I’m delighted to have been ranked 3rd in my heat in the second round of this competition, and am one of the top eighty in the competition, which started with over 3,000 entrants. Again, the feedback was good and very helpful, and I may actually adapt this into a screenplay of some kind. I found the genre was less appealing this time around. I find comedy hard to write, but I absolutely love funny writing. I’m not a big fan of action/adventure novels.
Character: A prison guard
The three elements of the assignment actually made sense together, which should have made things easy-peasy. Strangely, this had its own challenges. On seeing the elements of the assignment my mind was flooded with visions of imprisoned superheroes with special melting powers. Though ideas came easily to me at the start, I started and binned various versions of this story before finally accepting that the superhero I had conjured up was a totally lame-o. I just didn’t care about her at all. I actually love to watch the occasional superhero movie, but I found that writing my own superhero left me cold. For some reason, I prefer to write ‘human’ heroes. Perhaps it’s because I can relate to them. In the end, despite having three days to write the story, the idea only came to me a few hours ahead of the deadline. I submitted it just in the nick of time. The story about a female sniper who is kidnapped, and faces an impossible choice: her son or her country.
Here is an excerpt from the middle of my story.
I hear footsteps coming down the corridor. The lock turns in the heavy steel door. The guard comes in, with a semi-automatic in his hand. He sits on an upturned crate, and takes an orange from his pocket. He begins to peel it. His fingernails sinking into its skin, juice running over his fingers. He slurps at it and I watch him. Mesmerised by the dripping juice. Wanting to stick my face under it.
‘You want some?’ he asks with a smirk. I say nothing. I won’t beg like a dog. He throws me a couple of pieces, and it hits the dusty clay floor. I look at it for a moment. Considering leaving it there until he leaves, but I can’t wait. I pick it up, wipe it against my shirt and stuff it into my mouth.
‘You’re thirsty. You’re hungry. Don’t worry, you will have whatever you need… when you make the right choice. You will even see Bobby again’. And I flinch. He nods at my arm. Bobby’s name in ink, and his date of birth. I thought it would be useful in identifying my body if I wound up dead, and I felt like it was a way to show my son how much I love him, before I left him for two years. Unthinking, I had etched my weak spot onto my body for my enemies to see.
‘We have snipers. Good ones. What we want is to use you, to kill one of your own…you pick the target, and put a bullet in his head… simple. Effective. Totally demoralising. Don’t worry. We will make sure they know we forced you to do it. We want them to know that. We want them to know how weak their soldiers are under pressure. You will go home. You’ll be a pariah, but you’ll see your son. In case you’re wondering what the alternative is… this is what happened to the last soldier we captured. Have you ever seen a human face melt?’.