Writing Deadline

I've come up with a plan. Sort of.

The first rough draft of my novel, The Stone Men of Raksaka, is complete, and has been for a while. I come back to it from time to time, really getting into it for a couple of hours and then ignoring it again for days, or more accurately weeks. I get distracted easily. Things get in the way. Sure, I want to be on my laptop day in, day out, tapping away at the keyboard. Unfortunately, like so many other people, I have a job. Then, when I get home from said job, I have social obligations. I know, as a truly dedicated writer these things shouldn't be a problem. I could stay up late into the night writing, slurping down coffees and pro-plus, but I don't want to that. Well, I do, but my body could not handle that, I can barely get up in time for work when I go to bed at ten.

Doodles I do at work, that sort of counts right?

Before I nod off to sleep I do think of Emin and his adventures in Minadril and Adruhal. I imagine exciting, and sometimes deadly, scenarios he'll end up in, plan out conversations he'll have with Princess Cailyn, or Prince Percy. I plot out back story, and the lore of Kardenia. I think about which actor would play Emin in the big Hollywood blockbuster that is sure to happen. If only I could just finish the damn thing!

Right, The Plan. It is my intention to have this novel complete in its entirety by July 2015 and ready to sent of to agents and publishers. Why July? That's when my boyfriend's job at the school ends, and when we (hopefully) will be moving in together, away from home, for him to study his PGCE. It's a big moment of change, and growing up, and if he gets to do something worth while in becoming a teacher, I want my dreams to start happening too. So July, that's when everything changes and that's why I need to up my game and start being serious about writing.

This time last year I was serious. I was sitting in my kitchen writing thousands of words a day, utterly focused (apart from carving out the Halloween pumpkins). Now, I look at my laptop and feel that knot in my stomach tighten. Nothing is stopping me really. Work isn't too tiring. Social obligations aren't set in stone; people would understand that I need to write. I'm just being completely lazy. Self-discipline is so hard! It's so much easier when your told by lectures what to do and when, and face failure if you don't do things on time. But, I suppose, this past year I have reached my many other goals. I lost over a stone of weight since February, I passed my driving test a month earlier than I had planned, so finishing my novel shouldn't be too hard right? What's writing a novel compared to a driving test?

So here I am saying, promising, that I will have finished The Stone Men of Raksaka by July 31st 2015, or I'm a total plonker, let-down, failure, terrible excuse for a writer. Any of the above. So, July, I'm ready for you!

Fantasy Map - Kingdom of Helmriche

I haven't updated my blog but I have been busy. Yesterday, I reached the 20,000 word target on my novel, The Stone Men of Raksaka. This is a First Class piece of work I did for my university course that I am now continuing into a trilogy.

While I won't post the story here, I'll leave you with another one of my maps.

For more maps of the Six Kingdoms, and specifically Adruhal, just click here.

Here are some Game of Thrones style House Sigils I also did involving the Province of Kardinia and the Six Kingdoms. 

If you do fancy reading more of The Stone Men of Raksaka write me a message and I'll send you a copy to read, and maybe you can give me some constructive criticisms. 

Until then, I better get back to writing! 

To Do List: BLOG MORE!

Wow. A seriously long time since I last posted and I don't even have an excuse. This summer has flown by in a blur of nothingness (though I got to go on holiday, which was lovely). It's been a strange one. And I'm not even going back to some sort of education this September which is even weirder.

I feel terrible because I haven't done any writing, blog or otherwise, since July. I haven't entered any competitions since May either. But I have written a To Do List, and those are the top things on it.
I guess I've been bogged down with this 'being an adult' business. The stress of finding a job, especially one involving writing, is humongous, mainly because there aren't any. However, I'm coming to accept it as I will hopefully being moving to Bristol next year while my boyfriend does a Masters in Law, and there will be plenty more jobs in Bristol than in the dead-end town of Ivybridge.

However, I have looked into volunteering at my local library, and have a sort of informal interview/chat on Friday the 13th (unlucky for some). If I get this position it will give me opportunities to meet some authors, even if they are just local, and have a good nosey at some interesting books. I'm a very organised person so I think I'll be great at shelving books, I always organise mismatched shelves wherever I go anyway.

One of my goals on my To Do List is to reach 10,000 words of my novel project, the continuation of The Stone Men of Raksaka. I'm on around 4,000 words and have drawn plenty of maps, but I really need to knuckle down. I have a selection of fantasy books to read to get me in the zone (my sister is a fantasy nut and half her room is filled with massive tomes). Plus, reading all these long fantasy series will add to my target of reading 100 books this year.

So I may not have any more assignments to do, but I will keep you updated on the personal writing, the job searching, and the potential competitions.

Now leave me alone so I can write! 

The Stone Men of Raksaka

This is my third piece of writing to receive a First - 79% in fact, and supposedly 80% is publishable. I had a good feeling about this piece before handing it in and I thoroughly enjoyed writing it too. It is almost an intervention or retelling of a piece I did for Fiction for Children, Royalteen. It's a more adult, less superficial version at least. I was reading Game of Thrones at the time and you may see some similarities between the two. So if you loved that, you'll love this.
It's only the first 2,500 words, but I am planning on finishing it as a novel and hopefully getting it published. I said I would write it this week but instead I've been watching Disney movies. It's an addiction.
Sci-Fi and Fantasy was my favourite module of this year and in hindsight I really wish I had done a fantasy for my dissertation. But what's done is done.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as did writing it.

The Stone Men of Raksaka

He piled sand upon his knee and watched as it skittered down his leg, catching in his dark hairs. Between his dry fingertips he crumbled more, creating a gritty mound. Sighing, Emin leaned back on his elbows, the sand tumbled back to earth. It was warm on his skin; the sun had yet to bake it to blistering heats. Staring far across the desert he was sure he could see the grasslands of Helmriche, but it was more likely to be a mirage.

He’d foolishly tried to walk there when he was younger. At sundown, he had snuck from the hut and started out across the Desert Lands. Even at night the desert could be a dangerous place. Dirt dogs tracked his every step and he had not been sparing with his water. He’d still been able to see the huts of Raksaka when he finally decided he had to turn back. He’d slunk back in as quiet as a whisper, but his baba had heard.

                ‘You want to go walking? Let’s see how far you can walk after this.’

                Emin ran a finger across one of the shiny white scars that laced his legs. He hadn’t walked for a week after the whipping; every time he’d tried the wounds would reopen.

He rolled over in the sand, savouring the peace. When the sun rose between the Eastern Lerrnayin Mountains, Raksaka would awaken. The women would be the first, tending to the skinny goats and the dry crops. Then the children would come from the mud huts, begging their maminka’s for food they didn’t have. The children would have to be satisfied with wheat and water.

The men would rarely leave their mud homes, preferring the coolness inside. His baba cursed the gods if he was ever called from his hut - even if it was a summons from the High Leader.

The Savasci had to be at the training yard an hour after sunup. Emin was expected to be there.

When he heard the bustling maminka’s and their squalling children Emin knew it was time to get ready. He looked back into the distance, over the Desert Lands, to Helmriche. It would always be a mirage.

* 

The Savasci hut was dry and dusty. The hot air and the stench of sweat suffocated Emin. His mouth felt like it was full of sand and he could only think of water and fresh air. He stood straight like the other boys, all wearing rough leather tunics, with notched swords at their hips; swords taken from the corpses of raiders. Emin was not the tallest, but he was the oldest at six-and-ten. He’d been in the Savasci for three years and knew what Chief Devrim was saying by heart.

                ‘They steal from us. Every day they steal a little more. First it was land, then our riches, crops, and animals. In the night they kill our men and rape our women. Everything they have is rightfully ours. We shall take it back.’

                It was the same each day. The Easterners of the Six Kingdoms were deceitful, thieving bastards that deserved to rot in the pits of Felaket for robbing the Raksaka’s of their land and birthright.

                Emin joined the boys as they raised their swords to the air. Some of the novices had to hold their sword with two hands to hold it steady. The Chief spoke in his booming voice.

                ‘Out of the sand come men of stone. These men are brave and strong. These men shall not be defeated. These men are the Savasci of Raksaka!’

Emin fought in the yard against Direnc. He was only small, aged two-and-ten, making him one of the youngest of the Savasci, and barely a challenge. Emin had been training with Direnc since the last turn of the moon, but his swordplay still lacked the Savasci passion. His long dark hair was tied back with a piece of knotted grass, a frown of concentration screwed up his face. Emin blocked the boy’s attacks easily with a flick of his sword. They were unlikely to ever claim back the East with only a handful of children. Especially as the men of Raksaka lay in the shade, sweat beading on their wrinkled faces, being served by their sandwives. They don’t deserve the Eastern lands anymore, Emin thought bitterly. With a sudden burst of anger Emin swung his sword hard at Direnc, who made a clumsy block, tripped over his feet, and landed heavily in the sand. Training with Direnc reminded him of his first suns with the Savasci. He had been worried about joining; he never wanted to kill anyone. He had thought that it might earn him Baba’s respect. Yet he’d been part of the group for three years and done nothing more than train with battered swords, and his baba still treated him with contempt. He was beginning to wonder where the honour in being Savasci lay.

                Sheathing his sword, Emin then gave a hand to Direnc. ‘You fought like a true stone man,’ Emin told him.

                ‘I felt more like a mud man,’ the boy replied, dusting off his tunic. ‘You are a true stone man, Emin. I heard Chief Devrim say so to Cetin.’ Direnc grinned.

                Emin pursed his lips; anything said to his baba was not a good thing.

                ‘Go train with Tarik,’ Emin ordered the boy. ‘I must speak to Chief Devrim.’

                Direnc chewed his lip, his eyes wide. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

Emin smiled. ‘A Savasci should never doubt.’

Direnc nodded eagerly. ‘Never doubt. Never fear. Never flee,’ he recited.

He ran to Tarik’s side calling out over his shoulder, ‘I’ll beat Tarik, and then you, Emin!’

 *

Emin couldn’t find the Chief that afternoon. He searched the Savasci huts, the yard, and down by the Kushca tree. When he asked Devrim’s sandwife about his whereabouts she shrugged and shook her head. Emin knew that it was too hopeful; why would Devrim share his business with a sandwife? Maybe the Chief was taking the watch. Many had heard the Dirt dogs howling at night, and torches had been spotted in the darkness.

As the sun dipped below the peaks of the Western Lerrnayin Mountains, Emin trudged back to the hut he shared with his baba. With any luck he would be asleep. The fat man was snoring loudly on his bed of straw, flies buzzing around his head. Every so often he would raise an arm and try to swat them away. Emin removed the sword from his hip, but was too tired to take off his leather tunic. With a yawn he collapsed onto his own straw bed. He briefly wondered why the Chief would talk to Baba before his eyes shut and darkness enveloped him.

Women’s screams woke him. Fire flickered shadows around the hut – a hundred demons of Felaket. Emin leapt to his feet, sword in hand. His baba snorted and rolled onto his back.

                ‘What’s going on,’ he slurred.

                Emin didn’t answer.

Never doubt, he thought to calm his racing heart.

He flung back the grass curtain that covered the doorway. Outside huts were on fire; people were running and screaming, flinging sand on the flames. In the chaos men in chainmail ransacked huts and grabbed women and young girls.

Never fear.

On his left, Emin saw a child crying for his maminka, watching as she was dragged away by a tall man, his armour glowing red in the firelight.

Never flee.

                Emin charged the man, but he was too quick. He shoved the woman away and unsheathed his own weapon. Their swords rang together in a clash of steel. Emin sidestepped a swift blow, then another. The man was taller and heavier, with much more protection than Emin. But that didn’t stop him. He took a deep breath and swung his sword low. His blade caught the attacker in the knee, in a gap in his armour. The man’s leg buckled, but he wasn’t seriously hurt. Emin wasted no time. He brought down the hilt of his sword on the back of his head. The man fell face down into the sand. The woman squeezed Emin’s hand before running to her child. They disappeared into the night.

                Emin had no rope to restrain the raider; he only hoped he would stay unconscious. He gave him another smack with his sword just in case. Hurrying to one of the burning huts, the heat leapt at Emin’s face, tears stung his eyes. Grabbing handfuls of sand he helped the others to put out the flames.

The fire was almost smothered when more screams filled the air. Emin grabbed his sword and ran. Down near the Kushca tree an intruder was fighting two Savasci at once. The boys’ old dull blades were no match for his longsword, but they battled on, parrying and blocking. Lying by the enemy’s feet was a small crumpled body. Long black hair covered the face of the child. Emin’s blood boiled. For the first time in his life he finally understood what the Chief had been saying. These Easterners did rob them of everything - even their children’s lives. With blood coursing through his veins, Emin lowered his sword and stormed the attacker, taking him by surprise. It was in those precious moments that Emin managed to plunge his sword into the man’s side. It tore through leather, skin, muscle alike, getting caught on the bones of his ribcage. He let out a gasp of scarlet spittle. The two young Savasci stared at Emin, their faces pale; one’s leg was drenched in dark gore from a gaping wound on his thigh. Emin’s heart pounded in his chest. His lungs burned with every breath. Adrenaline pumped through him. He kicked the fallen man before turning to the small body. Pushing the hair aside his heart stopped.

Little Direnc.

Emin dropped to his knees and cradled the boy’s head in his lap.

‘You are a true stone man.’

 *

Devrim, Baba, and the High Leader, Hakan, stood in front of him. He’d never met the High Leader before. He was one of the darker skinned men of the clan, with oiled black hair that hung around his shoulders. His face was beardless, uncommon in the Raksaka. Thick dark brows lowered over his narrowed eyes. A massive cudgel looked weightless in his strong hands. He rearranged his fingers round the leather grip causing the muscles in his arms to flex.

Devrim was talking animatedly while Hakan stared at Emin, his face hard. Baba had his huge arms crossed, scowling darkly, bearing his yellowing teeth.

                ‘I told Cetin four suns ago that Emin was one of the best Savasci and what happened at the raid only proves that,’ Devrim insisted.

                Hakan’s eyes roved over Emin, who tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. Was he one of the best Savasci? He hadn’t intended to kill that man, but he’d been so angry. The dead man plagued his dreams. Direnc haunted his nightmares.

                ‘Pah!’ Baba interrupted. ‘This boy is a runt. Not worth wasting your time on.’

                Emin had expected that, but Devrim seethed.

                ‘This runt killed an Eastern raider and allowed us to capture another, while you sat on your craven arse, hiding with the women.’ Devrim spat at Baba’s bare feet.

                Baba lunged at him, his clenched fist slamming into Devrim’s jaw. Hakan watched them fight, his lips pressed into a thin line.

                ‘Enough!’ He slammed his cudgel down on Baba’s back. The man buckled with an agonised cry. Emin knew it would take more than that to bring down his baba for good, though. Devrim shielded away from Hakan’s cruel cudgel. His lip was broken, and his left eye swollen shut. Blood dribbled down his chin. Hakan heaved the fallen man to his feet. Baba’s nose was bent and one of his teeth was missing. The High Leader leaned in close to Baba’s face.

                ‘Your boy is of the Savasci, a stone man,’ he said in a deathly quiet voice that Emin strained to hear, ‘and he is more of a man than you will ever be.’ He threw Baba back to the mud-packed floor.

Emin looked up at Hakan careful not to show his fear.

‘Emin, son of Cetin, because of your deeds three suns ago, on the night of the raid we have an Eastern solider as hostage. With some persuading he told us news of the Six Kingdoms.’ He pulled out a leather pouch from his jerkin and emptied the contents onto ground. ‘Six fingers for six kingdoms.’ His smile was wicked, and Emin saw his baba pale at the sight of the bloody digits. ‘The greedy king of Adruhal has arranged a marriage between his daughter and the prince of Minadril.’

Emin nodded, unsure why the betrothals of far off kingdoms were so important. His baba sat up and spat a glob of blood onto the dismembered fingers.

‘Who those thieving bastard-kings sell their whore-daughters to is no concern of ours. We should be sending our strongest swords to the boarders, to avenge our dead and take back our women.’

Hakan’s jaw clenched. ‘Devrim, take Cetin back to his hut. Make sure he stays there this time.’

Devrim yanked Baba off the ground, wary of the man’s fists. To Emin’s surprise, his baba let himself be dragged away. A dry zephyr fluttered through the grass curtain that hung across the doorway. Emin was aware that he was now alone with Hakan – and his cudgel. He stood straight, shoulders back, even though his hands trembled.

‘Cetin was always rash, as I’m sure you know.’ His eyes flickered over the scars on Emin’s legs. ‘But he was a strong Savasci in his youth. He grew too attached to his sandwife though, some woman he stole from Helmriche,’ he said in musing.

Emin eyes went wide; his lazy baba had been a Savasci and his mamika had been from Helmriche? He’d always been told she was a weakling woman from the Feros tribe.

Hakan noticed Emin’s confusion. ‘A tale for another day perhaps,’ he said, though his dark eyes glittered. ‘Emin, I have a task for you, one only fit for a true man of stone.’

Emin had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what the High Leader was about to say. Killing one man shouldn’t make him a stone man, yet he was the eldest Savasci and the best with a sword, rusty and notched as it was. But he never liked fighting, or ever truly believed in the Savasci way.

Hakan’s wicked smile was back. ‘I want you to go to Minadril. Infiltrate the castle. Become part of the royal guard. Befriend this little prince. Go with him to Adruhal to meet his bride-to-be. Then kill him.’

Emin finally spoke. ‘Kill him?’

‘Slit his throat from ear to ear,’ Hakan agreed. ‘Or kill the princess. Whichever one you kill, the blame will fall on the other. Minadril and Adruhal will be at arms soon enough. The other kingdoms will be quick to join sides. The Six Kingdoms will be in chaos.’

Emin’s heart pounded in his chest. They wanted him to kill a boy? He couldn’t do it. He would not. Savasci meant brave warrior not sneaking murderer, he thought. Hakan sensed his reluctance.

‘Never doubt, never fear, never flee, Emin. You will kill the Minadril prince, if not you’ll be left to Cetin’s mercy. I’m sure he would hate to have a son as gutless as he is. Or maybe, I’ll kill you myself.’ He hefted his cudgel onto his shoulder. ‘What will it be?’

‘I’ll do it, High Leader. I’ll start a war. For the Stone men of Raksaka.’

Top 10 Writing Influences

For part of my Creative Voice III module we had to come up with our top ten writing influences in chronological order. They could be any type of media, book, film, music, etc. as long as they inspired us to write. So, as I am avoiding doing dissertation work, here is my Top Ten.

1. Disney Films/ Fairy Tales: Okay, this is a bit generic, but I had to pick just one and I couldn't list all of them. My favourite Disney film is constantly changing. It used to be Sleeping Beauty, then The Little Mermaid, then Hercules, and Mulan, and Beauty and the Beast, and The Lion King, and Tangled. Oh, it's just impossible! I love them all! When I was younger I used to read a big fairytale book every night before bed. It used to be my mum's and she had drawn around all the pictures, it is like our only family heirloom, and I hope my kids can read it one day, too. But this book and Disney films inspired me to write my own fairy tales and were responsible for my A* in English for this piece, A Disney Parody.

2. Santa Paws, Come Home by Nicholas Edwards: This is the first book that I read without pictures. I bought it at a book sale at school when I was in year 3, maybe? It's about this amazing dog who gets dog-napped and has to find his way back home. I loved it as a kid and still have it at home on my bookshelf. It inspired me to read, and therefore write later in life. 

Also, who couldn't love this little face?

3. Jacqueline Wilson books: Whenever I used to go shopping with my dad we'd always go to Waterstones and I would always buy the latest Jacqueline Wilson book. I would reread them all the time and still do - check out my post on Lola Rose. My all time favourite was the Girls series, you know Girls in Love, Girls Under Pressure, Girls Out Late, and Girls in Tears. I think I liked them so much because I was probably a bit young to read them and I thought they were a little risqué. I also really related to Ellie, the main character, probably because all her friends were pretty and skinny, and she was more on the piggy side. Others that I liked were The Dustbin Baby, The Illustrated Mum, Tracy Beaker, and Diamond Girls. As I got older the books started to get a bit samey, once you read one, you'd read them all. It seemed like Wilson was churning them out. I soon lost interest. But her books made me realise that stories can help people in need or with their problems, and this is what I wanted to communicate through my writing. 

4. The Harry Potter series by J.K Rowling: This is a bit of a give in, and is probably on everyone's list in this generation. This was the first series I had ever read, I wasn't into reading when I was younger and I actually saw the movie first. It's just inspiring, and that's all I can really say. 

5. Meg Cabot books: When I was in secondary school I remember my friend reading the first The Princess Diaries and was quite surprised because she never read anything. I'd seen the movie and really loved it but I had never bothered to read the book myself. My sister had all of the books in the series at the time and said I should read them. I was sceptical. However, this was my first incident of reading a book and it being so different from the film. At first I was put off. Then I realised that the book was so much better. I couldn't put it down. Soon my sister grew bored of the series and I bought the rest of the books. I remember reading the last one on holiday and it was just a fantastic ending. Some endings to series can be disappointing but this was not the case. I've read nearly all her other books and own most of them, too. I love the Missing series, and especially the Mediator series, which is why I'm so happy to hear that she's writing another one. Cabot's books inspired me to write chick-lit and helped me to progress to more adult fiction like Size 12 isn't Fat. She also writes in lots of different styles like dairies, and one series is done entirely in emails and letters. Since coming to University, however, I realise people don't like chick-lit too much, and have changed my style somewhat. This piece Royalteen was heavily inspired by The Princess Diaries, and to some extent so was The Diary of Lucy Van Helsing.

6. Lord of the Rings film trilogy: This series really got me into fantasy. After watching these films I created my own fantasy world with lots of different kingdoms, knights, princess, witches, and even some magical jewellery.  I wrote so many fantasy quest stories...unfortunately, by computer died and I lost them all. Some I have written on paper still and one day I will type them up again. I have all my drawings of maps, weapons, and clothing still. I used to be obsessed by these fantasy stories and spend all my time writing and drawing. I wish I could be in that mindset again. In a way University destroys the creativity because now I'm so worried about editing and publishing that I'm too scared to write anything in case it's crap. When I was younger I wrote whole stories and thought they were amazing! I have recently finished reading Lord of the Rings and I still think it's brilliant, and I really watch the films again. Extended edition, of course. 

7. Doctor Who TV series: I never used to care about Doctor Who much but the Doctor reminded me of a boy I fancied (who loved Doctor Who) so I used to watch it constantly and pretend I was the companion. I also fancied David Tennant a little bit, too. Apart from that though, Doctor Who is a great example of how to write a brilliant sci-fi story; it has everything you could possibly want - space travel, time travel, and a main character who can regenerate so you can keep the series going even if the main actor quits! Over the years I have come up with a few Doctor Who story lines and would love to be a writer for the show. It was because of this programme that I took the Sci-Fi and Fantasy module this term. I've also met two of the Doctors, Matt Smith and David Tennant. Oh, and that boy I fancied? He's now my boyfriend!

8. The Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan: I started reading this series in year 10 (I liked converse shoes back then and the book cover was a flying converse). I bought the first two and borrowed the others from the school library. I remember finishing my work early in class so I could read them. I was such a nerd! I reread them over the summer on my kindle and I still love them. I have always been interested in Greek mythology, especially after Disney's Hercules, and these books really satisfied my craving. The books we had at home about the Greeks were really dry and boring, so these were the perfect way to learn and be entertained. This has inspired my dissertation as I want to get kids interested in Gothic Literature. Obviously, with the internet it is a lot easier to learn things, I could just Google Greek myths now. But reading is much more fun. 

9. The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe: This story seems to have followed me everywhere. I first heard of it via The Simpsons, a very educational source. Then in Art A-Level I was told my subject matter was 'too nice' and should do something more 'edgy'. My art teacher wanted me to do something about gangs and drug culture. Boring! I chose the dark literature route. I illustrated the whole of The Tell-Tale Heart and loved every minute of it. Then in the first term of university I wrote a piece inspired by this story, called Obsession. In the second term I went on to illustrate it. Considering I hadn't been a very Gothic person before, I was really getting into it. There just seems to be a strange affinity with this story, and it has even worked its way into my dissertation too.

10. The Gone series by Michael Grant: I read this series over the summer and oh my God! It is gripping. The last one comes out in April and I am so excited, it is my post-dissertation treat. It has been a huge inspiration for my dissertation and after reading these books I changed my idea completely. Gone was the romcom and instead was a dangerously dark mystery with murder and ghosts. This series made me realise that kids don't need protecting from wicked things, and in fact love to read about them. You can also write about crazy things like mutant powers and 'the gaiaphage' and kids will go along with it. 

Obviously, there are so many more books and authors that have inspired and influenced me, but alas, it was a Top Ten, not a Top 100. If you are a budding writer, I recommend you do this too, it can be quite surprising as to what inspires you most. 

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.

ECP First Draft Feedback

I had a meeting with my supervisor on Monday about my Extended Creative Piece - First Draft. I was dreading it, because while my supervisor is a nice person, she can be a bit iffy. She says one thing to your face but when it comes to marking it her views are very different. I was also pleased with the work I had done and didn't want her to hate it, meaning I'd have to rewrite it entirely. So it was with some trepidation that I made my way to her office.

And yet, all this fear was unfounded.

She was happy to see me and friendly from the beginning. She even offered me tea and/or coffee, which I declined; I was way too nervous to drink. Her mugs looked questionable anyway. The first thing she said about my ECP was that she really enjoyed the beginning. She said it included a good sense of place, she knew who the character was, and it had a great opening line. Obviously this left me beaming. Of course, there were a few tiny mistakes, like clunky sentences, awkward wording, that sort of thing. Common things that can be easily sorted. What she really loved was this part, it had two ticks!

'Very well. I understand,' she said at last and Perry's hopes rose. 'But everyone will stay behind for ten minutes to make up for all the time you wasted with your elaborate display.' The whole class groaned as one and glared at Perry as he made his way back to his chair. The only person who didn't seem to mind was Gregory, who was still drawing eyes even though his pen had run out of ink.' 

She also liked the idea of the red-faced man and was impressed with the drawing I had done. She said that I should try to include it in my piece, like maybe at the beginning of each chapter.

However, she found the character change half-way through jarring. She said that the story was just getting into the action when it suddenly goes back in time to Lenore. I explained that I wanted to see everything from Lenore's point of view as she is really the main character. I had only put Perry's part first as I knew boys would be put off reading a female protagonist, while girls just wouldn't care. My supervisor agreed but I said I would rework it so that the two points of view run side by side, or something similar.

Overall, while I'm writing some good parts, I still need to work on developing the setting and being inside my characters head - seeing everything from their point of view and reacting in a way that they would. I have to have written another 3,000 words for two weeks time, as well as editing the first 3,000. That's on top of two essays and many creative pieces.

And people said third year would be hard...

ECP First Draft

Today I have a meeting with my ECP supervisor, Judy. I am a bit nervous, if she doesn't like it I'll be gutted. I'll post what she says about it here later on. But, I figured you'd want to read it before hand. So here is the first 3,000 words, remember I only have to write 8,000.

Perry could see the man again.

The man with no eyes, deadly sharp teeth, and red raw skin. The man that only he could see. Perry spotted him stood at the end of his road, as if he were a friend waiting to walk to school together. Perry hesitated before hurrying back to his house. As he closed the front door sharply behind him his mum called out from the kitchen.

   'Back already? Did you forget something?'

Perry didn't even bother telling her the truth.

   'Yeah, my maths book,' he yelled back as he ran up to his room.

He'd tried telling her before. But neither his mum nor dad believed him. They thought it was some imaginary friend, and his therapists thought it was a manifestation of a repressed childhood memory. Perry knew they were all wrong. One, fourteen was way too old for imaginary friends. Two, he’d had a perfectly happy childhood, what could he have repressed? This was definitely not something his mind had made up. He wasn't crazy.

He couldn't stay at home for too long, his mum would get suspicious. He leaned out his bedroom window in an attempt to see down the street but couldn't see a thing. He made his way downstairs and out of the house, his insides knotting themselves. He opened the front door slowly, praying to anyone that the red-faced man would be gone. His mum heard him leaving and called out after him. ‘Bye dear, have fun at school.’

Perry left the door on the latch as he snuck to the edge of the garden and peered down the street. It was empty. The red-faced man was gone. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He could still make it to school on time if he ran. Though he didn't know why he was in such a hurry to go to school. The red-faced man would be waiting for him there too.

*

Perry was lucky for the rest of the morning and didn't see the man once. He started to feel relaxed; he was even able to work out the hardest equation for once. It was during fourth period English class that everything went wrong.

He loved English class, even if his teacher, Ms Allen, was one of the strictest teachers he'd ever had at Manor House College. She sat at the front of the class seemingly engrossed in marking their Shakespeare essays from last week, but Perry knew she was paying attention to everything that was happening in the room. No one messed around in Ms Allen's classes. The boy sat next to Perry, Gregory, wasn't doing his work though. He was doodling what looked like lots of eyeballs in his text book. He would be in trouble if Ms Allen saw that. Perry fiddled with his pen before writing vigorously about the conventions of autobiography. He had written nearly two pages when the back of his neck started to prickle and his palms went clammy.

As if he was being forced, his head turned to the classroom window. Outside, stood in the middle of the rugby pitch, was the red-faced man. His skinless lips peeled apart, forming a sinister grin. He lifted his arm and pointed his red, scabbed hand at Perry as if he could see straight into the classroom to where he was sat.

Perry couldn't help it. He yelped, jumped out of his chair, ran across the room and yanked down the blind. Ms Allen's head snapped up from her desk. Her eyes narrowed behind her thick glasses. Perry had sagged against the wall in relief but his body tensed again as he faced the class. Every eye was on him. Before Ms Allen could tell him off, one of the boys at the back of the class called out.

   'Typical paranoid Perry behaviour.’ He nudged his friend who let out a loud laugh. Before Perry knew it, the whole class was laughing and jeering at him.

   'Paranoid Perry! Paranoid Perry!'

   'That is enough!' Ms Allen screeched. The class quietened immediately but Perry noticed that some of the kids were holding in giggles. Perry faced Ms Allen, not sure who was more terrifying; her or the red-faced man.

   'What is the meaning of this, Mr Prince?'

There was a long pause before Perry blurted out. 'The sun was in my eyes.'

Perry knew this was a feeble excuse as soon as he said it. Ms Allen surveyed him over the top of her glasses. The sun was clearly not in his eyes as he was on the far side of the classroom. His hands twitched nervously so he shoved them in his trouser pockets.

   'Very well. I understand,' she said at last and Perry's hopes rose. 'But everyone will stay behind for ten minutes to make up for all the time you wasted with your elaborate display.' The whole class groaned as one and glared at Perry as he made his way back to his chair. The only person who didn't seem to mind was Gregory, who was still drawing eyes even though his pen had run out of ink.

*

By the time they were let out of class most of the other students were already in the cafeteria. The rest of his class hurried off eager to meet their friends. Perry headed in the opposite direction. He never ate in the cafeteria; he had no one to sit with. Instead he found an empty classroom and hoped that any teachers that found him would have enough mercy to let him stay. Today he chose a classroom that was as far away from the rugby field as possible. He ended up in the Geography department and found comfort in the maps that covered the walls. The world was so big that surely he couldn't be the only person on it that could see scary things for no reason. Right?

He settled into a chair and pulled out his lunch. Tuna sandwiches on brown bread as usual. He had only taken one bite when he heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. Busted already. He waited for a teacher to burst in and tell him to get out and 'play with his friends'. The footsteps got louder and louder, faster and faster, and flew right past the classroom. Surprised, Perry put down his sandwich and crept towards the door. He opened it carefully and winced at its loud creaking. He left it a few seconds before he dared to look down the corridor. His stomach flipped at what he saw.

At the end of the corridor, closer than Perry had ever seen him before, was the red-faced man. He looked even more terrifying up close. His flesh had peeled off leaving raw slices of bloody muscle. His face was still stretched into the lipless grin and Perry counted more sharp teeth than any normal human should possess. He had no skin around his nose either, only two festering holes. The red-faced man's black sockets stared endlessly at a girl Perry had never seen before.

She was unlike any of the other girls at school. She looked around Perry’s age but was at least three inches tall than him. She was wearing a pair of scruffy jeans, an old band t-shirt, and her dark hair was tied into a messy ponytail. She stood only a couple of feet away from Perry, staring hard at the red-faced man. Perry's heart stopped.

Someone else could see him.

*

Perry jumped as the girl spoke.

   ‘What are you?' Her voice was loud and strong. If Perry had ever spoken to the red-faced man it would have come out in a squeak.

The red-faced man didn't reply, which only seemed to make the strange girl angrier.

   'I said what are you?'

To Perry’s shock, the red-faced man glanced at Perry, his empty sockets boring into him. His grin lengthened across his face, revealing even more sharpened teeth. He looked back at the girl and Perry instantly knew something was wrong. He took no chances. He raced down the corridor and barrelled into the girl. They both went crashing into an empty classroom just as the red-faced man thundered past. Before he could turn around, Perry slammed the door and began pushing tables and chairs in front of it. He was just about to add another chair to the pile when the girl yelled at him.

*

Lenore Scribe resisted the urge to give her dad the finger as he drove off in his new BMW. She knew she was supposed to love her dad and all but he made it so difficult. Why should she love him when he clearly didn't love her? She shrugged her backpack onto her shoulder and stormed up to Manor House College before she got herself riled up.

If there was one thing worse than parents it was school, especially a new school.

She listened patiently as Headmaster Brocklehurst explained all of the school rules and how rule breaking would not be tolerated. She pretended to care when a clearly bored older student showed her around the different departments of Manor House College. But she didn't even try to hide her anger when a huge guy, at least three years older than her, rammed into her and scoffed 'Newbie.'

Instead she turned around and elbowed him in the gut.

This time she did pay attention to what Headmaster Brocklehurst had to say.

   'Miss Scribe you should watch yourself, especially considering your short stature. The corridors can become crowded and we never resort to violence here.'

Lenore resented being called small, petite, tiny, or cute. What she lacked in size she made up for in strength. Which was probably why she ended up in so many fights. She didn't let Headmaster Brocklehurst know that, though.

   'Headmaster I'm so sorry,' she said, forcing fake tears to swell in her eyes. 'I just reacted, you know how it is being a new girl, there’s so much drama and it can be so hard.' Lenore sniffed loudly.

Headmaster Brocklehurst nodded, his face flushing pink. He awkwardly handed her a tissue which she blew her nose into noisily.  Then the bell for lunch rang making even Headmaster Brocklehurst jump.

   ‘Well, as long as you don’t let it happen again, you’re free to go to lunch, Miss Scribe.’  

   ‘Thank you, Headmaster Brocklehurst, I’ll be good from now on.’

As soon as she left his office Lenore let her tears dry. Maybe being a petite little girl had its advantages after all.

*

Lenore had thought about simply eating her lunch in the toilets, where she wouldn’t be disturbed, but she knew she had to be strong at school. You couldn’t show weakness otherwise they would tear you apart. She held her head up high as she entered the dining hall prepared for all gawking. She quickly scanned the room. The whole of the school’s population was crowded under one roof, including the staff. She had no idea where to sit. Each table was already packed with big groups of students. There were big, beefy boys in sports gear and Lenore recognised the huge guy from earlier. Figured he was a rugby player. There were groups of kids with their text books out doing extra science and maths equations; and a group of girls crowded together but all on their phones, totally ignoring each other.  Lenore didn’t think she would fit in with any of them. In the far corner she spotted a single empty table. A safe haven. She was about to hurry over when a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Lenore looked at the dainty hand that clung to her with a death grip, the painted nails digging into her skin. She switched her gaze to the owner of the hand. Blond hair, perfect make-up, and a smile that was more predatory than it was friendly. 

   ‘Hey, I’m Cathy and you’re the new girl right, Eleanor, is it?’ The girl’s smile gleamed brightly.

   ‘Lenore actually.’

   ‘Right, right. So, my girls and I were thinking you could sit with us. You look pretty lonely.’ Cathy widened her highly mascaraed eyes sympathetically.

Lenore looked to the two other girls. They both smiled and nodded. Lenore didn’t feel at ease. Lenore didn’t want to sit with them then she remembered what her Dad had said to her the day before. Something like, ‘try to make friends at this school, and for once in your life be normal’. She’d resented that. She had been normal, it was everything else around her that had been weird. Cathy’s grasp on her wrist tightened. 

   ‘Thanks that would be great,’ Lenore quickly agreed.

Cathy’s grip loosened and Lenore pulled herself free. Little half-moon shapes were etched into her wrist. She set her bag down on the floor and pulled out her lunch, very aware that all three girls were watching her intently.

   ‘Sorry, what were your names again?’ Lenore asked awkwardly.

   ‘She’s Jay,’ Cathy said pointing to the girl with long curly black hair. ‘And she’s Liz,’ she said as the girl with dead straight mousey brown hair wiggled her fingers in greeting.

   ‘Can’t they talk or something?’

   ‘Of course they can, silly,’ Cathy said, once again speaking for them. ‘So Eleanor-’

   ‘Lenore.’

   ‘Right, right. Lenore, whatever. What’s your story?’

   ‘My story?’

Lenore’s tummy twisted. How could they know about that?

   ‘Yeah, you know, where’d you live? What do your parents do? Any hot older siblings?’ At this all three girls burst into giggles. Lenore sagged in relief, they didn’t know after all.

   ‘I live up near the woods, Fay Grove.’

Cathy let out a gasp.

   ‘Fay Grove? Wow, you must be minted.’

   ‘I guess.’

   ‘If you’re so rich, why are you wearing that?’ Jay finally spoke.

Lenore looked down at her old torn at the knee jeans and the Stones t-shirt that used to belong to her mum. She was about to ask what was wrong with her outfit when she saw it.

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 red like freshly spilt blood.

She wasn’t surprised that no one else could see this horrific man, they never could. Cathy, Jay, and Liz were all watching her, waiting for her to defend her choice of clothing.

   ‘Sorry, I gotta go.’ She leapt from the table, not fussed by the three girls’ cries of surprise.

Lenore turned back to the dining hall doors. The man was gone. She rushed through them into the corridor; he was still nowhere to be seen. Outside of the dining hall the school was silent, her trainers squeaked as she hurried down the locker lined corridor, peering into empty classrooms. The man couldn’t have gone far, he had to be near. She raced down more corridors, getting lost in all the twists and turns. This time Lenore sensed him before she saw him. She whipped around to see the red-faced man stood at the far end of the corridor, blocking her off from the rest of the school.

The skin around his teeth stretched taut and Lenore knew he was smiling. She faced him head on and took a deep breath.

   ‘What are you?’ she demanded. The red-faced man did nothing.

   ‘I said what are you?’ His empty gazed seemed to flicker to something behind her. Before she could do anything, something barrelled into her abdomen forcing all the air out of her lungs. She and the thing tumbled backwards together into an unused classroom.

*

   'What the hell, man!' she exploded.

Perry took a couple of steps back, afraid she was going to hit him.

   'Sorry,' he muttered. 'It's just that, well, you were in danger.' Even he knew that sounded lame. He resisted the urge to hang his head. He wanted at least one person in this school to take him seriously. To his surprise the girl didn't laugh.

   'Wait, danger. You saw that man too?'

Perry's brain did a double take. Millions of thoughts flooded his mind and he tried to say them all at once resulting in a single word that sounded like 'blerugha'.

   'Calm down,' the girl said. 'I'm Lenore.'

   ‘A new girl?'

   ‘Yeah, and you are?'

   'Perry. Perry Prince.' He held out his hand then smoothed back his curly hair instead. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice.

   'Perry, cool.' Lenore was silent for a while, like she was trying to work out what was going on. Perry was finding everything just as weird.

   'So you can see that red-faced man, too.'

   'Yeah, every day for the past month.'

   'A month? And he follows you around like this?'

Perry shuffled uncomfortably, unsure whether this girl Lenore was making fun of him or not.

   'Well, I used to just seem him standing around; I’ve never seen him move before.’

Now he really expected Lenore to burst out laughing. Call him Paranoid Perry, just like everyone else. Instead she simply nodded.

   'And that's why you rugby tackled me in here because you thought he was coming for me?'

Perry nodded and smiled sheepishly, still expecting her to bed mad. Instead she was moving the table and chairs away from the door, which was much worse.

   'Hey, what are you doing? He could still be out there!'

   'We have to go out some time,' she said simply as she reached for the door handle.

   'And what are you going to do once you're out there? Just stare him away?' Perry asked in a sudden burst of confidence.

   'I guess we'll find out.'

The door swung open and Lenore stepped out into the corridor. Perry held his breath. Nothing happened. He stepped out next to her. The corridor was completely empty. Just then the bell rang and hundreds of students flooded the corridors. 

The red-faced man was nowhere to be seen.