I Noticed…

I wish I didn’t notice things,
The things that make me sad.
I wish I didn’t notice things,
Cause I should actually be mad.
I wish I did’t notice things,
That others seem to miss.
I wish I didn’t notice things,
That make me feel like this. 

Well, what do you think she feels?

He is staring again. Her hair is thrown over one shoulder, showing the graceful line along her neck. Their eyes catch.

‘There’s been something I’ve been meaning to find out’ he says, his eyes unwaveringly locked with hers.

‘Yeah… what’s that?’ she fidgets as she asks, looking past him.

He moves closer, kneeling in front of her seat, forcing his way back into her view. ‘It’s not something I can ask you. I- I just need you to trust me’ he edges forward as he speaks. Vertigo washes over him, almost as if he was looking over a deathly drop.

                ‘okay’ she mumbles, dumfounded. Her heart beat was erratic. She doesn’t know if this is what she wants.

He kisses her. Softly at first, but when she kissed back, he pushes on. He holds her close, leaning into her body. Her hand slips to his hair and tangled itself. He feels the heat and electricity create a firestorm between them. It lasts less than a minute, but they are both shaken and panting by the end. He slowly opens his eyes and she is looking back at him curiously. He needs to know what his best friend felt…

Activity: Describe a middle aged woman at a bus stop, who has just found out her son has died. Only describe the way which she sense her surroundings to convey this information. 250 words.

Martha felt the pavement tilt beneath her. Looking down she begged the crack between her feet to become a chasm; to swallow her whole, hide her from the sea of concerned strangers. She was not sure if she had screamed, or if the mournful tar trailing across her artificially rosy cheeks had earned her their attention.

Time passed, the only way she could tell was the crunch of bus wheels arriving and the sickening cloud that followed. She stood there as people came and went, content that their day was better than hers, living. Oh they were concerned, at least some of them. They came to ask her what was wrong, but she could only hear muffled voices and smell their breath when they got too close. There was one in particular that got her attention, his beer breath warming her frigid face.

Why is he drunk? It’s the morning! Why was he behind a wheel? She wasn’t thinking about the bum in front of her.

Shocked out of her stupor she looked down, to see her phone broken on the ground. She bent to pick it up, numb to her usual back pain. The broken glass pricked her finger and soon welled with a droplet of blood.

No one will ever share this blood again she realised, stepping forward to be the next crunch under the arriving bus.

Last Day Deals

As I write blood drips from my lips to the page. I wonder if they will keep the stains in the final print. My blood is important to the tale after all. This blood is old blood, from ten years past. Blood from the day I died.

It was a Thursday in February. The summer had lost its edge but warmed my fingers, curled around the wheel. I was driving home after a long night guarding an empty factory from the possibility of bored teenagers and idiotic criminals. I may have been driving a tad too fast, but who is on the roads at 3am? So as the bitumen sped beneath me, the desolate road spread out in front of me.

Until, all too fast, light crossed my path. In less than an instant, the monstrous muscle car was crushing my mousy hatchback around me; then, nothing.

I was standing in absence, a lack of anything as far as my eyes could see. I am not even sure upon what I stood, or if in fact I existed to be standing. Time meant nothing as I was, so I cannot tell you how long I waited until something appeared. I could simply say it was a little boy and leave it at that. But it wasn’t, behind the frail body and baby blue eyes an intelligence shone, and a malevolence emanated.  His head cocked to one side, a displaced grin on his face. ‘Do you want to live?’ I heard without ears, stranger still he said it without speaking; in a melodic, cheerful voice.

‘Yes!’ I cried, I could not hear myself.

‘Good, I will give you ten years. But you have to play nice’ he almost giggled.

‘What?’ I tried in vain to understand.

‘I’ll trade you ten years for -umm- yourself?’

I felt as if I was in a schoolyard being swindled out of my lunch money.

‘Deal’ I couldn’t help accepting, I didn’t want to die.

‘Deal’ he shot back, his grin growing impossibly wide.

He disappeared in a blink of distorted red light. My body came back in a blink of cracked blue. The lights alternated until I realised I was what I was staring at, police lights through a smashed windscreen.

I did a mental check, nothing hurt. I moved, taking of my seat belt and stepping out of my wreck of a car. There was not a single scratch on me. I was fine.

The six months is a blur, a myriad of confounded specialists, opportunistic journalists and overcompensating friends and family. I told no one of my deal. They would have thought I was crazy. Worse yet, some people might believe me. So I acted the bewildered fool; then went back to work.

It was after a year I started to write. My job allows me a lot of down time. So between duties I scribbled away in note books. In less than a year I was publishing my first book. If I knew what I knew now, I would have burnt them all.

[A short writing task for uni, we wrote a sentence, then passed it on to someone to write the next sentence, ect. Then after we did that 5 times we had to write a draft for a story idea using the idea’s produced. This is what I came out with in an hour.]

I feel like writing.

Putting words down on paper, figuratively speaking. It is more like sending tiny electric pulses to a processor which in turn sends information to the tiny crystals in my screen to try and block the light and make black upon white.

I just had a realization. “in black and white” we write in black and white yet writing can cover every imaginable shade of grey and if you are really good even a little colour. We, the writers, are magic weavers. Turning funny little symbols black upon white into grand worlds and unique individuals. We give birth with our finger tips.

So obviously this post isn’t going anywhere and if you are still reading one of three things is happening. You’re either really bored, so interested in me you will read this til the end (in which case why don’t you ask me some questions?!) or you like my writing style. Which I get told surprisingly often.

What is so special about the way I write? I mean, I am glad people like it but really? I want to be a writer, professionally, but I need to learn to plan and organize and have structure. I was talking to someone at the uni about it yesterday. I am going to a seminar next month on how to plan an essay.

Speaking of which my first essay is due in 5 days. I have written it, but somehow got side tracked (hence the planning seminar) and need to rewrite/rework some of it plus add some stuff in. The woman who read my first draft said I should be doing philosophy, not English :p

But really this year is getting confusing. I have wanted to be a writer since I was 6, I was only doing this year as a stepping stone to get into the creative writing course (which only takes 13 students a year :/) so this year I am also doing Drama and Film. Now I am loving all the classes so much I am loosing focus on my goal, I don’t know if a writer is definitely what I want to be. I am thinking I might try for a double major in creative writing and drama.

I have been told by many people that I could be an entertainer, a comedian, a singer (with lessons >.<) an actor among a million other things. I tell them if I could grow to be half as amazing as Stephen Fry I would die happy. I am sort of a combination of Stephen Fry and Jack Black. Maybe my stage name could be Stephen Black?

Anyway I guess I will stop rambling now. Seriously, if you lasted this long, ask me some questions, say nice things to make me feel better (I’m home sick today) or just interact with me in some way!

Study for the year.

So I finally got enrolled in these topics, but due to being one of the stragglers i might not actually get into all the classes for those topics(stupid archaic system grumble…) But anyway here is my first year at university :) hopefully. The ones in bold I have got all classes covered, the others I have atleast one of the needed classes… yes its that confusing >.> lol

Semester 1
CREATIVE WRITING - Approaches to Literature
MEDIA AND FILM - Film Form and Analysis
SOCIOLOGY - Introduction to Sociology
DRAMA - Drama 1A: First Stages

Semester 2
CREATIVE WRITING - Reading and Writing Short Stories
MEDIA AND FILM - Media Histories
SOCIOLOGY - Youth, Consumerism and Social Identity
PHILOSOPHY - The Individual and Society

I am so excited about studying all these things xD and will probably be talking about them here and there on here… wow I think even my typing is tired >.<