Margaret Jones and the Weedy Dealer

Ages ago, all the way back in first year, I came up with the idea of Margaret Jones, an eccentric botanist who uncovers a Drug Lord's giant stash. Her story has been building slowly in my head and this term I finally got around to writing some of it. If you can't remember Margaret Jones here is a story of her as a child: Margaret Jones' Childhood Adventure, or a tale of Hilary Bishop in: Margaret Jones' Rival. What I've written here is the beginning of Margaret Jones' and the Weedy Dealer. I had quite a few tutorials about this piece and one of my lecturers, who is a professional editor, said she could see it working quite well in the publishing world as it is a unique and quirky idea. Let's hope that comes through in the marking. Also, after reading through this I just remembered how I was going to end it, but I had so many other assignments that I forgot. Damn. Anyway it's still good so give it a read!

Margaret Jones and the Weedy Dealer 

Margaret’s knee twinged. The sharp pain shot straight down her leg. Her ankle buckled and she fell into the damp undergrowth. Glasses askew, Margaret desperately tried to recall if she had taken her arthritis medicine that morning. She straightened, wary of her knee. Putting most of her weight on her right leg, she massaged her left. Once the pain had subsided Margaret checked in her pack. She eventually found the Advil box crushed at the bottom, underneath some dirty underwear and loose teabags.

‘Damn it.’

She remembered then, she hadn’t taken them that morning, or the morning before, or even the morning before that. She briefly wondered whether taking three at the same time was safe before popping all three pills. Out of her many-pocketed satchel she pulled out her Dictaphone, a present from her son. She rarely used technology (Andrew had been trying to explain the World Wide Web to her for the past five years) but the Dictaphone did have its advantages over a notepad and pen. Mainly because Margaret was forever losing her pen, then finding it later knotted in her frizzy hair.

She pressed the record button and a little red light blinked.

‘Must take arthritis medication,’ she said clearly into the small mike. She rewound it and played it back to herself a couple of times just to make sure she really would remember. Satisfied, she swung the pack onto her shoulders and continued trekking into the jungle.

‘Day thirty eight in the Vietnamese jungle. So far no sight of the Aquilaria Crassna,’ she spoke into the Dictaphone. ‘I’ve not lost hope yet, though. I’ve been on far longer expeditions before. After all, it took me months in Russia to find the Silene stenophylla frozen in the ice, and then those Russian botanists took all the credit for reviving it. Bloody commies. And did they even mention my name? No. Probably that witch, Hilary Bishop’s idea…Oh, now, what was I talking about again?’ It was at this point that Margaret realised that the confounded gadget hadn’t even been recording.

‘Just as well, I suppose.’ She readjusted her pack and satchel, cleared her throat and made sure she pressed record this time. The red light was on.

‘Day thirty eight in the Vietnamese jungle. Still no sighting of the Aquilaria Crassna, but I’m not overly concerned. I know it’s out here and I will find it eventually. In the mean time I have seen some very interesting specimens of the Paphiopedilum genus. My particular favourite is the delenatii, its fragrance was beautiful, sweet and delicate.’

She had tried to take a photograph with her digital camera (another present Andrew had bought her for the trip) but she couldn’t get the damned thing to work properly. She couldn’t figure out how to turn off the flash and it just wouldn’t focus. In the end she had thrown the camera into her pack and drawn a diagram of the flower instead.

‘I will endeavour to find the Aquilaria Crassna. Its threatened status grows more severe by the day, and for all I know it could be extinct already. Finding this plant is one of my last chances of resurrecting my career.’ She sighed and pressed the stop button. The red light went out.

Margaret was putting the Dictaphone back in her satchel when she saw a neat piece of paper poking out of the left pocket. She plucked it out and unfolded it. Across the top was the University of Cambridge insignia and underneath The Department of Plant Sciences. Margaret ran a hand through her hair. She read the stowaway note, her eyebrows rising higher and higher up her forehead. Phrases like ‘keep your valuables safe’, ‘watch out for strangers’ and ‘don’t forget to use bug repellent’ made Margaret wonder whether the writer realised that she was not a child, and in fact hadn’t been in a very long time. Only when she looked at the neat Andrew Bennet-Jones signature at the bottom did her indignation fade. It was in her son’s nature to fret over everything, especially her. And, she supposed, she did give him good reason to. She folded the letter carefully and placed it in between the pages of a notebook. Andrew would be glad to see her back home soon, though probably disappointed that she hadn’t found the Aquilaria Crassna. It had, after all, been his idea to search for it.

Through the treetops Margaret could see the beginnings of an orange sky and set up her small tent, forgetting to spray herself with bug repellent. Inside the tent she took off her glasses, folded them, and laid them carefully on the floor beside her. Once settled into her sleeping bag she hummed simply to herself. She twiddled her thumbs and tapped her toes. But still that niggling feeling did not go away. Being an explorer could be quite lonely at times and Margaret was finding herself wishing she had someone to talk to. She had tried travelling with people before but she had found that no one had really shared her passion for plants and they ended up frustrated, as they had to stop for every new flower Margaret saw. Likewise, Margaret would get annoyed at them for not wanting to stop and look at the new flowers. In the end, it was just Margaret on her own again but she found she liked it that way.

That was until tonight.

The jungle was eerily silent; no nocturnal bird calls, no whispering of trees, nothing – never a good sign. Her mouth grew dry. Andrew’s words circled in her mind. Watch out for strangers. Any man she’d meet out here would be strange. Even stranger if they wanted an old woman like herself. Though she had never really considered herself old - Snap! A branch cracked like a gunshot. Margaret was not scared of much. She’d once kept spiders and snakes as pets, she loved climbing tall trees, and the darkness had proven to hold some very remarkable plant life. Yet this noise sent her heart racing. She fumbled for her glasses, having already forgotten where she had put them, then eased herself out of her sleeping bag. She paused every time the slippery fabric rustled, waiting to see if she’d been heard. Even the creaking of her gammy knee joint set her on edge. She made it to the tent entrance just as more twigs crunched. This time much closer. Margaret reached for her pack and pulled out her trusty machete. She held it in one hand as she leant forward and tugged at the fastening of the tent’s entrance with the other. Although she pulled as slowly as she could, the buzz of the zip seemed as loud as a nest of angry Vespa Crabro. She stopped. The minutes ticked away before she heard another noise. A scuffle to the right, only feet away. Before she could lose her nerve Margaret tore open the tent, machete raised, and leapt outside to face her attacker.

She came face to face with nothing.

She looked around her. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the fine light of the half-moon that filtered through the trees. At her feet was a large scaly ball. Her racing heart began to relax and she lowered her machete. She waited, careful not to make any noise, and soon enough the scaly ball uncurled. A large creature, nearly a metre long, lay before her. It lifted its pointed head towards her and blinked both its beady black eyes. It turned, each of its diamond-shaped keratin scales moving together as it continued its night-time scavenging. The creature’s long nose sniffed around her tent before it plodded off into the jungle undergrowth.

‘Watch out for poachers, little fella,’ she whispered after it.

As soon as she was back in her tent, Margaret reached for her Dictaphone. ‘A Sunda Pangolin,’ she whispered. ‘A member of the Pholidota order, not to be confused with the Pholidota orchid. Simply put: a scaled anteater.’

Margaret tutted to herself as she climbed back into her sleeping bag; fancy being scared of a Pangolin. She was losing her touch. Andrew would be disappointed.

{  

‘Day fifty-four. I was sure I would have found the Aquilaria Crassna by now, or at least been close. But nothing.’ Margaret stormed through the jungle, shoving vines and branches aside - she had a machete but she hated to use it on living plants. ‘I’m starting to think any plant would be good, not necessarily the Aquilaria Crassna. Just something to take back to England. Something to show those snobs at Kew Gardens.’

The jungle was alive with noise; birds sung across the trees, insects buzzed as they flew from anther to stigma. There was a rustling as a group of Cat Ba Langur monkeys, their orange fur burning intensely in the afternoon sun, scurried through the treetops. Margaret smiled as the monkeys chatted to one another and didn’t feel so alone. With a wave to the Cat Ba Langurs, she continued her trek. Bursting through a thick clump of trees, she found herself on the edge of a gaping trench. She wobbled for a moment before regaining her balance.

‘Thank goodness,’ she breathed, wiping at her sweaty brow that had attracted many annoying midges.

She turned to walk alongside the canyon. Only her knee twinged.

As she tumbled down through mud and roots she remembered she hadn’t taken her arthritis pills for a while. In fact, it had probably been nearly a week. She tumbled head over heels for what felt like hours. When she finally came to a stop at the bottom Margaret thought she was going to be sick. She lay in a muddy heap, leaves clinging to her hair, and took a few deep breaths. Eventually the world stopped spinning and she sat up, realising the Dictaphone still in her hand. Somehow, Margaret had managed to keep hold of it through the entire tumble.

She popped it in her pocket before checking her body. Her arms were okay if not a little bashed. Her satchel had flown from her shoulder but her pack had wrenched her arms backwards as it was torn from her. Her head and back were all intact. She ran her hands over her hips, they were good too. Margaret couldn’t believe her luck. Her friend, Joyce had fallen out of bed and needed an iron pin in her hip. She had just rolled down a hundred-foot hill and come out dandy.

It was only when she looked around and everything was blurry did she realise something very important was missing. Her hands flew to her face. ‘Blast.’

She crawled around in the musty ground, her fingers sinking into the sodden dirt, desperately trying to find her glasses.

‘Bloody nuisance. Maybe Andrew was right, should’ve gone for that laser eye surgery after all.’

Panic was rising within her when she touched the long arm of her glasses. She quickly shoved them on and was disheartened to see a large crack down the left lens distorting her vision.

‘Double blast.’ She took them off again but could barely differentiate between petal and leaf. ‘It will have to do,’ she sighed as she placed them back on her nose.

The contents of each bag was scattered around her. Grumbling, she crawled around collecting all her possessions.

Once everything was back in their correct pockets and pouches Margaret got her bearings. By the way the plants were growing she could tell she had taken a tumble to the East. She was off course; she had been making her way down South. She looked back up the hill. There was no chance of her ever being able to make it back up there again, even if she was a spry, young woman. She pulled out her Dictaphone.

‘An ill-footed mishap has caused a change in route. I will continue my course and hope to be back on track by nightfall. I will…’ Margaret trailed off.

While talking she had been scouring the surrounding trees. There were plenty of Renanthera citrina, whose flowers looked like tiny men jumping for joy, and a very striking Cycas condaoensis, which many people would laugh at but she never found phalluses humorous; it was, after all, a very common shape in nature. But tucked behind some fallen leaves of the Asian Koki Mosau (a species of tree that she’d always felt sorry for after it was badly decimated during war time) was an unusually shaped plantlet. Slowly, she crept towards it as if it were a Large-Antlered Muntjac that would easily scare. When she was inches away she spoke into the Dictaphone.

‘It’s not the Aquilaria Crassna,’ she whispered, ‘but I have come across the most curious plant. It is only a foot tall, it should be struggling to survive in this jungle yet it has an erect Caulescent stem. It has five minuscule digitata leaves sprouting at the top of said stem. Each leaf is a deep shade of minty green. It has no flowers, buds, or nodes.’ She leant forward and rubbed between her finger and thumb. ‘It is puberulent, with fine hairs on each leaf.’ She breathed deeply. ‘No overwhelming smell.’ She looked around her for any other plantlets, or even a fully grown specimen. Nothing.

Margaret rummaged in her pack and pulled out the digital camera. She spent a couple of minutes working out how to turn it on before remembering to take the lens cap off. Leaning in close, as she still hadn’t worked out how to use the zoom, she snapped a dozen or so photographs. Satisfied, she put the digital camera away and pulled out her knife. Tenderly, she cut one of the leaves and part of the adjoining stem from the plant. She would have it preserved as a herbarium and sent off to Kew. She could already hear their cries of excitement at this new plant. ‘Who found this wonderful new specimen?’ they would ask. ‘Why, the brilliant Margaret Jones, of course.’ Finally, she would be a renowned botanist once more. That would knock Hilary Bishop off her pedestal.

Humming off-key to herself, Margaret placed the plant sample safely in her satchel. She searched the undergrowth and found a long, smooth branch, perfect for a makeshift walking stick. Walking a couple of steps she was pleased that her knee was no longer as stiff as it had been before. Everything was beginning to look up.

‘I may not have found the Aquilaria Crassna but sometimes you have to count your losses. This unknown plant could be more important to my career than Aquilaria Crassna ever could be. Andrew, I’m coming home.’

To celebrate Margaret brought out a box of tea bags and a battered tin cup from her pack. It was only once the water had stopped boiling that she realised the jungle was silent.

Suddenly, a gunshot split the air. Margaret jumped, nearly dropping her Dictaphone. Another blast sounded, and tree bark shattered only feet away from her. Without hesitating, she instinctively ran deeper into the jungle, away from danger.

‘Bloody poachers,’ she cursed, as she half ran, half hobbled past looming trees and a number of colourful flowers, that would have normally caught her attention.

Soon the gunshots were far behind her and she allowed herself to breathe. If there was one type of person Margaret didn’t want to meet while on her expeditions, it was poachers. The scourge of the natural world. They were greedy and vicious. Just because she was a human being wouldn’t stop them from doing God knows what. Her hands were shaking, and it had nothing to do with her arthritis.

{  

He could feel the withering pain in his arm again. Absently he rubbed at it while he paced the room. It had been nearly an hour since he had sent the men out and still nothing. They’d better have good news, he thought. He glanced over at the monitors that lined the walls. There were cameras hidden all over the plantation and some in the surrounding jungle, too. The fields were clear, each guard manning his post, submachine gun poised. That woman, that strange, old woman, who had appeared out of nowhere, had gotten close. Too close. If she had walked only a few steps further she would have been right in the middle of his crops. He gripped his arm tightly. She had to be seen to.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Enter,’ he said quickly. Even he could hear the pain in his voice.

Two guards walked in, AK-47 assault rifles slung over their shoulders. He could tell from their sullen expressions that they had not been as successful as he would’ve liked.

‘What happened?’

The first one looked to the other before speaking, ‘We scared her off, Boss.’

‘Yes?’

‘But, she’d seen this,’ the other guard said as he pulled one of their crops from behind his back. ‘Looks like she took some of the leaves, too.’ The roots dropped dirt onto the floor. He looked at it, his lip curling.

‘And you just let her get away?’ The pain in his arm was growing. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

‘We didn’t let her, Boss.’

‘She was quicker than she looked.’

‘She’s an old woman. She was using a branch as a walking stick and you couldn’t keep up with her?’ he exploded. The pain reached new heights, and not for the first time, he wanted to tear the crippled thing from his body. He collapsed into his chair.

‘Boss?’

‘Get out,’ he hissed. ‘Get out there and find her.’

‘Then what?’

‘Finish her.’

The two men nodded. One guard left but the other turned and placed the hybrid coca plant on the desk in front of him. He stared down at it.

He might have been a pushover once. A pansy. A wimp. But not any more. Dirt went flying as he swept the plant off the table.

That woman was going to be sorry she ever messed with him.

The Masque of Red Death Re-imagined

While I haven't blogged much lately I have been silently working on my ECP. Not just writing either. As it's me I have probably done more drawings for my story than actual writing. It's a curse. I think it does help though, as now I know what my characters look like, and not just in my head, but on paper. Lenore keeps changing however, I can never seem to get her quite how I like, which is probably why I am having such difficulty doing her Character Profile.

This is a drawing of one of the scariest characters from my story. The red-faced man. Okay, he doesn't have a very scary name, but boy, is he creepy. Here's when Lenore first sees him.

'A man stood by the dining hall doors. Not just any man. His lips were torn back to reveal deadly sharp teeth. The flesh around his nose had peeled away leaving only twisted holes instead of nostrils. And even though his sockets were empty he was definitely staring straight at her. The worst was the colour of his skin. It was a bright red like freshly spilt blood.'

This is the monster that haunts Lenore's new friend, Perry. He is a creation of the evil Edgar Allan Poe, and his origins stem from The Masque of Red Death. To me he looks like a mixture of Darth Maul and Marvel's Red Skull. Either way, it would still be creepy to have this guy following you around. 

When I get my printer/scanner working properly again I will scan my other drawings. And they're a lot nicer to look at. 

Character Profile Sheet - Lenore

Another character profile sheet, this time for my ECP character, Lenore. I find these sheets are great for developing characters and after filling this out I can't wait to write her story. My lecturer has suggested that Mr Usher is too 2D so I was thinking about doing a sheet for him as well to expand upon his character. I want to give him some background and make him more relatable, or at least make the readers understand what he did and why. 

Anyway, less about Mr Usher and more about Lenore. 

Character Profile Sheet

Basic
Name: Lenore Corvus

Gender: Female

Date of Birth: 19th of January 1995

Age: 17

Birthplace: Stoke Newington

Nationality: British

Social Class: My mum would probably want us to be middle or even upper but we’re just like most other people, simply working class.

Family

Parents & Siblings Names: My mum’s name is Madeline and my dad’s called Roderick. No siblings.

Family Background: Like I said, I’m a single child. My parents aren’t really into the whole children scene. Sure they love me but they kind of have to. They’re more interested in their jobs. Just because I’m a single child doesn’t make me spoilt or anything. I probably had to work harder to get their attention; I swear sometimes as a kid they even forgot about me while they went off to work. My parents met through their jobs. My mum is a stage actress, well was. She’s not a massive star but she’s perfectly happy where she is. She says she never wants to go into TV or film because she considers them ‘fake and require no talent’.  Whatever.

My dad’s a writer, he writes a column in Curtain Up magazine. He does theatre reviews; see how this is working out? So one day he goes to review one of mum’s shows and it’s love at first sight. Well, according to my parents it is. But you know what parents are like; just make up anything to shut kids up. Anyway, my mum doesn’t do any acting anymore. She’s really ill. She suffers from catalepsy. It’s pretty obscure. It basically means that your muscles go really stiff and you barely breathe. It makes you appear dead. When mum collapsed on stage that’s what everyone thought she was. Dead, I mean. That was the first of her cataleptic attacks. Now all she does is sleep or rest. She’s lost loads of weight and everything. Dad cares for her around the clock. He barely writes any more. I’ve notice that his hair is starting to go grey, a clear sign of stress.

Marital Status: Not married.

Children & Ages: No children.

Pets: Sadly, no. I always wanted a pet. But if I thought my parents didn’t have time for children they certainly don’t have time for animals.

Physical Appearance

Height: Average 5 ft 6in.

Weight: Well, haven’t weighed myself lately but last time I checked it was like 9 stone something. That’s average, right?

Hair Colour: Black like my mum’s. I usually have the fringe clipped back because it always gets in the way no matter how I have it cut or styled. People always think I colour my hair black, that my natural hair colour must be blonde like my dad’s. Not true.

Eye Colour: Light blue like my dad’s. Sometimes I think it makes me look spooky. Dark haired people usually have dark eyes too, not bright blue ones.

Tattoos or Piercings: Nope. Even though my parents don’t pay much attention to me I think they’d flip if I ever got a piercing or tattoo. Maybe not if it was just my ears pierced. But anything else, definitely not.

What do they sound like: What do I sound like? I guess I must have an accent though I’ve never noticed it. But now I’ve moved to the countryside maybe it will become more obvious. You know, a Stoke Newington accent compared to a farmer’s, must sound pretty strange.

Typical Outfit: I’ve never really been into fashion. My mum always says I’m a pain when it comes to clothes shopping. But she’s a complete fashionista. Clothes are practically everything to her, which is a shame because nowadays all she wears is a cotton nighty and dressing gown. If she was more aware of what was happening I’m sure she would be embarrassed to be seen. Anyway, what I wear? Let’s just say I’m your average Topshop or H&M teen – jeans and t-shirts.

What would you find in their pocket/handbag: Well, I only ever use one bag, one I got from Topshop years ago. I probably should get a new one but it’s been so good to me. When I go out I have my purse in there, along with my keys, and phone. I always keep some plasters, paracetamol, lip balm, tissues, and a pen in there, though. Because you never know what could happen while you’re out. That’s quite a mumsy thing to say, isn’t it?

Any Other Info:

Accommodation

Where do they live (City, Countryside): I used to live in the Stoke Newington but we have recently moved to a town called Ravensborough on the edge of Nevermoor, down in the South West. So, basically, the middle of nowhere.

Living Arrangements (House, Shared, Rented): The house we’re living in is rented, and dead cheap, as my dad keeps going on about. It’s a massive creepy manor, The House of Usher. It use to belong to the wealthiest family in Ravensborough but now the only living member lives on the other side of town in a more modern place. Can’t blame him really.

Do they share it with anyone: Just my parents, though it has rooms for like another eight people.

What is their home like: I wouldn’t consider it home just yet. It’s falling apart and totally old. Like I said, can’t blame the Ushers for wanting to get away from it, I would too if I could.

How do they get around: Ravensborough isn’t exactly big, only like two miles across so everything is in walking distance. This is good because I don’t think my dad would give me a lift anywhere any time soon. I don’t think there is any good public transport either; I’ve only seen one bus stop. So I won’t be leaving Ravensborough at all.

  

Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes: I like doing a good crossword or word puzzle. When I’m bored I go to the local newsagents and buy one of those cheap puzzle books. I haven’t been to the newsagents here yet, I hope it’s a good one. I also like the normal stuff, too, like hanging out with friends, going to the cinema, the internet. Though we don’t have an internet connection here yet so I better find a newsagents quickly.

Favourite Films: Tricky, you know? I don’t have a particular favourite right now. I guess, genre wise, I like thrillers and horrors. You know what; my guilty pleasure is actually Paranormal Activity, pretty bad, right? My mum is always annoyed at me for liking films more than her plays. It’s nothing to do with her acting; I just find theatres really dull. I don’t dare tell her that.

Favourite Books: I really like Dan Brown books, particularly Angels & Demons. Films are bit naff though; I don’t see Tom Hanks getting hot babes in real life.

Favourite Album: Music? Girls Aloud, are they still popular? That’s the last album I bought anyway.

Favourite TV Programme: Again, mum doesn’t like TV so we rarely watch it. Though, I did catch that new Sherlock Holmes programme; that was good.

Favourite Sport and Team: Sports? Geez. Don’t get me wrong I know about sports but I’ve never been interested in it. So I’m gonna pass on this one.

Favourite Food: M&Ms, easy. They do count as food, right?

Favourite Drink: Pepsi, not Coke. Controversial.

Favourite Colour: Blue.

Perfect Weekend: I would love to go to the cinema and have a meal out with my parents. But good luck getting my mum to watch a film. It’s not been made any easier now that she’s sick.

Ideal Holiday Destination: Not the countryside that’s for sure. Maybe some European country, I’ve always wanted to go to Prague, don’t know why, it just appeals to me.

Personality

Best Point: How can you really say your best point without sounding totally big headed? I’m going to say my forgiving personality…Ha, no. Okay, my patience with my family. That will do.

Worst Point: Dad says I’m too much of a daydreamer. I’m not daydreaming though, just thinking.

Mannerisms: I don’t notice them at all, really. Who does? I bite my nails though, my mum hates it and always makes me wear that nail biting stuff, it tastes gross but I’ve kind of got used to it now.  

Morals: Don’t harm animals, don’t sleep around, and don’t do drugs, the usual junk.

Fears: My mum dying.

What is the thing that worries them most: At the moment, I worry that mum will never get better. Her doctor prescribed fresh air and rest but how can that really help, honestly?

What do they look forward to: Equally, I look forward to when she’s better, for two reasons. Firstly, because I want her to be healthy again. Secondly, so we can move back to the city.

Temperament: I would say that I’m pretty patient, I rarely yell or anything. I can be stroppy at times, but then again, what teenager isn’t?

Have they lost anything important to them: I once lost my favourite teddy bear, Rumple Ted, at a holiday camp, does that count? I’ve been relatively lucky and not lost anything too important. But things can change.

What do they hate most: Right now, this bloody house. I don’t usually get scared but I really can’t stand this house at night. I hear some really weird noises coming from the attic, but when I go up there during the day I can’t see a thing. Not to mention the bizarre mark on my ceiling, I swear it looks just like the shape of a body. It gives me major creeps.

What is most important to them: Naffly, I’m going to say family. It’s all I have. I have no friends or anything in Ravensborough. It’s pretty lonely.

What are their obsessions: Obsessions are for weird people. But I suppose the closest thing I have to an obsession is my love for M&Ms. Mmmm.

Do they have an ambition: I’ve never told anyone about this before but I one day hope to be a critic like my dad. Not a theatre one, I just don’t know what for yet. I would never tell dad though, it’s too gushy. It would be really embarrassing. He’d probably hug me and be proud. Please.

What do they dream about: Lately I don’t dream. I only have nightmares. I blame the house. It’s too spooky. A dream analyser would probably say it’s my inner me worrying about my mum, but I know it’s the house and all the weird noises.

What are their secrets: Apart from the ambition thing, not much. There is nothing that I know that needs to be kept a secret. Well, one time I did steal a packet of sweets, I never told anyone about that. But I was only five or something. That’s understandable.

Do they believe in religion or life after death: I’m leaning more towards ghosts these days. I mean, in this house how can you not? I’m sure there are loads of skeletons in the closet, figuratively and literally.

Do they get on with other people or avoid them: I try to get on with other people. At my old school I had a nice group of friends and I was happy with that. But now it’s going to be awkward. I guess we’ll see if people avoid me or not on Monday, my first day at a new school.

Who do they love: No one, sadly.

Has their heart ever been broken: Nope, is that sad or not?

Do they have a best friend or someone they can confide in: I used to, Annabel Lee, she was best friend at Stoke Newington. But not anymore. Not because we fell out but because I had to move. I still like her but let’s face it, long distance relationships never work out. 

Did they have a happy childhood: Relatively, I think a sibling may have made it better. Overall, I can’t complain. 

What were they like in their childhood: A good, quiet little child. I haven’t really changed much actually.

When were they happiest: I will be happiest when we move away from this Godforsaken place.

Education

Schools attended: I was at Stoke Newington School & Sixth Form. On Monday I will be starting my first day at Manor House College, sounds great. I hope there are no bitchy girls, yet I get the feeling that there probably is. They’re everywhere. It’s a relatively small school, much smaller than my old one, at least. Less than one thousand students probably.

Current year/grade: Just started A-Levels a couple of months ago. I’m studying Biology, English Literature, Psychology, and at my parent’s insistence, Drama.

How well are they doing: Well, I did great at GCSE’s and doing well at Stoke Newington School & Sixth Form, so hopefully that will continue through to my A-Levels at Manor House College, too.

Favourite Subject: English, it has reading, what more could you want?

Most Hated Subject: It used to be physics; I just didn’t get all the formulas and sciency bits. It was mind boggling. Luckily, I don’t have to do it anymore.

Character Profile Sheet

Character Profile Sheets are very important in writing. And I have created the most awesome one ever. It is a combination of the two I have posted before. It has all the details you would need to define any of your characters. Fill this sheet out and you will know your characters back to front and inside out.

Basic
Name:
Gender:
Date of Birth:
Age:
Birthplace:
Nationality:
Social Class:

Family

Family Background:

Marital Status: 
Children & Ages: 

Pets: 

Physical Appearance

Height:

Weight:
Hair Colour:
Eye Colour:
Tattoos or Piercings:

What do they sound like:
Typical Outfit:
Any Other Info:

What would you find in the pocket/handbag:

Accommodation

Where do they live (City, Countryside):
Living Arrangements (House, Shared, Rented): 

Do they share it with anyone:
What is their home like: 
How do they get around:
  

Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes:
Favourite Films:
Favourite Books:
Favourite Album:
Favourite TV Programme:
Favourite Sport and Team:
Favourite Food:
Favourite Drink:
Favourite Colour: 

Perfect Weekend:
Ideal Holiday Destination:

Personality
Best Point:
Worst Point:
Mannerisms:

Morals:
Fears:
What is the thing that worries them most:
What do they look forward to:
Temperament:

Have they lost anything important to them:
What do they hate most: 

What is most important to them: 

What are their obsessions:
Do they have an ambition:
What do they dream about:
What are their secrets:
Do they believe in religion or life after death: 
Do they get on with other people or avoid them:

Who do they love: 

Has their heart ever been broken:

Do they have a best friend or someone they can confide in: 
Did they have a happy childhood:
What were they like in their childhood: 

When were they happiest:

Education

Schools attended: 

Current year/grade:

How well are they doing:

Favourite Subject:
Most Hated Subject:

Profession

Job Description:

Degree of skill at occupation: 

How do they feel about their occupation:

Salary:
Hours Worked:
Job Satisfaction:
Reputation at Work: 

Creative Writing Dissertation - ECP

Last week I had a meeting about my ECP (Extended Creative Piece). It's the Creative Writing version of a regular dissertation. It takes the place of two modules, so I only have to do six modules next year, but that still means 12 pieces of coursework as well as a dissertation. The ECP includes an 8000 word creative piece, which can be a couple of chapters of a story, a collection of poems, a screenplay, literally anything involving writing! Then I have to do a 2000 word rationale, not so interesting. I'm not so good at these, but hopefully I will have a lot of help and will have improved by this time next year. 

So, my meeting was with Judy Waite, my ECP supervisor. She was my lecturer for Fiction for Children module, and Creativity in the first year. She's a fun, and very creative person. She also knows a lot about the children's and young adult publishing/writing world. She has written quite a few books like Game Girls, which you may have heard of as it was pretty controversial and in the news, Forbidden, and The Next Big Thing as well as many others. I haven't read any of them yet but I keep meaning to. 

My idea for my ECP involves YAF and textual intervention. For Christmas I was given a huge book of Edgar Allan Poe stories and poems and I thought that would be a good contrast to the typical teenager fiction. I had thought of doing something about Maggie who takes all the advice from women's magazines. Judy thought it sounded good, but was a bit too complex for an 8000 word piece. She seemed very interested in textual intervention, which I had forgotten about really. We discussed what I would have to research over the summer, like talking to librarians, people at Waterstones, and maybe any teenage girls I know.

I have to go back in June for another meeting. By this point I need a 500 word synopsis and three pieces experimental writing. This may seem easy but I literally don't know what to write about. Well, that's not quite true, I have a few ideas rattling about. 

The main character, a girl (name undecided) moves to a new house in a little town near a place called the Nevermoor. The house and town are creepy, like something from a Tim Burton film. Things start happening to the girl that resemble the works of Edgar Allan Poe, like a black cat with one eye, ravens flocking, and bodies under the floorboards. The house will have been the place of a murder and to find out who the murderer is the girl has to read Poe's books and find out the endings. Of course, while this is all happening she will meet a boy and romance will ensue. 

Or something.

I haven't fully decided yet. But I'll keep mulling it over and hopefully more will come to me. Probably when I'm trying to sleep. It reminds me a little of Neil Gaiman's Coraline. You know, she moves to a new house, with a black cat hanging around, and there's the strange little door and the Other Mother. I would like that same level of magical creepiness in my own piece. 

I still have a while to decide. Until then I will have to think, think, think! If you have any ideas or thoughts, just leave a comment. 

Jacqueline Wilson's Lola Rose

This is somewhat of a rant, so apologies. I recently reread Jacqueline Wilson's Lola Rose, which was one of my favourite books as a young teenager. It's about a young girl, Jayni, and her family. After her mum wins the lottery (£10,000) Jayni, her younger brother Kenny, and her mum run away from the  abusive dad who beats up Jayni's mum regularly. Once they run away they start a new life and Jayni chooses a new name, Lola Rose. Sadly, it's not as easy as they expected and many bad things befall them, especially when the lottery money runs out. Anyway, you can read it if you really want.

Here comes the ranty bit.

So, I thought I would reread it as I have read quite a few adult books recently, not necessarily hard but ones that can be a bit wearing, basically Dan Brown. It's nice to take a break and read something easy, and you don't get any easier than children's books. I have only kept a few of my Jacqueline Wilson books, mainly the more young adult ones. As Lola Rose was one of my favourites I was excited to read it again. When I was younger I always thought that Lola Rose was about 12 - 13 years old. I was surprised when halfway through the book it is said that she was going to primary school with her brother. Primary school? She's only in year six? That makes her 10 going on 11. No way. Her voice sounds like she is at least a teenager. I thought Wilson always had a child's voice to a T but I'm starting to doubt it now.

When Lola Rose arrives at her new year six class her first thoughts are 'I thought I was quite tall but lots of the girls were much bigger than me, and so grown-up! They wore tight designer tops that showed their figures, and they had elaborate plaited hairstyles and nose rings and fantastic fingernails.' Now, this may be a reflection of where the school is located; I imagine London children might be more grown-up than the kids are where I live in Devon. If not, then why are these ten year old girls wearing figure showing clothes and have piercings? That's a bit worrying to me.

In the first chapter her mum wins the lottery. Lola Rose, or Jayni as she's called then, says that they shouldn't tell dad as he'll just spend it or ruin it. She then says she always has to be the sensible one in the family. It seems weird that a ten year old is more mature than a mother.

Lola Rose is also already obsessed with her weight. What kind of ten year old is worried about their weight? She talks about how good looking her ex-model mum is, she then goes on to say 'I've tried locking the bathroom door and stripping down to my knickers and trying out some of those poses myself. I look  ridiculous. I'm as tall as my mum but I haven't got a proper figure. It doesn't go in and out in the right places.' Does that really sound like something a ten year old says? I don't think I even considered those types of things at that age. After her dad hits her, spurring them to finally run away, Jayni says 'My teeth felt funny too. I hoped they weren't going to fall out. Still, it might make my cheeks look hollow.' Why would a child care about their fat face? It's crazy.

Another passage says that she is getting too big for children's clothes and they buy her a new jackets from the women's section, which implies that she is not a child any more. She also buys a pair of new shoes. 'Oh, those new shoes - wonderful, strappy sling-back stilettos for Mum and my first pair of proper grown-up heels too. They were only little heels but I still couldn't cross the room in them without twisting my ankles.' Do children care much about shoes, it seems more like a teenager obsession.

Lola Rose knows a lot about sex and relationships too. A bit too much. When her mum has a fling with a footballer Lola Rose knows it is wrong and has to tell her mum to stop before her dad finds out and does something bad. Once her mum gets a job at a pub she seems to get chummy with the pub owner.  Lola Rose doesn't like this and says 'It sounds like this Barry guy is more interested in your nice bum.' A bit of an adult comment. Then her mum gets a new boyfriend Jake. Lola Rose states 'I wasn't in any hurry to meet him. I was very glad that we only had one bedroom , and Kendell and I were sprawled right across the only bed.' It would never have crossed my ten year old mind that adults did naughty things on a bed. Lola Rose even puts on a lot of make-up, she knows how to apply it better than I do now, and goes out in her mum's clothes to meet boys. She even wants to snog. I'm pretty sure at that age boys are still icky.

I'm not sure if this is a statement on what a bad parent the mum is or what, but she often leaves Lola Rose on her own for long periods of time. Is this a usual thing for mums to do? My mum never left me alone at night when I was ten but then some others might have. I may just have a nice mum.

Now you tell me, does this sound like something a ten year old would say; 'You've been down the pub drinking while I've been worrying myself sick wondering where you are!' Is this just Wilson trying to get across that Lola Rose is very grown-up, because she's made her point heavily. Obviously, Lola Rose had to grow up quickly because her mum wasn't being very grown up but it seems to be getting a bit ridiculous now.

The worst thing to happen in the book is Lola Rose's mum gets breast cancer. I don't think I knew what cancer was at her age. I mean, I probably heard of it before but Lola Rose seems to know everything about it, like how bad it is and what could happen. It surprised me a bit.

There are so many examples of a much older voice in this book and I can't mention them all. I'm planning on doing a young adult novel for my Extended Creative Piece (the Creative Writing version of a dissertation) and I always thought Wilson's work was a good example of how to write a child's voice. I not so sure any more. Or maybe being a ten year old is a lot different to how I remembered it. I will have to read more of Wilson's work again to gage if all of them have off-putting voices.

Character Profile Sheet - Maggie

Character Profile Sheets seem to be very popular at the moment and I did say I would do another one for a new character. So here is a character profile for my new character Maggie, not to be confused with Margaret Jones. I won't bother explaining her or her story as hopefully the profile will. I may make my own character profile as this one feels a bit lacking. I might combine the two that I already have. Some of the headings don't apply to some characters though; like Princess Prudence from Royalteen doesn't have a favourite TV programme as she doesn't even have a TV. I think I prefer my other character profile sheet, which can be found here. Anyway, enjoy finding out about my new character Maggie. 

Basic
Character's Name: Maggie, short for Marjorie. It's a bit embarrassing.  
Gender: Female
Date of Birth: March 18th
Age: 16 going on 17
Marital Status: Single, always have been. But it doesn't really bother me. I think I'm going to be a career woman rather than a housewife.
Nationality: British, but my Dad is part French, hence the awful name.
Social Class: Probably working to middle, but Mum says class doesn't matter, it's just society trying to control us. Right.
Morals: Those are pretty hard to write down aren't they? I would say I am somewhat environmentalist, is that a moral? I'm not one of those crazy environmentalists though, just world concious. My parents are the more dedicated type. It can be a little embarrassing sometimes. They always seem to have an opinion on everything.
Ambitions: My short-term ambition is to become head writer on the school newspaper. You may think that sounds a bit naff but my long-term ambition is to become a big time journalist, and I have to start somewhere. I've been working on the paper for a while, nearly two years now, and this year I am planning on going for the head writer's position. I only have a little column, Maggie's Messages. It's a column about world problems and what we can do to help. I just discuss the rainforest, pollution, human rights, charities, those sorts of things. I sometimes worry people may think I'm pious. I'm not, I guess my parent's interests have rubbed off on me after all. 

Education: Obviously I went to primary school. I have been at the same mixed secondary school for the past six years as it's also a sixth-form college. It's all right, I mean, it gets outstanding from Ofsted, but what does that really say?  Most sixth-form colleges get to wear their own clothes but we still have uniforms. The grey pleated skirt, blouse, and a navy cardigan or jumper. I do feel a bit like I'm going to a fifties boarding school sometimes.
Favourite Subject: It has to be English, particularly the creative side not necessarily the essays and exams. I don't mind Social Studies either, everyone else seems to hate it though.
Most Hated Subject: I confess, I'm rubbish at Art, Science, and Maths. I don't really like Drama or Sports but at least I'm not awful at them.
Family Background: So, my Dad is part French, my Grandmother was from France, and he lived and studied there. That's where my Mum and Dad actually met. My Mum was doing some sort of protest about fashion, skinny models, sweatshop clothing or something. While protesting my Mum bumped into my Dad who was only out doing his shopping. They saw each other across the rioting crowd and knew it was love. They used to tell me the story all the time but I think they realised that I didn't find it that interesting. Who wants to hear about their parents getting together, really? 

We're not really in touch with my Grandparents any more. My Dad's Mum is frail and can't really travel from France, and I don't think my Dad's too bothered about seeing her either. She can be a bit snooty. My Mum's parents didn't appreciate her 'radical' ways. They all fell out when she was a teenager. I think I've seen them once or twice throughout my whole life. Both my parents were single children so I don't even have any aunties, uncles or cousins. And unsurprisingly I'm a single child myself. It can get pretty lonely. And don't think I'm the spoilt type, I'd be lucky to get anything from my parents; all my clothing comes from charity shops, though  I don't tell anyone.


Physical Appearance 
Height: I think I'm about 5 ft 6 inches? I haven't done my height in a while. We have a height chart in the kitchen, on the door frame, that has all my heights from when I was five years old. I'm just an average height person.
Weight: Geez, I don't know. I don't even think about weighing myself. I'm not one of those girls who's obsessed with looks and all that stuff. I just know that I'm not obese and that's good enough.
Hair Colour: Brown, relatively dark but in  the summer it goes lighter. It's shoulder length and very curly around the bottom. If I were to have it any shorter I would probably have an afro. I understand that I could do more with it, but I find it easier to just wear a headband and be done with it.

Eye Colour: Simply ordinary blue. Nothing particularly special.
Tattoos or Piercings: My parents are pretty lenient but I still don't think they would like me getting a tattoo. I don't have my ears pierced as I've never been fussed about jewellery.
Any Other Info: Do glasses count as Other Info? I'm long sighted so I only wear them while I write or read, which is a lot. They're not dorky ones or anything, probably the most stylish thing about me, my parents didn't make me get them from a charity shop, thank goodness!


Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes: So, you've probably gathered that I like to write. I also like to read, and I like to watch films too. My parents prefer independent or foreign films, but I don't mind any genre, just not too keen on horrors.
Favourite Films: Oh, this links to the last question, doesn't it? My favourite film has to be...um...nope, this is way too hard. I don't have a favourite film, I like them all equally.
Favourite Books: I really love The Secret Garden, I used to read it all the time as a child. If I ever feel down I read it then, too. Do magazines and newspapers count? I try to read a varying amount to broaden my horizons. The only thing I don't read are women's magazines. My Mum hates them. She says they're to blame for today's body image problems. I can see where she is coming from but if I know the problem surely I won't be sucked in by it? She also thinks they're too sexual and are forcing young girls to grow up too quickly. That shouldn't really affect me now as I am nearly 17.
Favourite Album: Music isn't really my thing. I don't mind a bit of pop but I really don't like rapping, it's so offensive.
Favourite TV Programme: Don't really watch television. I do like watching detective shows, I used to watch CSI quite a bit but my parents thought it was too 'adult' for me.
Favourite Sport and Team: Sports? Okay, I said I didn't mind doing it, that doesn't mean I actually know anything about it. I'll have to pass on this one.
Favourite Food: What else can it be other than pizza, really? My parents love veggie food so I get that quite a bit, it's not my favourite but it's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be.
Favourite Drink: I'm too young for alcohol if that's what it means. Otherwise, I like orange juice.
Perfect Weekend: Probably getting up late; I do like lie ins. Then, a really big breakfast, maybe a fry up, not likely with my parents around. I'd probably go for a walk after that, like in the countryside, to work off the huge meal. Then maybe watch a film or two, do some writing and finish the day with a giant pizza with all the toppings. Hmm, my perfect weekend seems to be all about food...
Ideal Holiday Destination: I'm not a fuzzy holiday goer, I guess because we don't go on holiday much. Anywhere in Britain is fine with me. I'm not a beach person or a skier, I wouldn't mind seeing some historical sights though.
Accommodation: On holiday or where I live? I'll go for where I live now. We live in a semi-detached house, it's not the biggest but then again there are only three of us. From the way my Dad goes on I would guess that we have a big mortgage, but I don't really understand that sort of stuff. We have an overgrown garden, my Mum wants it to be 'free'. My room is medium sized, it's a bit bland, most of our house is beige and that means my room too. I like my house, but sometimes it's not very inspiring. We live in a relatively rural area, around ten miles from the biggest city, and it can feel a bit dead end.  


Personality
Best Point: It's a bit hard to say the best thing about your own personality. I think I'm rather caring, I listen to others and do try to help. Sometimes I get told I should do the advice column instead.
Worst Point: I can be shy and people can see that as being rude. I don't talk to people because I'm nervous or don't know what to say and people think I'm ignoring them or something. I know this is a bad trait to have, especially as I want to be a journalist. I'm working hard on being more outgoing.
Mannerisms: I fiddle with my hair a lot. I stare into space a bit, too. It's awkward when it seems like I'm staring at someone. I can't think of any mannerisms I really have, this is something someone else needs to say about me. My parents could probably pick out a tonne of my mannerism, most of them bad.
Fears: I'm scared of not becoming a journalist. It's all I've ever wanted to be. If I don't get into a journalism course or never get published, I'll be devastated. I'll probably end up working in Tesco or worse McDonalds.
Looks Forward To: The first time I see my name published in a newspaper. Hopefully it will be in the Guardian or The Times not The Daily Mail. I wouldn't mind writing for a geographic magazine either, you know something specialised. But not something boring like gardening or clouds.
Temperament: I would say I am rather calm, I rarely raise my voice or snap at people. I'm patient too and don't get easily frustrated, which is a talent considering my parents.


Profession
Job Description: I don't have a job right now, but clearly my dream job is journalist.
Salary: A lot? I'm no good with money or counting or any sort of maths. But I'm not in it for the money. But then, does everyone say that when they start off?
Hours Worked: None for a job. I do put in a lot of work for the school newspaper though. I usually hang out in the library in my free time to write. It's easier away from my family. I never miss a meeting either, hopefully this will show when it comes to electing head writer.
Job Satisfaction: I'm very satisfied with the school newspaper, everyone else thinks it's not doing too well though. Mr Harring, he's the teacher in charge, says we need to get some new ideas or the principal's thinking of cutting it, something about saving the trees. Sure.
Reputation at Work: I am a bit of a know-it-all with the school newspaper group. I don't mind that though because I know they respect me and aren't being mean when they poke fun. In class I'm just the quiet one. I do my work and only answer questions when I have to or when no one else puts their hand up. 

Sketch - The Armani Assassin

I have just handed in my last creative piece of the term, I still have three more after Easter but that's four weeks away!

The next few posts will be my sketches from Creative Voice. These are short pieces that explore image, character, setting, and voice.

I have posted this before as The Mumford Man but it has now been workshopped and edited. So, please enjoy!

The Armani Assassin.

Al pierced the plastic cover of his frozen lasagne with a fork and flung it into the microwave. He didn’t have time to eat but he hadn’t had anything substantial for the last two days. Bar peanuts and crackers from hotel mini fridges didn’t count. As he watched the timer count down the minutes his smart phone buzzed. He looked at the screen.

Oh good, the Boss. Probably asking for another ‘favour’. He’d only just finished one of his boss’s favours. Al scanned the text message quickly. He had to be at the Roosevelt Hotel at eight o’clock. He checked his engraved Rolex from his father, ten past seven. He definitely wouldn’t have time to eat. Leaving the kitchen he headed to his bedroom. He picked out a clean suit from his mirrored wardrobe and carried on to his en suite, kicking off his Salvatore Ferragamo shoes as he went.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Tired bags hung underneath his weary grey eyes. Lines pulled down at his lips and his moustache desperately needed a trim. He rubbed a hand across his face and noticed a few drops of blood already turning brown on the cuff of his right sleeve.

‘Fantastic,’ he groaned. He had tried so hard not to get blood on him this time - it was a very expensive shirt.

He slowly undid the buttons. Instead of chucking it into the laundry basket he just left it on the floor, he’d deal with it when he got back tonight. If not, Maria would sort it out tomorrow morning. Al slipped on a clean Georgio Armani shirt and tucked it into his Ralph Lauren trousers. He trimmed his moustache and dabbed on a splash of Clive Christian cologne, the one that drove the ladies wild. He ran his hands through his short dark hair, he hadn’t had time to wash it this morning, but it would have to do for tonight. He’d only had a short amount of time but damn, he looked good. Al winked at his reflection just as the microwave beeped.

He strolled back to the kitchen; the lasagne smelt delicious but there was no point even trying to eat it. He still needed to get across the city and it was now twenty past seven. He took the meal from the microwave and grabbed the bowl with Rodolfo written on the side from the floor. Al didn’t even need to whistle, his golden retriever knew the sound of his bowl being filled with food from across the room. Rodolfo jumped off the black leather sofa, on which he had been curled up on, and ran over to Al, tail wagging. Al tipped the lasagne into the bowl and put it back on floor. Rodolfo licked his lips before shoving his nose into the bowl of steaming Italian food. Al patted him on the head and stroked him behind his furry ears.

‘Careful, it’s hot,’ he warned with a smile. Rodolfo wheezed slightly, his tongue hanging out, before going back for more. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours hopefully; otherwise Maria will have to take you out tomorrow morning. I’ve got work to do.’ Al petted Rodolfo once more before picking up his suit jacket, which he had thrown on the back of the sofa. He then put his phone, keys, and wallet into his pockets before picking up his semi-automatic. This favour was going to be a tough one.

Character Profile Sheet - Tobias

I have no idea what to write at the moment. I am completely stuck. So I decided I would do another character profile in hopes that it would get the creative juices flowing. This is just a rough idea of how one of my characters might be like.


Name: Tobias of the Raksaka Tribe.

Age: 17

Birthplace: The Raksaka Settlements.

Marital Status: I am not married. The men of the Raksaka tribe do not marry, but instead take on women to bear their children.

Children & Ages: I do not have any children. It is unlikely that I shall have any children as I would have to choose a woman, and none of the females in my tribe appeal to me. I would not want inflict that misery on anyone, either.

General Appearance (Height, Hair & Eye Colour): My head used to be shaven when I lived in the Desert Lands, but since moving to Minadril I have grown my hair out, as it is rare to see a shaven head in the Western lands. I have dark eyes and skin, and this makes me stand out in Mindaril as most of the people there have very fair complexions. I am about 6 foot tall - the Desert Lands do not produce small, weak children. If they look like they will be runts, the children are left in the desert. Sometimes a person may take pity on the child and leave them on the Adruhal or Helmriche boarders. But that is very rare.

What do they sound like: I have long since lost my Raksaka accent as I have lived in Mindaril for many years. I took on their accent very quickly as I did not want to stand out too much. My dark skin and hair was already a problem.

Typical Outfit: In the Desert Lands I used to wear thin clothing as the heat was unbearable. But here in Minadril I wear expensive tunics, often with the Boar's head embroidered on the chest.

Where do they live (City, Countryside): I used to live in a small hut in the south of the Desert Lands, my tribe was known as the Raksaka. Now I live in the kingdom of Mindaril and have for three years.

Living Arrangements (House, Shared, Rented): I live in the Palace and share a bedchamber with seven other royal guards. I have my own bed, with a trunk for possessions. But I don't have many.

Who do they love: I do not love anybody. My tribe viewed love as a weakness and did not encourage it.

What is their home like: My home was a dreadful place. I despised the dry desert from an early age and wanted to leave as soon as possible. My tribe consisted of around thirty huts made from wood, grasses, stone, and mud. The Lerrnayin Mountains that surrounded our tribe meant it was almost impossible to get to the Abhainn River on the other side. It was torture having water so close and yet so far. Sandstorms were a regular occurrence and last for many hours. They destroyed our homes and what little farmland we had managed to grow. During sandstorms it was best to stay indoors, a bad storm could easily blind you, or tear your skin off.
Many times knights from Adruhal and Helmriche invaded our tribe, claiming the men had attacked their boarders or stolen from their lands. Usually, they had and many of them were taken away as prisoners. The tribesmen hated the knights and especially the royal families. They thought that it was unfair that they should have the rich, prosperous lands, while we rotted in the desert. They firmly believed that our ancestors had been cheated out of what was rightfully theirs.

How do they get around: In the Desert Lands you had to walk, but there were not many places you would want to go anyway. Horses did not often survive the desert. However, now I am in Minadril I have my own horse, Kale.

Occupation: I am the Prince's royal guard.

Degree of skill at occupation: I believe I am very good at it, he has not come to harm in the three years I have been with him.

How does the character feel about their occupation: It is a ruse. I am to wait until orders are given. Then I am to kill him.

Family background: I was raised by my father. My mother died during labour. Yet the women were only chosen to bear children, not for love, so my father was not sad. He was angered at her death though, as it proved that she was weak and he feared I would be weak, too. As I grew up I strove to show him otherwise but he was uninterested. He was moody and temperamental, he often shouted and tried to beat me. I sometimes wondered if he did actually love my mother and was angry that I killed her.
When I was thirteen I was recruited by the tribe leaders with the other boys from the tribe. They trained us as to be assassins. They told us that the royals were the enemies. They told us that when the time was right we would kill every last one of them. The leaders were lazy men, thirsty for the royal's blood. I only joined to show my father I was a man. He did not care. I was glad to be sent away to Minadril. I was only fourteen. When I left I vowed that I would make my father proud one day.

Names (Nicknames, work name, parent names): I am simply Tobias, I have left my tribe now. Many of the people at Minadril call me Guard. I respond to any name I am given and do as I am told.

What would you find in the pocket/handbag: I do not carry a bag. I only have a belt, which has my blade on it. I carry it around with me at all times. Inside my boot is hidden a knife that would go undetected if I were to be captured. When I go riding, or am guarding the prince I also have a sword. I keep my more personal belongings in my chest; I have the clothes I wore when I arrived at Minadril, they are my last ties to Raksaka. At the bottom of the chest is the only thing I have of my mother's. I found it in the hut when I was younger and took it for myself. It is a simple necklace, made from the seeds of the Kushca tree, one of the only trees that grow in the Desert Lands.

Do they have a best friend or someone they can confide in: I do not have many friends at the Palace. I do not wish to have them; they would only make my task harder. I am not friends with the prince. I find him weak, insufferable, and pathetic. I often think that I do not need to kill him, he will die soon enough by himself.

Did they have a happy childhood: No. I was neglected and beaten. I despised my father and he despised me.

What were they like in their childhood: I was quite and reclusive. I did not wish to interact with the rest of my people. My father would find any excuse to beat me so I avoided him at all cost. If I could make him proud now it would all be worth it.

Have they lost anything important to them: I suppose I lost my mother, but I did not know her at all. Some nights I do miss the idea of her, though. Maybe if she had lived she would not have let me controlled by the tribe leaders.


What is the thing that worries them most: I worry that if I fail my task I shall be exiled, or worse killed.


What is most important to them: I want my father to acknowledge my existence, to be proud. Sometimes I doubt whether it really matters. If I kill any of the royals he probably will not even care; all he cares about is lying around in the shade, occasionally throwing stones at the pathetic goats we keep.

Has their heart ever been broken: No. Never.


When were they happiest: Truthfully, I was happy when I left Raksaka. Being a guard at the Palace is a fulfilling job, I almost hope that the order to kill will never come.


Favourite food: Anything that is not covered in sand.


Favourite colour: Colour is not that important to me.


Hobbies: I like practising my swordsmanship and riding Kale. Mostly I have to follow the prince around so do not have time for hobbies.


Pets: At Raksaka we had goats, they were emancipated and scrawny and never produced milk. I felt sorry for them and thought they would be better off dead. Now I have Kale. I suppose he is my only friend here.


What do they hate most: Unlike the rest of my tribe I do not hate the royals. I am indifferent to them. But, the royals must do what is best for their kingdom, I must do what is best for my tribe. If it comes down to killing one of them I will. However, I do hate that my tribe have become mindless wasters. We deserve to live in the Desert Lands, we would only ruin these beautiful countries.


What are their obsessions: I do not have time for obsessions.


Do they have an ambition: Only to make my father proud.


What do they dream about: I have dreams where I am born to a happy family in Minadril. I wake up feeling disappointed and guilty.


What are their secrets: My greatest secret is being an assassin. If the royals of Minadril were to find out I would be executed. If I escaped Minadril, but failed in my mission, my tribesmen would not be any more welcoming. Then again, if my people found out that I did not truly believe their ideals they would also desert me.


Do they believe in religion or life after death: I believe that after death you are dead. I would like more for my mother, but that is the way it is.

Do they get on with other people or avoid them: I avoid them. I do not want to get close to people in case they discover who I am and where I come from. I am close to the prince but we rarely talk about personal things, he complains mostly. 

Another Character Profile Sheet

I found another Character Profile sheet, this one was given to me last year in Creative Voice. It's quite similar to the other Character Profile I did on Princess Prudence but with a few different points. It's more specific this time, and mentions a lot of modern things like TV and Films, so may not be as easy to do for Princess Prudence. I may do it one someone else, like Margaret Jones, who I haven't written about in a while.

But I'll leave the list here while I decide on what character to do it for.

Basic
Character's Name:
Gender:
Date of Birth:
Age:
Marital Status:
Nationality:
Social Class:
Morals:
Ambitions:
Education:
Favourite Subject:
Most Hated Subject:
Family Background:


Physical Appearance
Height:
Weight:
Hair Colour:
Eye Colour:
Tattoos or Piercings:
Any Other Info:


Personal Information
Hobbies or Pastimes:
Favourite Films:
Favourite Books:
Favourite Album:
Favourite TV Programme:
Favourite Sport and Team:
Favourite Food:
Favourite Drink:
Perfect Weekend:
Ideal Holiday Destination:
Accommodation:


Personality
Best Point:
Worst Point:
Mannerisms:
Fears:
Looks Forward To:
Temperament:


Profession
Job Description:
Salary:
Hours Worked:
Job Satisfaction:
Reputation at Work:

Character - The Mumford Man

For Creative Voice we had to bring in a picture of a person we wanted to write a story about. I got my boyfriend to choose the person as I didn't want to have any prior thoughts about them. It wasn't allowed to be a friend or a really obvious celebrity like Brad Pitt. So, my boyfriend chose this guy:

Now it turns out he's the lead singer in Mumford & Sons, Marcus Mumford. I didn't know this though when I wrote this piece. Did any of you guys recognise him? My piece is not even about a singer, more like an assassin. I imagined him as an Italian American born into the family business. He was going to meet a girl that would change his ways, but that wouldn't be till later. 


So here's the piece:

Al pierced the plastic cover of his frozen lasagne microwave meal with a fork and flung it into the microwave. He didn’t really have time to eat but he hadn’t really had anything substantial to eat in the last two days. Bar peanuts and nibbles from hotel mini fridges didn’t count. As he watched the microwave timer count down the minutes his iPhone buzzed. He looked at the screen. Oh good, the Boss. Probably asking for another ‘favour’. He’d only just finished one of his boss’s favours. Al scanned the text message quickly. Great, he had to be at the Roosevelt Hotel at eight o’clock. He looked at his engraved Rolex from his Father, ten past seven. He really wouldn’t have time to eat now. Leaving the microwave he headed to his bedroom. He picked out a clean shirt from his mirrored wardrobe and carried on to his en suite. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. His grey eyes looked weary with tired bags underneath them. Lines pulled down at his lips and his moustache needed a trim. He rubbed a hand across his face and noticed a few drops of blood already turning brown on the cuff of his right sleeve.

‘Fantastic,’ he groaned.

He slowly undid the buttons. Instead of chucking it into the laundry basket he just left it on the floor, he’d deal with it when he got back tonight. If not, Maria would sort it out tomorrow morning. Al slipped on a clean Georgio Armani shirt and tucked it into his Ralph Lauren trousers. He trimmed his moustache and dabbed on a splash of Clive Christian cologne, the one that drove the ladies wild. He ran his hands through his short dark hair, he hadn’t had time to wash it this morning, but it would have to do for tonight. He’d only had a short amount of time but he still looked good. Al winked at his reflection just as the microwave beeped. He strolled back to the kitchen and opened the microwave. The lasagne smelt good but there was no point even trying to eat it. He still needed to get across the city and it was now twenty past seven. He took the meal from the microwave and grabbed the bowl with Rodolfo written on the side from the floor. Al didn’t even need to whistle, his long haired golden retriever knew the sound of his bowl being filled with food from across the room. Rodolfo jumped off the black leather sofa, on which he had been curled up on, and ran over to Al, tail wagging. Al tipped the lasagne into the bowl and put it back on floor. Rodolfo licked his lips before shoving his nose into the bowl of microwaved Italian food. Al patted him on the head and stroked him behind his furry ears.

‘Careful, it’s hot,’ he warned with a smile. Rodolfo wheezed slightly, his tongue hanging out, before going back for more. ‘I’ll be back in a few hours, if not Maria will take you out tomorrow morning. I’ve got work to do.’ Al petted Rodolfo once more before picking up his suit jacket, which he had thrown on the back of the sofa. He then put his iPhone, keys, and wallet into his pockets before picking up his semi-automatic. This favour was going to be a tough one.