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Fiction: Bloody Sunday

posted by Lucy V Morgan on ,


This is the first page of one of my WIPs (the literary-type one that I'm agonising over in true prostrate, writerly fashion). I haven't written an article-style opener before and I feel a bit strange about it (the first line not being an obvious hook. Maybe I should add a headline? Feels a bit "school project" though). After the article snippet, the novel is then composed of Scarlet and Adam's "perspectives." All opinions and ideas welcome; after my last post, it seemed timely to share.

Tagline: Three bodies. Two manuscripts. One echo in the dark of love.



On Sunday 17th November, police discovered three bodies in the master bedroom of 2A Golby Row. Neighbours reported the sound of gunshots and a woman screaming at 2:17am, approximately fifteen minutes before officers arrived at the scene. Later, the victims were identified as restauranteur Lucas Warren, 33; his novelist wife Scarlet, 25, and his brother Adam, 35, who had recently left a career in investment banking.

The house showed no signs of forced entry. Family and friends were unaware of any discord between the three. All died from fatal gun wounds and while all of the victims’ fingerprints were found on the single weapon, forensic evidence suggested that Adam shot himself.

During the investigation, the police recovered diaries belonging to Scarlet beneath the couple‘s bed. They also found a manuscript which is believed to be written by Adam in the trunk of his car. Due to its content, the manuscript is considered autobiographical.

The following has been pieced together in order to understand what happened at 2A Golby Row on that November night. It has been released to the immediate family of the victims by Hart Metropolitan Police, and readers are advised that the content is extremely sensitive.



My mother said that marriages were like trees. You nourished them, you let them breathe, and they grew solid and far-reaching. Circles within circles; spiralled roots in the soil.

My teacher said that if you cut through the trunk, you could count the rings to see how old it was. Circles within circles; legends soaked in sap.

All by myself, I figured that no matter how old it is, there are only two rings in a marriage. Circle within a circle; his and mine.

I hope we’re not made of wood. I hope we’re up there on Mars, awaiting a box on the periodic table.


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