Love is A Four Letter Word. So is Riot. – Part 1

26 01 2010

Limeyview has been distracted this week from the important issues of the day.

The heart wrenching scenes in Haiti, the elevation of Scott Brown to the Senate, the apparent death of Obama’s healthcare bill, Bin Laden reappearing on video, the Golden Globes and the news that Tiger Woods has attended rehab for sex addiction.

Not that they haven’t been in my mind, it is that I have been concentrating on being creative and trying to write my first piece of fiction.

I stumbled upon a competition run by NYC Midnight that was looking for writers to pen a short story (2,500 words) in 7 days and I thought I’d have a go. Sent in my application and waited for my allocated genre.

I got Historical Fiction.

To me, that is period fiction of a Jane Austen/Emily Bronte/Sense and Sensibility meets Wuthering Heights with a side order of fluttering chests and people being polite. Not really my thing.

But thanks to the wonders of Wikipedia, I discovered that it is “a sub-genre of fiction that often portrays fictional accounts or dramatization of historical figures or events. Writers of stories in this genre, while penning fiction, nominally attempt to capture the spirit, manners and social conditions of the persons of the time presented in the story, with due attention paid to period detail and fidelity.”

So I had a think, considered what period of history I knew most about and came up with the 1980’s.

The story is called “Love is A Four Letter Word. So is Riot.” and it starts with a bloke about to set fire to a Porsche 911.

My hand trembles as I hold the metal object tight in my sweating palm. It feels cool and comforting, the logo of a motorbike that I will never ride emblazoned on one side.

For someone who has never smoked, the decision to have a cigarette lighter on my person seems to be unusual but deep down I have always known that one day it would be useful. Today could be that day.

I flick open the catch, expose the flint which will light the spark. I pause and take a deep breath. Now or never, a statement of intent will be made. And in my ear a soft, female voice whispers “do it, do it now…….I dare you.”

I raise my arm, draw it back as if I am about bowl a cricket ball and stare, hypnotised, at the black Porsche 911 parked on the side of the road. A turbo charged symbol of a lifestyle that I yearn to be part of.

But not today. Today it is nothing more than a symbol of capitalist, bourgeois pretension. An object to be destroyed not admired.

The lighter flares and I know that she is smiling. I have loved this smile for six years.


The rest of the story will follow (provided that anyone wants to read it) in small dissected parts over the next few posts.

There may be some elements in it that are autobiographical. But not that many.




One response

26 01 2010
Robert Feeley

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