Strange idea... help please?

OK I have an idea where we start of with a sentence or so say here on the blog and then we finish the story through the comments and we could keep it going for ages and it would be really cool... or not but yeah so dramatic sentence to start and let's see what might happen?

Christie felt the knife slip from her fingers and suddenly she released how silent the room was.

Tribute To Sangan

Oh Sangan,
You were here then taken with no warning,
Everyone here is still in mourning,
You were taken by the March banlist,
Needless to say us players were rather pissed,
Night Assailant was nothing compared to you,
All we are left with is shitty replacements,
Like Dark Mimic and Dotedotengu.

Oh Sangan,
You were everyone’s favourite fiendish friend,
So sad that your time with us came to an end,
In your memory we raise our flagons,
Unable to DAD loop in Chaos Dragons,
Meanwhile Mermails roam free,
Ophion just says “no”,
And Elemental Dragons prepare to ravage the field with glee.

Oh Sangan,
You were the secret spice in every deck recipe,
Always there to add that dash of consistency,
Never again will will you call for Rescue Rabbit,
To get him to come out and play,
Never again will you search for Magician,
To set up that Wind-Up OTK,
Never again will you fetch a Tour Guide from the deck,
Plus you are longer are you a valid target for her effect,
And it's sad because you were her favourite,
Her number one pet,
And because of your departure her life has been wrecked.

Oh Sangan,
There isn’t much left to say,
It’s too bad things turned out this way,
You’ll always have a place in every players heart,
For you were with us from the start,
Whilst we have other good searchers like Stratos and Manju,
They don’t do the same things you do,
To show my love for you I want to declare without further ado,
If you were a Pokémon I’d choose you.

Translator

Story written from "A translator doesn't want to translate what she's just been told". It's not the one I wrote in Rm 125- that one didn't make sense so I did it again. 

Elle was about to take the short cut to work down the alley way when it happened. She saw everything with her own two eyes. The tall dark haired man put the gun to the woman's head and pulled the trigger. Bits of brain and blood splattered everywhere. Before the man could see her she ran back the other way and took the long route to the police station. When she finally got there after what felt like an age of walking, a few police cars were parked round the entrance, a few still had sirens blurring. She made her way through reception, said "Hi" to Sally the receptionist and headed straight for her office.

"Hey, Elle!"

She turned around and saw her boss walking towards her looking very stressed though it was only 9:00 in the morning.

"Hi. Do you want something? I've got a load of filing to do."

"Well we've just brought in some French guy, we kind of need you to take this case too if that's ok? Ms Super Translator!" He strained a smile.

Elle sighed, "Ok, fine. When do you need me?"

"Excellent!" An actual smile this time. Her boss lead her through numerous corridors before reaching the interrogation room. It was the smallest room in the building consisting of a wobbly table surrounded by four wooden chairs. On the table sat a tape recorder, and that was all. It was a bleak room which sent shivers down her spine, the most dangerous criminals were interrogated in this room. She sat down on the chair furthest from the door on the right and ran over French vocabulary in her head. It had been a while since she had translated, 6 years to be exact, and her French was getting a bit rusty. She had once been one of the best translators in Europe, jumping from police station to police station translating statements from some of the most infamous French criminals. That was until she got sucked into Surrey Police Station working for her brother. They were depressing times, and it was about to get a lot worse.

Her brother had returned with another officer but what was shocking was who the criminal was. The man sitting down across the table from Elle was no other than the man she had seen shooting that woman exactly an hour ago. She had been so flustered that morning she had totally forgotten to mention what she had witnessed on the back alley. But Elle decided to wait it out, now wasn't the time or the place. She switched on the tape recorder and spoke clearly into the microphone, "Date 12-11-2013. Case Number: 1576. Suspect: Mr Clément Chabert. Officers: Miss Elle Pierce. Mr Eric Proctor." She turned to Eric, a rather plumb man with whispers of greying hair on his head and face, "Proceed".

"Mr Chabert, do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

The Frenchman glared at the officers and said, "Ce n'était pas ma fault."

Elle was silent. She knew that he had said it wasn't his fault but she couldn't bring herself to repeat in English. She had seen with her very own two eyes what he had done and she knew perfectly well that it was his fault. Both men were staring at her, waiting for a translation. Beads of sweat were forming on her forehead and her throat was becoming surprisingly dry.

She cleared her throat before saying, "He said he is guilty."

Friend with two names

The needle slid in to my soon to be friend,

I placed out some buttons to lend

for this creature yet to be named

with uneven stitching causing the illusion of being maimed.

With in every stitch was a memory,

I added a felt heart so he could live his own story. 

I could tell he was a bit fan of rainbows as me

When he was finished I cuddles him with glee.

Kim named him Bob, Nicola named him Jeffry

At a later date Nick named his own Bobfry.

We have been through a lot my sock teddy and I,

I’ve cuddles him so much his face looks like a permanent sigh.

I made most of my friends their own with coloured felt hearts

though bad sewing technique caused two to fall apart.  

His smile though is something that is still a worry,

maybe I finished him off with to much of a hurry.

I can stretch it to a smile bigger than I have ever seen

but it always returns to a frown that mouth of blue and green.

Maybe if I choose my own name for him

maybe it would make his aura less grim.

The Postman

Lucy started this piece by writing the sentence "I like kitties when they are drowning" on my paper when my back was turned.... I feel I should say that first by way of explanation.

I like kitties when they are drowning. That's when they fight the hardest, gasping for air, trying to hold on to life by their tiny claws. They struggle when they are in the bag and I am trying to carry it to the edge of the water. Sometimes they squirm so much in the bag I nearly lose my grip. So I always swing the bag into the air before I throw it. That confuses them and also adds momentum when I eventually let go. Then I usually wait there for a bit afterwards, watching the waves gently shifting the pebbles and dampening the leather of my shoes, thinking about those kitties sinking deeper and deeper into the water. Sometimes I think about these precious moments from my past when I am delivering the post. I imagine throwing the bag of mail far out to sea, like I did with those kittens, then going home and spending the rest of the afternoon sitting on the front step in the sun doing a crossword. I didn't imagine being a postman when I left college. I always thought I'd do something literary, something worthy and academic. I tried for a bit - wrote a novel, sent it off, got a wave of rejections and then gradually, like the water when it filled the bag with those kittens in, like swallowed me. Rent to find, bills to pay and I found myself delivering post. 

Hi Creative Folks,

I'm putting the finishing touches on our anthology before I send it for printing.... So far the poems put forward to be included are:

Becky Davies - World of Make-believe
Becca Feeley - I Fell Again, I Remember the Day I Adopted a Book, Playing God, Words
Josie French - The Conventional Fear of Glass, Don't Worry Be Happy
Mich Leecy - Shiny Red Boots, What is it?
Fakra Jabeen - Kites
Lucy Roach - I was Told I'd be a Hero, Revenant

Does anyone want to add any more poems or does anyone else want to contribute? Even if you haven't been able to come to creative writing because of revision and things, please email me some poems and we can still put them in the anthology...

My email address to send them to is m.sharples@stmarysblackburn.ac.uk

It's going to be great - I'm so much looking forward to getting it printed.

Mary

The Collectors - VI

Chris carried on on his search for some groceries, but found that all the shops were shut. The colourful buildings were now all polluted by silver shutters covered in graffiti. Auburn leaves fell all around from the promenade trees, littering the floor. Chris tried to look for at least one open shop. It had only been a week since he had visited Pattersby, it couldn't have all shut down in that time.

He followed the promenade as far as the town went, and then spotted something. A figure sat on a small brick wall in front of an abandoned-looking pub. Chris decided maybe he should ask if there were any shops open.

As he approached, he saw that the man's eyes were sunken and red, and that his skin had become stretched and yellowy. His clothes were old and tattered. He looked homeless.

"What... What happened to all the shops?" Asked Chris, gently.

The man coughed. A great, painful chest-heaving cough. When he stopped he looked up at Chris with his watery, red eyes, and said "I don't remember."

Solar Thinking!

I had a go at a free verse poem this time - as I'm usually so structured. Though; I'm still obsessed with stanzas and not fat chunks of text - that much, at least, I'll stick by. Anyway; it's pretty long - but don't feel like you have to read all of it. Also; I was listening to music when I got the inspiration for this, it's also where I got the term 'perfect sense dreamer' from. ^^

- - - - -

Am I a convinced criminal?
Or an intellectual criminal?
I'm always a stopgap type of person,
That has no creativity or uniqueness,
With which opinion and theory are laced.

So how is it?
Unexpected, isn't it?
You must be confused; hesitated.
And now you want to retreat?
Then you're going to evacuate?

This is my "perfect sense dreamer-like" delusion.
I don't care who's gonna bring me down.
Cause there're a lot more brick walls
And deep darkness in front of my eyes:
So I'll break them from now on!

Does this mean I'm a perfect sense dreamer?
There are already several ways to answer that question;
Just derive it according to principles and theories.
But that's such a mediocre answer.

It's like; we're here for only a second,
Causing confusion and hesitation every day.
And the different between existing or not existing,
In the end, doesn't really matter so much?
Is there really an option?

Imaginary imitation and reflection,
Always, is meaningless and empty -
But unlimited and endless,
Crashing towards the finish line with infinite spirit.

I cannot remember; it was so long ago
In heavy words and yet very peacefully,
When it was all explained to me.
I forgot the name of the person who proved it all.
But I'm not interested in doing something that is difficult,
Not interested any more.

For now I just need the others to do it.
No matter how stupid, idiotic or foolish you are,
See, you are breathing, so keep living and dying.
Dreams are huge, wide and shallow,
From the point of view of someone looking from above.

Anyway, I do not think so - and I do not want to think:

Nobody else is going to live like you do -
And nobody wants to live one more time,
If you are born: you can change!
No one knows our destiny; but we do not understand it,
Being born in this moment, we cannot understand it at all.