Author Topic: Torturing Mrs Wicket (Third rewrite) Need advice. (Scenes of minor torture)  (Read 2317 times)

Offline johnnyh2

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Hi there.
I reworked this. I like it, but I know it's still nowhere near there yet.

This is a scene from Chapeter seven.

The housekeeper, Mrs Wicket was about to horse whip Casper (aged 6). She slips on the hall rug and knocks herself out.

When the girls arrive back at the orphanage, after church, they think the boys have killed her.

Over the last two weeks, (thanks to the people on here) I discoverd passive voice. I can now see lots of it here and have tried to change it to a more active voice - but I know it hasn't worked well enough. I'm not really sure how you do it.

Also, Ma, taught me about POV. I got what she was saying, but ... in truth, I've no idea who's POV this scene should be seen by.

Should I cut some dialogue and replace with prose?

Any and all comments will really be appreciated.

Oh, and also, can't remember what they're called, but I've tried to weed out the LY words.

Also, as sugested, I've taken out lots of the apostraphies to make Gloria's dialect easier on the eye and the ear.
Here goes ...




‘He made their tiny wings, da – da- da.  All things bright an’… OH MY GOD!’
shouted Gloria, ‘I thought you was joking.  Oh my giddy God, it’s true, you were right
Sand, she definitely looks dead.  Now look, you stop crying and tell me again what
happened ‘cos I’ll ‘ave to call the police.

‘I d-d-don’t know think they k-k-illed her. Casper and Chip. Chip was standing by the stairs looking really cross.’
   
   ‘Sandra, just ‘cos a person looks really cross don’t mean they’ve killed
someone.  That’ll never hold up in court.  The jury’ll laugh their socks off.  Now
did you see anything else?
   
   ‘No, but he definitely said he was going to kill her.’
   
   ‘You sure about that?’  I know he’s an idiot, but that don’t sound like Chip,’

      'I promise, that’s what he said.’

‘Right, well if you’re sure, I better call the pigs.  You sit there, ‘cos you’re a witness an’ you might have to talk to ‘em too. Actually, they’ll probably think it’s you what killed ‘er.

‘Don’t say that,’ wailed Sandra, mopping her tears on the hem of her Sunday skirt.

‘Well, I’m only bein’ realistic Sand.  For all I know it could a been you, ‘cos the real murderer always blames it on someone else.  I mean, Chip just ain’t the killing type. Any judge would see that straight away.’
   
   ‘I’m not the killing type either.  I’m the least likely person to kill someone,’ said Sandra, outraged.

‘That’s my point Sand. It’s always the least likely one what does it.  And you’ve got that withered arm.  That won’t go in your favour.’

‘That doesn’t make me a killer,’ wailed Sandra..

‘I’m only saying what other people might think.  All I’m saying is, it might count against you, you know, being deformed.  Is it 999?’

Upstairs, once Chip and Casper had packed their bags, they met as planned on the upstairs landing.

‘Wait – I think Gloria’s called the police,’ said Chip. The boys lent over the banister and listened.
   
   ‘You callin’ me a liar?’ shouted Gloria.  ‘What? I am calm, an’ I’m not shouting, believe me, you’d know if I was shouting mate. Alright … sergeant.  Well how do I know if they’re still in the house, that’s your job to find out.  All I know is there’s murders on the loose an’ I ain’t going looking for ‘em.  What?  I’ve already told you, she’s lying on the floor next to me with a big pool a blood all round ‘er head.  Well how do I know if she’s dead or not, I’m, not a brain surgeon am I?  What?  Right, yeah, I think I got that sergeant – hang on a sec.
   
   ‘He’s saying one of us has to see if you can feel a pulse.  Go on then,’ said Gloria
shooing Sandra toward the body.
   
   ‘I’m not doing it.’
   
   ‘Well I can’t can I? I’ve got to feed him the instructions and then feed ‘em
back to you.’
   
   Sandra looked fearfully at the corpse.  ‘Couldn’t I feed the instructions?’
   
   ‘Not being funny Sand, but you ain’t got the brains.  Not for this.  Anyway, I’ve
already struck up a rapport with the sergeant, you could wreck everything.  Go on then. The dead can’t ‘urt ya, not when they’re dead.’
   
   Sandra hovered nervously over Mrs Wicket

      ‘It’s funny really when you think about it,' said Gloria.  'I mean, her lying there dead, or should I say … murdered.  Never to see another blue sky or a lovely sun set.  Never to eat another Curly Wurly …’
   
   ‘Never to thrash anyone’s backside again.’
   
   ‘Oi, you just concentrate on what you’re doing.  No, I mean, her dead an’ the world just keeps turning, goes on as normal, as if nothing had ever happened. Weird ‘en it.’
   
   ‘I can’t do it Gloria.  Her eyes are wide open. She’s staring.’

‘Ere, cover ‘em with this,’ said Gloria, throwing her bobble hat across the hall. Sandra placed it over Mrs Wicket’s head, stretching it down over her forehead. Over her eyes.
   
   ‘Hey, Sand, are you a bit glad she’s dead?’ asked Gloria. Sandra nodded but
looked thoroughly ashamed.

‘Yeah, so am I.’

‘But we still have to show her a bit of respect Gloria.’

‘What? No we don’t.  No one liked ‘er when she was alive, an’ it’s no good
pretending otherwise. Everyone hated ‘er guts. I’m glad she’s dead. I’ll have a wee on
‘er grave when they’ve buried ‘er, that’ll teach ‘er.  Would you ‘ave a wee on ‘er grave
Sand?’
   
   Sandra frowned and shook her head.  ‘You shouldn’t talk like that. Not about
dead people, it’s wicked.’
   
   ‘Wicked?  Well you’re a fine one to talk.  Two minutes ago you were sayin’ you were actually glad she was dead.  That’s wicked.’
   
   ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean it.  I only said it because you …’
   
   ‘Can’t change your mind now.  I heard ya, an’ God ‘eard ya.  You’ll probably go to hell for that Sandra Peacock.  Can you feel a pulse?’
   
   ‘No, I can’t feel anything - oh, hang on, there might be a very faint one.’
   
    Gloria grabbed the receiver and shouted, ‘Sergeant, are you there, over?  Oh yeah, hello, me again. Yeah, she can feel a faint one.  What? Okay, hang on love.’  Holding the receiver against her chest, Gloria grinned and whispered.  ‘You know what Sand?  I reckon he fancies me,’  But Sandra was too busy fretting over the blood on the soles of her new Sunday shoes. When she walked she left red footprints behind.
   
   ‘Sand, ‘e says you have to put your ear up by ‘er mouth an’ see if you can
feel ‘er breathing, said Gloria.  Sandra knelt with her ear as close to Mrs Wicket’s face as she dared.‘I can’t feel anything.  She’s not breathing.  She must have … pasted away.’
   
   ‘No babe, she can’t feel nuffing. The old bag’s snuffed it.  What?  Okay.  He says get a bit closer and … ‘
   
   ‘Aaaaaaarrrgh.’
   
   With the speed of a lizards tongue, Mrs Wicket’s hand grabbed Sandra’s wrist.  Sandra screamed and tried to yank it free, but the more she pulled, the tighter Mrs Wicket gripped, and the tighter she gripped the more Sandra screamed, certain her wrist would snap.

‘Get her off me.  Gloria, she breaking my wrist - AARRGGHHH!’
   
   ‘Quick, she’s got my mate.  She ain’t dead, she ‘s clinging on. What shall I do serge?  What?  My Address?’
   
   ‘Arrrgghh! Gloria get her off.  She’s breaking my arm, she’s gonna snap it.’

Mrs Wicket’s mouth opened wide, as if biting an invisible apple. Without thinking, Gloria hurled the telephone.  It smacked the old woman in the face, hard.  Her head flopped back onto the hall floor with a clunk.
   
    Silence.
   
   ‘You’ve … killed her!’ whispered Sandra.
   
   ‘What do you mean, I’ve killed her? She was already dead you idiot.’
   
   Oh – my – goodness. Oh - my – goodness.’
   
   ‘Least she was dead till you started fiddling with ‘er.’  She picked up the phone, but the line, now ripped from its socket, was also dead.

‘That’s your fault that is. He was gonna ask me on a date, I’m sure of it. What
you doing behind that grandfather clock?  Come on out.  Don’t be such a baby.’
   
   ‘Did you give him the address?’
   
   ‘How could I give ‘im the address with you screaming like a mad woman?  It’s
only death – it’s life is death.

‘How can you be so re relaxed about it?  She’s … dead’

‘It’s ‘cos my Auntie used to work in a funeral parlour. This sort a thing don’t affect me like normal people.  My sister’s the same.’
   
   But Sandra wasn’t listening.  The seriousness of the situation struck her like a bullet.  Now she knew what people meant when they said, ‘my knees turned to jelly’. Clutching the curly end of the banister for support, she stared at the lifeless Mrs Wicket.
   
   ‘So … the police won’t come. What shall we do with … her.’
   
   ‘Oh shut up.  I gotta put me thinking hat on.  God I need chocolate.’
   
   As Gloria snatched her bobble hat from Mrs Wicket’s head, the old woman’s skull clunked against the marble again.’
   ‘Oh Gloria, careful.’
   ‘Shut up.’
   Blood seeped from the crack in Mrs Wicket’s skull.  It crept over a white marble tile, then onto a black one, swallowing it whole. It dribbled into the grouting where the tiles met and a lone rivulet trickled toward the front door. Gloria stared.  She’d never seen so much blood at one gathering. ‘Barry was right.  Blood is thicker then water,’ she said,
tugging the hat onto her own head. ‘Don’t say nothing, I’m thinking.’
   
   After a full five minutes silence, Gloria grabbed Sandra by the shoulders and announced, ‘Right, we’ll have ‘to bury ‘er out the back and pretend she just went missing. I’ll get Barry to dig a big hole.  He won’t mind.  I’ll tell ‘im it’s for a fish pond.  Actually, that might be a nice idea you know.  An ornamental fish pond.  We could put fish in it, an get some a them nice, natural, wildlife plants.  I could teach Boris to swim.  Rabbit’s are probably brilliant swimmers given half a chance.  What d’ya think Sand?’
   
   ‘Oh goodness, please don’t say such things. What if she’s not actually dead?’  
   
   ‘Well she will be once we’ve buried ‘er.’
   
   ‘No, no we can’t, It would be … murder. We’d spend the rest of our days in prison. I’m sorry Gloria, it’s out of the question.’
   
   ‘You got a better idea?  No?  Right then, you’ll do as you’re told.  If you don’t help me bury the old bitch, I’m gonna say it was you what killed ‘er.  I’ll say I saw you do it.  I got friends you don’t know about, an’ they’ll say whatever I tell ‘em.  And don’t you dare start cryin’ again else I’ll hit ya.’
   
   Mrs Wicket groaned like a lady wounded in battle.
   
   ‘See, she’s still alive Gloria. She’s alive!’
   
   ‘Okay, okay, Dr Frankenstein, keep your hair on.  Have it your own way, we won’t bury ‘er.  We’ll take ‘er upstairs an’ keep ‘er  in our room.  You grab ‘er legs an’ I’ll get the other end.  God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s like out of a film.’
   
   The girls struggled as best they could, but dragging Mrs Wicket upstairs was impossible.  Stick thin she may have been, but she was still too heavy for them to manage alone.  Eventually it fell on Barry to assist.
   
   ‘But what about all that blood?’ he asked.
   
   ‘That’s not blood Barry, that’s paint.  The lid come off.  Right, when I say lift, lift. Okay, lift.  Aaarrrggghhhh.  We can put her in Sky’s bed,’ Gloria groaned.  

   Once upstairs, while Barry and Sandra hauled Mrs Wicket into bed, Gloria rummaged through the wardrobe.  She whipped two belts from a couple of dressing gowns, and … ‘Sand, tie ‘er up with these.  Nice an’ tight mind, we don’t want ‘er escaping.’
   
   Soon, Mrs Wicket’s wrists and ankles were tightly bound.  

   ‘Right, you comfy there Ida are ya?’ Gloria shouted, an inch from the old lady’s face, then laughed herself silly.

‘Do you think she’s dead or alive?’ whispered Sandra.

‘How the ‘ell do I know? I’m not Dr Spock, am I?  Anyway, I’m starving.  I’ll just pop down the kitchen an’ rustle us up some tea.  You stop ‘ere and keep a close eye on Her Majesty.’  Gloria picked up the cast iron bedside lamp from the cabinet.  ‘If she moves, right, smack er over the head with this’ she said, and flounced Off in search of food.  

While Gloria went to acquaint herself with the contents of the kitchen cupboards, Sandra stayed upstairs with Mrs. Wicket as she had been told, repeatedly leaning forward and whispering, "Mrs. Wicket, are you alive?"

At first there was no reaction. But by the time Gloria returned (with a platter
of cheese and pickle sandwiches the size of house bricks,) Mrs Wicket was murmuring again.  Occasionally her eyes flickered open, at which point Gloria would rush over and wave a hand in front of her face, but there was no reaction.

‘Cooooweee, Ida, are you with us you old witch?  Oh dear, you’re looking very
pale love.  I know what you need.  ‘Ere Sand, pass us me make up bag.’

‘Why, what at are you going to do?’

‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll get it meself,’ said Gloria. She rummaged through her bedside draw until she unearthed a grubby pink satin pouch.  ‘Right Ida Wicket, what you need is a touch a rouge on them cheeks. A little bit a lippy wouldn’t hurt neither.’

Tipping the contents of the bag over the bed, Gloria selected her tools and began painting Mrs Wicket’s wrinkled face.  First she filled in her lips with a pencil of sky blue. Then painted cherry red nail varnish over her eyelids and the bags underneath.

‘Now don’t you worry if it stings a bit Ida, it’s fashion.  You gotta make
sacrifices if you wanna look beautiful.’

By the time Gloria had finished the job to her satisfaction, Mrs Wicket had all the
beauty and charm of a Hollywood zombie.

‘Oh Ida, you look a million dollars, you do really. Don’t she look nice Sand?’
   
   Sandra tried not to look disapproving. ‘I was thinking,’ she said nervously, ‘perhaps she might have had a brain haemorrhage.’

‘So what if she has? Serves ‘er right,’ said Gloria, painting heavily arched eyebrows onto Mrs Wickets forehead.

‘I meant, perhaps we should go to the phone box in the village and call a doctor or something.’
   
   ‘Don’t be so ridiculous Sandra. Look at ‘er, she’s fine. She’s as ‘appy as a fairy up a Christmas tree, an’ twice as pretty - aren’t you Ida, eh?’  Gloria grabbed Mrs
Wicket’s pointed chin and shook it violently.
   
   ‘Oh I know,’ she said, ‘Sand, Sand, go downstairs and get that old record player out of Mrs Wickets office. An’ bring some records too yeah, then we can ‘ave a party. That’ll cheer ‘er up.’
   
   Sandra did as she was told and returned with a selection of records and the old record player. The first record they played sounded crazy.  A riotous and squawky 1920’s jazz band, playing, ‘Yes Sir, That’s My Baby!.’

‘Too quiet Sand. Louder, bung up the volume.’

As the music blared, Gloria knelt on Mrs Wicket’s bed facing her, (one knee either side of the old ladies waist).  She took each of Mrs Wicket’s hands in hers and danced manically to the music.  Everywhere Gloria’s arms went, so did Mrs Wicket’s.
   
   ‘Oh Ida, I never knew you were such a good mover.  Look Sand, Ida’s Dancing. Weeeeeeee, weeeeeee, yeah, that’s it Ida, go girl go.  Dead lady dancing.  Dead lady dancing!’
   
   ‘Oh, Gloria, careful,’ shouted Sandra.  But Gloria was having far too much fun to care.  Bopping and singing along with the music.  ‘Yes Ida, you’re my baby now, doobie-do, doobie-do, doobie-do.’
   
   Sandra was forced to shout to be heard over the music.  ‘Gloria, I’m not being bossy or anything, but I really, really think we should call a doctor or the police or someone. She’s bleeding again look. It’s all over the pillow.’

‘Can’t ‘ere ya Sand.’

‘WE - NEED - TO - CALL - A - DOCTOR.’

‘Oh don’t be such a spoil sport.  You should be glad Ida’s lettin’ ‘er ‘air down
for once.  Oh my god, that’s give me a brilliant Idea. Lets – play – HAIRDRESSERS.’
   
   Gloria dropped Mrs Wicket’s arms, leapt off the bed and rushed to her bedside cabinet, from which she produced a small pair of rusty craft scissors.  ‘They’re a bit blunt but they should do the trick.’

   She shoved Mrs Wicket’s torso forward. A rush of air was expelled from her lungs and she groaned.
   
   ‘Yes Ida, I know darling.  An’ I’m gonna give you a lovely new haircut.’
   
   ‘Oh Gloria, please, no, you mustn’t, really you mustn’t,’ cried Sandra, but
Gloria laughed in her face.  In no time she’d undone the Wicket’s bun and began chop, chop, chopping at her handsome locks.  The bed and the floor were soon covered in died black hair, and Mrs Wicket looked a fright.  Some parts of her scalp were showing while other parts sported messy tufts, like the hair of a small ugly dog, freshly returned from grooming.
   
   ‘Right, that’s that done,’ said Gloria with a satisfied sigh.  ‘I’m starving.  Lets ave them sandwiches.  Sand, have a look in all the draws an’ see if you can find some wine
gums or summut for our pudding.  God I’m so happy.’
« Last Edit: August 14, 2008, 01:02:39 PM by johnnyh2 »

GuthryStrom

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First, I really liked this story. The language is done very well, and I enjoy the style! What exactly is the time period, though? I'm feeling it, but not entirely sure.
Quote
Mrs Wicket’s hand grabbed Sandra’s wrist!
Perhaps instead of an exclamation point, which I'm told should rarely be used, an adverb such as "suddenly", "unexpectedly", or some such word.

Quote
The bed and the floor were soon covered in died black hair
In this scene, would there not be a great deal of blood matted in the hair? A bit morbid, but you've obviously no problem talking about blood, so I think it would be something to mention.

Quote
SHE WAS ALREADY DEAD YOU IDIOT
Using all caps is similar to the exclamation point, but is often viewed as an attempt to get more excited than the point because the point was already used at a different level. I suggest getting rid of it in exchange for lower-case, and since it is in the case of dialouge, go ahead and use the exclamation point. Also note this during screams of disgust or fright such as "Argghhh".

Quote
Blood seeped from the crack in Mrs Wicket’s skull.  It crept over a white marble tile, then onto a black one, swallowing it whole. It seeped into the grouting where the tiles met and a lone rivulet trickled toward the front door.
I wouldn't use "seeped" twice in such a short span, it sticks out a lot.

Quote
While acquainting herself with the contents of the kitchen cupboards, upstairs, Sandra repeatedly leant forward and whispered, ‘Mrs Wicket, are you alive?’
I had to re-read this a couple times. I understood it, but it was muddy. The pronoun "herself" is very vague, as you have two female characters here. The idea gets across, but it could probably be cleaner. Perhaps, While Gloria went to acquaint herself with the contents of the kitchen cupboards, Sandra stayed upstairs with Mrs. Wicket as she had been told, repeatedly leaning forward and whispering, "Mrs. Wicket, are you alive?" But that's just me.

How old is Sandra that she uses the word "Haemorrhage"? After all her fussing I thought she was quite young, but I suppose some background knowledge on where exactly she is might help. What exactly is Mrs. Wicket running, an orphanage? Or a boarding school of sorts? I'm sure background knowledge from the first six chapters could help me out here, though.

Very interesting though, I like it!

Offline SimeyCook

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Couple of minor points:

she defiantly looks dead - maybe a mispelling???
You use 'prat' - hmmm being English I know what it is, but a lot of people will not understand the word.....maybe replace with 'idiot'.

Overall I liked the flow of the scene and it was interesting the way you used the dialogue to give me a picture of the people and the intelligence levels - perhaps I shouldn't judge based on their grammar when they speak but I did.....it's interesting that you made me judge the characters and shows you engaged me...
To be or not to be.....
That is Totally illogical captain
...Spock.

Amateur Poetry

Offline johnnyh2

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Hi there GuthryStrom, and many thanks for taking the time.
I agree with every point you made and will make the changes tomorrow - thanks.

Yeah, it's set in 1957, in an old crumbling mansion run by professor Allardice. He takes in orphan kids for the extra cash. He's never at home (usually on one of his trips looking for rare insects 'up the Congo'), and has no Idea his housekeeper, Mrs Wicket, is so nasty to the kids while he's away. Throughout the first six chapters, she's been vile to all of them. They hate her.

Gloria and Sandra are both 11.

From chapter 8 onwards, the kids begin to look after Mrs Wickit, and (Gloria especially) become strangely protective toward her - feeding her, bathing her and changing her nappy.

In the early chapters, one of the kids becomes infected (by a one of the professors giant insects). Her hands and feet become webbed and her skin turns scaly, like a salmon. She cries twingling green tears. Magical healing tears that have the the power to reverse the aging process etc.

There is conflict when the children must decide whether to use the magic tears on Mrs Wickit to make her better. They fear if they do, she might revert back to her nasty, bulling self.

Think is, I'm rewriting the whole thing in the first person, from Gloria's POV, and making her beloved rabbit Boris Karlof, the one who becomes infected. He's gonna turn really savage. Hopefully that will cause more conflict, because though Gloria loves him, he's a killer. (Keeps trying to tear her throat out). Something along those lines anyway.

Sorry if that sounds a bit jumbled up. The whole idea probably is, at the moment.

Really glad you like it.

And I'll sort out those !!!!!! and other things tommorow.

Thanks for your help. I'm a beginner and need all the help I can get.
Isn't this site brilliant?
Regards,
Johnny.

Oh, and by the way thanks for the blood in the hair thing. It'll make it a tad more gross - great!
« Last Edit: August 14, 2008, 12:40:36 PM by johnnyh2 »

Offline johnnyh2

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Hi SimeyCook.
Yeah - I'm pretty hopless at spelling. I'll see to it. I'll bet there's a 1001 more like that throughout the book.

Also, you're right about 'prat'. I keep forgetting the whole world doesn't come from England. 'Idiot' is much better.

Thanks for that mate.
Regards,
Johnny

Offline ma100

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Hi Johnny I am going to concentrate on pov so I don't confuse you. You said you want This scene from Gloria's pov as in what Gloria, see's feel's think's etc. You have to make that clear as soon as possible who is the viewpoint. I have highlighted viewpoint switch in green to show you where pov goes adrift. Gawd!! I hope you understand my waffle. 

I really hope this helps and not hinders mate. ;)



‘He made their tiny wings, da – da- da.  All things bright an’… OH MY GOD!’
shouted Gloria, ‘I thought you was joking.  Oh my giddy God, it’s true, you were right
Sand, she definitely looks dead.  Now look, you stop crying and tell me again what
happened ‘cos I’ll ‘ave to call the police. Gloria folded her arms and tapped her foot on the floor. She glanced at Chip and Casper standing by the stairs. Chips face screwed and he stared back at Gloria his eyes blazing. As you can see I can't write for kids, but this is just to give you a general idea on what Gloria can see on one Chips faces to establish her pov and to show his cross look.

‘I d-d-don’t know think they k-k-illed her. Casper and Chip. Sandra said. Chip was standing stood by the stairs looking really cross.’      ‘Sandra, just ‘cos a person looks really cross don’t mean they’ve killed
someone.  That’ll never hold up in court.  The jury’ll laugh their socks off.  Now
did you see anything else?
   
   ‘No, but he definitely said he was going to kill her.’Sandra said.
   
   ‘You sure about that?’  I know he’s an idiot, but that don’t sound like Chip,’

      'I promise, that’s what he said.’

‘Right, well if you’re sure, I better call the pigs.  You sit there, ‘cos you’re a witness an’ you might have to talk to ‘em too. Actually, they’ll probably think it’s you what killed ‘er.

‘Don’t say that,’ wailed Sandra, mopping her tears on the hem of her Sunday skirt.

‘Well, I’m only bein’ realistic Sand.  For all I know it could a been you, ‘cos the real murderer always blames it on someone else.  I mean, Chip just ain’t the killing type. Any judge would see that straight away.’
   
   ‘I’m not the killing type either.  I’m the least likely person to kill someone,’ said Sandra, outraged.

‘That’s my point Sand. It’s always the least likely one what does it.  And you’ve got that withered arm.  That won’t go in your favour.’

‘That doesn’t make me a killer,’ wailed Sandra said.

‘I’m only saying what other people might think.  All I’m saying is, it might count against you, you know, being deformed.  Is it 999?’

Upstairs, once Chip and Casper had packed their bags, they met as planned on the upstairs landing.

‘Wait – I think Gloria’s called the police,’ said Chip. The boys lent over the banister and listened.
   

OKay Gloria cannot see Chip or Casper so this is either a new scene for which you start a new pov but for the amount it is I would reword it and cut the rest so Gloria can view it maybe like this.

Gloria watched Casper and Chip whispering before they scambled up the stairs. You see Gloria can't read minds and doesn't know of plans, packing etc
   ‘You callin’ me a liar?’ shouted Gloria.  ‘What? I am calm, an’ I’m not shouting, believe me, you’d know if I was shouting mate. Alright … sergeant.  Well how do I know if they’re still in the house, that’s your job to find out.  All I know is there’s murders on the loose an’ I ain’t going looking for ‘em.  What?  I’ve already told you, she’s lying on the floor next to me with a big pool a blood all round ‘er head.  Well how do I know if she’s dead or not, I’m, not a brain surgeon am I?  What?  Right, yeah, I think I got that sergeant – hang on a sec.
   
   ‘He’s saying one of us has to see if you can feel a pulse.  Go on then,’ said Gloria
shooing Sandra toward the body.
   
   ‘I’m not doing it.’
   
   ‘Well I can’t can I? I’ve got to feed him the instructions and then feed ‘em
back to you.’
   
   Sandra looked fearfully at the corpse.  ‘Couldn’t I feed the instructions?’
   
   ‘Not being funny Sand, but you ain’t got the brains.  Not for this.  Anyway, I’ve
already struck up a rapport with the sergeant, you could wreck everything.  Go on then. The dead can’t ‘urt ya, not when they’re dead.’
   
   Sandra hovered nervously over Mrs Wicket

      ‘It’s funny really when you think about it,' said Gloria.  'I mean, her lying there dead, or should I say … murdered.  Never to see another blue sky or a lovely sun set.  Never to eat another Curly Wurly …’
   
   ‘Never to thrash anyone’s backside again.’
   
   ‘Oi, you just concentrate on what you’re doing.  No, I mean, her dead an’ the world just keeps turning, goes on as normal, as if nothing had ever happened. Weird ‘en it.’
   
   ‘I can’t do it Gloria.  Her eyes are wide open. She’s staring.’

‘Ere, cover ‘em with this,’ said Gloria, throwing her bobble hat across the hall. Sandra placed it over Mrs Wicket’s head, stretching it down over her forehead. Over her eyes.
   
   ‘Hey, Sand, are you a bit glad she’s dead?’ asked Gloria. Sandra nodded but
looked thoroughly ashamed.

‘Yeah, so am I.’

‘But we still have to show her a bit of respect Gloria.’

‘What? No we don’t.  No one liked ‘er when she was alive, an’ it’s no good
pretending otherwise. Everyone hated ‘er guts. I’m glad she’s dead. I’ll have a wee on
‘er grave when they’ve buried ‘er, that’ll teach ‘er.  Would you ‘ave a wee on ‘er grave
Sand?’
   
   Sandra frowned and shook her head.  ‘You shouldn’t talk like that. Not about
dead people, it’s wicked.’
   
   ‘Wicked?  Well you’re a fine one to talk.  Two minutes ago you were sayin’ you were actually glad she was dead.  That’s wicked.’
   
   ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean it.  I only said it because you …’
   
   ‘Can’t change your mind now.  I heard ya, an’ God ‘eard ya.  You’ll probably go to hell for that Sandra Peacock.  Can you feel a pulse?’
   
   ‘No, I can’t feel anything - oh, hang on, there might be a very faint one.’
   
    Gloria grabbed the receiver and shouted, ‘Sergeant, are you there, over?  Oh yeah, hello, me again. Yeah, she can feel a faint one.  What? Okay, hang on love.’  Holding the receiver against her chest, Gloria grinned and whispered.  ‘You know what Sand?  I reckon he fancies me,’ But Sandra was too busy fretting over the blood on the soles of her new Sunday shoes. When she walked she left red footprints behind.
   
   ‘Sand, ‘e says you have to put your ear up by ‘er mouth an’ see if you can
feel ‘er breathing, said Gloria.  Sandra knelt with her ear as close to Mrs Wicket’s face. as she dared.‘I can’t feel anything.  She’s not breathing.  She must have … pastedpassed away.’  Sandra can't feel fear
   
   ‘No babe, she can’t feel nuffing. The old bag’s snuffed it.  What?  Okay.  He says get a bit closer and … ‘
   
   ‘Aaaaaaarrrgh.’
   
   With the speed of a lizards tongue, Mrs Wicket’s hand grabbed Sandra’s wrist.  Sandra screamed and tried to yank it free, but the more she pulled, the tighter Mrs Wicket gripped, and the tighter she gripped the more Sandra screamed, certain her wrist would snap.
This bit  reword through what Gloria can see and hear.  She can't see Sandra's certainty
‘Get her off me.  Gloria, she breaking my wrist - AARRGGHHH!’
   
   ‘Quick, she’s got my mate.  She ain’t dead, she ‘s clinging on. What shall I do serge?  What?  My Address?’
   
   ‘Arrrgghh! Gloria get her off.  She’s breaking my arm, she’s gonna snap it.’

Mrs Wicket’s mouth opened wide, as if biting an invisible apple. Without thinking, Gloria hurled the telephone.  It smacked the old woman in the face, hard.  Her head flopped back onto the hall floor with a clunk.
   
    Silence.
   
   ‘You’ve … killed her!’ whispered Sandra.
   
   ‘What do you mean, I’ve killed her? She was already dead you idiot.’
   
   Oh – my – goodness. Oh - my – goodness.’
   
   ‘Least she was dead till you started fiddling with ‘er.’  She picked up the phone, but the line, now ripped from its socket, was also dead.

‘That’s your fault that is. He was gonna ask me on a date, I’m sure of it. What
you doing behind that grandfather clock?  Come on out.  Don’t be such a baby.’
   
   ‘Did you give him the address?’
   
   ‘How could I give ‘im the address with you screaming like a mad woman?  It’s
only death – it’s life is death.

‘How can you be so re relaxed about it?  She’s … dead’

‘It’s ‘cos my Auntie used to work in a funeral parlour. This sort a thing don’t affect me like normal people.  My sister’s the same.’
   
   But Sandra wasn’t listening.  The seriousness of the situation struck her like a bullet.  Now she knew what people meant when they said, ‘my knees turned to jelly’. Clutching the curly end of the banister for support, she stared at the lifeless Mrs Wicket.
Now here Johnny you have to show Sandra's anxiety so Gloria can see it. She trembles...She bites her hand in anguish...She shakes or cries...Gloria cannot see her thoughts
   
   ‘So … the police won’t come. What shall we do with … her.’
   
   ‘Oh shut up.  I gotta put me thinking hat on.  God I need chocolate.’
   
   As Gloria snatched her bobble hat from Mrs Wicket’s head, the old woman’s skull clunked against the marble again.’
   ‘Oh Gloria, careful.’
   ‘Shut up.’
   Blood seeped from the crack in Mrs Wicket’s skull.  It crept over a white marble tile, then onto a black one, swallowing it whole. It dribbled into the grouting where the tiles met and a lone rivulet trickled toward the front door. Gloria stared.  She’d never seen so much blood at one gathering. ‘Barry was right.  Blood is thicker then water,’ she said,
tugging the hat onto her own head. ‘Don’t say nothing, I’m thinking.’
   
   After a full five minutes silence, Gloria grabbed Sandra by the shoulders and announced, ‘Right, we’ll have ‘to bury ‘er out the back and pretend she just went missing. I’ll get Barry to dig a big hole.  He won’t mind.  I’ll tell ‘im it’s for a fish pond.  Actually, that might be a nice idea you know.  An ornamental fish pond.  We could put fish in it, an get some a them nice, natural, wildlife plants.  I could teach Boris to swim.  Rabbit’s are probably brilliant swimmers given half a chance.  What d’ya think Sand?’
   
   ‘Oh goodness, please don’t say such things. What if she’s not actually dead?’  
   
   ‘Well she will be once we’ve buried ‘er.’
   
   ‘No, no we can’t, It would be … murder. We’d spend the rest of our days in prison. I’m sorry Gloria, it’s out of the question.’
   
   ‘You got a better idea?  No?  Right then, you’ll do as you’re told.  If you don’t help me bury the old bitch, I’m gonna say it was you what killed ‘er.  I’ll say I saw you do it.  I got friends you don’t know about, an’ they’ll say whatever I tell ‘em.  And don’t you dare start cryin’ again else I’ll hit ya.’
   
   Mrs Wicket groaned like a lady wounded in battle.
   
   ‘See, she’s still alive Gloria. She’s alive!’
   
   ‘Okay, okay, Dr Frankenstein, keep your hair on.  Have it your own way, we won’t bury ‘er.  We’ll take ‘er upstairs an’ keep ‘er  in our room.  You grab ‘er legs an’ I’ll get the other end.  God, I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s like out of a film.’
   
   The girls struggled as best they could, but dragging Mrs Wicket upstairs was impossible.  Stick thin she may have been, but she was still too heavy for them to manage alone.  Eventually it fell on Barry to assist.
   
   ‘But what about all that blood?’ he asked.
   
   ‘That’s not blood Barry, that’s paint.  The lid come off.  Right, when I say lift, lift. Okay, lift.  Aaarrrggghhhh.  We can put her in Sky’s bed,’ Gloria groaned.  

   Once upstairs, while Barry and Sandra hauled Mrs Wicket into bed, Gloria rummaged through the wardrobe.  She whipped two belts from a couple of dressing gowns, and … ‘Sand, tie ‘er up with these.  Nice an’ tight mind, we don’t want ‘er escaping.’
   
   Soon, Mrs Wicket’s wrists and ankles were tightly bound.  

   ‘Right, you comfy there Ida are ya?’ Gloria shouted, an inch from the old lady’s face, then laughed herself silly.

‘Do you think she’s dead or alive?’ whispered Sandra.

‘How the ‘ell do I know? I’m not Dr Spock, am I?  Anyway, I’m starving.  I’ll just pop down the kitchen an’ rustle us up some tea.  You stop ‘ere and keep a close eye on Her Majesty.’  Gloria picked up the cast iron bedside lamp from the cabinet.  ‘If she moves, right, smack er over the head with this’ she said, and flounced Off in search of food.  

While Gloria went to acquaint herself with the contents of the kitchen cupboards, Sandra stayed upstairs with Mrs. Wicket as she had been told, repeatedly leaning forward and whispering, "Mrs. Wicket, are you alive?"

At first there was no reaction. But by the time Gloria returned (with a platter
of cheese and pickle sandwiches the size of house bricks,) Mrs Wicket was murmuring again.  Occasionally her eyes flickered open, at which point Gloria would rush over and wave a hand in front of her face, but there was no reaction.

‘Cooooweee, Ida, are you with us you old witch?  Oh dear, you’re looking very
pale love.  I know what you need.  ‘Ere Sand, pass us me make up bag.’

‘Why, what at are you going to do?’

‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll get it meself,’ said Gloria. She rummaged through her bedside draw until she unearthed a grubby pink satin pouch.  ‘Right Ida Wicket, what you need is a touch a rouge on them cheeks. A little bit a lippy wouldn’t hurt neither.’

Tipping the contents of the bag over the bed, Gloria selected her tools and began painting Mrs Wicket’s wrinkled face.  First she filled in her lips with a pencil of sky blue. Then painted cherry red nail varnish over her eyelids and the bags underneath.

‘Now don’t you worry if it stings a bit Ida, it’s fashion.  You gotta make
sacrifices if you wanna look beautiful.’

By the time Gloria had finished the job to her satisfaction, Mrs Wicket had all the
beauty and charm of a Hollywood zombie.

‘Oh Ida, you look a million dollars, you do really. Don’t she look nice Sand?’
   
   Sandra tried not to look disapproving. ‘I was thinking,’ she said nervously, ‘perhaps she might have had a brain haemorrhage.’
Gloria cannot see Sandra trying not to look...

‘So what if she has? Serves ‘er right,’ said Gloria, painting heavily arched eyebrows onto Mrs Wickets forehead.

‘I meant, perhaps we should go to the phone box in the village and call a doctor or something.’
   
   ‘Don’t be so ridiculous Sandra. Look at ‘er, she’s fine. She’s as ‘appy as a fairy up a Christmas tree, an’ twice as pretty - aren’t you Ida, eh?’  Gloria grabbed Mrs
Wicket’s pointed chin and shook it violently.
   
   ‘Oh I know,’ she said, ‘Sand, Sand, go downstairs and get that old record player out of Mrs Wickets office. An’ bring some records too yeah, then we can ‘ave a party. That’ll cheer ‘er up.’
   
   Sandra did as she was told and returned with a selection of records and the old record player. The first record they played sounded crazy.  A riotous and squawky 1920’s jazz band, playing, ‘Yes Sir, That’s My Baby!.’

‘Too quiet Sand. Louder, bung up the volume.’

As the music blared, Gloria knelt on Mrs Wicket’s bed facing her, (one knee either side of the old ladies waist).  She took each of Mrs Wicket’s hands in hers and danced manically to the music.  Everywhere Gloria’s arms went, so did Mrs Wicket’s.
   
   ‘Oh Ida, I never knew you were such a good mover.  Look Sand, Ida’s Dancing. Weeeeeeee, weeeeeee, yeah, that’s it Ida, go girl go.  Dead lady dancing.  Dead lady dancing!’
   
   ‘Oh, Gloria, careful,’ shouted Sandra.  But Gloria was having far too much fun to care.  Bopping and singing along with the music.  ‘Yes Ida, you’re my baby now, doobie-do, doobie-do, doobie-do.’
   
   Sandra was forced to shout to be heard over the music.  ‘Gloria, I’m not being bossy or anything, but I really, really think we should call a doctor or the police or someone. She’s bleeding again look. It’s all over the pillow.’Sandra shouted over the music

‘Can’t ‘ere ya Sand.’

‘WE - NEED - TO - CALL - A - DOCTOR.’

‘Oh don’t be such a spoil sport.  You should be glad Ida’s lettin’ ‘er ‘air down
for once.  Oh my god, that’s give me a brilliant Idea. Lets – play – HAIRDRESSERS.’
   
   Gloria dropped Mrs Wicket’s arms, leapt off the bed and rushed to her bedside cabinet, from which she produced a small pair of rusty craft scissors.  ‘They’re a bit blunt but they should do the trick.’

   She shoved Mrs Wicket’s torso forward. A rush of air was expelled from her lungs and she groaned.
   
   ‘Yes Ida, I know darling.  An’ I’m gonna give you a lovely new haircut.’
   
   ‘Oh Gloria, please, no, you mustn’t, really you mustn’t,’ cried Sandra, but
Gloria laughed in her face.  In no time she’d undone the Wicket’s bun and began chop, chop, chopping at her handsome locks.  The bed and the floor were soon covered in died black hair, and Mrs Wicket looked a fright.  Some parts of her scalp were showing while other parts sported messy tufts, like the hair of a small ugly dog, freshly returned from grooming.
   
   ‘Right, that’s that done,’ said Gloria with a satisfied sigh.  ‘I’m starving.  Lets ave them sandwiches.  Sand, have a look in all the draws an’ see if you can find some wine
gums or summut for our pudding.  God I’m so happy.’

Offline johnnyh2

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Hey,  Ma, thank you so much for helping me. This POV thing is really starting to make sense.

Is this right? 
Basically, every scene, is all seen, felt and experianced from one persons point of view. So, if it's Gloria's POV, I can't say, during the scene - Sanda was feeling nevous and wondered whether the house would blow down. (Because Gloria can't see inside Sandra's head). instead I'd have to say something like ... Gloria wondered why Sandra was biting he nails and looking so nervous. 'What's the matter with you?' she said.
'I'm just worried the house might blow down,' said Sandra.

Somehow I can't believe it's that simple. If it is, that's made my week.
Anyway, tomorrow I'll try correcting the whole scene.
Thanks again.
Regards,
Johnny.


Offline ma100

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That is it Johnny and also remember you can switch pov in different scenes if you wish but always make it clear as soon as possible whose eyes the reader is seeing it through. Well done.
Ma :)

Offline Elodie-Caroline

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Hi Johnny, this story made me laugh out loud in some parts, but that's because I've got a sick sense of humour  ;) It was a good piece and I could picture it vividly. Your characters really came to the fore.

With the POV: If you want to change POV, as Ma said, just use a separate paragraph and make sure you let the reader knows whose POV it is.

I'd Keep the word prat, as it is within the characters vocabulary and it stands out that they're English anyway. After all, with Taggart and the original series of Cracker, with Robbie Coltrane, and the film Trainspotting, America used subtitles for the Scots accent. Someone will always be able to tell them what a prat is. I said the word stroppy to an American once, he just asked his workmate, who was from Scotland, what it meant.


Elodie