Silverlink Writing Group: The Writers


Elaine Floyd


Here is some example of my work:

Page last up dated 2 November 2009

 

 

Silverlink Writing Group Competition September2009:- 500 words starting with:- The weapons hung on one wall of the room...

Word Count = 492

Wimbledon, it was not
 


The weapons hung on one wall of the room; Robert was scanning them intently through the darkness, working out the pros and cons of each one. He’d been lying in bed, rigid for three minutes, listening to the ransacking going on in the reception rooms below him, flinching inwardly to each crash and bang; imagining the worst for his extensive porcelain and silver collections. He knew that before too long the intruder would be upstairs. Having already considered the usual options of hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe; having dismissed the pretence of a deep sleep or even faking death, he concluded arming himself was the best option.

Looking back at the weapons in front of him, arranged around the white marble fireplace, he wished he’d been a collector of antique guns and not domestic Victoriana. Okay he thought working from right to left; he started by considering the bed warmer: long, turned, mahogany handle, copper pan with a hinged lid, punched with an intricate design. It had been several years since he’d played tennis, but he reckoned he could still manage a forehand with the bed warmer and give the intruder a good whack.

Moving on, Robert eyed up the beautiful, heavy, brass candle sconces. Sure these could be brandished quite successfully; if he only had a screwdriver and five minutes to spare. Considering the next items, a pair of cane carpet beaters, tennis shots sprung into his mind again, nowhere near as effective as the bed warmer. Glancing round the fireplace he wished he’d placed a set of fire irons on the hearth of the disused fire; he could have used the traditional poker like any other self respecting self defender. The copper bed warmer it was then.

Robert now needed to get to the other side of the room, to retrieve his weapon. He looked at his floorboards, original oak; they also came with squeaks and creaks; crossing his own bedroom was rapidly looking like running the gauntlet. He quietly slid out of the sheets, placing his feet on the floor, letting them slowly weight bare. Taking his first step - creak, second step- louder creak; they had never made this much noise before. Third step – squeak and silence from below. Oh dear God he thought, he’s heard me. Remaining on the spot he had to make a decision and quick.  Was he to wait a little longer, see what happens or leg it to the fireplace and grab the bed warmer. He did neither and found himself tiptoeing like a character from a Hannah Barbera cartoon, quick, high steps, hands poised as if he was about to play piano. He took the bed warmer from its hook and approached the bedroom door. It flew open and with one phenomenal swing he hit the intruder with a double handed forehand, adding a bit of top spin for good measure, yelling “Anyone. For. Tennis!”

 

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