Beatroot Workshop

Beatroot goes live!

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 01:55:21 +0100

Well folks,

We've finally got a web presence to call our own.

Check out: http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/beatroot - beatroot's future home!

We'll keep the blog running in tandem as we're still ironing out a few issues, but everything is good to go. Have a look around and let us know what you think - your feedback is paramount.

Stay safe,

Beatroot

Comments

Beatroot's Reading List

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 16:57:59 +0100

Ahem,

Now we're not in a position to be lecturing anyone, but here at Beatroot we are passionate about the written word and so every month we'll be recommending a piece(s) of work / writer(s) that we feel you should read (for whatever reason).
Each month will be themed - should we run out of themes, we'll just start over again, as I'm sure we'll miss out lots along the way.
There will be a few recommended tiles each month that could take the form of a novel, script, film, poem or whatever we feel like...you get the idea.

The first theme is: North American Short Fiction.

Raymond Carver

Considered one of the greats of American short fiction, Carver's work is both profound and unsettling. His work evokes the bizarre and often hilarious truth's of our everyday lives through carefully and expertly drawn characters, deft use of location and a sharp, witty use of dialogue that is hard to match.
If you want to learn how one can distill an idea or concept that could span an entire novel down into a few thousand words, then look no further than Carver.

We recommend 'Will you please be quiet, please? published by Vintage
ISBN: 978-0-099--44989-8
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Will-You-Please-Quiet/dp/0099449897/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226591856&sr=8-5

Most notably read 'Neighbors' - it's both creepy and hilarious, and good combo in our book!

Beatroot

Comments

Budding Scriptwriter? Take a look!

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 16:29:26 +0100

To those of you who dabble in the screen writing side of things, here's an interesting link.
You may have seen the adverts on E4 and thought 'Ohh, that sounds good' - it is! Have a gander and you'll notice that not only do you get the chance to pen an online episode of Skins, but you also get to work with the team of Skin's writers in a workshop environment.

Criteria:

1600 words (max)
At least 3 characters (none from Skins)
No more than five locations

The rest is up to you!

http://www.e4.com/skins/writer-mini-episode.html

By the way... check out this nifty little program: http://celtx.com/ and you'll be producing professional looking scripts in no time! Word just makes us itch.

Comments

Writing Competitions...

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 16:27:31 +0100

We all know that making a living from the written word is easier said than done. Give yourself a leg-up by entering some writing competitions, you never know who may stumble across your work one day. It's all about shamelessly publicizing yourself...

Here's a great list of competitions (in the UK)

http://www.literacytrust.org.uk/whatson/writingcomps.html

Beatroot

Comments

Beatroot-00002: A Floor Below

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 12:12:35 +0200

The delivery will be here any minute, Miranda thinks. It’s already 12:16 - by the clock in the hall - and she is still missing half of the decorations and most of the food. This was in no way a party. With the way things looked, Miranda felt uneasy about letting guests walk up the path, let alone in the house. You can’t have a half dressed room, she thinks. You can’t have guests walk down a hallway that looks skeletal with the lack of decorative flourish. A table for twenty people looks ridiculous with food only for ten. Miranda squeezes her arm tightly. It’s Saturday.
‘Miranda?’ Comes a voice from the kitchen. Miranda waits 3 seconds before responding.
‘Yes?’ Miranda’s clear, crisp response soars through the passageways of her parent’s house. Built in 1764, an imposing Georgian townhouse with duel aspect windows, arranged over five stories.
‘I don’t understand this bloody cooker, a little help? Please?’ The voice echoes down the corridor.
Miranda checks the time, 12:19 - by the clock next to the phone – she feels her body temperature rise slightly. The flowers don’t look right as she passes an arrangement of tulips in the dining room, she thinks.
The dining table is lavishly decorated: fine Villeroy & Boch porcelain plates sit atop soft gold chargers, Dartington crystal wine glasses stand adjacent to every plate, dark blue napkins sit central to each setting, held in place with gold napkin rings. She stares at the tulips intently as she walks towards the kitchen. Why did she choose a tinted blue vase?
‘Miranda. Help. Please?’ Comes the impatient voice from the kitchen.
Miranda pauses by the door to the kitchen, checks her watch – 12:21 – then enters.
‘There you are, can you help me out with this thing?’ Says an alarmingly petite blonde girl from somewhere in the corner of the vast kitchen. The surfaces gleam. Spotless. Slabs of flawless black granite span the perimeter of the room; an enormous range cooker stretches across the entire rear wall. Miranda stumbles, and grabs onto the worktop. A row of low hanging brushed aluminium lights lead down towards the range like a runway. 12:22, Miranda checks her watch.
‘What’s the problem?’ Miranda asks the girl.
‘I can’t turn it on.’
‘What do you mean you can’t turn it on?’ Miranda blurts out.
‘There’s just nothing. No heat.’ The girl looks embarrassed now as she pulls her straw-like hair back into a ponytail, and rests her hands on her bony hips. Ignoring the girl, Miranda walks over to a drawer under one of the three sinks – it glides out and comes to a slow, calculated stop. She closes the drawer and opens it again. She rests her hand on the granite and watches the drawer like there is nothing else in the room. The slow, punch-drunk motion of the drawer mesmerises her. The girl looks at her. Miranda doesn’t look back. She takes out a neatly bound book and hands it to the girl.
‘The manual,’ Miranda says, ‘any problems, let me know.’
‘Thanks. What time are people getting here?’
‘Just deal with the cooker. Please?’ Miranda replies curtly.
Back in the hallway, the clock reads 12:27. The delivery still isn’t here. Miranda can now feel a slight tingle in her left hand. She squeezes it firmly.
She walks briskly into the drawing room and over to an old oak bureau. She opens it to reveal row upon row of perfectly polished vases, in size order, equidistant from each other. She looks at each one carefully, assessing their suitability for the job at hand. Should she keep the tulips in the one vase? Should she divide them into two separate vases? Does she even need the tulips? She takes out two small crystal vases. A geometric design snakes around the base of each.
In the dining room, the tulips look ridiculous in the two smaller vases, Miranda thinks, and she curses herself for doubting her original arrangement. She pulls out a chair and sits down, plays with the stem of a wine glass and smiles at imaginary guests.
She hears a van pulling up outside. The tingling in her left hand is more intense this time. She grabs the tulips and stuffs them back into the larger vase, picks up the smaller ones and hurries into the drawing room. With no time to rinse them out she places them back into the bureau, still filled with water. The doorbell rings, and echoes throughout the house. Sarah would be here by 14:00, she reassures herself. She repeats her mantra: ‘Simplicity is the secret to a successful gathering’, silently. The doorbell rings again, this time with more fervour.
‘I’m coming.’ Miranda calls brightly as she adjusts her blouse in the mirror in the hallway and opens the door.
‘Delivery. Sign here?’ Miranda winces at the overweight deliveryman’s intonation. He wears a name badge: Steve.
‘Where’d you want the stuff?’ he asks, snatching the clipboard from Miranda before she has the chance to finish the ‘d’ of her surname: ‘Boyd’. The boxes pile up in the hallway. Miranda checks each one off in her head. Six boxes. There should be seven. There should be seven, shouldn’t there? Miranda panics, recounts the boxes and turns to Steve.
‘There should be seven, shouldn’t there?’ Her voice quivers.
‘Only six on the invoice. Six in the van. Six here.’ He replies, nonchalant.
‘Yes I can see that but I distinctly remember being told it would be seven boxes.’
Miranda gently traces her fingertip across the rough cardboard of box number five. Steve doesn’t take any notice of Miranda as she takes a deep breath and massages her neck to regain her calm; he simply shrugs and walks out leaving the door wide open. Miranda rushes to close the door behind him and takes a moment to gather herself. The guests will be arriving at 19:30 for drinks, then appetisers, then starters, then the main. Vegetarian options covered. Vegan option too. Desserts sorted. The white is in the wine cooler; the red has been expertly selected and arranged to compliment the flavours of the food. Does she have enough ice for the San Pelligrino?
‘Miranda?’ The girl in the kitchen screeches.
3 seconds pass. Miranda checks her make-up in the mirror and picks up boxes one and two which she knows contains some of the food, and heads to the kitchen. The tulips still don’t look right, she thinks. Why did she choose white tulips? They’re so morbid.
‘Yes?’ She calls as she enters the kitchen and places the boxes neatly on the worktop.
‘It’s on.’ The girl says proudly.
‘Great, Pierre should be here any moment and he can begin.’ Miranda smiles. Everything is under control.
‘So do I?’
‘Go upstairs and stay out of the preparations? Yes, if you would.’ Miranda says as she opens box one and takes out a selection of fresh meats. Blood drips between her fingers as she unwraps a large steak. She watches it work its way into the fine wrinkles in her hand.
‘I’ll be in my room then.’ Miranda doesn’t look at the girl as she leaves, but stays transfixed on the meat.
‘Don’t wear the Miu Miu dress. Wear something more, demure.’ Says Miranda. The girl doesn’t respond but throws the manual down on the worktop and leaves the kitchen, Miranda listens to her footsteps as they ascend the stairs until they become so muffled that she could be on her own in the house.
Miranda remembers the first time she went to the doctor. She remembers feeling a mixture of confusion and disgust as he deconstructed her life piece by piece. She wore an elegant silk blouse by Yves Saint Laurent teamed with a tight black pencil skirt of her mother’s. The doctor wore what looked like a mismatched suit from a charity shop, she remembers studying the appalling stitching on the lapels. The tablets, one a day with each tablet marked with the corresponding day, he gave her she refused to take for weeks. Now though, she likes the dull buzz they give her. She likes the regularity too.
13:13 says the clock in the study as Miranda spreads out the list of guests in front of her. 20 in total. Her mother would be coming and it was most important to impress her. Miranda knew she would judge everything about her party. She knew her mother would arrive, decked head to toe in diamonds like she was royalty. This had to be perfect. Her father would be there too, she wanted to show him how far she’d come as a woman like all daughters do. She runs her hand across the paper, across each name.
The seating arrangements looked adequate, not perfect, but they’d do. Just don’t sit Beatrice next to Andrea she thinks; we don’t want another New Years Eve like 2002. Satisfied she can do no more, Miranda collects up the name cards she had picked up that morning and hurries back into the dining room then carefully places each card at each setting. She places her own name at the head of the table. Her left arm begins to tingle again and she squeezes it firmly. Miranda thinks about Isabel.
Miranda wonders, how after all that has happened today, she can possibly feel so calm. She asks herself why she isn’t calling the delivery company to complain about the abysmal service she has received, why she isn’t checking on Isabel and why she isn’t calling the most vital guests to double check they are coming. They have RSVP’d, of course, but one can never be sure. She cannot concoct an answer to these questions, and wonders why she is second-guessing her meticulous planning. She knows the party will be perfect simply because it has to be. There is no other option. Miranda starts to think that maybe she has taken on too much today.
Exhausted from the trials of the day, Miranda decides to rest. There is no point fretting over details now, she thinks. She’s done all she can, and all she need do now is get ready. She climbs one flight of the grand mahogany staircase to the first floor and collapses onto her Egyptian cotton sheets. 14:00 races by and Miranda forgets about Sarah.
Miranda cannot remember what time she falls asleep, and forgets to set her alarm. Hours pass, and Miranda lies still in her bed. A floor below her, a deserted house gets itself ready to host a plethora of Miranda’s closest friends and family. The light begins to dim outside and casts long, bony shadows throughout the house. Something in Miranda wakes and a deep, unconscious part of her knows that it is time. A glass of water half empty stands on the dresser. A crushed packet sits next to it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday for next week are empty.

***

Standing in the hallway now, Miranda waits. Her Chiffon dress cuts perfectly under her breasts, then falls in an a-line half way down her calves. Decked out in her mother’s diamonds, with her father’s wristwatch fastened loosely around her left wrist, she stands motionless.
‘Isabel?’ she calls with no obvious inclination of where she is shouting. ‘The guests will be here soon, are you ready?’ Miranda hears no answer.
‘Isabel, please come down at once. Do not embarrass me.’ Irritation filters into her voice this time and she walks into the dining room to have one last check. Everything is up to standard; except those damn tulips still don’t look right. She picks up the vase and hurries off into the kitchen. On the worktop lie row after row of rump steaks, uncooked. The oven is untouched, silent. Pierre is nowhere to be seen. Miranda looks around approvingly.
‘Well done Pierre, it smells wonderful. The guests will be here soon.’ Miranda smiles. With the tulips still in hand, she leaves the kitchen. Miranda feels that buzz that she likes.
19:15 - by the clock in the dining room - and Miranda suddenly finds it so difficult to breathe as she thinks about how the guests could arrive in such a disparate manner that the appetisers just won’t be timed correctly, that she places the tulips on the end of the dining table and clutches her stomach.
‘Oh God,’ she moans ‘what if I haven’t done enough?’ She panics. The doorbell rings. It’s only 19:16, why are they early? The invite clearly said 19:30 for drinks. For a moment Miranda seems to lose her grip on the table, and on her mind and she collapses onto the floor taking the vase with her. The crystal shatters, sending razor sharp shards across the room. Water seems to seep into everything and the tulips lie flaccid on the oak flooring. Miranda watches the chiffon turn a dark, muddy colour as it soaks up the water. She feels a tear roll down her cheek.
The doorbell rings again.
Miranda claws at the floor, and pulls herself up. Her makeup smeared, and running down her face she shuffles awkwardly to the hallway.
‘Isabel?’ She moans.
She hears no response.
Her vision blurs.
She straightens her dress. Scrapes her hair back into place and wipes a hand across her face. 19:21 - by the clock in hall - and all Miranda can do is wait. A light, inoffensive jazz permeates through the halls now. The lights are dimmed and Miranda feels ready. Her dress continues to drip onto the hallway carpet.
19:32, by the clock by the phone. Miranda hears a car drive past, but it does not stop. A moment of panic comes over her and all she can think about is where Isabel is.
A photo of a young, slightly more brunette Isabel sits next to the phone dated, July 1995; next to this sits an elegant ceramic urn.
Miranda climbs the stairs, to the first floor and scans the landing for any signs of life. The next flight of stairs to the second floor are pitch black, Miranda fumbles to find a light switch. She walks up to a door ‘Isabel’ is stuck on it with alphabet fridge magnets. She knocks, but hears no answer. After 10 seconds there is still no reply. She slowly turns the door handle and walks in. The room is empty.
Miranda stares at a space over by the window, just above the radiator.
‘Come down, Isabel.’ She says softly. She waits a few seconds, then turns and leaves.
19:47 her father’s watch says. Waiting again in the hallway for her guests to arrive, for the party she’s been planning for weeks.
Miranda waits.

Comments

How to get to the root

Wed, 17 Sep 2008 16:16:56 +0200

FYI, any submissions you'd like posted on the blog should be sent to: beatrootworkshop@gmail.com

Also, any queries regarding the site, or anything else for that matter should go there too. Just remember to put 'POST' in the subject line of the e-mail if it's a piece of work you want posted.

Ta!

Beatroot

Comments

Beatroot-00001: 33,400 Hours

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 12:28:10 +0200

So here's the first post - feel free to comment as you see fit. We hope this will spur you on to send us your own work to: beatrootworkshop@gmail.com
Any questions, please ask.

Enjoy!

A dollar bill, cut right down the middle, is stuck (badly) to the window. Every time the train shakes, takes a corner or makes a stop it slips a little, then corrects itself like a seasoned subway rider. I scan the window ledge for the other half, but find nothing. No one else seems to have noticed this lonely, broken bill. Just me.

Washington’s pronounced nose sprouts out of nothingness, and looks all the worse for it. With no profound forehead or flouncy hair, his nose looks a little pointless. Like the homeless guys who walk up and down these carriages begging for change; disgruntled half-faced George looks like he’s been doing the same – looking for his missing 50 cents.

I lost my job yesterday. Careless of me, I know. It was all some stupid argument with my manager; apparently my selling technique was pissing off the customers. The fact that I don’t wet myself with excitement at the prospect of selling someone a pair of overpriced Nike’s is something I’m actually quite proud of. But there you go. So anyhow, I got on the subway this morning, same time as usual. I usually get on at 149th, and then off at 59th Street. That’s my morning journey. It’s no pilgrimage, I can tell you that. Today though, I thought I’d live a little (and make use of the travel card I pay through the nose for). I want to see it all today. I’m going the length and breadth of this metropolis. Brooklyn, Coney Island, the Upper East Side. I’m going to make my mark everywhere.

Now though, I care more about this dollar bill than anything else. This poor neglected note. From a broken home, shoved out on the grimy underground. I spend a few minutes thinking about why someone would cut it in half. Was it intentional? Or is he (I’ve decided it’s male) an aberration? A bastard child of the American system cast into the depths, maybe. Or maybe I’m just inferring too much into currency.

In this city, where everyone is a Senior Partner, or a CEO of some highflying investment bank, it’s hard to place yourself in the social food chain. Not that I need the reassurance of a pecking order, it’s just whenever I hear someone say ‘One of the Partner’s said…’ on their cell phone, I always think that I could never be one of them. Then again, I’m unemployed now with rent to pay, so maybe there is a part of me that wants that title.

I’ve lived in New York my whole life; I’ve become immune to everything it can throw at you. I’ve been peed on waiting in line for coffee, I’ve had my bag stolen getting a bus in Brooklyn and I’ve been to the top of Empire State twice and had to resist the urge to drop a penny off the roof. They have ten security guards up there now anyway and everyone is herded around like sheep for fear that someone has a bomb strapped to them.

I think about paying my friend Theo a visit in Chelsea, but remember that he’s away for the week (he always says he’ll leave a set of keys for me if I ever want to use his apartment, but he never does). The super knows who I am, so he’d probably let me in, but I don’t want Theo raving about my invasion of his personal space. Instead, I decide to just see where the day takes me. I have $30 in my wallet so I may as well treat myself.

I see a guy waiting on the platform at 125th Street station that looks exactly like Luke, my ex-boyfriend and I can’t help but stare at him. You know how sometimes when you haven’t seen someone for ages, they can look like that person, but maybe they’re a relation – a cousin, or a brother or something. This guy certainly looks like Luke, but something about the way he walks looks alien to me. He gets on and sits across from me. He’s wearing a dark grey duffle coat done right up to the top even though it’s about 20 degrees outside. I like that about him. My Luke look-a-like sits right next to the dollar bill, so I don’t feel so bad about catching the odd look at him. His eyes are green - Luke’s were brown - so I’m sure it’s not him, plus there was no awkward look of recognition on his face when he sat down. He’s mid-twenties, I think. I can’t decide whether he’s a native New Yorker or not, he looks a little too happy to have lived here his whole life.

I wonder whether I should call work and apologise, I know that Jan would come around in the end. I find myself going over and over how I just walked out the shop with no word to my colleagues – I know Tony will be upset, but he’ll understand. I’ll miss our code words for people we secretly hated, or those we liked. ‘Shoe horn’ for those we thought were hot, and ‘Adidas’ for those who were a ‘pain-in-the-ass’. Luke never liked Tony, he was jealous of our little in-jokes, just like he was jealous of everyone else I used to spend time with. I’d been in that job for four years (Spring 2004) and now I feel sort of useless just sitting here. The guy opposite me looks like he’s about to say something, but the fact that I’m studying every inch of the dollar bill next to him must have put him off because he looks away again. I decide that he could be a nice guy, he may look weirdly similar to Luke, but there’s something about the fact he chose to sit there. He could have sat in any of the seats on that row, but he chose to sit right by the dollar bill, opposite me. I may not be a superstitious guy, but that’s enough of a sign for me.

I make the leap, and look over at him, he tells me he likes my Nike High Tops, I blush slightly and smile. I feel a wave of emotion come over me, and for the first time today I don’t feel so numb. He smiles again and attempts to start a conversation with me. We talk about trivial things for a few minutes – the weather and stuff. Then he asks me what I do for a living, I have two choices here: either I tell him I’m unemployed and riding the subway aimlessly, or I lie and say I’m one of those Senior Partners that I hate so much. I opt for ‘in-between jobs’. This level of honesty jars me for a moment and I can’t believe I’ve just told my ex-boyfriend’s look-a-like that I’m unemployed, but it doesn’t look like he minds.

The train pulls into 59th Street and I get that weird feeling of moving in the opposite direction as the train on the other platform arrives. I look intently at the lapels on his coat and think, for some reason, that his coat has a smell to it – a wintry smell. The guy tentatively gets up and sits next to me.
‘Can I buy you a coffee? I know this little French place where they’re only a dollar.’ He says.

***

My Blackberry clings to my thigh like an external organ. It pulsates and warms me to the core. I have E-mail – third of the day, and it’s only 7:30 am. It’s going to be a busy day. I’ll get into the office and be bombarded from all sides with questions, but I’m prepared. Sales figures for the last quarter? Just give me a second to pull up my Excel spreadsheet and I can show you in PowerPoint form. Don’t like my pie chart? I can convert it into a very pleasing bar graph, or line - whichever best illustrates the trends. I’ve got a hard copy in my briefcase too if you want to see it?

I barely had time this morning to look at myself in the mirror – not that I’d like to stand there for hours gazing at my own reflection, but I literally didn’t have time to. I slapped on a fine layer of Clinique foundation, and a soft peach Chanel lipstick whilst pulling on my clothes in the crappy light from my bedside table. Rufus (my partner) was lying unaware that I was even awake. He doesn’t start work until 09:30am – I secretly resent him for this, but I’ve never told him.

The old guy sat across from me clings to his crumpled plastic carrier bag like it holds everything dear to him – thinking about it, it probably does. He’s got that ‘bed hair’ look, but I don’t think it’s intentional. His feet are spread apart a little too much for my liking, he’s totally invading the space of the girl next to him (she looks mid-twenties, she has killer legs that I can’t help but stare at). When I first moved to New York, I tried to be the friendly, social girl who was determined not to turn into a triple espresso drinking Starbucks clone – but you just can’t survive down here without a good suit of armour. Everyone spreads out there work around them and builds little forts on the subway. I have a wad of paper on the seat next to me; a guy with greasy hair eyes it with disgust. I figure my day actually starts now, whilst I’m on the subway. I actually get a lot more done than you’d think on my journey. It’s a chance for me to proof read everything I’ve done, edit things and catch up with work from the day before.

I majored in Economics at Yale, to pay for it I had to sell nearly all my possessions (which was well worth it in the long run). I didn’t need a car here anyway, so that went first. I worked two jobs just to pay my fees. Seeing people down here in their casual clothes, just out for a trip somewhere gets me so angry sometimes – do they realise the hours I put in? Do they not care that I am someone who needs that extra seat on the subway? That although I may come off as arrogant, I’m not, I’m just really busy.

I run a mental list of all the things I need to do today and get a sense of pleasure knowing I’m fully booked up until 7pm at the earliest. I start organising my work (I always keep a stash of Post-it’s in my bag for this) After five minutes I have a properly ordered stack of documents ready to present to the partners. I make sure I color code everything so they don’t have to wade through the pile with no direction.

I have a 09:30 with Jenkins in conference room C that I actually can’t wait for; I’ve been biding my time to mention the total lack of commitment from some other employees (I haven’t decided whether I’ll name names, but in a situation like this I think you have to). The thought of Rufus just getting into work by the time I’ve been at my desk for over an hour sends a pang of hatred through me. He works a 40-hour week, for a measly salary. He doesn’t even ask me the hours I work anymore, but if he did he’d just tell me I’m insane. 70 hours is just unhealthy, he’d say. When you add it all up it’s really not that bad. I’ve been at Peterson & Clarke for five years now, and I plan to stay for at least another five, so that’s ten years in total. 33,400 hours, give or take. Rufus says I put more into my work than I do our relationship. I tell him that if I could feel as fulfilled and get the salary I do from giving those 33,400 hours to him, I would. For some reason that was no comfort to him.

The train grinds to a halt. An almost inaudible voice travels through the carriages telling us we’ll be moving in a minute, and that they’re sorry for the delay. I notice half a dollar bill stuck to the window opposite me. I see half of someone’s face on it. I can’t even remember who’s on a dollar bill anymore – is it Jefferson? The train jolts back into action and we make it to Bleecker Street in one piece. Between stations, the train stops again and yet again I’m told why – I can’t make out what the guy is saying so settle for a protracted huff and roll of the eyes – a gesture mirrored by nearly everyone in the carriage. I can feel a surge of adrenalin course through my body and I start to make a mental route in my head of how I can avoid being late and get off the subway. If I get off at 51st I could walk to work, or take a cab, but then the train might sort itself out soon. Can I afford to take that risk? I scribble down some estimates for my route and decide I might as well stay on the subway – it’ll give me something to moan about to Lauren (whom I have nothing to say to) at reception. We start moving again

I’m eight minutes late and the train decides to go even slower. I draft a disgruntled e-mail to Lauren at reception, my thumb poised to hit send the moment I get any damn signal.

The train pulls into 59th Street station (at last), and something catches my eye. That grimy slip of a dollar bill shifts slightly, maybe four degrees to the left. The train coming up from Pelham Bay pulls in opposite me. As the carriages race past I notice something in the window. As the carriages come to a calculated, punch-drunk stop, a smear of green from the other train stops briefly in line with the bill in my carriage. I can just make out the tip of Jefferson’s (?) nose close in on his bridge, and then connect. For about a millisecond that little dollar bill is complete, then the train moves a few feet more and it’s gone.

I walk slower than usual out of the station. I root around in my bag for my purse; I pull out a note and study it closely, taking in every detail. It strikes me how many people have had this very bill in their hands, how many times it’s been used, the places it’s been. By the time I get through the doors at work I’m over twenty minutes late, I check my Blackberry – I have three missed calls and two new E-mails.

Comments

Welcome: Addendum

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 11:23:27 +0200

Now all that gumph is out of the way...
Welcome to Beatroot, the idea here is simple: we want to use this blog as a workshop. Send us your work, then we post it, then other subscribers can have a peek and make comments and suggestions on your piece - what works, what doesnt etc. These comments will then be relayed back to the author (via the painfully simple blog comments tool) who can make changes (if they want to) and hopefully help improve the wonderful skills we already posses.
It's a simple premise that we hope will build into a useful tool for all you aspiring writers out there.
To get the ball rolling, I've posted one of my own short stories for your consideration. Please send any comments (related to my work or not) to: beatrootworkshop@gmail.com.

Stay safe,

James (Beatroot Co-Founder)

Comments

Welcome to Beatroot!

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 11:05:50 +0200

we’re not interested in whom, or what you know. we’re interested in what happens when your callused little fingers put skin to key.

all of us here are aspiring writers who have lost their way somewhere down the line and we’ve had to get jobs and pay council tax, we’ve had to fight our way through the aisles of sainsbury’s on a saturday just because it’s the only day we can.

conclusion: life really is a bitch.

beatroot has had many guises, but has finally settled in this little pocket of the internet as a forum, or a network of sorts, for writers who still have that urge to create something remarkable.

beatroot is about getting those people who think of a killer sentence whilst washing the dishes and just have to write it down, those people who stay up till 3am writing and curse the idiots who worm their way into the times best sellers list. people like you.

in short - join us. post your work, get feedback, give feedback, criticise, console, advise and tear apart each other’s work and we can all make the world a better place letter by letter.

Comments