Prompts 1

Prompt: You wish you hadn't said what you just said.

I had a habit of blurting things out without thinking them through. More often than not, it got me into quite a bit more trouble than it was worth; trouble from which even my way with words tended not to save me. Judging now from the look upon Alyssia's face, a combination of deathly sorrow and seething disgust at what I'd just said about her elder brother Michael, this was one of those moments.

I'd have had a bit more tact if I'd known Michael had been killed.

Almost of their own accord, I felt my reactions spread across my face one after the other; a wide-eyed stare of horrified realisation, the parting of my mouth in a vain attempt to muster an answer, then a pained grimace of disappointment in myself for having said such a vile thing.

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.

Just One Sentence...

The lights flickered precariously as if foretelling the extinguishing of life; groans and snarls raised a hellish cacophony just beyond the crumbling barricades; and with a machete in one hand and a jammed Glock in the other, I settled down against the far wall and tried to come to terms with the thought that I wasn't getting out of this alive.

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.