The Collectors - V

Isoline and Evander stepped out of the dressmakers shop and into the cool night air.

            “We’ll find her.” Whispered Isoline, her arm around her friend. “We’ll find her.”

            The streets of Pattersby were deserted. All residents were now sunken deep in their extravagantly cushioned beds. Only the cries of the wind could disturb them now.

Isoline had invited Evander over as soon as he informed her of Mandy’s disappearance. His pale countenance at her door had tugged fiercely at something inside her. She had to help him.

No children had ever gone missing in Pattersby before. This was a shock to everyone. The police were over at Evander’s house now, questioning his family and preparing their own search.

            Evander couldn’t wait for that.

Losing a member of your family like losing a limb. For him, Mandy’s disappearance was just the same as his leg vanishing or his arm falling off its joint. He felt punctured, wounded. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t cry. The fear, the tears, they built up inside him an insurgent tornado, moving further and further up his throat. He forced it down.

Now they searched the streets. The cold mattered to neither of them, their aching hunger mattered even less. Isoline held Evander’s hand as they searched, calling out the little girl’s name. Sometimes they ran, petrified that she had come into danger. Sometimes they walked. Sometimes the fear was too much. Sometimes Evander just let the cold numb him.

Neither could remember why they decided to check The Trout’s Tail. Neither could remember why they had gone to seek warmth from a newly opened, greasy pub. Neither could remember why they had walked right in, despite the “CLOSED” sign above the door.

But they did.

They were greeted in there by a woman. A stout little woman, with a very round, flat face. She had grinned at them, before suggesting they follow her.

She took them through a door, into the restaurant room, currently dark and emptied of all beings and cutlery. Through there, they met another door.

Behind this door was an enormous play-area. So large, it must have been impossible for it to fit in that building, never mind the room. It was like a whole world in there. It couldn’t be possible for it to exist at all.

The woman led them inside the play-area. She took them to the left.

There stood a dark curtain, and from behind it there arose the sound of silent bubbling.

Neither Isoline nor Evander questioned the woman when she held the curtain aside for them, revealing the tiny, dark space containing a pool of some gurgling green substance.

Neither of them protested when she pushed them in. 

Letter From Che Guevara's mother to a friend

While helping out at open evening I found this book with a load of ideas of stories and things to write.   One of them was to write about Argentina in 1932 involving a tea cup... I sort of managed it apart from its more like 1940 and mentioned tea rather than a tea cup but I tried right?

I feel I should say Ernesto is Che Guevara's real first name Che was a used as a common reference to Argentinians that just sort of stuck when he was older.  

Oh also I have made a blog for my writing and stuff if anyone is interested in reading anything on it, so far it is mostly what I have also put on here.  Anyway here http://josiedoodlesandscribbles.tumblr.com/

I knew he would struggle drinking it but he did insist on drinking tea. His asthma is improving and I think he might be well enough to go back to school in a few days. I have got him reading Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre dame in the oringal French. He loves the book, the idea of such social inequality seems to speak to him. Though I don't like to admit it he has been well looked after by me and my husband and I think the book inspired him to do rather annoying things like giving his clothes away, he always has the best of intentions but it is hard to keep him sometimes under control.

This may sound weird and it's not that all my children aren't brilliant it's just that I suppose I spend more time looking after him and there's a bit of a spark in him.   Maybe it's because he is the oldest, seen more of the world so I see more from him.  I have never seen such keen emphasis on equality from someone so young.

It's been hotter here than its been for a while its probably why he has been off so much. I am considering taking him away from his book to go through some maths with him. Sometimes I think I push him more than he would be if he was at school but it is good for him.

I think some of his friends who work in at the sugar plantation are coming today. I think think I might make something a bit extravagant for them. I wish I felt I could do something to make a difference. I look around and despite being of a Spanish background rather than Indian I still see the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I don't think the divide can continue much longer. I know it is dangerous to speak of such things but I feel we need change.  I don't want my children growing up with so many people with so little. I know they will do well and they don't seem to me the type to get warped by propaganda but they are only children.

Do tell me what it is like in Chilli, I really want to travel but I feel it's a little late to start thinking of such things especially with how we keep jumping around to keep Ernesto's asthma at bay.

I hope your letter comes sooner next time, either you took months to write it or they have been searching through our post. I don't trust the government if I am honest particularly yours and if this is enough for them to come after me so well be it.   

Just herd a knock at the door so I think I better finish the letter.  Hope to hear from you soon

Lots of love,

Celia

The Collectors - IV

Through the door of The Trout’s Tail, there stood a bar. A greasy-looking man with a pie of a face stood and wiped at a glass. The bar was made of thick oak, alike the beams hovering above. The walls were covered in nonsensical paintings; women passed eggs to each other in a circle, men rode upturned bicycles, children danced through nettle bushes.

     There was nobody at the bar that evening, though through the door on the left, a cacophony wafted in.

     Tables and chairs were set out evenly across a red-carpeted room. A fire sat at the far end, warming up two plump-looking armchairs in front of it. The tables were filled with families. Snorting, laughing, chattering. But if you looked close enough, you would see that these tables were absent of children.

     Moving along through the restaurant, there were signs all pointing to a door at the bottom of the room, near the fire. All of these signs read ‘PLAY AREA, THIS WAY!’

     Through that door, there stood a child’s dream.

     A plastic-covered, cotton-padded palace. Reds, blues greens and yellows hit the eyes with a regal gleam. It towered above every child that ran through it, dancing on every level in each of their imaginary games.

     Through the entrance, you could choose which way you wished to venture. The right took you to the stairs to the next level. If you went straight ahead you would find yourself in a ball pit. If you turned left…

     Tim Peters stepped from behind a black curtain at the end of the left passage. A strange, gooey substance covered his arms up to his elbows. His nose was snotty, and his eyes still held the hint of tears.

     He walked away from the curtain, out of the entrance, and back into the restaurant.

     He passed the tables of adults, who slowly stopped their babbling to get a glimpse of him, and stood before the table where his parents sat.

     Quietly and calmly, he said “Annie’s gone.”

Script thing

There's not much speech but I didn't know how else to do it! I apologise in advance.

(On a street in the city. There is a tall business building with benches and small bushes outside. In one of these bushes is Poppy Stalker in the process of falling out of the plant. During the summer on a nice hot day. No one around apart from her dad who was walking past the tree she was hiding in. He is wearing a dark suit with briefcase in one hand and a coffee in the other. Poppy is wearing the usual: a frilly white blouse and light blue knee length skirt and a blue cap shoved down as far as possible.)

Father: Poppy? Were you following me? Why?

Voice over: Well , let's back track a week or two...

(At Poppy's school in the playground. Kids milling around talking, joking etc. Poppy is hiding in a bush watching the conversation between two girls.)

Evil Girl 1: So I was like "Let's have some vodka" and then we drunk some vodka! It was hilar!

Evil Girl 2: OMG that is so fetch! haha!

(Focus on Poppy making evils at the two girls and twitches slightly. Of course, due to experience, no one notices. The bell rings for class but Poppy waits untill the playground is empty before making her way to class.)

(Scene moves to a classroom with Poppy sat at a corner in the back with the same two girls in front one row. Formula and numbers decorate the walls while the teacher has just finished going through an example on the board.)

Teacher: Ok, everyone, turn to page 394 and complete the exercises on using Pi.

Focus on the two "Evil" girls with Poppy being seen in the background.

Evil Girl 1: OMG I hate maths. Why is it called Pi anyway? It just makes me hungry.

Evil Girl 2: I know right! But we can't eat pie cos we have to stay fit for our boyfriends.

Evil Girl 1: Totes!

(Focus to Poppy who has already finished the class work. She starts to doodle in the margins pressing hard with her pen so the words "Popular" and "die" stand out.)

(Scenes moves to Poppy walking home on her own from School. Two boys are far in front but close enough for Poppy to just hear the conversation. The street is nearing the edge of the city. It is full of tall apartments and odd shops dotted about.)

Harry: So if you had to choose one ability between flying and reading minds, which would it be?

Peeta: Reading minds definately! Knowing everyone's secrets, think of all the blackmailing possibilities!

(Poppy chuckles to herself but quickly stops, puts her hand over her mouth, eyes wide and scurries into a nearby alleyway sneaking a look at the boys to see if they noticed. They didn't but she notices a shop on her right selling all sorts of weapons. A sign on the door says "18" but she enters anyway.

Inside there are rows and rows of different weapons lining the walls and displays full of a range of ammo. Poppy hides behind a display near the door. The shop keeper is talking to a man at the far side of the small shop.)

Shopkeeper: So Bill, I see you eyeing the rocket launcher?

Bill: Aye, how much?

Shopkeeper: Including ammo, about 300000, but i'm guessing you're not the type to have that much, how about the little revolver over here? (points to smallest gun in the shop) only 100! (sees Bills glare) but if you insist, I guess the rocket launcher is a good choice. It has a shoulder rest for comfortable aiming, which is adjustable so your little boy could have a go! ha-(sees another glare)- maybe not. There's also an eye hole with extra zoom for the more secret aiming and the camoflauge colour is also handy. So that'll be 290000.

Bill: Aye

(Poppy is moving closer to get a better look at the rocket launcher. In doing so she accidently knocks a small dagger from a display. She quickly slips out of the shop before anyone notices.)

(Walking the rest of the way home with a sly smile on her face but glancing quickly in every direction Gets to her house. Brothers and dad are in the back garden playing football and having a barbeque. She passes unoticed and makes her way into her house hurrying up the stairs to her bedroom. When she gets there she locks the door and turns off the lights. The bedroom is rather small for such a big house, plain with just a desk wardrobe and bed. No toys can be seen.

Poppy pulls out a tin box from under her bed. Inside is a ticket to a circus and a pair of night vision goggles which she quickly puts on. She also pulls out rolls of paper and takes out her pens from her bag. She is seen writing plans for including the two evil girls and a rocket launcher. A money sign is circled with a large ? at the side.)

(Father tries to get in. Poppy pushes everything under her bed turns on lights and unlocks the door.)

Father: Why is this door locked? What on earth are you doing in herewith those things on your face? (takes off goggles) I'm fed up with this childish behaviour Poppy, I got you these so you can join in with night time paintballing with your brothers none of this malarkey! (sighs) anyway, when you've had enough of messing about you can come outside and join in with the celebrations. I got the biggest offer in weeks today at work, 1 million worth!

(Father leaves while Poppy is left smiling at the spot he'd just been in. Scribbles out the ? and writes "dad company robbery".) 

1 week later....

(Poppy picks up her backpack containing black gloves mask and jumper and night vision goggles. Also picks up the copy she made of fathers work keys.)

(Follows father all the way to work. Hides in a bush as he makes is way to the entrance. Suddenly Her bag gets caught on a branch, she moves to untangle it but instead falls out of the bush right where her father is stood. )

Script Thing-a-ma-jig

(Tasha Sniffs white powder set up in lines when John walks in on her doing so)

John: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

Tasha: What? Nothing.

John: YOUR NOSE!

Tasha:... I just have a cold is all

(she wipes her nose on a tissue and attempts to stands but stumbles before giving her brother full eye contact

How did you get in anyway? I thought I locked the door.

John: I got in because I opened it I want a piss. Please don't tell me you are doing what I think you are doing.

Tasha: Why What do you think I am doing

(looses eye contact and puts her hand on the door ready to escape)

John: You weren't taking...

(Tasha interrupts)

Tasha: Hahahaha of course not god your way over protective

(attempts to open door but pushes instead of pulls)

John: Your a mess just stay here sit down let me get you some water

(John leaves. When alone Tasha slides back to the floor and cries and sways to calm her self. John returns with water)

Her you go sip at that. What happened... I thought you might be struggling but I never knew you were getting this bad. Please don't cry

(John attempts to hugs his sister but he stumbles to the floor as he is rather drunk and strocks her hair to calm her)

Tasha: I am sorry.... I just....

John: Please you can tell me

Tasha: I don't want you to be ashamed of me

John: Why would I do that? Your my sister I love you.

(Tasha hides her face with her hands)

Please tell me what is wrong so I can try and fix it.

Tasha: You know how you and Melissa grew up with dad?

John: Yes..?

Tasha:... and you knew she drank

John yes that's why dad left her

Tasha: It doesn't matter.. I am just stressed I suppose

(Tasha laughs it off)

John: NO don't do that to me I have been worried about you for months and you wont say anything to me please just let me in please just let me help you.

Tasha: I am just tired of failing you

John: You don't fail me I am so proud of you

Tasha: Are you kidding me? You have a proper job I am just a waitress who is 1 day off from getting sacked and the worst part is I don't even care... I don't care about any of this I just...

(She stroked the plectrum her father gave her around her neck)

John: What where you going to say about mum?

Tasha: Nothing

John: please.. please don't lie.

(Tasha tries to push him off and move away from him)

Tasha: Please can you go I want to be sick

John: I will hold your hair back for you

Tasha: NO I don't feel sick I want to be sick I need to be sick I just... Please go I need to just go leave me alone I don't need help I am fine

John: I am not leaving you while your like this... does Tarran know how you have been acting you wanting to... be sick?

Tasha Of course he doesn't

(begins to tug at her hair to relieve the stress)

There is nothing for him to know

(She smiles while tears stream down her face)

John: I am not leaving you. I care about you please tell me what happened with mum.

Tasha: nothing she drank she got angry

John: and then?

Tasha: and then?

John: did she.. She didn't hurt you did she

Tasha: I dunno.. I suppose yeah she did... but it I mean it wasn't often

John:... what about that time you broke your collar bone?

Tasha: No that time I was just jamming to S.O.A.D. at the top of the stairs and fell.

(John stairs at her and waits for her to crack)

I promise I am fine.

(she crawls to the toilet and kneels in front of it and she can conveniently no longer see Johns gaze. She remains there for a minuet and neither say anything)

SCENE CHANGE

(Tasha is age 14. (muted sound) Her mother grabbing her by the shoulder and shouting at her for not turning the amplifier down and drags her with her bass around her shoulder from her room to the top of the stairs. Tasha is crying but doesn't respond or fight bag she just tries to pull of the bass in case anything happens to it but doesn't manage it before she gets a shove and looses her balance and falls down the stairs)

SCENE CHANGE

(Back to the bathroom where Tasha proceeds to make her self throw up. John Notices to late for him to stop her and so now cries over his lost little sister)

Tasha: see all better now all that alcohol out of my system I am completely better

John: It wasn't the alcohol I was worried about

(he takes her hand and pulls her to her feet)

Come on your going home

Tasha: NO I am having fun OK?

(she pulls her arm away)

I am going downstairs and I am going to have a good time

(she wipes her mouth clean of the remaining vomit and mucus and opened the door)

Go have your god damn piss!

The Collectors - III

Chris Webbley lived outside of Pattersby, in a cottage in the middle of a field.

His mother loved old buildings. When she had seen Woole Cottage in all its rural glory, she had bought it immediately.

She would do this every year. Always moving from one place to the next.

Chris didn’t mind. He didn’t care that he never had time to make friends, because he didn’t like people that much anyway.

He liked the houses his mother picked, too. He felt he needed the change of scenery every year.

But because of Woole Cottage being so far from civilisation, groceries had to be bought at the nearest town.

The nearest town was Pattersby.

Chris walked through the fields just outside of the seaside town, coming closer to the opening of a street. The muddy ground turned to cobblestoned floor.

The salty air made Chris’s throat sting. He breathed heavily with exhaustion. It was a long walk. Chris was sure the air was colder in Pattersby than anywhere else. He was sure the grey sky was becoming darker as he moved deeper and deeper into the town.

Usually, the walls of streets would be covered in posters for bake sales and charity events. Sometimes even little plays they might put on in the town hall.

This week, when Chris passed the walls, he dismissed the new similar-looking posters for advertisements of some kind. But as he got closer to the main shopping street, he saw more and more of them. They covered walls and concealed windows. They screamed silently to be read, to be noticed. They fluttered in the wind, so many of them, the wings of angels glued onto greying brick.

Chris glanced at a small collection of them.

‘Help!’ they read, ‘Help find my child!’

They called out of their paper prisons; help me, help us, help! Jessica, Lucas, Mandy, Annie, Joshua, Francis, Tim, Joseph, Caroline. GONE. LOST. ALONE.

HELP.

Every single one was a cry for help. Every single one begged for a child to be found.

And this was not just one child.

This was every child in town, it must have been.

Chris glanced around him. The town was deserted. And if there were people there, not one stirred.

The always-harmonious town had frozen.

The Collectors - II

Isoline Findale sat in her bedroom. Her homework lay abandoned atop a desk in the corner. She sat on her bed, which faced the dark window. Her limbs moved with the needle in her finger, sewing intricately at some pale green silk.

     Isoline didn’t like to go out much. But then, there weren’t many people her age in that town to go out with. And even so, she never spoke to them.

     She did however, have one friend. But Evander lived just outside of Pattersby. She only ever saw him at school.

There had once been a time when they would meet up at The Trout’s Tail every Saturday. They’d sit and talk for hours, and Isoline had never felt so alive. She’d never really had anyone to talk to before. 

But The Trout’s Tail had been shut down for two months.

     Now she’d stay in her room and sew. It was the only thing she enjoyed doing, and the only thing that took her away from her thoughts. She didn’t like to think too much. When she’d begin to think, she’d dwell on her old home, her father, her old friends. She’d feel suffocated, and then she’d sew. She’d sew until her head was empty.

     Isoline made a hissing noise as her needle pierced her finger. She put it to her mouth to stop the blood, tasting the salty tang.

     She and her mother, the dress-maker, had moved to Pattersby for some peace after the city. Isoline had hated the city. Too many people, too much occupied space.

     Pattersby wasn’t all that great, either. The townspeople were always prying. At least city people had been too selfish to notice her. These Pattersby people didn’t just look at your life, they took it in their hands, examined it with great precision, and then discussed it with all the people closest to them like a little group of gossip surgeons.

     Isoline hated them all with their cheerful little smiles and waves. None of their gestures were genuine, she knew.

     Then her phone rang.

     Isoline dropped her material, which now appeared to be taking the form of a dress, and grabbed her phone.

     “Hello?” She said, hastily putting it to her ear.

     “Ice?”

     “Ev?”

     Evander’s voice sounded cracked. Broken. Shattered, throaty breaths floated from the phone’s speakers.

     “Are you okay?”

     Ev breaths increased in pace.

     “Ev? Ev, just tell me what’s happened.”

     “It’s… It’s Mandy…”

Mandy was Evander’s little sister. She was a quiet girl, with short dark curls and green-apple eyes. At only six years old, she believed she had already beaten Evander at everything. She could play piano better than him, her singing was better than his, her grades were definitely better than his. It was all true.

     “What is it? Is she okay?”

     “She’s gone missing, Ice. She’s not here.” His voice became a glass in an aggressive hand. It squeezed harder and harder as he spoke, with the last few words shattering into pieces. 

.

What are you doing? Why aren't you smiling?
No one wants to see you cry darling.
I know the worlds a bitch
But your nationality is not something you can switch.
Sure you struggle to conjure a convocation
Apart from this lack of a "nation"
And how words can't satisfy your frustration,
With air born poisons and water fluoridation...
But your a no one so you buy your dept,
You go to work to sell your soul despite you never slept,
As its your role as a "Citizen" to forget or accept
Your governments lies, that crept
From propaganda from before you where born.
This is your life its futile to express scorn
While your box in the corner flashes images of war and porn,
Making you question what is right your mind is now torn.
"Am I gay? Am I straight? am I bi?
Why should I have to be out and proud?" you said with a sigh.
See this is nothing keep smiling don't cry
Don't cry for those dying in wars against terrorism
Even though you find America's enthusiasm
Distasteful considering they create the fears
But the politician and CEOs simply laugh at their blood smears.

Keep on beaming honey
While your in negative money
Because you can't do a thing anyway
Why bother to try and have your say?

The Collectors - I

Pattersby was a small town. It sat in front of its own portion of the sea. Every house, every shop, every glistening little window stared out at the water. An audience seemingly intrigued by the splashes, the ripples, the foam.

     The shop signs swung, the seagulls circled, windows opened and shut. The town was in blissful harmony.

     Mr Peters rode past on his bicycle. He looked over at the sea with a smile as contented as the buildings. Such a lovely view, he thought, I could never leave this place.

     He rode past the promenade shops. The Fish and Chip shop’s shutters were down at this time in the morning. The Baker’s had been up for a long while. Mr Peters waved in at Johnny Goodle, the baker.

     The grocer, Ella Trisnet, waved up from her cabbage display. Peters kept on cycling. The dress-maker, Stella Findale, returned a disgruntled countenance to Mr Peters’ wave from her shop window.

     Mr Peters skidded and moved aside from the pavement as Mr Evans walked by with his dog.

     “Good morning!” Evans called out, with a self-satisfied grin.

     “Morning!” replied Mr Peters. He kept on cycling.

     He passed the hairdressers, the sweetshop, the antique shop, and the pub…

     The pub?

     Mr Peters’ bike wheel squeaked as he stopped abruptly outside The Trout’s Tail.

     Yesterday, the place had been boarded-up, unused. The Trout’s Tail had been shut since its owners had moved away.

     Pattersby had had no pub for two months, but that did not bother any of them. Not really.

     The Trout’s Tail had only ever been good for its food. Almost everyone in Pattersby had children, and so drinking had never much been a hobby of theirs. The restaurant, though, had proved a nice place for an enjoyable evening meal or a luscious lunch. Mr Peters had once gone in there for a bountiful breakfast with his family.

     But since its previous owners, the pub had stood alone and unwanted. An eyesore in the perfect town.

The townspeople had no friends outside of Pattersby, and Pattersby never really had any visitors. So it wasn’t much of a surprise to find there was no one to take over the pub.

     Mr Peters now stood in front of The Trout’s Tail.

     The windows were open, sparkling and board-less. The sign hanging above the door had been resurrected, a greyish trout suspended in mid-air, its name written along its body. The door was wide open, and the smell of ale-stained wood reached Mr Peters nostrils.

     “You alright there?” Said a small, plump woman who had just appeared in the doorway.

     “I didn’t know this place was opening again.” Mr Peters was still staring at the building.

     “Well yeah, I think you’re the first in the town to find out!” Peters saw her smile in the darkness, and walk over. The light slid over her face as she moved outside, highlighting a greying bun on top of a pie of a face, her eyes set as deep as her wrinkles. “We only moved in last night! But everything’s set up; I think we’re just about ready for customers.”

     Mr Peters vacantly shook the hand that was offered to him.

     “I’m Edna Varsh, my husband and daughter are inside.”

     Mr Peters finally snapped out of his drastic-change-in-the-early-morning shock, and smiled kindly at the woman.

     “Hello. David Peters. Nice to meet you.”

     “So, will you be coming tonight? Restaurant opening? Free pint with every adult meal.” She gave him a sort of awkward wink.

     “Er…” Mr Peters looked back up at the building, “I don’t think I’ll manage it. My wife and kids might show up, though.”

     “Oh lovely!” Edna cried, “Well I do hope they enjoy themselves.” She grinned a toothy grin. “Nice to meet you, David.” She said, before disappearing back into the darkness of the doorway.

     “Yeah… Bye.” Mr Peters stared after her for a little while, before pushing his foot back onto the pedal and slowly riding away. 

Walking Through the Minds of Planet 125: A Collaborative Poem

This poem was written by seven people focusing on 28 words. It is a surreal journey through the minds of the members of planet 125...

Sleepy Sunday afternoons, the crossword and the smell of pencils,
They began their adventure with
the rebirth of the box and the sharpening of pencils,
The box overflowed with pencils, maths scribblings
and the locket that contained her last hope.
Eleven pencils in a purple box.
While in Biology, my mind went to see Tomb Raider get squashed:
Tomb Raider fighting against an inconsistent fan.
Love that feels like a jungle perspective.
My adventure through the jungle was quite exhilarating:
exhilarating is the creepy jungle with the warmth of adventure.
In this jungle the Avengers resided...
An adventure awaited me with Tomb Raider and the Avengers.
"Creepy jungles are ma thang" Tomb Raider stated.
She hoped to find something of elven culture next.
The Avengers were fighting against Loki with oranges:
they seems to have a good perspective on life,
it was the reason I loved them, the reason I was a fan.
But from a different perspective, the inconsistent love hardened their hearts.
Eleven bottles clinked in the bottle box I carried home,
The berry on the bottle danced cheekily
upon watch the Tomb Raider make an appearance on Glee.
But I missed watching Glee, since it was a Sunday
Watching Glee and revising Biology.
Glee hated Maths, they wanted an adventure.
Sunday was the best day for rebirth.
Never drink orange and berry squash in Biology.
But it was exhilarating to add berry juice to my water:
A single bottle oozing purple juices,
its surface is warm and sticky to the touch:
Every berry with less space than its total volume
until their surfaces contort in a creepy manner.
The cast of Avengers drinking purple berry squash.
The month was August and the air gave in to the warmth.
August Sunday shows a new perspective of warmth and love:
the warmth of the August sun gave me hope.
That day in August was my rebirth - the start of an adventure.
On one creepy Sunday in August, they planned to squash the oranges.
I remember the sound of the fan and
the warmth of that August day
Almost as exhilarating as the warmth of the jungle I am currently in.
The purple fan created an exhilarating mood:
hope, love and warmth all forgotten and replaced with
English, Maths and Biology 
Maths is a jungle of numbers
Maths vs English is a common inconsistency,
or you could meet the man with the box
whilst doing some maths and biology.
Eleven oranges suddenly hit me on the head from above.
Looking up I saw a creepy sight:
"I am number 11" said he, the man with the box
Although the situation was creepy, there was hope.
Oranges taste of hope.
Purple oranges make pencils into bottles and a box into a fan.
I guess this poem is quite inconsistent.

The Precursors

A/N: Part of a fanfiction I will be writing, it'll consist of Mirror's Edge and hopefully Assassin's Creed if I can somehow get Desmond's team into the storyline. Hopefully I can get the prologue done soon, so the crossover will make at least some sense.

___ ____ ___ ____ ___

Two hands hit against the floor, one naked but the other clad in a striking red fingerless glove, the owner of the parts leaned forward, her body already curled tightly together in a loose squat, twisting slightly, she managed an awkward roll across the smoothed sterile-white surface of the City’s many rooftops, and in a fleeting second, she was up and running once more. The place she navigated, far above the real estate, was a network of aerial byways known only to the insurgents who manoeuvred atop them. It was a state of existence for these forerunners – the Mirror’s Edge – their personal playground which they utilized to cheat the rules of their time. It wasn’t a safe job, and it certainly wasn’t easy; but it shined a new light to the individuals who ran this dirty and dangerous underground. Their ideology (if nine out of ten things in this godforsaken city was a crime); why live a life without freedom?  Even if it took them to their graves; at least they would be remembered as the ones who plagued the system. It was a small process, but significant in its own way, for with each package delivered whispered a more sinister reputation to the ears of the law and those who supported it.

They were the Runners, a small but deadly poison to the government, noted as insignificant at first, but it grew into an expansion supposedly so large that it can no longer be contained. They are the motion of the city; an illegal courier group working for the insubordinates that society had pushed aside and papered as the transformations passed over them. Little people the City had forgotten, but not gone, still breathing rebellion and ever tarnishing the name of the rulers above them; Abstergo Industries. Their couriers are the unobserved and the mythical – but that’s just the way they like it. Their reputation precedes them; when, in reality, they’re little more than iconic groups of rogues struggling to survive against the pace of convention; trying to find a humanistic flow and momentum in a highly mechanised world. But the flow, that is what keeps them functioning, what keeps them constant and awake. All they see is the sky. All they feel is the air and all they hear is their own heartbeat.

Two A's and a C.

I'm getting nearer and nearer
My heart starts to beat faster and faster
The crowd of people around me thickens
The noise levels reach bursting point
Nervous chuckles, whispered prayers to up high
The double doors are becoming closer
I'm feeling faint
My head starts to spin
I've passed the doors now
But my fate is getting closer still
I move in the direction of the letter "L"
I have to stop
The noise is worse inside
There's laughter, tears, screams of happiness
I can't bring myself to move any further
I see my friends receive their fate
For some it's good, for others, not so much
I'm too scared
I don't know what will happen
Finally, my friend takes my arm
and leads me to the table where it will end
"Leecy" I say to the woman
She hands me the piece of paper with a knowing smile
It looks slightly evil but I can't tell
I read the paper with shaky hands and blurred vision
I make out two letters which mark the start
But the last one catches my eye
I can feel tears start to fill up
One manages to leak out and run down my cheek
My friend sees and cuddles me
It's over now.

Greg Dawson: Bartender.

My afternoon shift at the bar started at 3. I was on glass collecting duty again and not in the best of moods. I had had yet another row with my girlfriend. We had been shopping in town that morning when she saw the jeweller's shop. In the window was this enourmous engangement ring with many sparkling diamonds. I saw her eyes light up as it caught her eye. She started to hint at it. I simply stated that I couldn't afford something so expensive at the moment with my low wages when she started shouting at me about how I never buy her anything and that I should be a man and get a "real" job. I was so outraged, but I didn't want her to get anymore angry at me so I just said i'd think about it. At 20 with a bartender job, how the hell would I be able to get her an engangement ring?
       I spent all my afternoon wandering around the bar collecting glasses, serving drinks and thinking about my life. Maybe Maddie was right, maybe it was time for me to step up and "be a man".
      The bar was extrememly busy and by 7 o'clock, I was called to help out with serving rooms. I quite enjoyed this part of the job as I got to go in people's rooms and play the game I loved so much where I would try and guess their identities from their belongings. For example, when I entered room 664 I immediately knew the owner was some sort of mistress from the many presents littered around the room, the revealing dresses and the vast amount of high heels of many different colours.
      The next room, number 666 belonged to a Mr Graham. I entered the room and placed the ordered drink on one of the bedside tables. I had a quick scan of the room to see if I could guess what Mr Graham was like, when I saw it. Sitting on the bed, just like the one Maddie had noticed in the shop was a huge diamond ring. I picked it up to have a closer look. It was identical. I was so tempted to just slip it into my pocket, it was my chance to prove myself to Maddie. That's when I heard movement in the corridor. I quickly chucked the ring back on the bed and ran out of the room, passing Consuela the cleaner on my way back down the corridor to the bar.

How Soon Is Now

How can you say 
I go about things the wrong way?
- LSP

A/N: I promised Becca a poem and I've literally just finished watching a Charmed marathon (it's my new favourite tv show, and that's saying a lot because I don't usually watch tv), so enjoy a Charmed-themed poem. Fanverse, if you like. Also; the title of the poem is also the title of the show's theme song, which is a cover of a Smith's song.

_____________________________

Piper, Phoebe and Paige,
Holders of the Power of Three.
With demons do they engage,
Yet vanquish before their pleas.
For the monsters they fight are evil,
And their intentions more so,
The Underworld is their retrieval -
As for it; glory will bestow.

"You don't really seem like yourself."
Or are you an illusion?
"I don't? Then, who am I?"
Paige; forgive my intrusion.

"So how exactly do I bless this thing?"
I'm sure it'll be something intimate.
"With your blood. Come on. "
Of course, that answer was imminent.

"Vanquish demon first,"
Wonderful plan Piper, any time now.
"Kill husband later."
Not something I expect; but I cannot disallow.

"Why didn't you save her?"
He gave it his best.
"I tried."
Something he ought to have stressed.

"Death cannot be feared."
Wise words from a Whitelighter.
"For death, in time, comes to all witches."
But does it to you, now you're an Elder?
Leo; don't extend knowledge,
With which you can't understand.
You'll only suffer your own conscience,
Or was the whole thing just planned?

For March 1st

Today is the 1st march I can't do much for self injury awareness day but at the very least I can do this.  
If you or your friends/family have been strugling here are a couple of links which might help them.  

http://www.projecttoe.com/ - This puts you in contact with someone who you can talkto online or through texting if you can't find anyone else to talk to about it and talking online makes you feel more cumfortuble

http://www.recoveryourlife.com/ - I mainly Used this for its forums where there are topics from everything from first aid advise to a creative corner where people post poems and art.  Everyone there is willing to help others 

please pass the links on if you get the chance because if they help one person this post was worth it.  


It took me and too many of my friends,
Promised us it could make amends.
Too scared to talk
In case people might mock.
Each time dragging me deeper,
The climb to recovery ever steeper.

Even now when I think I am free,
Sipping at my cup of red tea,
I remember I could slip any day
Imaging what my blades might say:
"We welcome you back with out judgement
If anyone asks blame it on an accident"

This is not for sympathy but to make you aware,
There are to many who go through this alone out there
So please, if you see someone struggling with mental anguish
Maybe with kindness you could vanquish
Evil thoughts that might consume
When girls and boys are alone in their room.