Oh, wow.  Oh, wow.  I’m sorry for the repeat, but I had to say it twice, because it’s all that I’m really thinking.  50610 is my magic number, hmm?  Hmm?  I had to say that twice, too.  I’m really not doing much more than gloating right now.

But now…

I’m thinking that, despite my complete lack of a plot, and no plan beforehand, my novel somehow grew out of some twisted part of me that loves dialogue and adverbs and now, I have even more ideas, this time good ones, that I’m dying to turn into short stories.

My novel contained dragons, telemarketers, telekinesis, mad scientists, lesbians, head-voices, absent parents, dentists, accountants, jungles, and a blue receptionist.  And more.  But mostly those.

And so, I retreat, back into the place in which adverbs are no longer acceptable, and I’m allowed to deliberate for several minutes over a single sentence.

A second trip ashore

transcription from the notebook American Traditional

ink on paper

4.5″ x 6″

2009

$25

We saw some trees in a previous post from one of the polls, but we seem to have been treated with some even more impressive trees to be featured in the game. Jim Stigall, Senior Concept Artist told the Official LEGO Universe site,

What were the inspirations behind this image?

I took a lot of inspiration for these trees from background illustrations in the first animated classic features.

The green tree shows the tree but with no leaves, could this be part of the LEGO Universe plot or what the tree looks like in Winter?

The second instalment of the epic Horus Heresy legend sees the beginnings of rebellion. A betrayal by the commanding officer on Davin brings Horus and the Mournival (his elite champions and advisors) to the moon of Davin on a quest for revenge and justice. But they all get more than they bargained for, the moon of Davin, the betrayer, it is all a part of an intricate plot. A plot to kill Horus.

When Horus is injured and on his death-bed, desperate measures must be taken to save the most important soldier in the Universe. Unfortunately they are left with only one choice: to take Horus to Davin’s surface and leave him in the Snake Temple to be administered to by its priests. Despite the entire idea being completely against the Emperor’s teachings, the desperation of those left to make the decision means that any measures will be taken to save Horus’ life.

Up to this point we have the traditional war-torn savagery of the Warhammer 40K universe. But as Horus is on his death-bed, we have a kind of A Christmas Carol scene where Horus is visited by a ghost to be shown the future of the universe to try to convert him over to the dark side. As this is the turning point of the entire Warhammer universe it just feels weak, insubstantial and not entirely convincing. After this halfway point not much happens, the intrigues continue to build, but most of the plot of this novel has already been told. The thing is, it’s still gripping. The petty intrigues, and lies and schemes keep your attention. This is not the blockbuster of the first book, but a good solid second instalment (similar to The Empire Strikes Back), which can’t help but fail in its turnabout of the Warmaster, but other than that continues to entertain.

Can’t wait for the third instalment.

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY
Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

by

VIKRAM KARVE

There is a saying: “ If you decide to murder your husband you must never act in concert with your lover ”.

That’s why I did not tell Raj.

Or involve him in any way.

Not even the smallest hint.

I made my plans alone and with perfect care.

An “accident” so coolly and meticulously designed.

Precisely at 12:50 in the afternoon, the ghastly accident would occur.

And then my phone would ring – to convey the “bad” news.

And suddenly I would be a widow.

Free.

Liberated from shackles.

Released from bondage.

Then all I had to do was to keep cool, maintain a solemn façade, and patiently wait for Raj to return after completing his project in Singapore.
Then after the customary condolence period was over, Raj would propose to marry me – an act of chivalry, of sympathy, or even “self-sacrifice”.

First I would demur, then “reluctantly” succumb to the pressure from my friends and relatives, and accept – just for my children’s sake.

There would be nods of approval all around.

And soon Raj and I would be Husband and Wife.

The phone rang.

I panicked.

There is no fear like the fear of being found out.

I looked at the wall-clock. It was only 10.30 am.

Had something gone wrong?

I felt a tremor of trepidation.

The phone kept on ringing – it just wouldn’t stop ringing.

I picked up the receiver, and held it to my ears with bated breath.

The moment I heard Anjali’s voice I felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you come to the health club?” Anjali asked.

I’m not well,” I lied.

“Anything serious? Should I come over?” she asked.

“No!” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice. “It’s a just a slight headache. I’ll take a tablet and sleep it off,” I said cautiously.

“I hope Manish and you are coming over in the evening,” Anjali asked.

“Of course,” I said and put down the phone.

I smiled to myself.

That was one party Manish was going to miss. Probably they would cancel it and would be right here offering their condolences and sympathy.

I would have to be careful indeed.

And to hell with the health club and the painful weight loss program. I didn’t need it any more.

Raj accepts me as I am – nice and plump and on the “healthier” side, as he calls me lovingly.

Not like Manish who is always finding fault with me.

I know I can always depend on Raj.

He really loves me from the bottom of his heart.

I looked at my husband Manish’s framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

Soon it would be garlanded.

My marriage to Manish had been a miserable mistake, but soon it would be over and I would be free to live the life I always wanted.

I wish I didn’t have to kill Manish, but there was no way out – Manish would never give me a divorce, and if he came to know about me and Raj, he would destroy both of us, ruin our lives; for he was a rich and powerful man.

Also, I prefer to be a pitied widow rather than a stigmatized divorcee.

The plan was simple.

I had programmed a Robot to do the job.

The huge giant welding robot in Manish’s factory.

At exactly 12:45, when the lunch-break started, Manish would enter his pen drive into the robot control computer to carry out a maintenance troubleshooting check.

And then he would start inspecting various parts of the robot – the manipulator, end effectors and grippers – to cross-check their programmed movements.

It was a routine exercise, and I knew Manish had become quite complacent as the robot had never developed any faults so far.

But today it would be different.

Because I had surreptitiously reprogrammed the software last night.

This is what was going to happen.

At precisely 12:50 all safety interlocks would be bypassed, and suddenly the robot would activate and the welding electrode would arc 600 Amperes of electric current into Manish’s brain.

It would be a ghastly sight – his brain welded out and his body handing like a pendulum, lifeless. Death would be instantaneous.

Manish had been a fool to tell me everything and dig his own grave. A real dope – he deserved it!

It was a foolproof plan and no one would suspect since the program would erase itself immediately. I had ensured that. It would be an accident, an unfortunate accident.

Condolences, compensation, insurance – soon I would be a rich widow, with one and all showering me with sympathy and compassion.

And then I would wait for Raj to come back from Singapore.

And then, after a few days I knew he would propose to me, and I would ‘reluctantly’ accept and we would live happily ever after.

I looked at the wall clock. It was almost 11 O’clock.

Suddenly I began to have second thoughts. Maybe I should give Manish a last chance.

All I had to do was pick up the phone and ask Manish to rush home.

Feign a sudden illness or something.

But no! I tried to steel my nerves. I had crossed the Rubicon, and there was no going back. The tension of waiting was unbearable, but I must not lose my head.

I tried to divert my thoughts to Raj.

The first time I suspected that Raj loved me was when he didn’t attend my wedding. Then he disappeared abroad for higher studies and I almost forgot him. And one fine day, after almost fifteen years, Raj suddenly reappeared to take up a job in my husband’s factory.

And when I learnt that Raj had still not married I realized how deeply in love with me he was.

At that point of time I was so disillusioned with my marriage that my daily life was rather like sitting in a cinema and watching a film in which I was not interested.

Raj and I began spending more and more time together, and somewhere down the line emotions got entangled and physical intimacy followed.

Did Manish suspect?

I do not know.

Was that the reason he had sent Raj to Singapore?

I don’t think so.

We had kept our affair absolutely clandestine.

I looked again at the clock.

11.45 am.

One hour to go.

I began to have a feeling of dread and uneasiness, a sort of restlessness and apprehension – a queer sensation, a nameless type of fear.

So I poured myself a stiff drink of gin.

As I sipped the alcohol, my nerves calmed down.

Today was the last time I was going to have a drink, I promised myself.

Once I married Raj I would never drink – there would be no need to.

In my mind’s eye I could almost visualize my husband Manish sitting in the vacant chair opposite getting steadily drunk every evening.

Manish was an odd creature with effeminate mannerisms that became more pronounced when he was drunk.

He was always picking at an absurd little moustache, as though amazed at himself for having produced anything so virile.

How I hated the mere sight of him.

The very thought of my husband made me gulp down my drink.

I poured myself one more drink and gulped it quickly to steady my nerves. Then I had one more drink; and one more, when my cell-phone rang.

I shook out of my stupor and picked up my mobile phone. It was an unknown number. I rejected the call.

The cell phone rang again; same number. I looked at the number. 65….. – it was from Singapore.

Was it Raj? From Singapore? My heart skipped a beat. I answered urgently.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Urvashi, how are you?” it was Raj’s voice.

“Where are you speaking from? Is this your new number?” I asked.

“No. This is Rajashree’s cell-phone,” Raj said.

“Rajashree?”

“Yes, Rajashree, she wants to talk to you,” Raj said.

“Hi Urvashi,” a female voice said, “Raj has told me so much about you.”

It was strange.

Who was this Rajashree?

I knew nothing about her!

So I said, “But Raj has told me nothing about you!”

“I know,” Rajashree said, “it all happened so suddenly. Even I can’t believe it could happen so fast – Love at first sight, whirlwind romance, swift wedding.”

“Wedding?” I stammered, shocked beyond belief.

“Yes. We, Raj and I, got married yesterday and we are on our way to our honeymoon, on a cruise liner.”

“You bitch! Give the phone to Raj,” I shouted, losing control, the ground slipping beneath me.

“Hey, chill out. What’s wrong with you?” Rajashree said calmly, paused for a moment, and spoke, “Raj has gone to the embarkation booth. Hey, he’s waving to me. I’ve got to go now. Bye. We’ll see you when we come there.” And suddenly she disconnected.

I stared at my cell-phone, never so frightened, never so alone.

I felt as if I had been pole-axed.

I looked at the wall-clock.

12.55.

Oh, My God!

The deadline of 12.50 had gone.

It was too late.

My blood froze.

The telephone rang.

I picked it up, my hands trembling.

“There’s been an accident, madam,” said the voice. It was the company doctor. “We are rushing Manish Sahib to the hospital. I am sending someone to pick you up.”

“Hospital? Tell me the truth,” I shouted hysterically into the phone, “Tell me, is he dead?”
“No. He’ll survive.”

Manish did survive.

I wish he hadn’t.

For his sake. And for mine.

For till this day he is still in coma.

And I know I will have to live with a ‘vegetable’ husband all my life.

It was a small miscalculation.

600 Amperes wasn’t enough.

But then the Robot is a machine.

My real miscalculation was about Raj.

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY

Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

This is a sensible question really.  Knowing I’m in the middle of editing one book and getting it ready to be published and that I already have two wip’s that need a lot of polish, I’ve decided to not start drafting any other stories until after I move in January.  This means getting familiar again with a work in progress that I thought I had put aside for the time being.

There are a lot of problems with this work in progress but the one I’m trying to sort out first goes by the name Derrick.  Derrick is a ridiculous name and I know it isn’t right but that is his name for the time being and that is the least of this particular characters problems.

See, Derrick starts out in the very opening scene as a very impressive and strong, if emotionally immature, young man.  It is a great scene where he lords his power as a mage over a group of commoners (or non-magic users).  It really sets the tone for how the world works and all and all that particular scene works.

Jump a half-dozen chapters further a long.  Oh.  What is Derrick doing?  He is playing a childish prank on someone a lot stronger than him and then running away.  If you are wondering why the scene actually serves to show the other character’s explosive temper which is kind of an important part of the plot later on but Derrick’s actions do not make sense.  Not if he is the same Derrick who appeared back in chapter one.

Skip ahead again.  Now what is he doing?  He’s giving the best friend, morale boosting speech to someone who was about to collapse.  He is thoughtful and well-spoken and considerate.  No.  It can’t be the same character.

And so on.

Poor Derrick is facing an identity crisis.  More importantly, I am facing a crisis.  All of these scenes are important to the plot but the character makes no sense at all and his progression is random.  Actually, his progression is simple.  I need a character to do this to cause that.  Throw him in.  That seems to be how he has gone along and that does not work.  Yes, he is a minor character in the grand scheme of things but that is no excuse for not plotting out a logical character arc.  I’m either going to have to figure a way for Derrick to do all the things he needs to do, in a way that allows him to stay true to his character, or I’m going to have to find someone else to fill the spot in the scene, someone who makes sense.

Poor Derrick.

I spent a significant amount of time yesterday trying to determine why my conspirators were behaving the way they were. I’d written the conspiracy aspect into my story as part of the overall plot, but I never took the time to think about them in any deep or meaningful way. I left them as a subtle background menace as I focused my efforts on the other characters, leaving them to drift in the wind as I developed and honed my plot.

Now that I am approaching the climax of the novel, I discovered that I needed to know a lot about them, and fast. At one point I thought I was going to be ill when I thought I might have to scrap a good chunk of my novel. While I will need to change a few things, and add some scenes, I realized I didn’t need to start over again – I just wasn’t thinking diabolically enough. As soon as I took the time to get into their hearts and shoes, I understood the lengths they’d go to in order to get what they want. I’m afraid of them. In fact, I’m a little disturbed people so amoral could come from inside my head…

Now that I have my delightfully evil conspiracy plot thread mapped out (which I should have done before I started writing), I can get back to bringing the story to its dramatic climax and ending.

From beyond the keyboard,

Cheryl.

cherylangst@gmail.com

I received an email the other day from someone who wanted to interview me for a class project. I think he’s for real, but some of the requests I have been getting recently are questionable, so I thought I’d post my responses here to stake my claim. Feel free to respond to any of the questions. If the interviewer does, in fact, read my blog as he said he did, I’m sure he’ll be glad of the additional input.

What, in your opinion, are the essential qualities of a good story?

The most essential quality of a good story is the ability to take readers somewhere else and make them glad they went. It’s also important to make the writing easy to read, which means the writing must be grammatically correct. Nothing takes a reader out of a story faster than having to decipher convoluted sentences with improper punctuation. Ideally, a story should leave readers a bit better off than they were before, either because of what they learned about the world and themselves, or because of the respite from their everyday lives.

Do you keep those qualities in mind while you write?

The only one of these qualities that I keep in mind while writing is to make sure what I write is readable. Other than that, I focus on the story, setting the scene then developing plot and characters into a cohesive whole.

Which of those qualities do you think is the most important, if there is a ‘most important’ one?

Some people think character is most important, others think plot is the most important, but you really can’t separate the two. Plot is what happens to a character, what a character does, or both. You cannot have a character without a plot. To show who or what a character is, you need to show the character acting, and that is plot. You also cannot have a plot without a character. If an asteroid falls to Earth, that might be newsworthy, but it’s not a story until you have characters interacting with the asteroid. Who found it? What did they do with it? What happened to them as a consequence of their actions? That’s what makes a story.

How much of a story do you have in your head before you start writing it?

I know the main characters, I know the beginning of the story, I know the end of the story, and I know how I want the characters to develop, but I don’t flesh out the individual scenes until I start writing them.

Do you do any research for your writing? If so, how do you do it? (searching Internet, magazines, other books, etc.)

The research for Light Bringer, which will be published mid 2010, took me approximately twenty years. The research for my other novels took two to five years each. Sometimes I consulted maps or guidebooks, sometimes people told me what they knew, but mostly I read books on the various subjects.

How do you prefer to start a novel? For instance, do you try to start it out with a ‘bang’, or do you prefer to start out with a low point?

I start with a good hook, sort of a small bang, and I work up to a bigger bang.

How (or when) do you decide that you are done writing a story?

A story is done when it is published. Otherwise, it is never finished. The more one writes, the more one learns, and the more one learns, the more one sees how earlier works can be improved. The only thing that stops this cycle of learning and rewriting is getting published.

Do you have any specific pattern of writing, however subtle it may be, when you write? (Using specific plot devices consistently, for instance)

The only device I use now (though I did not do it in the beginning) is a theme. If I know the theme of a story, I can keep focused on the main concept and not go off on tangents. A story needs to be tightly constructed without extraneous scenes or exposition. If not tightly constructed, a story loses its power and impact, sort of like a comedian who tells a rambling joke without a punch line.

The term ‘well developed characters’ is extremely vague and the definition differs depending on who is asked. What, in your opinion, does it mean?

A well-developed character gives readers a sense of that character’s personality, feelings, and struggles. A well-developed character changes and matures as a result of all that the character experiences during the course of the story.

What is your goal for the story to be when you write? That is, how do you want your stories to say what they say?

My only goal is to write the stories I want to read. If my books do have a message, it’s that nothing is as it seems. We are not necessarily who we think we are, history did not necessarily happen the way we think it did, and what we see is not necessarily the truth. But all that is more of a side effect. Mostly I just want to write good stories with good characters.

After a long build of turmoil, the builders have finally finished reformatting my bedroom! Well, to the extent I could sleep and go on the laptop from upstairs, anyway. The walls still have to be painted, but hey, I wasn’t really a looker for walls.

The internet however has shut itself off again, probably because of the Scaffolding still ominously leering over my house. So once again, I’m forced to write a blog entry… In school. But the last time I wrote a blog entry in school, the internet restored itself that same night. Luckiness strikes again?

Intensity-wise, I’ve gotten the basic plot summaries for chapters 2, 3, 4 and 5. However, these plot summaries have yet to be fully validated, so I’ll have to scan everything once I’ve got the exoskeleton of volume 1 sorted out, just to make sure everything is valid. With a more valid story comes a more expressed plot, so It’ll certainly be worth the wait.

And now, to depart. However, since this entry was created one day late from the pre-planned date of Thursday, another entry on Saturday (if the internet restores itself by then) will have to be made to make up for things. Adios, amigo.

I met with the local novelist group on Wednesday afternoon as planned. At the end of the two hour session, I came away with a lot of notes on the first seven chapters of my first novel, a psychological thriller.

Most of the group thought the writing style was good. Many enjoyed the tension, but virtually everyone felt that I’m putting in too much information too soon and shifting time frames too often. They found it difficult to understand the plot.

So, I’ve opened up a new file on the computer, cut and pasted a couple of chapters and begun to simplify the text, away from the main story file. I’ve also decided to experiment with writing in the present tense to get a new feel for the text.

_______________________

I hope to arrange to get the editing report email sent over to my account later this morning.

Nail biting you got me again!  It hurts after you get to where the nail is connected with the rest of the finger, but how else do you grossly and awkwardly halt boredom?  I’ve heard of bitter stuff you put on your nails to get you to stop biting them, but that reminds me a little too much of sour apple spray you train a dog with.

I’ve been way too late since whenever I first wrote about my lack of sleep due to not sleeping and then waking up early.  Recently, I’ve been trying to put together my ideal soundtrack for what would play during Grizzly Skag Bear.

Here are three songs that would definitely be on the soundtrack:

Say Anything – Woe

Weezer – El Scorcho

A Day To Remember – NJ Legion Iced Tea

Those are some starters.  Write you’re own movie if you want to create your own made up soundtrack.

The first correct response is the only one that counts.

Clue: this person is famous (but shouldn’t be)

It just goes to show that if you know the right people, even the most untalented people in the world can get a job where they get to meet and interview cool people, cool bands, and all without any hint of personality or anything that would add anything to the conversations.  The stereotypical “frat boy” image wasn’t cool or funny or entertaining to begin with, but you kept on with it.  Did you just hear laughter at one of your “jokes”…. No?  Neither did I.  Naturally, you’re on Twitter, with nothing to say.

That’s all the info you get.

Out of sight, out of mind right?  As soon as I get back to Bloomington, and see a few people I haven’t in a while, Winona is hardly an after thought.  I can focus again.  I even did homework on a holiday.  Sadly, the movie will have to wait until some other priorities are taken care of.  Yes, I discovered what those are.

A friend of  mine introduced me to The Avett Brothers, and their album I and Love and You.  The title track is incredible.  I could listen to it for days straight and not get sick of it.  The rest of the album is just as good.  Those guys prove that bands today do give a shit about the music they make and produce.  If I could, I would open the movie with one of their songs.

Thanksgiving was great.  I talked to a lot of relatives I don’t normally get to talk with regularly.  It’s felt like a lot longer day than it’s really been, but thats most likely from the food.

I don’t think anybody likes alarms.  They wail and shriek and give you a headache and more often than not they serve no purpose because the alarm was being tested or it went off because of a fault.  That said, we aren’t likely to get rid of alarms in a hurry.  Despite all the false alarms there is a small chance that this time it is in your best interest to listen and to respond.

Warnings are another thing I don’t like.  Particularly on the computer. Warning, this site is insecure.  Warning, you are about to send your details etc.  I wouldn’t mind so much if these warnings came up when I was genuinely doing something stupid but they always appear when I’m actually playing it safe.  When I do something stupid they just let me.

My latest pet hate is the battery warning.  “Warning, your cordless mouse’s batteries are critical.”  They’ve now been critical for over a week and they still haven’t died.  Last time I continued to use the mouse for about a month and a half with the warning up before the batteries actually stopped working.  It is irritating. I just start ignoring all messages flashing in the corner of my screen assuming it is just the same old false alarm.  As such I probably miss a few important messages and more importantly, when the batteries are actually critical I won’t know it until the mouse actually stops mid-click.

It is the same in stories.  False alarms can raise the tension levels, certainly Jaws proved that.  Building up and then having nothing happen will keep people guessing and wondering what comes next.  If you do it too often, they become emotionally immune to the tactic.

Computer, I am ignoring your warnings.  Which means I will be unprepared when something actually does happen and I will be unhappy with the results regardless of how it turns out.  I don’t want my reader feeling the same way about my story.

Word Count: 45,830 (damn counter is eating 12 words! >T)

Excerpt:

Beneath cut because it is sad and spoilery.

‘I was being pulled through the scene by some outside force. I saw myself talking to Kimily, asking if she wanted me to come with her. She polite refused and left. I followed Kimily through the streets. She had walked so carefully through the area. She looked both ways and at all of the signal lights before crossing. She finally came upon the fated crossing. I looked down the street with her… it was true, that car wasn’t visible. The turn down that road made it impossible to see that he was coming. Kimily took steps into the crossing, and my mind’s eye followed her, but kept looking down the street. Lights soon were visible down the street. Just as quickly as the lights had appeared… a car came speeding down the street. I saw the light was clearly red… but he… he didn’t even slow down. A car coming the other way screeched to a halt to not hit the drunk driver’s car… As the car sped forward, he hit Kimily… She… she went into the air and fell into the street a decent distance ahead. The car… the car didn’t even stop… He… he drove right on over her…

‘The driver who had nearly been hit rushed out of his car and over to Kimily’s side. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and called an ambulance. A few more cars came by, pulling to a stop to stop themselves from hitting Kimily and the man. Each one of them got out of their cars to help. A woman got her husband to lift Kimily up off the ground. He even offered to carry her to the hospital. They were even lucky to have an off duty EMT member stop as well, who did all she could without having extra supplies. I… I cried, seeing all the help Kimily had gotten, but none of it mattered. All of these people… they all tried to do something, and yet nothing they did could do a thing to stop what was coming next. The ambulance came, took her to the hospital and hooked her up to so many machines. They did all they can before the me from them came in. I saw myself run away in tears from Kimily. Her face… it really was horrible. I… I realize now… there was nothing I could do. All of those people who had been there helped, they did something… and yet none of it mattered. If I… if I had been there, the only thing that could have changed was possibly the body laying in that bed. There… there was nothing I could have done. These people… these people I had ignored when this had happened, had done so much, and she still died… Why… why did I never realize…?’

TT______TT

*Jakarta Globe, 6 February 2009

A man climbs quietly from a grave and closes a white burial cloth that shrouds a skeleton. The bones are the color of burned earth and in pieces. A maggot scuttles to hide behind the empty eye socket of the skull. After more than 30 years of interment, all that is left of a once middle-aged adult now fits into a small bundle.

A weathered, wooden plaque with jagged edges bears the name the skeleton once answered to.

At Menteng Pulo Public Cemetery in South Jakarta, the air is fresh with the scent of blossoming trees and rich earth. A lone mottled mutt threads cautiously among the graves, its skin matted and reddish from the rain and earth. She sits on top of a grave, observing as 50 gravediggers calmly go about their work. They are not burying the dead but raising them, literally, from their graves.

Along a large strip of land near the Cideng River, 10,600 square meters to be exact, emptied graves with ragged edges line the cemetery. The workers have been commissioned by the city administration to unearth about 3,500 plots to make way for a highway linking Jalan Soepomo and Jalan Rasuna Said.

“Traditionally, you cannot disturb the dead,” sayd Entong, the head gravedigger. “But this is a city that is developing, and they need to expand the road.”

Inside an open grave, Entong breaks up the damp soil with a rusty hoe. His black jeans and feet are encrusted with red earth. He hands the last of the unearthed bones to his assistant to wrap in cloth and take to another burial plot that has been allocated for the exhumed bodies.

“This one was buried in 1962, so there are very few bones left,” Entong says, pointing to the decomposed bundle of bones about the size of an infant.

Entong climbs out of the grave and begins to break the gray headstone with his hoe. Pieces of stone fly around him. He has to remove the name plaque embedded in the stone so it can be placed with the remains for identification. His skin is burnished from the 32 years he has worked outdoors as a gravedigger.

“People call me first when they want to bury someone,” Entong says.

On this overcast morning, no weeping or hushed prayers for the displaced dead are heard, only the thud of hoes hitting the soil. Entong says it has been two months since the excavation of the graves commenced and it is scheduled to end next week.

“At the beginning there were more relatives,” Entong says. “Now it is rare for families to come even though we have informed them we will be digging up the graves. Maybe they have moved. Maybe they can’t bear the process.”

The majority of the graves are Muslim but Entong estimates 800 Buddhist graves will also be uncovered this week.

The remains are being moved to new burial plots further down the road. Unclaimed remains are moved to a cemetery at Kampung Kandang in Cilandak or to Srengseng Sawah Cemetery in South Jakarta, Entong says.

The ground is soft as paste from the ongoing Jakarta showers and he flings it around him as he hoes. An errant and persistent fly flits around his bare feet.

“We take the remains out, wrap them up and then knock down the gravestone,” explains Suroh, a caretaker at Menteng Pulo since the ’70s. Wearing a red shirt, a large mole jutting from his chin, he watches Entong work in the distance.

“I do not cry at anyone’s funeral,” Suroh says. “I am used to them.

“We are here to fix their homes, their final resting place.”

It is noon when Entong rests inside a makeshift wooden hut in the middle of the cemetery. The soiled clothes of the caretakers hang to dry nearby on headstones and from overhanging trees.
A caretaker chugs on a motorcycle down the narrow dirt road that runs through the cemetery, ferrying four white bundles to an ambulance for relocation.

“It is funny. Kaplok, kaplok, kaplok is the sound of the bodies flapping,” says Suroh as he watches.
“We are all the same. In the end we will die,” he adds as he deeply inhales from a clove cigarette.
Under the cool shade of the hut, the men sit in their mud-caked clothes, sipping hot, milky coffee and talk lightheartedly about death. Entong recounts a time when he had to break the legs of a corpse.

“If I didn’t, they wouldn’t fit into the cloth,” he says.

The kain kapan, or burial cloths, are rough pieces of white cloth two meters in length. “These ones cost Rp 12,000 [about $1],” Entong says, pointing to a pile of fabric in a cupboard. “Cheap ones.”

The hush is disturbed by the arrival of Iwan Suwandi and his family. Together with his wife, Suwarti, his sister, sister-in-law and grandson, he has come to rebury his son Rachmad.

“I was shocked to get the notice from the cemetery,” Suwandi says, of being notified of the disinterment. “I found out at Lebaran,” he adds.

A gentle-looking man with glasses and specks of grey through his hair, Suwandi had been ill for the past three months and unable to come to Menteng Pulo earlier.

Wearing a tan fishing hat and checkered shirt, Ali greets Suwandi, whom he knows. The caretaker has been tending Rachmad’s grave since he was buried here four years ago. An old hand, Ali has worked at cemeteries since 1948 and takes care of 100 plots in Menteng Pulo.

Rachmad, Suwandi’s third son, died of liver problems at the age of 24. “I wanted to move him to Bogor but we have no family there,” says Suwandi, who instead asked for his son’s body to be moved nearby within the Menteng Pulo cemetery.

Entong is called upon to dig up the body.

“It is his job to dig. We each have a duty,” explains Suroh, whose own position is caring for the graves, like Ali.

Entong alternates using his hands and the hoe to scoop out the earth. The burial cloth is laid on the ground beside the grave and he begins to place the unearthed chunks of bone on it. Two assistants crouch nearby to lay them out on the burial cloth. Standing above his son’s grave, Suwandi’s face is placid as he calmly inquires about the whereabouts of his son’s skull.

The wooden headstone reads, Rachmad H. bin Iwan Suwandi, etched black upon painted white wood. Slivers of the skeleton’s rib cage are taken out one by one. Entong continues to dig and finds a hipbone. Finally, he finds the skull. Suwandi places his hand over his mouth and lets out a small gasp. The family begins to pray. A sniff escapes Suwandi as he continues to look at Entong in the grave.

“His legs aren’t here yet,” Suwandi says.

Entong clears the mud from his hoe and continues digging.

The air is hushed and the smell of rain is heavy on the breeze. “We forgot to bring an umbrella,” Suwandi says to his wife, who nods agreement. Their 7-year old grandson, dressed in blue, has his hand on his knees and keeps his gaze intently on the open grave. The women look distressed.

When Ali comes over to help wrap the bones, Suwandi asks if the bundle is heavy. Ali says it isn’t. Three men wrap the bundle tightly and hand the bones to Suwandi. With steady steps on the slippery, rain-soaked earth, Suwandi carries his son to a prepared burial site, mouthing a silent prayer.

A little way up the road from where Rachmad was originally buried, a gaping hole six feet deep awaits. The small congregation stops, and Suwandi hands the bundle to a gravedigger as he jumps in the grave. The body is gently returned to him and the gravediggers tell him to open the bundle. “All of it,” says one as the other balls up chunks of soil with his hands. “It is to prop up the body so it does not overturn,” he explains.

Suwandi carefully tucks his son into his resting place and two men start to fill in the grave. An imam in a black velvet skullcap, propping himself up with a multicolored umbrella, asks for the name of the deceased and begins a low chant. Only the boy’s name, Rachmad, rings out as the imam crouches by the grave. All else is quiet save for the sound of hoes hitting the ground.

The mother opens a prayer book, her face partially hidden under her black jilbab as she prays along with the imam. Her grandson stands behind her, holding her arm.

Suwandi straightens his son’s old headstone and turns his palms up to the sky. The imam moves toward him and they pray side by side. The earth atop Rachmad’s new grave is choppy and uneven but Ali explains it will be tidied later. He takes out a clove cigarette, lights it and stands before this new grave he will also care for.

A warm wind blows. From a nearby mosque, the resonant call to prayers rings out, echoed softly by surrounding mosques.

(photos: JG/Yudhi Sukma Wijaya)

George Bernard Shaw once wrote that plot was the creation, manoeuvering and destruction of relationships between characters. Plot is derived from character and it’s sole purpose is to drive the story so the character can attempt to achieve their goal. Every scene in your script must either reveal something about the character and advance the story. Flat scenes become boring and lose your audeince. Here are some plot devices that can pique your plot:

• DANGER – I cannot stress this one enough. It can be moral danger such as deciding to cheat on your spouse, or physical danger such as being trapped in a burning house. Raise the stakes and make your character earn their goal and pay for their mistakes. Give them insecurities, flaws, problems and issues we can all relate to. Make them fall into a ditch that they must crawl out of. A common plot device in action films is to either have multiple things go wrong at once or sequentially. The victim tries to escape, but they can’t find the keys to the car so they break in. Then there’s a flat battery so the can’t hot wire it to start. Then there’s no cell phone coverage… What’s needed may not arrive in time or not arrive at all. Oftentimes, dramatists use a Deus Ex Machina (literally God from the machine) whereby some life saving event occurs just in the nick of time before all is lost. Make sure this isn’t a lucky co-incidence or your audience will never forgive you.

• TIME BOMB - Give your characters a ticking time clock where something seriously bad will happen if they don’t achieve a goal. Maybe there isn’t enough time to defuse the bomb? Perhaps the main character doesn’t know how to defuse the bomb. Maybe the main character isn’t even aware of the bomb. Does the audience know? Giving either the audience or the main character such a superior position adds intrigue and interest. Alternatively, the main character can simply run out of options to achieve their goal rather than out of time.

• CONFESSION – After deep humiliation make your character confess to a secret, shortcoming, wound or a deep seeded fear or shame. Maybe they realise the error of their ways and take responsibility for their actions. Consider your audience. Being born out of wedlock is generally not considered a shameful act in the Western world. Forcing a pregnant unwed couple to marry may be acceptable is some cultures, but not in others. Play with morality in your plot. The beauty of it is that it’s never clearly right or wrong like a maths problem. Is it wrong to kill someone? What if they killed your family? What if it is in self defense?

• BETRAYAL – The hero’s buddy changes sides or is revealed as a traitor. What if the main character doesn’t realise this, or does so when it’s too late? What if the traitor leads them into a trap?

• DILEMMA – The hero is forced to make a choice between two equally bad alternatives. Consider the family with premature Siamese twins who must decide which one survives and which one doesn’t. What if the main character consciously decides not to act because they are faced with issues of duty for the higher good? Or even love?

• OBSTACLES – External influences such as bad weather or natural disasters forcing them to stop. Car or other vital piece of machinery breaks down and a replacement part is not immediately forthcoming. What if their progress is stalled due to injury, illness or other physical condition such as pregnancy or diabetes? What if someone in their team is killed or kidnapped? Running out of bullets, money, food, air all add to the excitement of danger.

• DISCOVERY – The element of surprise and shock always jolts your audience. Examples of this include a cover been blown of an undercover cop, the presence of an intruder being noticed, an escalating lie has been revealed. A discovery must pivot your story into a new direction, not simply act as a minor irritant. Remember the scene in “Mad Men” where Betty discovers Don’s true identity by opening a locked drawer? She didn’t sigh and carry on, she left him. Discoveries can also be wild goose chases. Following the wrong lead, the wrong map or the wrong advice.

• LOVE – Due to it’s universality, love will always add to a plot. What if a past lover returns? Consider Jodie Foster in “Sommersby”, when she tells her returned “husband” that he’s not the man she married because she didn’t love him like she loves the impostor. Add a love triangle; one bride versus two grooms. Add gender swaps, such as “Tootsie” who had enamored a man who thinks she’s a woman. Also consider the third wheel. The buddy who suddenly becomes the bride’s love interest when he reveals his true self. Love is also used to tame a savage, misanthropic heart.

• TRAITS – Give your character some endearing traits so the audience can partially overlook their negative ones. Give them courage, give them love. give them scruples so they are fighting for a good cause where the collateral damages justifies the cause, make them perform a good deed, make them desirable such as handsome, physical and funny. Make them spiritual, generous and wise. Ensure it all emerges from a place of truth and authenticity. Audiences retract from phonies. Give them fears, traumas which block their growth, masks which prevent other characters from seeing their real self.

• LIKES – Make your characters like children, animals and art. Give them great taste in cars, partners, houses, music, fashion, food and overall lifestyle. Audiences tend to admire what they aspire to be or what they perceive to be desirable.

So go forth and beef up those plotlines.

The Sniper by Liam O’Flaherty

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.

On a rooftop near O’Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a short draught. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.

He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen–just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man’s head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead. “I’m hit,” he muttered.

Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain–just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. The arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then, taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth.

Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.

In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner’s head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman’s corpse lay still in the gutter.

The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap slipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.

Crawling quickly to the left, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards–a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.

Then, when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.

Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.

He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with the concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper’s head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.

Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket, he emptied it at a draught. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirits. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.

When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered if he knew him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner into O’Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.

The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.

Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother’s face.

Stay tuned for another blog entry about vocabulary from “The Sniper”

Word Count: 43,362

Excerpt:

‘It had been a while since that strange man had come to give me any sort of advice. Maybe it was fate that Kimily found him again, that I would be able to talk to him again. I needed answers, and he sure seemed to have had them over a month ago, he just wouldn’t tell me. Maybe now I can finally get them out of him… Because, now, I… I think I understand what he meant. I held onto Kimily for too long and ended up here. I thought everything was fine… and yet it wasn’t. Things happened in reality and I tried to change my life, but I ended up screwing things up, taking too long, and in turn caused this whole mess to occur. I… I should have listened to what he said in the first place. I almost couldn’t believe he had turned out to be completely right, that everything he had said was true. I hoped he could help me, help me finally move on. I knew I had to do it now, I… I just needed this one thing before I could finally see past Kimily once and for all.’

I CAN SEE THE END! Well, more so to my 4th NaNoWriMo quest. Not too sure on my novel. Sort of can see the end of my novel.

As a hilarious note, I realized I’ve been spelling Malehciah/Mahleciah’s name wrong the whole novel (It’s supposed to be the first spelling, but I’ve typed it in as the second the entire novel)… That takes some serious skill to do that. xDDD Running NaNoism? xD

Every Wednesday you can find me over at Adventures in Writing.

Today I talk about women, books and voice.