he knows he will never be able to repay Yuri's daily routine is the only part of his world that isn't slipping into the abyss.
As civil unrest grips the country and the disorder consumes his life's work Yuri decides that escape is his only option. The only question is escape to what? To life or to death.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
Tuesday 11 October 2011
Writing Course, Week 3
This week was an exercise in character-driven story telling. Here's a bullet-pointed summary of the plot we created.
- Three young people - Rob, Annie and James - stay in a cottage for a weekend.
- Annie is an aspiring journalist and wants to investigate claims of an illegal fox hunt for the university paper.
- James fancies Annie and is willing to fake an interest in journalism in order to pursue her. The cottage belongs to his family
- Rob is a friend of Annie and wants to keep an eye on her, concerned she'll get herself into trouble.
- James tries to come on to Annie, who really isn't interested
- The three of them go out and witness that the hunt is indeed illegal, and Annie's family are the organisers.
- Annie storms off into the woods, Rob follows her.
- Rob and Annie discover they have feelings for each other, James witnesses this.
- Annie confronts her family with the photos of the hunt.
- James, hoping to get back at Annie and Rob out of spite, publishes the story.
- Annie gets cut off from her family, but feels it's for the best.
Monday 3 October 2011
Short Story - The Ship
Here's a short story I wrote this lunchtime, based on an anecdote I heard many years ago. Hope you like it:
The Ship
Two centuries ago a ship set sail from New Zealand for the south coast of Australia. It was to be a short voyage and her captain, though inexperienced, was confident that the journey would be easy. Ships with square rigged sails cannot sail easily toward the wind, and so the captain was dismayed when, after two weeks of zig-zagging toward the ever constant trade winds that blow around the southern part of the globe he had made barely any headway toward his objective to the west.
It was at this time that the sailing master, a grizzled old sea dog, took the captain aside. "Sir," he said, "what we are doing clearly isn't working and we will not make landfall before we run out of supplies. I have made this trip several times before, so let me tell you what works. We need to turn east."
"What?" replied the captain, a highly educated and intelligent man, "That doesn't hold up to even a slight logical enquiry. You are telling me to sail to Australia by sailing away from Australia. We've worked so hard to get this far and you think we should turn back? Our port of destination is but a few hundred miles ahead of us to the west!"
So the ship sailed on, tossed by the waves and fighting the wind for every inch of westward progress. After another week at sea the captain was feeling quite upset. There was no way they were going to reach their destination this way. He was afraid he would lose his command if he failed to complete even such a simple voyage. He thought again about what the sailing master had said and finally decided that he should at least try what the old sailor had suggested.
So he gave the order and the ship came about, sailing due east, turning its back on its destination. Now with the trade winds behind her the ship made steady progress. Leaving New Zealand behind she sailed past the tip of South America, past the tip of South Africa and, after another three of weeks of easy sailing, she sighted the coast of Australia.
Two centuries ago a ship set sail from New Zealand for the south coast of Australia. It was to be a short voyage and her captain, though inexperienced, was confident that the journey would be easy. Ships with square rigged sails cannot sail easily toward the wind, and so the captain was dismayed when, after two weeks of zig-zagging toward the ever constant trade winds that blow around the southern part of the globe he had made barely any headway toward his objective to the west.
It was at this time that the sailing master, a grizzled old sea dog, took the captain aside. "Sir," he said, "what we are doing clearly isn't working and we will not make landfall before we run out of supplies. I have made this trip several times before, so let me tell you what works. We need to turn east."
"What?" replied the captain, a highly educated and intelligent man, "That doesn't hold up to even a slight logical enquiry. You are telling me to sail to Australia by sailing away from Australia. We've worked so hard to get this far and you think we should turn back? Our port of destination is but a few hundred miles ahead of us to the west!"
So the ship sailed on, tossed by the waves and fighting the wind for every inch of westward progress. After another week at sea the captain was feeling quite upset. There was no way they were going to reach their destination this way. He was afraid he would lose his command if he failed to complete even such a simple voyage. He thought again about what the sailing master had said and finally decided that he should at least try what the old sailor had suggested.
So he gave the order and the ship came about, sailing due east, turning its back on its destination. Now with the trade winds behind her the ship made steady progress. Leaving New Zealand behind she sailed past the tip of South America, past the tip of South Africa and, after another three of weeks of easy sailing, she sighted the coast of Australia.
Saturday 1 October 2011
Writing Course, Week 2
Here's this week's assignment. As a group exercise we created characters, outlining their... er... characters. Going on from that, we looked at character development.
Here's mine, and how he would develop:
Alessandro Cortez
Alessandro's problems all started with his father. His parents separated when he was still very young and although he now lives with his mother he spent a lot of his early life, into his late teens, around his father and his father's friends. This was where he acquired his charisma and comfortable attitude, qualities that would tend to attract to him whatever he wanted from life. Unfortunately when faced with such abundance he also found it easy to take these things for granted, as disposable; another inherited quality. He could have whatever he wanted, but he had no idea what he wanted.
Then he met her, the woman who would change everything. It wasn't as though she stood out physically from the crowd of one night stands, and yet there was just something about her that reached into him and touched parts of soul that had never been uncovered before. This scared him, and out of fear he ran, hurting her deeply in the process. She told him that he had turned out just like his father and disappeared from his life.
He looked everywhere but couldn't find her. Exhausted and feeling alone for the first time in his life he confronted his father. He was angry that his father could have taught him so much about life but not how to be happy; not how to be a man capable of making her happy.
He's changed. He's learned that in order to understand what some things are truly worth you have to experience losing them. Who knows if he'll ever find her again.
- < > -
This was quite fun. The group is predominantly female, so I chose the above character image just to see what the response would be. I'm intrigued by the very common female fantasy that whatever an attractive man's flaws are, meeting the right woman is always the solution. I guess it's what forms the basis of the romance genre.
Here's mine, and how he would develop:
Alessandro's problems all started with his father. His parents separated when he was still very young and although he now lives with his mother he spent a lot of his early life, into his late teens, around his father and his father's friends. This was where he acquired his charisma and comfortable attitude, qualities that would tend to attract to him whatever he wanted from life. Unfortunately when faced with such abundance he also found it easy to take these things for granted, as disposable; another inherited quality. He could have whatever he wanted, but he had no idea what he wanted.
Then he met her, the woman who would change everything. It wasn't as though she stood out physically from the crowd of one night stands, and yet there was just something about her that reached into him and touched parts of soul that had never been uncovered before. This scared him, and out of fear he ran, hurting her deeply in the process. She told him that he had turned out just like his father and disappeared from his life.
He looked everywhere but couldn't find her. Exhausted and feeling alone for the first time in his life he confronted his father. He was angry that his father could have taught him so much about life but not how to be happy; not how to be a man capable of making her happy.
He's changed. He's learned that in order to understand what some things are truly worth you have to experience losing them. Who knows if he'll ever find her again.
This was quite fun. The group is predominantly female, so I chose the above character image just to see what the response would be. I'm intrigued by the very common female fantasy that whatever an attractive man's flaws are, meeting the right woman is always the solution. I guess it's what forms the basis of the romance genre.
Wednesday 21 September 2011
Writing course, Week 1
Last night was my first time at a Novel Building evening class run by Megan Kerr in Oxford. This class was based around the differences between the premise for a novel and a plot. As an exercise for this a group of us took a premise and expanded on it. It was actually fascinating to see the structure of a plot starting to germinate in front of us.
Anyway, our homework assignment was to write the back cover blurb for the novel our concept would grow into, so here is my effort:
"Honoured and highly decorated Walden Hart has served for many years as a captain in the city watch, keeping the streets safe at night and administering the king's justice. Now he has fallen from grace, found guilty of a terrible crime for which he cannot plead innocent. Cast into prison to rot he has all but given up on life when, one stormy night, escape unexpectedly presents itself to him through the help of a mysterious stranger. The break of dawn finds him lost, unable to return home to the family he loves but with nowhere else to go. With the cold unsympathetic arm of the law close behind Walden must take refuge amongst the city's underworld, a place where he will soon learn that for some there are no laws, only actions and consequences."
Anyway, our homework assignment was to write the back cover blurb for the novel our concept would grow into, so here is my effort:
"Honoured and highly decorated Walden Hart has served for many years as a captain in the city watch, keeping the streets safe at night and administering the king's justice. Now he has fallen from grace, found guilty of a terrible crime for which he cannot plead innocent. Cast into prison to rot he has all but given up on life when, one stormy night, escape unexpectedly presents itself to him through the help of a mysterious stranger. The break of dawn finds him lost, unable to return home to the family he loves but with nowhere else to go. With the cold unsympathetic arm of the law close behind Walden must take refuge amongst the city's underworld, a place where he will soon learn that for some there are no laws, only actions and consequences."
Wednesday 10 August 2011
Use of walls
A day spent drilling holes in my wall, just because I can. Oh the wonders of being a home owner! With the help of my parents I have made the final crucial additions to my flat; things that I've had planned right from the start: wall mounted storage solutions.
I was actually shocked how expensive wall-mounted shelving can be. It's surprising, but once you've bought the tracks, brackets and the shelves themselves as separate components and it quickly adds up. Never mind, I can now officially say that my flat is properly fitted out and all it needs now is a good tidy up.
Best of all though is that I have now implemented what I call bicycle storage for men. That's right ladies, none of this "bicycles belong outside in the shed; inside the home is only for pretty things like pot plants" malarkey, we men hang our bicycles on the wall.
I was actually shocked how expensive wall-mounted shelving can be. It's surprising, but once you've bought the tracks, brackets and the shelves themselves as separate components and it quickly adds up. Never mind, I can now officially say that my flat is properly fitted out and all it needs now is a good tidy up.
Best of all though is that I have now implemented what I call bicycle storage for men. That's right ladies, none of this "bicycles belong outside in the shed; inside the home is only for pretty things like pot plants" malarkey, we men hang our bicycles on the wall.
Tuesday 2 August 2011
Short Story - Joy
As promised here is the short story I've been writing. Hope you like it!
Joy
By R.J. Parker
“Miss Harrison, if you’d like to come in please.”
Joy rose from her seat, placing the copy of The Guardian she’d been reading back on the coffee table. Retrieving her bag from the floor she followed the man through the open door.
She wasn’t sure she was ready for this. This morning it had all seemed so easy, sitting in her cosy little flat listening to thought for the day on Radio 4 drinking tea and spreading jam on her toast. She had felt so civilised. Now, if she were completely honest with herself she felt extremely anxious. She really needed this.
The scene that greeted her was all too familiar. It was feared the world over; three people sat behind a single table leafing through identical paperwork and before them an empty chair. Even as she went through the business of introductions, shaking hands and lowering herself into the seat she was painfully aware that she had been through this too many times.
“Okay, so you’re applying for the role of research assistant at the university.” the chairman observed. He was a sober fellow, probably in his 40s, balding but well dressed in a suit and tie. Glancing up to her from what she recognised as a copy of her CV he gave her an appraising glance over the top of small oval spectacles.
“Would you please tell us why you think you would be well suited to this position.”
The standard opening question, Joy thought, and one she had a rehearsed answer to.
“It sounds like interesting work.” she said, “I’ve worked for four years now as a personal assistant so I think I could do it well.”
“Ah yes” the man - she had already forgotten his name - said, “and this brings us to the question of your past experience.”
He paused.
“You say in your CV that your experience since leaving university has been with this company...” he checked his notes “Grant Blackthorn, but none of us have heard of them and the company website is pretty vague. What do they actually do?”
Grant Blackthorn; her current employment. How to explain that a graduate leaving university with a humanities degree, bills falling on the mat and a rumbling stomach had to take whatever came her way. When your father knows a man who was at school with someone else who knows another who needs a summer intern at their firm, don’t ask at least they’ll pay you, fate can freewheel from there.
How to explain what she really did to keep the lights on and Waitrose chocolate cake on the table? Best to give them the usual spiel.
“Grant Blackthorn is a company that specialises in locating and acquiring individuals and intellectual property from overseas for third parties.”
“So they’re a search firm? Like an employment recruiter?”
“That sort of thing yes”
That sort of thing if you really wanted to push definitions to their most elastic point before they snapped and whipped you in the eye, yes. Yes they were.
They searched all right, “search firm” was often a good description. Granted they had the comparative problem that they people they headhunted didn't want to be found, but they didn't let that stop them. Recruitment not so much though; given the usual circumstances that tended to be the last thing on anybody's mind.
“You say in your CV you can provide references on request.”
“Mmmhmm”
She almost cringed imagining a phone conversation between this tea and biscuits academic and her boss. Boris Levchenko, a grizzled Russian ex-pat, was a good man to be on the right side of. He was the most imposing figure she had ever met, ludicrously tall and wide with a weatherbeaten face that sported a short moustache and beard with grey streaks that made him look like an aging cossack. His accent was so thick you could spread it on your toast.
"If I may," the woman to the chairman's right interjected at this point, "could you tell us a bit more about your current role at Grant Blackthorn."
This woman was obvious the head of human resources Joy realised. They all had exactly the same intonation whichever company you went to: a kind of feigned friendliness that bordered on patronising.
"I'm a personal assistant to one of the search operatives... I mean, executives." she corrected herself.
"and what does that entail?"
“I started out just doing office based research but I’ve actually accompanied my boss out on international trips several times now. It’s up to me to make travel arrangements and to ensure that he has everything he needs such as visas, paperwork, equipment...”
“...ammunition...” she added mentally.
“So you are used to having some degree of autonomy in your work?”
“Yes, for example more recently I've been quite involved with scouting meeting locations."
Borneo was the worst, she thought; those damned mosquitoes.
The chairman came back in with a new question. “Do you do any work from home in your current job?”
Joy’s mind jolted back to her cosy two room flat and an awkward question her friend Laura had asked the previous summer.
“What’s this in your umbrella stand?”
She had looked up from the teapot she had been filling, not quite sure what to say then either.
“Er... well, you know that air rifle your brother has?”
“Yeah...”
“Well, that’s a... um... rifle rifle.”
She answered the chairman as best she could. “I’ve taken stuff home from time to time but I’ve found I’m more productive in the workplace.”
Boris had suggested the thing with the rifle. He had declared that he needed an assistant who could strip it down and reassemble it blindfolded. She’d gone off the idea after blindly knocking over her friday night glass of wine and all the oil stains on her best tablecloth. Besides, she’d probably get complaints for using the thing in a communal garden. Better to practice on the range at work where the neighbours weren’t going to complain because they were rabbits and, most likely, Boris had shot them and cooked them in a stew.
The third member of the panel spoke up at this point. He was at least ten or twenty years older than the chairman and looked more than a little bit untidy next to his two colleagues in his tweed jacket. He was a research scientist, he had to be, there was no other plausible explanation for the bow tie, white hair and half moon glasses.
“Miss Harrison,” he said “I would like you to elaborate on the sort of work you do on a day to day basis. You say you’re at a recruitment agency; why don’t you tell us about the last person you recruited.”
“Well, what usually happens is our client asks us to look for an individual or individuals who meets their specific set of criteria. It’s up to us to use various means at our disposal, including private inquiry and internet searches to locate these individuals, make contact with them and... introduce them to our client. My role is to assist with the searches, make sure all of the documentation is properly kept and then to accompany my boss when he goes to meet the prospective.”
The last individual the firm had searched for had been wanted by seven different intelligence agencies but they had got to them first. Boris had forgotten to tell her to bring the chloroform so they had needed to “recruit” him with the judicious application of a rifle butt, but the finder’s fee had still been good. She had treated herself to a new window box with the bonus money.
“I have to say what I am most interested in is your work with intellectual property. What sort of work have you done? For example, have you any experience with generating patents?”
“Not with generating them, no.” Joy admitted, “We work for clients who are interested in locating and acquiring existing intellectual property that meets their specific requirements.”
Intellectual property. There was at least some logic in the idea that it was a pointless duplication of effort and an inherent flaw of capitalism that a company would have to develop a technology again when someone else had already done it and had the information sitting on a computer somewhere. Or at least this is what Boris had explained to the security guard he had gagged and bound with gaffa tape to a nearby office chair whilst Joy had accessed the research lab’s database. It was amazing how far a basic understanding of Microsoft Excel would get you in corporate espionage.
“I do,” she offered, “know a bit about patent law.”
She knew that what they were doing almost certainly wasn’t legal.
The HR woman spoke up again at this point.
“It says on your CV that you’ve done a lot of travelling in the last year.”
“Well, our searches are global, so I have made more than a few overseas visits with my boss.”
“That sounds nice.” the woman said, “Is there anywhere that stands out in particular?”
“I’ve been to the Middle East a few times,” Joy said, “that was quite memorable.”
The T-62 crawled toward her across the opium field the growl of its engine an imposing rumble, growing ever louder. Clutching the rocket launcher to her shoulder Joy brushed her hair back from her eyes, adjusted her glasses and waited for the metal beast to crest the ridge, exposing its underbelly, the moment when it would be most vulnerable. As it rose up she waited for the last second before it tipped forward, unleashing the anti-tank missile in a world consuming bang.
Fire blossomed on the nearest corner of the tank, metal fragments flying in all directions. The wounded beast skidded sideways down the near side of the embankment leaving a trail of shredded tracks behind it, finally coming to rest at the bottom.
The dust had hardly settled when the turret sprang to life, swinging toward her angrily, the muzzle on the end of the gun barrel yawning wide.
“Do you not think that working in a university would be a bit sedate for someone who is used to such a glamorous international lifestyle?” the HR woman asked.
The shell exploded with a deafening roar in the pond to her right, showering her in water and green sludge. To her left, between staccato bursts of machine gun fire, Boris was letting fly a stream of syllables that she was sure she’d find deeply offensive were it not for her lack of fluency in the fruitier parts of the Russian language.
“I would be okay with it.” She replied, completely honest and sincere for once.
More than anything else she just wanted to unpack her suitcase.
And the love life! Try explaining to that cute guy who emailed you asking if you’d like to meet for a cup of coffee sometime that no you’re not playing it cool, it’s just that WiFi is hard to come by in Helmand Province.
“Well I think we’re just about done here.” the chairman said, “Just one last thing. Tell us about yourself, do you have any hobbies? What do you do when you aren’t on the job?”
Images of assault courses, rifle shooting, unarmed combat, and practicing crawling through a room full of lasers in a black catsuit raced through her mind.
“Jive dancing” she replied simply.
“Well, thankyou Miss Harrison,” the man stood and leant forward to shake her hand. “We’ll be in touch.”
- <> -
This is the first short story I've posted online. I had a lot of fun writing it and I'd love to hear what you, dear reader, think of it. Be sure to post a comment.
©R.J. Parker 2011
By R.J. Parker
“Miss Harrison, if you’d like to come in please.”
Joy rose from her seat, placing the copy of The Guardian she’d been reading back on the coffee table. Retrieving her bag from the floor she followed the man through the open door.
She wasn’t sure she was ready for this. This morning it had all seemed so easy, sitting in her cosy little flat listening to thought for the day on Radio 4 drinking tea and spreading jam on her toast. She had felt so civilised. Now, if she were completely honest with herself she felt extremely anxious. She really needed this.
The scene that greeted her was all too familiar. It was feared the world over; three people sat behind a single table leafing through identical paperwork and before them an empty chair. Even as she went through the business of introductions, shaking hands and lowering herself into the seat she was painfully aware that she had been through this too many times.
“Okay, so you’re applying for the role of research assistant at the university.” the chairman observed. He was a sober fellow, probably in his 40s, balding but well dressed in a suit and tie. Glancing up to her from what she recognised as a copy of her CV he gave her an appraising glance over the top of small oval spectacles.
“Would you please tell us why you think you would be well suited to this position.”
The standard opening question, Joy thought, and one she had a rehearsed answer to.
“It sounds like interesting work.” she said, “I’ve worked for four years now as a personal assistant so I think I could do it well.”
“Ah yes” the man - she had already forgotten his name - said, “and this brings us to the question of your past experience.”
He paused.
“You say in your CV that your experience since leaving university has been with this company...” he checked his notes “Grant Blackthorn, but none of us have heard of them and the company website is pretty vague. What do they actually do?”
Grant Blackthorn; her current employment. How to explain that a graduate leaving university with a humanities degree, bills falling on the mat and a rumbling stomach had to take whatever came her way. When your father knows a man who was at school with someone else who knows another who needs a summer intern at their firm, don’t ask at least they’ll pay you, fate can freewheel from there.
How to explain what she really did to keep the lights on and Waitrose chocolate cake on the table? Best to give them the usual spiel.
“Grant Blackthorn is a company that specialises in locating and acquiring individuals and intellectual property from overseas for third parties.”
“So they’re a search firm? Like an employment recruiter?”
“That sort of thing yes”
That sort of thing if you really wanted to push definitions to their most elastic point before they snapped and whipped you in the eye, yes. Yes they were.
They searched all right, “search firm” was often a good description. Granted they had the comparative problem that they people they headhunted didn't want to be found, but they didn't let that stop them. Recruitment not so much though; given the usual circumstances that tended to be the last thing on anybody's mind.
“You say in your CV you can provide references on request.”
“Mmmhmm”
She almost cringed imagining a phone conversation between this tea and biscuits academic and her boss. Boris Levchenko, a grizzled Russian ex-pat, was a good man to be on the right side of. He was the most imposing figure she had ever met, ludicrously tall and wide with a weatherbeaten face that sported a short moustache and beard with grey streaks that made him look like an aging cossack. His accent was so thick you could spread it on your toast.
"If I may," the woman to the chairman's right interjected at this point, "could you tell us a bit more about your current role at Grant Blackthorn."
This woman was obvious the head of human resources Joy realised. They all had exactly the same intonation whichever company you went to: a kind of feigned friendliness that bordered on patronising.
"I'm a personal assistant to one of the search operatives... I mean, executives." she corrected herself.
"and what does that entail?"
“I started out just doing office based research but I’ve actually accompanied my boss out on international trips several times now. It’s up to me to make travel arrangements and to ensure that he has everything he needs such as visas, paperwork, equipment...”
“...ammunition...” she added mentally.
“So you are used to having some degree of autonomy in your work?”
“Yes, for example more recently I've been quite involved with scouting meeting locations."
Borneo was the worst, she thought; those damned mosquitoes.
The chairman came back in with a new question. “Do you do any work from home in your current job?”
Joy’s mind jolted back to her cosy two room flat and an awkward question her friend Laura had asked the previous summer.
“What’s this in your umbrella stand?”
She had looked up from the teapot she had been filling, not quite sure what to say then either.
“Er... well, you know that air rifle your brother has?”
“Yeah...”
“Well, that’s a... um... rifle rifle.”
She answered the chairman as best she could. “I’ve taken stuff home from time to time but I’ve found I’m more productive in the workplace.”
Boris had suggested the thing with the rifle. He had declared that he needed an assistant who could strip it down and reassemble it blindfolded. She’d gone off the idea after blindly knocking over her friday night glass of wine and all the oil stains on her best tablecloth. Besides, she’d probably get complaints for using the thing in a communal garden. Better to practice on the range at work where the neighbours weren’t going to complain because they were rabbits and, most likely, Boris had shot them and cooked them in a stew.
The third member of the panel spoke up at this point. He was at least ten or twenty years older than the chairman and looked more than a little bit untidy next to his two colleagues in his tweed jacket. He was a research scientist, he had to be, there was no other plausible explanation for the bow tie, white hair and half moon glasses.
“Miss Harrison,” he said “I would like you to elaborate on the sort of work you do on a day to day basis. You say you’re at a recruitment agency; why don’t you tell us about the last person you recruited.”
“Well, what usually happens is our client asks us to look for an individual or individuals who meets their specific set of criteria. It’s up to us to use various means at our disposal, including private inquiry and internet searches to locate these individuals, make contact with them and... introduce them to our client. My role is to assist with the searches, make sure all of the documentation is properly kept and then to accompany my boss when he goes to meet the prospective.”
The last individual the firm had searched for had been wanted by seven different intelligence agencies but they had got to them first. Boris had forgotten to tell her to bring the chloroform so they had needed to “recruit” him with the judicious application of a rifle butt, but the finder’s fee had still been good. She had treated herself to a new window box with the bonus money.
“I have to say what I am most interested in is your work with intellectual property. What sort of work have you done? For example, have you any experience with generating patents?”
“Not with generating them, no.” Joy admitted, “We work for clients who are interested in locating and acquiring existing intellectual property that meets their specific requirements.”
Intellectual property. There was at least some logic in the idea that it was a pointless duplication of effort and an inherent flaw of capitalism that a company would have to develop a technology again when someone else had already done it and had the information sitting on a computer somewhere. Or at least this is what Boris had explained to the security guard he had gagged and bound with gaffa tape to a nearby office chair whilst Joy had accessed the research lab’s database. It was amazing how far a basic understanding of Microsoft Excel would get you in corporate espionage.
“I do,” she offered, “know a bit about patent law.”
She knew that what they were doing almost certainly wasn’t legal.
The HR woman spoke up again at this point.
“It says on your CV that you’ve done a lot of travelling in the last year.”
“Well, our searches are global, so I have made more than a few overseas visits with my boss.”
“That sounds nice.” the woman said, “Is there anywhere that stands out in particular?”
“I’ve been to the Middle East a few times,” Joy said, “that was quite memorable.”
The T-62 crawled toward her across the opium field the growl of its engine an imposing rumble, growing ever louder. Clutching the rocket launcher to her shoulder Joy brushed her hair back from her eyes, adjusted her glasses and waited for the metal beast to crest the ridge, exposing its underbelly, the moment when it would be most vulnerable. As it rose up she waited for the last second before it tipped forward, unleashing the anti-tank missile in a world consuming bang.
Fire blossomed on the nearest corner of the tank, metal fragments flying in all directions. The wounded beast skidded sideways down the near side of the embankment leaving a trail of shredded tracks behind it, finally coming to rest at the bottom.
The dust had hardly settled when the turret sprang to life, swinging toward her angrily, the muzzle on the end of the gun barrel yawning wide.
“Do you not think that working in a university would be a bit sedate for someone who is used to such a glamorous international lifestyle?” the HR woman asked.
The shell exploded with a deafening roar in the pond to her right, showering her in water and green sludge. To her left, between staccato bursts of machine gun fire, Boris was letting fly a stream of syllables that she was sure she’d find deeply offensive were it not for her lack of fluency in the fruitier parts of the Russian language.
“I would be okay with it.” She replied, completely honest and sincere for once.
More than anything else she just wanted to unpack her suitcase.
And the love life! Try explaining to that cute guy who emailed you asking if you’d like to meet for a cup of coffee sometime that no you’re not playing it cool, it’s just that WiFi is hard to come by in Helmand Province.
“Well I think we’re just about done here.” the chairman said, “Just one last thing. Tell us about yourself, do you have any hobbies? What do you do when you aren’t on the job?”
Images of assault courses, rifle shooting, unarmed combat, and practicing crawling through a room full of lasers in a black catsuit raced through her mind.
“Jive dancing” she replied simply.
“Well, thankyou Miss Harrison,” the man stood and leant forward to shake her hand. “We’ll be in touch.”
This is the first short story I've posted online. I had a lot of fun writing it and I'd love to hear what you, dear reader, think of it. Be sure to post a comment.
©R.J. Parker 2011
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