Laughing Lemur Collaborations

Posted 4:48 AM by Steve
It wasn't much, I know. To be honest, I couldn't work out where to pull the story, given the end is so close. I think it may have been one round too many, personally.

I did have a lot more roughed out, but it just didn't fit and I couldn't get it to pull right. I can't work a way of getting anyone to the Guggenheim, motivations just don't seem to pull them there. So I decided to leave that for the jammed ending. Sorry. I have a feeling Boris should have died in the takedown of the Factor HQ too, but that just occurred to me as I strugged with this piece. I present the following as an exercise in trying to understand my editing process. I originally wrote it to precede the action I presented as my piece, but I cut it because I didn't think it did anything to the story, and it harmed it in a few ways. It detracts from Claire, who is supposedly the hero of the piece. I confess I've found it hard to get her voice, so I've steered away from writing her too much, and I think that's harmed the story. I'm not sure what anyone else thinks. Even in the piece I posted, I've written Tom more than Claire. I also cut this piece because I think it boxes in what comes next, whereas the piece I presented doesn't so much. I've just realised though, that I've boxed it a little because I've put Tom in the room with Claire, and that takes away any leverage in getting people to go anywhere. I did have follow on from the piece, a round table between the four characters, but Tom and Boris especially got in the way, so again it got cut. The idea there was to make the box the macguffin, that Pauline was going to use the box in the detonation somehow. But that's all just blowing out there now, I'm not sure if I've left any room for Chip, I hope I haven't stuffed it up too badly, I just saw the chance at writing a sex scene, something I've avoided doing all my life because I just wouldn't know where to start, and figured the first one may as well be in public. I really would appreciate any and all feedback on all of this, although admit I'm not the best at giving any myself. Maybe a feedback session after the stories finished?

Anyway, here's the snipped text that immediately precedes the action I wrote for my part. I don't know if I was entirely right in snipping it, so if people want to reinstate it, I figure it can be inserted in the editing.

Boris sat, quiet in thought, intrigued by the sudden turn of events. Life had seemed so sedate the last couple of years, and now, as he approached his endgame, it was quickening the pace. He wondered if he had enough in him to get his nose in front one last time. The going didn’t really seem to suit him.

He glanced out of the window of the aeroplane, although it was not long enough in the air for him to really take in the scales involved. What was he doing? It all seemed to have happened even quicker in hindsight. The woman had taken down the Factor safehouse with a few small electronic gadgets and a wry smile. He’d just pulled shapes as armed muscle and pocketed a few souvenirs.

And then later, when she’d collapsed into his arms in that old, romantic way, and mumbled details about the Bilbao operation, he’d just ridden the wave, and then carried her through it. He had agreed to charter a plane, and to accompany her, more because he was curious as to the turn of events rather than any need to see a particular task fulfilled. He didn’t know what action he’d take in Bilbao, whether he’d further Basque, or other ends. He just knew he was going there. For once, Boris didn’t seem to have an end mapped out.

He glanced at the woman, snoozing in her bucket seat, legs curled, cat like. He pulled a note book from the inside pocket of the battered, tan leather jacket that lay across his lap, drew a pencil and slowly started to make lines on paper, sketching hairfall and feminine grace framed by convenience and technology.

Kirsten awoke, another few miles closer to her birthplace, another few hours away from the minute of it. Journeys always seemed to end awkwardly. She flicked a glance at Boris as she stroked a temple, running her hands through her hair as she tried to pick up any sense of Jon. Nothingness echoed around her mind where sometimes whispers ran. She turned her thoughts back to the aged Russian with the penchant for paper. He seemed to enjoy tactile sensations, that much she’d gathered. She couldn’t fault his stated motives in abandoning the Factor, she just couldn’t work out what the fuck his angle was with the terrorism, why he cared so much? She didn’t see the pragmatism he seemed to display fitting with the commitment to cause she ascribed to those who fought for freedom.

Still, what was one more odd fish in this cold stream? Christ, her own politics and persuasions were hardly worth getting out of bed for, too many years chasing fashions and cigarettes around for a sniff of a good time to care about anything else. Meeting Jon may have gifted her new perspectives, but the lines still had to vanish somewhere. She smiled wryly. Straightening her trousers, she broke the silence.

“Is that me? Any good?” She arched her brows, widened her eyes, played coquettish, almost laddish, until she could peg his rhthyms.

Boris flashed a glance from paper to subject and back again. He then folded the cover back down on the book, and placed it back in his pocket. “I think we are landing soon”, he said as he lay his jacket back deliberately across his lap. “It is of you, and it is, in a way, passable”, he conceded, taking another glance out of the window, focusing on the drab grey concrete that rose up to snatch the wind.

Kirsten nodded, and then reached down to her handbag, hefting it to lap and to purpose. She could smell bitter memories in the air between them, although when they were caused and by whom she couldn’t say. Boris, for his part, shuffled his feet. The thin carpet beneath offered little sensation. Contemplating Kirsten again, he wondered which of them felt less.

Kirsten jumped, small hairs at nape of neck rose in shock and delight, her thoughts squealed Jon and her heart pumped faster. Cut glass facade shattered by girlish infatuation.

Kirsten felt his presence vanish. Tension eased itself from her body, and she relaxed back into her seat, closed her eyes and waited.

A quick landing, a smooth journey through customs and a prearranged car ride were shared but once, both refusing the other’s proffered cigarette but accepting the chance implied to smoke their own within the confines of the big black beemer that glided the streets of Bilbao to the Hotel Carlton.