"Me"

To all the school bullies who made fun of me because I put my hand up in class,
To all the boys, who never spoke to me, but still looked at my ass,
And to all the parents and children who loved me for volunteering in the library, thank you.
For all the usernames on YouTube who still find time to hate,
The shop assistants and waiters, handing me bills and plates,
The daydreamers on the college bus and the late sleepers next door who, no matter how many times played, still love Adele's "Someone Like You".
And all the musicians I have played but never met, all the writers I have read and inspire to be, thank you.
To all the teachers who gave me E's and A stars,
All the nurses who went an extra mile far and my parents, for loving me and my weirdness.
For my sister who is way cooler than I could ever be,
All the old crushes, the "gorgeous" ones who didn't know me,
My friends who made me laugh and my boyfriend who made me laugh harder. Thank you.
But right now, I thank the platform on which I stand, my plaited good luck bracelet on my left hand and Blue Peter, who interviewed Jacqueline Wilson, who - and I quote - said "anyone can write".
I thank your parents for letting you loose in this metallic jungle, I thank the gods of imagination, there has to be more than one, and I thank all the hearts, lungs and brains around me.
Because I am me, this girl of 18, stood in quivering fear and awe that my idea is vocalised out to you.
I don't care about the idiots, who does, right?
I don't care for every enemy I've had to fight,
And I don't care for the tales of the monsters at night, for those tales lie and those monsters are no more grotesque than you or I.
So I thank you all, for making me "Me", for my 6 pounds and 8 ounces of life and 1993.
And you're welcome, for I hope this has somehow made yourself more "You" and nothing more.
Thank you.

Lipstick and Stilettos

Mum and Dad were on a holiday, a "weekend away" that's what Uncle Oliver said. Uncle Oliver was downstairs, pacing in the hall way, in his grey jacket. Aunt Judy tells gim to wash it every week, but it still smells of old cigar smoke."Judy, Hannah!" he's claling upstairs, he sounds like he's smiling,
"Oh, that man," Aunt Judy mumbles as she's pasting red lipstick on in the mirror, "Coming darling!" she then calls.
I'm sat on the bed, in my white and red spoty dress. Uncle Oliver is taking us out, I'm excited but Aunt Judy's panicing, totering around the room in tights, stilettos and make-up,
"I just don't know what to wear!" she exclaims, she was wearing a black dress with lace sleves before, but apparantly it was wrong.
"You could wear your jeans," I said, she stared at me and laughed, I don't know why, "Can I downstairs?" I then ask, she tuts as she pulls a red silk skirt out of her wardrobe,
"Oh no!" she beams, "It can be us up here, girls together!" Aunt Judy only has boys, so I think that's why she's making a fuss of dressing up. I nod and sit silently as she tries on her fifth outfit of the evening. We still managed to make the reservation.

Books.

The spine is cracked and the pages torn,
Everything about this book is worn.
The print is faded to a grey,
Though the words, with me, they stay.
I turn a page then several more,
I read until my eyes are sore.
And when I finish, I smile and sigh,
Without a book, I want to cry.
And so, I walk on down a street,
Straight to a friend I long to meet.
I open the door and hear a "DING!"
I see full shelves, I want to sing.
Row upon rows of unread books,
Here, I get no weird looks.
I trace my finger along each spine,
"One day, you books, you will be mine."
I find a title, a blurb, a cover,
A whole new world that I'll discover.
I pick a few, a sturdy pile,
And to the counter I walk and smile.
I buy my books, a reasonable fare,
I breathe in the papery air.
And then, I leave back up the street,
The plastic bag has friends to meet.
In this outside world, I get strange looks,
No matter, for I have my books.

Swan.

I watch upon the river bank,
Sapphire waves a washing low,
The gentle reeds and willow trees
Through the waves they go.

Upon the waves swims a swan,
A silver, glowing light,
It's orange beak and orange feet
Rise in graceful flight.

This gentle swan is gliding,
Almost dancing in the air,
It's brightened eyes match brightened skies
With such a graceful air.

As I clumsily watch from the river bank,
Webbed feet plunged in dirt,
An ugly duckling, I keep on sulking,
And I can't help but feel hurt.

My charcoal feathers ruffle,
As my darkened eyes doth stare,
My ink black beak and ink black feet,
Turn away - I do not care.

This pretty Swan is showing off,
Though look the same. they do,
Come Summer bright, I will take flight,
And, Swan, I'll look like you.

First Impressions

Scene One
A busy hospital corridor, Lily Crozzgrove is sat alone reading a book

Eliza: (Flumps down next to her and sighs) Hi!

Lily: (Looks up from her book, startled) Hello

Eliza: Hospitals are weird, aren't they? So many people... Can't find a Doctor to give me a hand!

Lily: I could call for a Doctor, if you like?

Eliza: (Snorts with laughter) It's alright, I don't mind waiting (awkward pause) So... What cha reading?

Lily: Oh, erm... Nothing really. You're going to wait here?

Eliza: Oh yeah! Don't worry (holds up her green scaley hand) This happened last time, they gave me these tablets, then I was right as rain! (Pauses) Why are you here?

Lily: (Grins a bit) Last time? What on earth did you do?!

Eliza: It was originally a new type of cat food for my cat, but Eurekaa started breathing funny again so I gave her some milk, the milk went in the solution, then BOOM! Lizard hand!

Lily: (Stares) Are you on meds?

Eliza: (Sighs) not anymore, well, not since a new nose started growing, but I won't bore you with my scars!

Lily: Maybe I should call a Nurse

Eliza: Don't bother (pause) This is so boring... I'm going home (gets up to leave)

Lily: Wait! Just... Don't. I've kind of been here for... Well, ages! You're crazy, but just... Don't go yet

Eliza: (Flumping down back next to her) But it's so boring! (Puase) Want to come with?

Lily: (Considering it) I can't just leave! The nurses will...

Eliza: Come on! Just for an hour or two, I swear I've got tablets at home for this hand anyway (pause) It'll be better than staying here

Lily: ... But... But they'll notice! I really shouldn't

Eliza: An hour, that's it. I'll show you my cat, she likes people

Lily: (Sighs) Oh what the hell! (Gets up and joins her)

Eliza: Brill! (Linking arms with her almost skipping down the corridor) Wait till you meet Eureka's kittens, they keep on glowing, it's great!

Lily: ... Did I mention you're crazy? I'm Lily by the way

Eliza: I'm Eliza. Crazy's better than boring, come on!

Milo Jackerby (The thrid bit, this is a long one, sorry!)

(I've read comments and stuff and, hopefully, you'll end stand that this bit here introduces the main character on the novel/story/thing - enjoy. D x)

17^th December, 5999

            “Push!” Connor urged as his wife, Eve, lay panting on the bedroom floor. She grunted, screamed and swore before gripping hold of her husbands hand,

            “Connor, you did this!” she yelled, Connor laughed,

            “Yes I did, you’re almost there,” he grinned, “Come on Evie, he’s almost there, push!” the room erupted into yelling, laughing and, quite suddenly, crying. There was a split moment of silence before Evie sighed in great relief, panting as her husband slowly bent forwards to the ground, scooping up a bloody baby. The next few minutes were chaos. Connor’s hands were shaking as he dabbed carefully at the crying bundle in his arms, his eyes watering,

            “It’s alright,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “It’s alright,” the baby cried loudly, he chuckled, “Good, healthy lungs,” he heard Evie laugh weakly behind him. She was exhausted. She wanted to clean herself and go to her husband and her new baby. Her son. But all she wanted was to sleep. Sleep and hold her son.

            “Let me hold him,” she then said, her arms weakly outstretched, Connor nodded before handing her their son, wrapped in a faded flannel material. His mouth was wide open in fear and fury, bawling out a troublesome cry that would wake half the city,

            “Oh,” Evie said, holding and rocking her son, “No, no, don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s alright,” Connor scooted next to her and put his arm around her, his watery eyes looking down to his son,

            “He has your eyes,” Connor whispered, so not to frighten his son. He was right. Their son’s eyes were a deep chestnut brown, they were both silently thankful as, babies these days, often took after their Father and, in the baby’s case, he would be taking Connor’s cat like green eyes.

He felt Evie move closer to him, smiling,

            “He has your voice,” she teased tiredly, offering up her son to him, “Hold him.” Gingerly, Connor eased his hands around the bundle of flannel material, hopefully supporting the boy in the correct places,

            “Hello,” he cooed, the baby simply cried back at him, “Please don’t cry,” the baby cried back, “Please? Come on, listen to your Dad,” the baby stopped for a heartbeat, gurgled, holding out his left hand, before crying again.

            “Have you thought of any names?” he asked, “I know we were thinking of girls names before the third scan but…” he trailed off as the baby’s hand locked hold of one of Connor’s stray fingers. In that second of silence, if the city listened, they could have heard a pin drop.

            “After our Dad’s… Maybe,” Evie replied, tiredly, smiling at her son and husband,

            “My Dad was called Benedict,” Connor snorted gently, his eyes wide and staring at the small baby, “Can you imagine the names he’d be called,” Evie nodded,

            “What about my Dad?” she asked,

            “Milo?” Connor questioned, looking back at the baby before saying, “Milo, does that sound alright to you?” the baby fell silent before yawning and lulling into a quiet sleep, Connor smiled and handed him to Evie, “Sounds good to me.”

            The next hour was filled with the beauty of nothingness. Silence filled the air and, when listened carefully, the only sound to be heard was light breathing from the three occupants. Evie’s dark hair was greasy with stress and pain and Connor’s brow was stained with sweat and creases with worry. Milo, little Milo, was wrinkled and purple and pink and blue and new born. He was so many things to them, this small baby, meant so much that, for this one hour, he only deserved silence. Silence to take it all in.

            Evie broke the silence.

            “I can’t believe we got away,” Connor groaned slightly before nodding slightly,

            “They’ll be here soon,” there was a pause where Milo shuffled in his ragged blanket,

            “We can’t stay here,” she whispered, looking down at Milo, “They’ll take him, any children of the… Of our kind are…” her voice broke, “We… We need to go,”

            “I know,” Connor said simply, holding his wife as she slowly began to cry, her tears falling on her son,

            “We can’t…” she tried to say, “He has to… We can’t keep him but… But…” as she began to cry Milo awoke and cried with her. Connor tried to stay brave for them.

            “Evie,” he said hoarsely, “We have to send him away,” she shook her head,

            “No, no, Connor,” he tried to reach for the baby, “Connor, no, don’t take him away,” she was almost screaming, “Connor; don’t take him away from me!” Milo wailed as Evie scrambled back away from her husband. Connor made a failing attempt at grabbing for her before tears slowly rolled down his face,

            “He will die here,” Connor then croaked. Milo continued to wail as Evie took in what he just said. A look of horror and pain struck her face violently, her chestnut eyes clouding over with thoughts and tears and her lips, chapped and cracked, began to shake. She cradled her son close to her.

            “But we need him,” she then whispered, barely being heard over Milo’s cries,

            “Evie, you know they will-” a loud crack echoed several floors below and panic filled Evie’s eyes,

            “They’re here,” she whimpered, Connor moved quickly, pulling out a small metal tag and printing the baby’s full name on it, along with the date. He flung it around the baby’s neck before pulling Evie, and Milo, up to the centre of the room. He held up a small metallic ball, no bigger than a marble,

            “Tell him something,” Connor ordered, his cat like eyes set with panic and fury as he heard thunderous bangs, slowly coming closer to the floor they were on.

            “Milo,” Evie’s voice was shaking, “You don’t know me, but I am your Mother, you’re Mum, my name is Evie Jackerby and this is my husband-”

            “Hello Milo,” Connor rushed slightly, “I am Connor Jackerby, I am your Dad and-” the bangs got louder,

            “We love you so much Milo,” Evie almost wailed as the small baby in her arms cried in confusion and fear, “Be strong for us, Milo, we need you to be brilliant. We need you to be brave.” Connor was fiddling with a pocket porter; he set a date and a safety shield,

            “We love you Milo,” Connor said, “We will never forget you,”

            Three things happened at once.

            The weak door burst into flames and men in metallic and leather armour poured into the room. A few were wearing gas masks while others carried guns, whirling with cogs and buttons.

            Connor kissed his wife as he placed the small porter to the bare chest and pressed the small silver marble into the spherical socket on the front before pushing it down. He watched his son cry and slowly fade in a green light leaving the flannel cloth empty.

            Evie howled in pain as her husband caught her as she fell to the ground. Her tears formed a tsunami of emotions that could not be stopped, no matter how hard her husband held her. They both curled into a ball, Connor’s arms tangled around her, and quickly they were dragged away out of the door by two masked, armoured men.

17^th December, 3041

            It was 2:34am according to Agatha’s clock. Her short blonde hair was sticking up at odd angles as she rushed to the bathroom. Her abdomen aching.

            Five minutes later Agatha was cleaning her bathroom tiles from blood. Her face stung in the harsh light and her tears eroded into her skin. She hands were shaking as she pushed hard into the small, soaking mop. She gritted her teeth as she cleaned away any evidence of what had been inside her. She had to keep reminding herself, that it wasn’t alive. It couldn’t feel anything. It was just a bundle of cells.

            Why was she crying?

            At 3:01am she wandered slowly down to the ground floor of her house, finding the nearest empty glass to fill with water. She spotted her reflection is the glass door of the cabinet. Her tan skin was still freckled after the blistering summer and her wrinkles were beginning to show. If her ex-husband knew what happened… He’d be furious. When Agatha was born, the Doctors had told her, when she later hit puberty, that she would be unable to have children. But an hour ago her body had given up on the small set of cells inside, willing them to abort. She sighed. She didn’t think that would be a big deal to him, Richard, her ex-husband. But it was and she was now alone.

            Agatha was now “Aunt Aggie” the cool older sister to her nearly 30 year old, younger sister, Julie. Aggie was approaching 41 and her life was filled with nieces, nephews, cakes, cats, work and three year old divorce files.

            Agatha put down her glass and wandered, in her pyjamas, to the living room,

            “Weather?” she asked the five by five inch screen on her bookshelf, the screen replied happily,

            “Light snow fall, 6 degrees Celsius,” it glowed green and a small smile flickered onto the screen,

            “Thank you,” Agatha replied, flopping down onto her armchair, facing another bookshelf. Family photos lined the spare spaces on the shelf. Each face was smiling at her, almost taunting her, gloating at how happy and surrounded her younger sister was. Her tired eyes closed slowly, her brain wishing her to sleep when the small screen on the first bookshelf beeped,

            “Anomaly, front porch,” the screen went grey before bringing up the current camera footage of the light, ash porch. Agatha stood and stared at the screen and chuckled. George, her tabby cat, was waiting patiently at the front door.

            She padded down the carpeted hall way and pressed her palm to the large blue lock, the lock flashed green with the words “Unlock” flashing, Agatha pulled open her door and let George trot in. He purred happily before disappearing to a comfortable spot in living room. Agatha went to shut the door when a something caught her eye. At the very edge of the porch was a lump. In the night, it looked grey and unmoving however; as Agatha drew nearer she saw the lump move up and down repeatedly. Like it was moving. She called out,

            “Hello?” in response was quiet cry, the lump moving to form an arm, waving wildly in the air. She walked quickly across the porch to find a small, pink, wet baby.

            She stood there for one very long second. The snowflakes were caught in her messy hair. Her tired eyes wide from shock. Her brain, half wondering, whether this was all a dream. Why was a baby here? Instead of an answer, the baby cried, flailing its arms and legs into the air, it’s small face glowing red as it yelled. Quickly, Agatha scooped up the small, wet baby, and rushed back inside, locking her front door behind her.

            She washed the small baby in warm water and dried it with a small towel on the side of the sink. The baby kept crying. Agatha picked up baby and walked slowly up stairs, pulling her dressing gown from the tall golden hook by the upstairs cloak rack,

            “Hey,” she said, trying to make her shocked, tired voice into a soothing, motherly tone, “Where did you come from, little guy?” the baby cried as she wrapped herself and the baby up in the thick, soft dressing gown. He slowly grew quiet and, after a grabbing her index finger, he fell asleep.

            It was then Agatha’s brain kicked in and she noticed the small silver disk, attached to the child’s chest. It had a shiny orb sticking out of it. Carefully, without waking the baby, she pulled the disk and the orb off him. She then pulled the orb away from the disk and pressed it, hard. She listened.

            She listened again, not believing her ears.

            For the third time, she listened. She began to cry and hold the baby, baby Milo. He stirred in his sleep but he remained asleep as she lifted him to the centre of the bed. She then left him to prepare and pad a large pillow case and a few cushions. She placed them all in a bundle at the side of her wide, empty bed, and slowly placed Milo in the centre of the comfortable moment made cot.

            “Hello, I would like to fill in some adoption papers,” Agatha said to a tired looking man at the hospital desk, “I would also like an infant checked,” the man yawned and typed quickly,

            “The papers are under ‘A’,” he said, pointing slightly to the shelf on his left “And we can have a doctor with you in ten minutes,” Agatha nodded and settled down in one of the pearly white chairs in the waiting room. She had fashioned a few of old pillow cases to make a large baby carrier, to hold him up around her chest. Milo was awake and staring up at her, he gurgled and Agatha smiled down at him,

            “Hello Milo,” she whispered, his chest peeked through the pillow case fabric and she remembered how desperately she tried to erase the small red ring that the silver disk made on his chest. He didn’t seem to mind, he was an odd baby, he loved being washed. Being surrounded by the bubbles. He seemed fascinated by it all. He loved being held too. Agatha sighed; she never understood children that way. She loved being around them, having her nieces and nephews round her house, she loved talking to them and listening to how school and college was. She loved it all, but she did not once understand them. Why did they like being held? Why did they cry when something was wrong? Whenever something went wrong in Agatha’s life, the most she did was swear and yell. But she felt better afterwards.

            Milo gurgled and Agatha looked up to see a woman with a long silver plate in a long white coat approach her. She had a crisp smile on her lips though the ice blue in her eyes screamed business. It didn’t seem right that she would work with children.

            “You must be Agatha Jackerby,” the woman said, Agatha blinked quickly. She didn’t expect the data base to respond that quickly to her name change. She thought, for the sake of Milo’s, that if they had the same name it would be easier for him to grow up and live with her. Plus ‘Agatha Jones’ sounded dull.

            “That’s me,” Agatha finally said, trying to smile as she held out her hand to shake, the doctor stared down at it in slight disgust. Agatha lowered her hand to cradle Milo.

            “I am Doctor Ruth White,” the woman said, “You may follow me,” the woman took a silent glance at Agatha and then baby Milo before turning on her heel and walking towards the open archway. Agatha followed and felt the fast whoosh of air behind her as the archway slid shut. Doctor White’s black heels clacked on the plastic floor, echoing around the corridor as they passed other doctors a few families and a handful of new born babies and their mothers. Agatha’s thin legs found it difficult to keep up with Doctor White’s quick pace though, thankfully, the Doctor turned into a white washed room with blue plastic flooring. In the centre of the room was a black, rubber table and, in the corner, was a desk with glass computer. They were all the range for Doctors.

            “Please place Milo onto the table,” Doctor White instructed. Carefully, Agatha shed the pillow case and slowly placed a gurgling Milo onto the table. He blinked in the harsh light that Doctor White shone over his eyes,

            “A few days old,” she muttered before looking back to Agatha, “You are not the Mother?”

            “I am adopting him,” Agatha said nervously, “I had a background check this morning, I just need to file the official papers and-”

            “Yes,” Doctor White interrupted, already bored by Agatha’s voice. She turned to her desk and opened the top draw, pulling out a scanner. She pressed the button on the grip and the room filled with green light from the scanning screen. Milo blinked a few times before her began whimpering,

            “Sssh,” Agatha whispered, “Milo, sssh,”

            “Step away from the child,” Doctor White ordered, holding the scanner threateningly, “We need a clear read on the scanner to check his bones and vitals,” Agatha stepped back, with another stony glance from the Doctor, before she began to place the simple piece of machinery over Milo’s head slowly turning it over his ears and neck. Doctor White’s steel eyes remained on the screen facing her, showing her Milo’s skull, his brain, his ears drums. Everything. She moved the scanner down his body, looking at his spine and lungs,

            “He’ll be tall when he grows,” Doctor White said, “Around the upper end of five feet, maybe six foot,” Agatha nodded, smiling at the fact he would be taller than her,

            “His stomach is the right size,” Doctor White then said, she glanced up at Agatha, “He shouldn’t suffer from any… Disease,” the Doctor smirked and Agatha clenched her fists slowly, “I suggest you pick up a dietary leaflet on your way out, I wouldn’t want you to be checked into a rehab facility and-”

            “I am better now,” Agatha said, hopefully in a calm tone, the Doctor smirked again as she looked down at Milo’s legs,

            “Not without scars,” the Doctor said, “We still have your files, Miss Jones,” the two adults fell silent as the scanner returned to the happy beeping and Milo’s quiet whimpering,

            “He will make a good runner,” Doctor White then said, “Long legs; I suggest you get him into sports after a decade,” the Doctor then pulled out her clipboard, that was placed in her white coat pocket, she made a small note with a vicious scribble of her pen, “Pick up a few more programs on your way out,” Agatha nodded, not daring to speak another word to this… Woman. If she could call her that, that is.

            Doctor White finished her scan and nodded to Milo, who only whimpered in response, before placing the scanner back into her top desk draw and then pulling out a small, silver device. It looked like a small pair of glasses, two monocles that were glued together, but instead of glass they were filled with a dark blue glowing substance. Doctor White didn’t explain what they were as she placed them onto Milo’s small, baby nose. She then looked intently at Milo’s head, her unnaturally white finger tips tracing what hair he had,

            “Very good,” Doctor White muttered,

            “What is?” Agatha asked meekly, the Doctor glared at her before speaking,

            “He will have a very high IQ if tutored correctly, I suggest you look into private schooling though…” her voice trailed away as she focused on the side of Milo’s head, “He has a large memory centre, he’ll have an eidetic memory, his parents must have been very interesting to know,” she looked at Agatha who, under the stress, seemed to be even thinner. Agatha simply nodded and allowed Doctor White to finish scanning his brain.

            Another five minutes passed until Agatha and Milo were free to escape the cold clutches of Doctor White, as Agatha passed the front desk she picked up the educational leaflets and disks she would need for Milo and the adoption papers and files she would need to fill in at home. Despite the stress this would cause in later life, she was smiling for the first time in, what seemed, ages.

Milo Jackerby (Second Part)

17^th December, 3012

It had been a slow, busy day, which did not stop the several business men from charging down the metallic hall ways of the hundred floored building before reaching the architects room,

            “Oliver?” one man called out as the other four men spread out, looking around at the elaborate sketched and plans for buildings,

            “Here!” A tall, gangly man with a wild blonde mane and circular glasses popped up from a pile of paper, “Sorry, just sorting a few things…” his voice trailed away as he saw the number of people in his office, “Can I help?”

            “We need to see the plan for Saint Arden’s Prison,” another man said, “The boss wants us to see the progress,” Oliver’s face fell slightly,

            “I… Well… I was told only certain members of the building can be shown this… It is extremely confide-” the man in the far corner cut him off,

            “We have a gram from him, if you want proof,” he sneered slightly as he threw over a small silver disk. Oliver pressed his right thumb into the small, spherical hole in it. The disk flashed blue and, as Oliver withdrew his thumb, rays of blue light shone out at least 10 inches into the air, forming the shape of Mr Hannigan,

            “Oliver,” the man’s deep New York accent grated Oliver violently, “We need to see progress for Saint Arden’s, it is a matter of government and citizen interest that this building is put together within the next year,”

            “But, Mr Hannigan, you said a year would be the minimum-”

            “Do not argue with me boy!” his boss bellowed back, the rays of light shifting to show every detail of his anger, “We can take you off the project just as easily as I put you on it, you have these sketches shown to these men, now, and they better be finished on my desk by Wednesday or I will make sure that girlfriend of yours-”

            “No,” Oliver squeaked. He didn’t like it when people mentioned Tilly. She was pregnant and, with her health, she was weak and couldn’t handle the stress of having an unemployed boyfriend, “It’s fine, Sir, I’ll show them the sketches and the full plan will be ready for Tuesday,” the image of Mr Hannigan remained still slightly, the light rays shining brightly, showing up the boss’s smile,

            “Good,” he said, “I look forward to it Oliver,” and with that the rays of light faded back into the silver disk, that was fogged up from Oliver’s palms. There was a moment of silence before Oliver shifted, his shoes squeaking,

            “Right,” he croaked, he moved silently through the piles of folders, papers and scrap books before stopping in front of a silver desk, he opened it and pulled out a long column with the Saint Arden’s logo printed on it, he turned and handed to the first of the men. Pushing Oliver out the way, they crowded around the large piece of paper, looking over the lines and plan for outside appearance,

            “You’re going with ivory?” one man questioned, Oliver shook his head,

            “Artificial ivory with mercury based, it gives it a… Glowing appearance,” he answered,

            “Just what the public would want,” another man muttered before a man with a goatee spoke up,

            “You made another copy?” Oliver paused. No he hadn’t. Why did they ask that?

            “No,” Oliver replied, his brow creasing, “Why?” he pushed through the group of suited men and saw, as clear as day, the small dot of the printer mark. Someone had made a copy.

            “Have you lent it to another department?” one man said, Oliver shook his head,

            “This is confidential, I couldn’t,” he turned to see the stony faced men, “It’s been under lock and key, it’s impossible to get to this floor, let alone into the building with a DNA scan,” there was another silence but, despite the imposing and threatening look of the men, the smell of fear drenched the room,

            “We’ll double up security,” the man with the goatee said, “You can go home now, just make sure that’s finished for Wednesday,” Oliver nodded and waited for the men to leave his office. He turned and hid the large sketch in his desk before sighing loudly. His pocket beeped a happy, flowery tune, he answered the gram,

            “Oli!” the woman beamed, it was Tilly. Her blonde plaits and blue eyes glowed in the hologram’s rays, “It’s late; are you still at the office?”

            “Just had a meeting,” he said, “I’m porting back home,”

            “Good, I heard the roads were busy,” her voice croaked and she coughed, “Hurry back,”

            “I’ll be with you soon, I love you both,” Tilly smiled and her hand disappeared to stroke her large stomach.

Milo Jackerby (Working Title)

Hello, this is Daisy, currently I'm working on a long story/novel thing and I wanted to test out the opening on you. And when I say opening I mean the first page and a half. I'll post the next few bits every week so you guys can, hopefully, give me any thoughts (hopefully good ones) but be brutally honest with me, ok? Anyway, this is it. It's working title is called Milo Jackerby. It won't make much sense in this bit.

17^th December, 2050

The court room was quiet; the jury were due to enter at any minute. The man accused of murdering his pregnant wife, his elderly neighbour and the neighbour’s grandchild, the man running to be the United States president, sat with his head in his hands. Like he almost knew what the verdict would be. He didn’t do it, that was his story, what he said from the beginning, he was out of town, seeing his psychiatrist, as it happens, running to become president can cause stress, and when he returned he found his wife in a pool of scarlet. He was in mourning and he was being accused of murder which, since 2045, means the death penalty.

            The jury entered, a few were red faced from yelling or crying, some with their eyes closed, others seemed to be in a trance, like they knew they had made this decision. Of course, he was guilty. The man hardly reacted; he only shut his eyes, before being half taken half dragged, out of the courthouse. A few officials watching sighed in relief, a few even clapped and smiled. Worst of all was the man’s parents in law. They were so happy they were going to be grandparents but now their daughter, and their only hope of a grandchild was taken from them, by this man. This beast. The Mother burst into uncontrollable sobs of joy and the Father put his arm around her, whispering it was what she would have wanted. Their daughter would have wanted her murderer to die. Unfortunately, the man that left that courthouse and was later killed with a lethal injection, did not kill his wife and child.

            “How did you get it?” the young man asked, pacing about the poorly carpeted college dormitory, the girl, Indigo, sat at her desk and uploaded the audio recording from the jury’s room,

            “I planted a bug,” she said, “Duh,” the screen lit up, stating her upload was now complete,

            “Then why did they let him… Whoa,” emotions hit the him, Spike, harder than ever before, “Why did they let him die?”

            “Dunno,” Indigo answered before sending the audio straight to her website and uploading documents stating what the jury must do, “Couldn’t be his policies,”

            “I was going to vote for him,” Spike then said, his head in his hands, he looked up when the computer beeped happily as the audio had completed yet another download, “What are you doing?”

            “People need to know about this,” Indigo replied, fiddling with her mood necklace,

            “Government officials, not the people who are subscribed to your website!” Spike yelled,

            “Shut up,” she just said, turning in her chair to face him, her painted purple lips sneering slightly, “Who else do you think I’ll send it to?” she turned in her chair again before typing quickly and bringing up her e-mail account. Spike looked at the address.

            “No way,” he grinned slightly, half shocked by what she was planning to do,

            “Should I?” she bit her lip nervously, hovering her index finger over the enter key,

            “We’ll need to run,” Spike then said, grabbing his jacket, wallet and teleporting device,

            “I’ve run before,” Indigo said, pulling open the desk draw and grabbing her teleporting device, her insulin tablets and her Father’s debit card, “Pass me my coat,” Spike threw over a thick, long, leather coat and watched her clip it shut and put her belongings in the inside pockets,

            “Ready?” he asked, grinning, holding out his sweaty palm, Indigo laughed loudly as she hammered her finger onto the enter key.

            The room was empty when the screen flashed:

            Sent to all accounts. Complete.

Our Voyage

(For the Tower Poetry Competition - written by Daisy Edwards)

Write words to me, my darling,

Write sweet words, only for me,

As I sail painfully away from the land,

Upon the bruising and battering sea.

We hope to find some land,

New land to claim as our own,

Though, my love, don’t tell the lads,

All I want is for me to be home.

The biggest ship I’m upon, dear,

With the strongest sail and mast,

We’re travelling forward, for the future,

But I can’t help but think of the past.

Do you remember when we first met, love?

How we danced until the dawn,

And we slept a safe slumber for an hour,

Before a glorious sun rise was born.

We woke and watched for a while,

Each golden ray streaking the skies,

Holding my hand, you looked to the horizon,

While I only looked to your eyes.

When I first took you to the docks,

You were shocked; I was a man of the sea,

An unreliable, dirty, scurvy dog,

But, my love, you can count on me.

But now I’m here, feeling lonely,

Though we have the biggest crew,

I can not wait for this voyage to be over,

Then, finally, I can return to you.

The waves at night, they are fearsome,

The blackest and sharpest of fears,

One night, the wind was strong,

My eyes were streaming with tears.

I know, my darling, I should be brave,

Courageous, strong and tough,

Although this is my third voyage,

I’m finding the ocean life a little rough.

I think I’ll settle down soon, dear,

In a cottage, so far from the sea,

With a dog, on a farm and the greenest grass,

My love, would you come with me?

I know you love your family,

And your Mother wouldn’t approve,

But I know you don’t like the village much,

Come with, and we’ll both move.

Yes, to a town way off in the country,

Where flowers and oak trees can grow,

We’ll be in a large, warm cottage,

The rest… I don’t really know.

But please, oh please, join me,

We’ll have our own voyage soon,

With no waves or fish or terrible storms,

Or hoping for the light of the moon.

And in stead of crouching round a candle,

Looking for the slightest heat,

I will curl underneath our covers,

And hold you while we sleep.

We won’t have to worry about the captains’ cat,

Or which direction we stray,

We will be safe and warm in our little house,

In the warmth, with you, I’ll stay.

And my love, it won’t be too crowded,

No forty men all in one space,

Though if you want, we could start a family,

Each child, shining with grace.

And instead of cold gruel for breakfast,

And rum and stale bread for tea,

Fresh fruit, meat and loaves, my love,

So do, take this voyage with me.

The Little Things

All the little things in life, we love without knowing. We love the sound of the rain, but we would only notice it if the rain were mute. We love the smell of freshly ground coffee becasue it wakesus up and I fear we would be forever drosey if coffee had no smell.
It's the simple things.
The little things.
The sound of the sea,
The feeling of your boots crashing into puddles,
The site of home, you're own front door,
When the traffic lights all turn green, just for you,
Thinking you know an answer, then later you know it's definate,
All the little, simple things we have,
We hold onto them,
Because we need them. No matter how hard we tell ourselves we won't miss them, a certain jacket on someone or the smell of your Mum's perfume, we will always miss them and be nothing without them. Without the little things.

I Love...

I love the way a wave of warmth hits you as you open the front door after a really long day at College and how the smell of a fresh cup of tea, with your name written on it, steams through to you.
I love how whenever I wake up at his house, I know he's awake as well, and he's just waiting for me to say "Good morning, sweetie,"
I love the breif moment of silence you get before and audience applaud you, every time I hear that sound I can't help but smile.
I love how I can tell I've had a good day at College because my  sides ache from laughing and my faces strains because I'm smiling too much.
I love keeping each individual train ticket and cinema stub - each piece of paper is a memory, a smell, a uncomfortableseat on a train or a snug one in the theatre.
I love that moment when reading a book, you read the title. You read the most important line in that book, that feeling will forever be spine-tingling worthy.

Stage

"Well... You're not posh," the man said in the shadowed auditorium, his cigar smoke rose and hit the stage light. The woman, the one to the right, looked bashful, she had an "English Rose" look about her,
"What other songs do you sing?" the man then asked, the woman gulped loudly and replied with,
"What do you want me to sing?"
The man smiled. This wasn't her first audition.
"Somewhere over the rainbow, lose the accent and give me emotion, alright?" he snapped, the woman's large blue eyes squeezed tight before she opened her mouth and sang out the opening lines of the song.
You could have heard a pin drop.

Winter Song.

A symphony of snowflakes fall,
Fall to the icy ground,
The naked arms of the trees,
Catch these flakes without a sound,
The muffling crunch, crunch, crunch,
From thick leather soles,
These boots slip and slide,
On to an icy patch of cold,
Hear the gentle snow whoosh,
It's a busy winter gale,
Hear the underscore of winter flakes,
And the hammering of hail,
The sky is our orchestra,
Of snow clouds, light and strong,
And the cool, cool, ground below,
Will perform the winter song.

Daisy Edwards