Title: Overlap; Or The Many Deaths Of
Words: 3461
Status: Slightly proofread, unedited
Author's Notes: I stumbled across this story in my writing folder about half an hour ago. It's a little something I started in late 2009, left for ages and finished in 2010. So it's 3/4 years old, and probably very crap. But I'm quite proud of it simply because it's one of the few short stories I've actually brought to some sort of conclusion! I'm thinking of changing it to present tense (the immediacy would suit the concept much better), but other than that I'm open to critique. Also, this is my 101st writing post! Yay!

( It started with a weird feeling... )

A/N: Because I've been horrifically negligent both in my journal and in posting any actual writing, here: have a short story I wrote from a prompt posted on Writeworld.


( Sixty-five years ago today. The sun's disc hanging low in a weak yellow sky, the smell of heather soft, fragrant in the air. I remember it so well... )

They say if you travel down 367 miles from the northernmost point of the M1 on a windy April the first night, with a particular cloud arrangement in the sky (my knowledge on this is hazy but I'm quite sure one must be shaped like a crocodile), stop off on the field to your left and then cry to the heavens that your toenails are ingrowing, you'll look like an idiot and possibly be sectioned for having a mental disorder that entails an obsession with abnormal toenails.

If you were sensible and went to Slough instead, to a particular lamp post on a particular street, then swung around the lamp post whilst singing hallelujah, you'd quickly disappear before the man in white coats could even entertain the thought of finding you.

And so it was that a young man in a suit, carrying a heap of posters, stood gasping on this same street in Slough, wishing that his bosses would consider their cock-up in giving him a lamp post in Slough, when in fact he lived in Edinburgh. Parking was nightmarish down here, and already he could feel the traffic wardens watching him, counting down the minutes until they could swarm his car like vultures.

( Read more... )

As soon as Kevin strode out into the classroom and disrobed himself, he saw the same expressions of bafflement cross the faces of the art students, one by one. Not bafflement as in 'what a horrible looking creature; his elbows are positively vile!' - he hoped – but more one of genuine confusion. These looks said 'why is he there?', 'why are we here?' and 'I wonder what I'll make for tea tonight?'.

“This is Kevin; he'll be our subject for today,” said the tutor, a moustached man in a turtleneck who hovered near his own easel. “Let's get painting!”

With that a new silence took over; the silence of concentration and a gentle sonic landscape of brushes scratching canvas. But the old, uneasy quiet was still there, and it was weird. Kevin pondered on it to distract from the draught threatening his nethers. He couldn't help but think sometimes that maybe people couldn't quite place him in the world – like there was something missing or odd that set him apart from some bizarre cosmic balance. But most of his thought went on to the fact that he was unemployed and his life was awful beyond belief.

( Read more... )

And floating through darkness, the faint sound of a clarinet. Gemini lifted her head for just a moment, listening to the ephemeral notes dance around the sounds of the night. In her state of half-waking it was simply a strange composition to her; probably Atlas having a late night rehearsal. She didn't put it down as unusual, although it was. Her mind was just the music, and exhaustion. Her head drifted down into the pillow; her eyes wandered the scattered toys on her bedroom floor and she imagined them dancing as the music lulled her to sleep.

She heard it in her dreams, and it was most unlike anything she had ever heard Atlas play. Another world had opened up from whence the music came; she felt it prising a gulf between body and soul and pushing, widening until her whole being was rushing to pieces. The drumbeat of her heart throbbed sharp and loud.

Light slanted across her ceiling an instant later. Outside a blackbird trilled, another chirped in response. Conversation in song. And then the throbbing came again, this time at her bedroom door.

( Read more... )

Ah! to be a Cat
and not have to worry about
money; a loan unpaid
and nonsense like that.
A sleek cat who trips the fence fantastic
by the oboe's trill;
a Jazz Cat
jumping

down
down
down

into the Kingdom of Garden.
A chic Cat,
cool and penniless
and chasing birds
to win my fame.
A neat Cat,
impeccable.
But to be a Cat would be
to have no music
no words
no tea
and no you...
unless you were a Cat too.

I wrote this on the bus to Belfast this morning. It's my attempt at improving on the two villanelles I'd written earlier, in which I chose my rhyme scheme and repeating lines, then built a poem around it. It's not perfect, but I feel it's a hell of a lot better. It's biographical in nature and won't take a genius to figure out! As for my other two villanelles, I love the central themes to them, so I'd love to rewrite them in future.

Even though you're far away

Even though you're far away
with distance set to last a while
I fall for you again each day.

And every day you mend the pain
In phone calls, photos, glimpse your smile
your laugh; the things you say.

I love your heart, your soul, the way
you resonate across the miles.
I love your laugh; the things you say.

Between us, even though there's rain
and months of parting at a time,
I fall for you again each day.

Before us, even though there's pain
it's due to pass; it won't defy
I hear your laugh, the things you say.

Those months will pass, those years won't stay
like winter when spring finds its time;
I'll have your laugh, the things you say.
I fall for you again each day.

“First”
Wasn't in that day
stranded broke in Portadown
wrote one anyway
(14:05)

“Unexpected Winds”
Winds snatch hat away
she pursues and picks it up
keeps calm and carries on
(15:12)

“In Belfast Rain”
In Belfast rain
girl writes haiku in the street
paint stained hidden poet
(15:14)

“Death of the Machine”
On Loughview sliproad
three seven zero breaks down
passengers still on
(16:20)

NB: I've been led to believe (by the Internet, durr hurr) that 'haikku' is the plural of 'haiku'. If someone here knows better, feel free to correct me!

11:05, and as the wild guitar tears through us you suggest we should go. Unthinkable; there's a song yet and you, concert virgin, are enjoying yourself. I know you are. The bass pounds us into the music while the keyboard carries us up and away to 1969. Ghosts of classic rock giants in a world not ready to let go. We are this moment, and each tick of the clock rings rarer than diamond.

11:10 and the last notes ring away. The frontman addresses the baying crowd and can offer no more after two encores – the gig is over; time for light-blinded music-deafened revellers to emerge in the real world.

Nudging me, taking my arm, you tell me it's time to go. The clock screams louder than the band's new-found fans. The album's on sale now; I throw a tenner at the bassist and take my copy.

We push through the crowds - “excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I brush past tens of hot and sweaty bodies. Through heady clouds of vodka we burst into the cool July night.

11:15. Ten minutes to go and we run; bodies in flight over streets fresh-wet with rain, streets where nightclub lights spill neon-bright across the sodium-lit path. Darting around clubbers you grasp my hand and I'm free – you take my hand and the breath from my chest and I'm air – we're air, colliding. I feel your warmth like my own. My heart throbs with what could be and what is now. You, beautiful.

11:20 and already the night's drunken regulars have completed the nightly pilgrimage to catch the last bus home. All the breath out of me I'm gasping and the world spins in a dark blur of orange and black. You stop and hold me as I struggle for breath. “Are you alright? Do you need to rest?”

I shake my head and silence you with a kiss. In my head I'm still flying – fingers entwine and I could carry you away.

But 11:25 looms. Ahead of me silence, and a lonely ride home.

As a point of interest, this was the first draft of my English Language media piece; a radio script about blogs. Our media piece was intended as a companion to our language investigation coursework - those of you who've been here a few years will remember that I analysed the language of blogs - and the media piece was a way of presenting our findings in an educational, entertaining way that was understandable to your Average Joe. This draft was rejected outright.


[FX: Eerie music]

NARRATOR: We are about to take you on a journey through time and space.
CROWD: Oooh!
NARRATOR: A journey into an alternate world; one much unlike our own. The year is 2010, and all of humanity exist solely on... the Internet!

( And so on and so forth... )

Week's work converge on
this shining moment
Smell of fresh newspaper
my name in print.
Flip through the pages and
see my words etched
Pride of my working-week
tales letter-sketched.

See the town sleep.
Clothed in the perfect Sunday silence
choked by vines of
busy centres
it once dwarfed.

Silent but for the two crucial hours
each day
morning and evening
when it is thoroughfare to streams
of gleaming cars:
"We'd drive through,
never stop there."

See the trees grow.
For movement here is so scarce
you can almost see them
twitching quivering
stretching to a vast blue sky.

Silent but for the whispering winds
all day
through branches breathing
Earth reclaiming
streets and alleyways,
"Come back to me,
O' Willow Town."

Boy. Fifteen and trembling
under the cold white light
of the courts
and the cold dark stares
of those accusing,
wish he wasn't there.
Unnamed for legal reasons
cast nameless into cells
for what he hardly did
- followed others into hell.
There goes
the future jobs
security
all to impress the yobs.
Consigned to a condemning state
sent down in youth
weeps at his fate.

You never seemed to leave that chair.
I didn't think in all your years
your legs had failed; you were
the immovable monolith;
King of our Clan
but not impartial to
a smothering hug
or a talkative child on your knee.
Those faces made me shriek with glee.

You were the light, the life and soul
of all occasions,
of any occasion.
That thick dark wig
immortalised in photographs, that
touched the heads of all of us,
as you touched the hearts of all of us.
And your lemonade, 7up
you let no-one have but me.

Eleven years on
your beloved takes that chair
and feels your glow
though you're not there;

She cannot hope to
fill the space
of all your years
though you're not here.

We have the photos and the talk,
we have the earth where you once walked,
before your passing and your pain,
we had you once but not again.

INT. WESLEY METHODIST CHURCH - AFTERNOON

KELZA sits with JASON, holding his left hand in her right, her own left arm bare on the table next to her. A NURSE presses cotton wool against her arm where blood has recently been taken. A stern DOCTOR holds a blood sample, eyeing it with disapproval.

DOCTOR I'm afraid we won't be able to use this blood, Miss Pilkington.

KELZA (Confused, mildly annoyed) Why not? You aren't about to tell me I went through that hell for nothing!

NURSE Calm down, unless you want to faint!

DOCTOR (Calmly) We've taken the time to analyse your donation and the findings are - well, shall we say... interesting.

KELZA Oh yes?

( And the good doctor continued... )

It was a sunny day in Hastings - clear skies, but cold. The English countryside was wild with the colours of October, and also the colours of the Norman and English armies who were happily hacking one-another to pieces on Senlac Hill.

( And so it continues... )

This is what Holly does to me. IT'S CRIMINAL.

Under the cut lies two silly, unedited... things... spawned from a simple e-mail to Holly. In which Kelza tries to get Holly's main character done for squatting and Bella Swan comes to her senses. WARNING: May contain words.

( HERE BE NONSENSE! )

I woke up on a local playing field, beneath the stars. That’s lovely, you may be thinking. What a romantic thing to awaken to!

It might have been lovely, and it might have been romantic, had it not been for the wedding dress I found myself in.

Yes. Bugger.

( She is under le cut, as is the theme. Also, a bit of language and rubbish humour. )

Words: 505

Author's Notes: Apologies for any naffness; this was something I knocked together in an attempt to be one of those people who can throw together a nifty story in a matter of minutes. Read, comment, enjoy (if you can), and feel free to throw your peanuts!

I might continue this. It seems like a good beginning for a story, and though I'm aware of the idea being used before (i.e. the concept of people getting married by accident/not remembering it), I'm confident that, given enough thought, I could put an interesting spin on it.

Cross-posted to linebyline. Woe on you if you see it twice!

Ancient pines breathe unspoken wisdom through the hill-mists by the sea. The sun traces golden fingers through the forest, digits stroking a lover's hair, and these flashes of warmth spill over you as you trip the grey gravel path. Everything lives, from the sky to the trees to the burning muscles in your legs. Hours have passed and you have hours to go.

A break in the woods reveals a shard of the sea, distant, glistening. The sky, the sea, the mountain, the forest. All four gathered eternally to greet you.

Your soul awakens here, is nurtured. To tear it away would be to repeat injury.

This is the best bit of what I sent off to Queen's University, Belfast. It was my first attempt at writing a comedy sketch, and since then I've been itching to write more. Incidentally, I noticed a typo in there (I'd accidentally spelled 'writhing' as 'writing'). I know that typos are usually all it takes for English department admissions tutors to toss a piece in the rejection pile, but I can still hope that a minor error will be forgiven. After all, I'm not like Robert. Last time I checked, I was pretty much a Pete. Er - just female and in possession of a few more pairs of trousers...

( In which Pete wakes up with a headache and minus one pair of trousers. )