Sunday, December 12, 2010

Be Careful What You Wish For

You know the old adage be careful what you wish for because it just might come true, and the fact of the matter is it's very, very true.

Some people may wish for a new car, the retun of a loved one (see: The Monkey's Paw) or even something much less obvious, occasionally obscure. I for one wish that my 'C' button would stop sticking and making it difficult to type quickly.

The problem is that when you wish for something, and you aren't totally dead-on specific, well, wishes can go badly very easily. You may wish for a windfall in money...but it could come from the death of someone who means alot to you. You could wish for a car...and be killed by it. A love...they're a crazy person. Just you name it, any wish has the potential to go horribly, horribly wrong. Try asking Genie or the Blue Caterpillar for a wish and not having them twist it a little just to mess with you.

There's a bunch of movies about it, not to mention a fab Supernatural episode involving a life-sized emo teddy bear and a wishing well.

So, the question is what would you wish for? If you could have anything, what would you wish for?

And what would you do if it went wrong?

Monday, December 6, 2010

Lover's Irony

Irony is perhaps one of the biggest concepts that float around out in the world whether they hit us head on or slip past us quietly. Murphy's Law and the like are only the more common examples, but one that I find is more damaging and perhaps more infuriating is the irony that comes from love.

Isn't it funny the way that romance works? Some people may search for years and never find it, but others will fall from one love straight to another overnight. Some people may walk around wishing for at least one love or lover when others will have a posse of suitors behind them. Some may find the perfect partner who loves them just as much and others may waste their love and their happiness on people who don't deserve them or who will never return the feeling.

Quite frankly, it sucks. It's not fair, it's not ok, and it's probably pushes the odd person to suicide after a while.

This is perhaps one of the reasons I will never believe in the One God, because if he is up there watching this as his 'will' just happening to person after person then, well, you are one sadistic jerk. And thats just when talking about irony, not natural disasters, disease, family dramas or any of the other things that are wrong with the world and destroy people.

Believing in 'the gods' as I do, and nodisrespect to those who believe something different, I find it easier to except the world the way it is. Frankly, when you study the different pantheons you learn to understand that the gods aren't perfect, they like to mess with people and shake things up because that's just what they do. Look at Loki from the Norse patheon - a trickster who likes to make things extremely difficult for the other gods, getting progressively more evil as time goes on. Look at Zeus from Greece - the embodiment of loose sex, adultery, whoring and in some cases even rape.


You're probably thinking now 'then why do i believe in them?'. The answer is in turn very simple: because the gods are as vast, imperfect, specialised and messy as people are. They are easier to relate to and understand, and there's someone for everyone, plus they don't expect you to be perfect and ever-confessing or cleansing. In short, they are just like a quirky extended family.

So, back to the Lover's Irony. I suffer from it, I admit, because I have no suitors, never reciprocated feelings, and I have spent my whole life wondering not only if I'll ever find it but why I even care. There's no answer of course, except that the gods upstairs have other plans for me or that they're just enjoying being bastards, but it still seems unfair. I can think of a number of my friends who will never understand how it feels but that's just the way irony works.

Just so everyone out there knows if you don't suffer on the crap end of Lover's Irony, count your damn blessings and stop complaining. If you have one or more suitors interested just enjoy it; if you have someone love you in return, say a prayer of thanks to your faith; if you're lucky enough to fall in love for real at least once, or even over and over again, then let them flow and learn from them, because even when times seem bad you're still one up on the scale.

The greatest thing you will ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

So, everyone who's on the better end of Lover's Irony - don't give me your advice, don't splurge your difficulty and sure as hell don't whine or carry on because I don't want to hear it. Life's too short, shut up and enjoy it.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Love Story

Do you ever watch movies or television shows, or read books and hear songs that leave you with that warm fuzzy feeling in your stomach? That make you giggle or your heart feel fluttery?

I find that more often then I even realise sometimes.

I'm just a girl at the end of the day and like the girly girl I am I like to watch romantic comedies or anything involving romance really; In particular I like the kind of movie, show, or book when you know that no matter how bad things get that even if it isn't a happy ever after in the traditional sense everything's going to be ok. Is that so bad?

I like to think I'm an optimist somedays when I see or read something that's beautiful to, thinking and believing that one day maybe it'll be my story that gets told. One day.

But it's ok - I have all the time in the world. And not to mention all the things I still have to do - writing and reading and archaeology and everything.

That being said here's the latest: I know who the villian really is now in the world of Daphne Savoy. : D

Monday, November 29, 2010


After 30 days of trying to write a novel, long hours typing, procrastination, writer's block, inspiration and pesky Uni exams in between the day and moment has finally arrived.

It makes me happy to know that once again I have succeeded in completing a 50,000 words of a  novel. Of course, 50,000 words of just story is a novel no where near complete. That's a competition for another time. 
But as for this one, g'night NaNo. See you next year.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Rainbow Connection

I have often wasted many hours just wishing that the love I write, read and dream about is never coming in my direction - at least not anytime soon.

And, well, that's just not true. It has been brought to my attention more than once and most recently the other night that not only am I just as worthy and just as awesome as other girls but I have a star shinning on me too, that one day will show me the way.

Although love is an intangible and ever-changing idea I find that in times of hardship when I often lose sight of my star and wonder if it will ever come, that there are always songs and stories to catch me falling and bring me back. No matter the circumstance love will always be around in one form or another, and I just have to believe that when it is my turn I will know. Until then I have every right and intention to be just myself, the way I am and the way I want to be. And that doesn't include feeling second best or being treated like it.

I won't be your shadow.

So, why are there so many songs about rainbows? I am a lover and I am a dreamer, and the Rainbow Connection is most certainly one song that raises the hope in my heart about the world we cannot see, the things we do not know and the love we want to share. It is about keeping on and believing even when times are hard because someday we'll understand. It's not even just about love or hope, it's about the entire chain of being that flits around when we're half asleep or in our dreams. Loved ones we don't see or friends that have passed. It's not about religion or about death but it considers both, it's not about wishing on a star or about a dream. It's about all of these things.

So, why are there so many songs about rainbows? The truth is I don't really know, maybe because a rainbow is both beautiful, mysterious and it gives hope. Just like love.

And so, like Kermit, I will believe in rainbows; I will sing about them and wait to learn what's on the other side. There always is one.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
and what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
and rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it.
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard
and answered when wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that and someone believed it.
Look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing
and what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell. We know that it's probably magic.

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that called the young sailors.
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
It's something that I'm supposed to be.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.
The lovers, the dreamers and me. 

Friday, November 19, 2010

Freaky Friday Teaser

I needed to be alone after hearing all that I had, so I grabbed my coat and took off outside. Eric didn’t try to stop me because he knew what I needed without me having to even say so.
So wrapped in my coat and with knit cap down over my ears, I wandered out into the cool, icy streets of Paris alone. I hadn’t decided where I was headed just yet, but as I bypassed some of the most iconic and beautiful scenes and buildings I’d ever known I found myself in a place that drew me; I was in the cemetery.
In specific, I found that I had come to stop near the Père Lachaise Cemetery, the world famous burial ground of the ill-fated and well-loved Oscar Wilde.
It didn’t take very long to find his tomb, deeply entrenched within the grounds, his remains marked by an angel of beauty and sweet sorrow, reflecting the peace that he had never been allowed in life. The lower parts of the monument were covered in flowers, letters and the most kiss marks I’d ever seen – all tributes to the optimistic and modernist writer of old. Both straight, homosexual and those that just weren’t sure came to see this tomb, asking for advice, giving thanks and praying.
I had never been here before, but had always wanted to come. I’d planned to buy a special tube of red lipstick for the occasion, paint my mouth and kiss the monument and silently pray for deliverance from worry because if anyone ever knew how to see light in the dark, it was Oscar Wilde.
I bent down to kneel beside the tomb and shuffled through my pockets to find the only lipgloss i had on me – a clear balm. No one would ever see my kiss.
I applied the gel and rubbed my lips, the cooling feel a little soothing, then I pressed my lips to the cold stone right below the epitaph engraved into the tomb.
I felt instantly calm, as if I was no longer alone in the cemetery and when dusk began to descend upon the area I traced the epitaph with my fingers.
“And alien tears will fill for him,” It read. “Pity's long-broken urn, For his mourners will be outcast men, And outcasts always mourn.”
I thought about how much Oscar Wilde had influenced the people of today, and my life as well, his philosophies and optimism in the face of fear and defeat were phenomenal, encouraging of those who couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I thought about what he would say if I could meet him, what he would do to negate the impending danger and mysteria heading towards me and the other members of the Department back home.
Oscar Wilde would never let the fates keep him down.
“How would you presume to know what it is that I would and would not do?”
When I think back on this moment I think perhaps I should have expected something to happen when it did when taking into account that I was a) already a proven mediator to spirits, b) in a cemetery at dark, no matter how famous or popular, and c) I had come seeking some form of guidance. Here it was. 

Fail at Blogging

I realised that as a potential and aspiring author, I truly don't blog enough.

What the HELL kind of writer doesn't write to the public? Wasn't that why I started this blog in the first place, to write, connect with other writers and show the world what I can do?

Well, bring it world. Here come the blogs.

Starting with the latest Teaser from my newest book.

Let's call if Freaky Friday Teasers!

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Teaser Tuesday: Angst and Egyptology

A bouquet of tulips, roses and lilacs in a rainbow of colours sat in the middle of my desk, at least 3 boxes of chocolates lined up beside them. Roy Fonda sat on my desk beside them, legs crossed and looking cheeky, wavy blonde hair framing a face like an angel’s.
“Happy birthday, Red.” He said as I walked into the Department of Egyptology, hat in hand and scarf undone. “You’re looking lovely and rosy this morning.”
I took one look at the offerings that he’d laid out on top of the classification charts that I’d been fussing over the day before and returned his beam.
“Never say you’re going soft on me, Roy, would hate to break that darling little heart of yours.”
“Just trying to make sure you picked the right friend, Eric is a jerk, remember?” With that he picked up a rose, put it between his teeth and said, “care to tango, mon amour?”
The man of once-questionable persona, at least where I was concerned, stalked out of the office of my boss and his confident, Dr Frank Kensington, the later with spectacles in hand, on his heels.
“The chocolates are from me as well, Daphne,” the later explained, coming over to hand me a small gift box wrapped in sparkly blue paper. “As is this one; I didn’t trust Roy not to open it and peek.”
I accepted the gift Frank handed me in a burst of excitement, forcing myself to unwrap it like a lady rather than tearing the paper like I wanted to. Behind Frank, Eric smacked Roy on the back of the head. “Quit trying to seduce my girlfriend,” I heard him joke.
The small box was from a jeweller in London, one I wasn’t familiar with, and as I opened it up I let out a gasp of delight. Inside was a silver pendant in the shape of the symbol of Ankh, also known as the ‘key of life’. A small red gemstone in its centre.
“Traditionally I would have gotten gold, but Gloria said something to me about skin tones I didn’t quite understand and suggested I invest in a silver replica instead.” Frank smiled and patted his breast pocket; the one I knew was bound to contain his old-fashioned pocket watch. “I wanted you to have a piece of Egypt that you could keep. Ones that wouldn’t give you nightmares, of course.”
“Oh, Frank, it’s wonderful!” I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly, hardly noticing as he patted my back awkwardly, before pulling away.
Frank cleared his throat. “Well, jolly good then. Do put it on, Daphne.”
Eric came over taking the pendant from me as I moved my hair to the side and let him fasten it. The pendant dropped about an inch above my cleavage. “Thank you, Frank. It’s just lovely.” My skin tingled slightly, but I couldn’t tell if it was from Eric’s touch or the coolness of the pendant.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Introducing Gideon P. Gumdrop, our faithful travelling Koala.

You might have seen the movie Amelie, starring the famous French actress Audrey Tatou, and seen other similar events occuring across the iternet and popular culture. But the concept remains the same: a travelling creature. A lawn gnome perhaps, as in Amelie, that convinces her shy Father to see the world.

Well, we thought: what a good idea. So I'd like to introduce you to someone special.
Gideon P. Gumdrop, or "Giddy" as we affectionately call him.

Giddy is to become our travel mascot, to pose everytime we hit somewhere iconic. Just like Amelie's gnome.

You ready to hit up the globe with Giddy?

Teaser Tuesday: The Secret

A war had been raging between the two lands of Messinia and Braegar for over five hundred years. Needless to say, hardly a soul remained alive who knew why and the archives had long since been destroyed. The two lands, separated only by the large forest of Gyllen, were like two different worlds, each with their own monarch and laws. Yet Messinia and Braegar were like two sides of the same coin, whether they liked it or not.
It was a crisp morning in the later days of summer, birds twitted and sang, butterflies fluttered about the courtyard and the palace of Messinia was filled with delicious smells coming from the kitchen. It was no later than eight o'clock in the morning, yet as usual, the palace was buzzing with preparations for breakfast and the days chores.
This peaceful morning did not, however, reach the youngest member of the royal family.
Allora awoke in a cold sweat, her heart racing from the impact of the dream. Every detail was clearly etched in her mind adding a new bout of confusion by the minute.
Daniel, as he had spent his nights over the last seven years, sat at the end of the large four-poster bed, watching over her as she pushed the damp tangles of mahogany hair out of her eyes, his own transparent silver eyes glowing with worry. He knew what was wrong; it wasn't the first time that she'd woken like this. "Tell me." He whispered, the tone of his voice calming her.
Allora sighed. "It was the same dream: I was running through a garden maze, but my body was not my own; I was someone else, though it somehow felt right. When I reached the middle, there was a man waiting for me. I did not see his face; it was blurred as though someone had pulled a sheet over my face, yet I remember his eyes clearly. They were a beautiful green, almost like emeralds. He embraced me tenderly, but then he changed; a new man stood where he had been, his eyes a cold black." She stifled a sob and rubbed her wrists. "He held me by the wrists, so tightly I could not move my hands. And then he forced me down to my knees, all the while whispering 'Lover. Princess. Temptress. Whore.' over and over." Allora wiped a tear from her eye, now a bright glistening sapphire. "I don't know why it seemed so different, but it was so much more real to me than any other time I have had this same dream. I still feel both the love and the hate of the two men who held me."
She glanced at the ghostly apparition as he processed this new information. "It's the third time this week that I have had this dream, Grandfather, and I don't understand it. It's almost like a memory, one from long ago."
Daniel appeared thoughtful, or as thoughtful as a ghost may appear anyway. " 'Tis possible for a suppressed memory to return as a dream or nightmare, yet I have been by your side since you were fourteen and remember no horrific experience that may have caused this suppression."
"No." Allora shook her head, her mahogany curls bouncing around her heart-shaped face. "The woman, it was I, yet I was someone else also. How can that be? I remember no man like that in my dream, although his face seems as familiar to me as my own mother's."
The conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door and Maddy’s voice cut through the dense atmosphere.
“Are you awake in there, Little Princess?”
Allora glanced at Daniel, who nodded, disappearing into the room. His soft voice drifted to her from far away. “We will speak later.”
Rising, Allora pulled on her robe and padded to the door, her bare feet whispering over the soft, worn rug.
Maddy burst into the room the moment the door was opened.
“Good Morning!” She chimed, throwing open the floor length drapes that covered the long, glass-paneled doors leading to the balcony. “It’s a beautiful day.”
Allora looked out into the sunlit city and lush green forest miles behind it. Somehow she just knew that this day would change her fate forever.

Poised on the arm of a chair, Allora stretched her body as much as she could reaching for a thick leather volume just slightly beyond her. It was somewhat frustrating, not made better when the chaise jerked slightly to one side.
Tongue in cheek, Allora strained, her arm aching from the force. “Almost got it…”
A large bang resounded through the enormous palace library as an irate queen burst into the room. Stunned, Allora toppled down from the chair, landing somewhat ungracefully draped across the arms, the skirts of her gown pooling around her.
“Allora!” She barked, hurrying over to the fallen young woman. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself, my dear, but you have been missing for quite a while! We were worried when you didn’t turn up to your lessons, though I suppose I should have known you’d be in her with all these dreadfully old books.”
Allora allowed herself to be tugged out of the chair, rubbing an ache in her lower back as she did so. “Mother, I am twenty-one years old, I’m not a child any more, why must I continue lessons in things I already know?”
Celeste clucked her tongue in annoyance and began exasperatedly, “Because of your initiation-
- The one that should have been three years ago?” Allora retorted leading her mother out of the room, swooping in to collect a small cake from a desk along the way only to have it confiscated before it reached her mouth.
“Yes, well, there have been hindrances, you know that. Really, Allora, you shouldn’t eat too many sweets, they are not good for you at all.”
Allora ignored her health concerns. “Father going abroad was not a hindrance, you forcing me to stay here, however, was!” They’d had this argument a thousand times over the previous three years, she was simply too overprotected. “When will you ever let me have some kind of adventure?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You know that your father was very busy and had no time to take you out! He left to negotiate with allies to the west, not to take a little holiday.” Celeste opened the down to the hallway and followed her daughter out. “You were too young, imagine if something had happened to you? If a Braegan had found you?” The older woman shuddered at the thought.
That’s right, Allora sighed, she’d never be old enough and it seemed that the war with Braegar would always go on. Secretly she thought that the entire thing was barbaric and ridiculous, but who would listen to her even if she did admit to her distaste? The argument continued the entire way to the small drawing room where Allora suffered her lessons.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Teaser Tuesday: Angst and Egyptology

His yellow eyes glared through the dim as he watched the jackal army descend the mountainous sand dunes beyond. He clutched his staff, claws digging into his hand as he braced himself.
Their leader was in view now; his feral eyes met the cat’s as he gave a toothy grin. The golden wristbands a contrast against his sun-warmed skin, his dark hair smoothed back from his forehead, held in place by a black and gold circlet.
“You will never defeat us, warrior,” the cat hissed, crossing the staff in front of him as if to bar the enemy. “You will return to the world of beyond.”
The leader of the jackal army smiled. “We will see who our Goddess favours.”
With a clang, the battalions met under the hot sun. An epic clash between light and dark. A battle the world would forget. For a while.

3, 350 years Later. Give or take.

On the morning of my 23rd birthday, I woke up, rolled over and came face to face with a grinning male. Sure, it wasn’t the one you’d think, and I groaned at the flickering image of my ghostly roommate, James.
“Salutations, Con.”
“Ugh.” I rolled back over and tried to cover my head with the blanket, snuggling back down into the warmth of my crisp-sheeted bed.
“Nice try, Con. You’ll be late for work.”
With that, my ghost of a friend whipped off my silky yellow duvet and flung it across the room. I was suddenly hit with an icy draft that had me gasping and protectively springing into foetal position.
I blinked my eyes open in the weak February light streaming in through the open window and stared in abject horror at the numbers taunting me from the levitating alarm clock in front of my face.
“Argh! It’s 8.54! I really am going to be late!”
I bolted out of bed, shucked my warm fuzzy sushi pyjamas and dived for the shower before it even occurred to me what day it was. February 23rd. Tuesday. My birthday.
I showered up and stepped outside with a grin. “James! Guess what day it is!”
He drifted past the door from my room on the way to the kitchen. “Your birthday. As if you’d let me forget, it’s all you’ve fretted about the past week; if that American would forget or not.”
Wrapped in my bathrobe I stomped out to rustle up some cereal. “I have not been fretting! I just wasn’t sure if it was something that we’d talked about or not, I just want to spend the evening with my fabulous boytoy...”
And really, who could blame me?
Eric Stanhope, my adorable fuzzy new boyfriend, had moved over to the United Kingdom last November after we’d gotten back from Cairo. Before that he’d lived in New York working in the Metropolitan museum under the psychotic guidance of the now incarcerated Dr Kieran ..., who’d made it to jail after nearly killing both my boss, Frank, and colleague, Harry. But it was a whole lot complicated than that when you threw an ancient curse and a couple of canopic jars into the mix.
Initially, Eric and I had detested each other – doing our best to outdo and outsmart each other before an argument of ours got out of hand and nearly cost us our lives, not to mention the likely international incident that would have arose, too. So, Eric and I had come to an impasse, that before long gave way to the attraction that we’d really been feeling the entire time.
Our brief interlude was interrupted by the evil Julian Harrison, also known as my cheating ex-boyfriend, before we were back and better than ever.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with my boyfriend, James.” I harrumphed, adding milk to the sugar-coated cereal I’d chosen to start the day. “I’d say you’re just jealous, but unlike you I no longer live in the 3rd grade.”
The ghost rolled his eyes, something he’d picked up from watching television with me and decided to use against me. You see, being terminally deceased, James’ eye rolling went the whole 360. In the middle of the night when you were half asleep this was not something you wanted to see in the bathroom mirror, trust me.
“Urgh! You know I hate it when you do that!”
James flashed a charming grin and manifested his old pipe back into his hand. “No better reason to do it, Con.”
James had died in the 1920’s when he was about 25 or 26 – he’d never told me exactly which. He’d been murdered by the same cursed spirit-witch that had nearly killed us in Cairo, after removing artefacts from the tomb of Tutankhamen with Howard Carter’s team, and for a long time since had haunted my flat with his ghostly presence, scaring people away.
That was until last year when I’d come along and refused to go. Together, James and I had figured out the mystery to why he’d died and come face to face with his killer, Ye Vanck Amun, the spirit-witch.
There was one final thing there, something that I didn’t even know: On the night that we’d met Ye Vanck Amun, the spirit-witch had whispered something to James about his greater purpose and his reason for still existing in this world. I’d asked him about it, curiosity getting the better of me, but James had refused to tell me what she had told him. Today, James was here for a purpose – I just wasn’t sure what that was.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Book Review - The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins.

I admit at first I was skeptical. The novel itself had been recommended to me time and time again by my dear friend A, who enthusiastically purchased me my very own copy for my birthday, and when I picked it up the other day I wasn't so sure what I'd be in for.

But what I found was macabrely delightful - I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially with its content. It was many things - a eerie vision of the future, a science fiction, young adult book and a romance, but that's not even where it ends.

The story follows 16-year old Katniss Everdeen who enters a grisly annual known as the Hunger Games, sponsered by the Capitol, the governmental front in a post-apocalyptic North America. The Hunger Games are filled with 24 'tributes' between 12 and 18 conscripted from each of the 12 districts surrounding the Capitol, one boy and one girl from each. Then, after a week or so's worth of training, interviews and fattening up the 24 tributes battle it out in the arena - to the death.

Now, off the top of my head I haven't read too many books that have been filled with death to this calibre, but this was amazing. I really enjoyed all of it - the geurilla tactics, the survival issues and even the Survivor-style alliances and betrayals. Ms Collins writes so well the story comes alive on the page, and the romantic naivety of the protagonist is heartening if a little sad - the relationship between her and Peeta, her fellow tribute, is one I ended to see through.

So, for those in want of a different, light read I would recommend this book - even if it's not immediately your thing.


Do you ever think about what it means to grow up?

From the kid you've always been to become this new, scary adult version of yourself?

What will this new world be like? What will this new you be like?

There is one thing I've been thinking about lately and that is how do I grow up? When do I have to step up and declare myself a woman now, instead of a girl?

It's all tied in when you think about it - moving out, having a serious relationship, buying your first piece of furniture, your first real fulltime job, your first bill, first child, wedding, and so it goes on.

I'm starting to feel like my time is staring me down now to pull myself out of the protective sanctuary that is my parent's house, my bedroom and my life and to now grow up like those around me.

Is it time to move out? I know everything will happen when it does about romance and things - that is a given, no matter what I feel on those dark, depressing nights - and so I try not to worry, but it is unwise to not consider how much a relationship would affect my growing up.

A friend, for example, of mine yesterday told me that he was moving in with his girlfriend soon. The adorability aside, that is a fairly strong indicator of his maturity, isn't it? His relationship is serious, makes him act like a grown up and take the initiative to move in with her.

I guess I'm just wondering if I'm grown up enough now - there's no rush, right? I am what I am, and what I am is enough?

Isn't it?

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Outback Rogue; A Delightfully Dreary Afternoon.

I was thinking about things whilst working today.

I thought about my stories, how they were progressing, what I wanted to write next. I realised that they are always there to fall back on - on good days, bad days, to help me sleep, to stop tears, all those sorts of things.

I thought about the poems that I've writtern, not so many, but still. Way back in year 12 we had to write some in Lit, and I wrote one that I found the other day. I'd forgotten it, but when I saw it the memories of the poem came rushing back to me. It was a poem for a peaceful dreary day, like today. Inspired by the ballad The Highwayman.

As she walks through haunted hallways,
she ponders of her strife.
The memories are like always,
torn by wrong and right.

He trotted down the bush-track,
his face obscured by tin.
His eyes peered through a flap,
a needled wouldn't slip in.

His men all rode beside him,
smiles on their bearded faces.
She watched them on a curious whim,
these rebels of green races.

When darkness loomed,
he urged his horse onwards to her home.
She welcomed him with one small boon,
her kindness a silent repose.

She watched him go, that benevolent Rogue,
her heart went for the ride.
His rebellious spirit seemed to show,
that he was on their side.

So as she walks through haunted hallways,
she knows her choice was right.
It seems we'll all remember always,
our Outback Robin and his fight. 

It's an old poem, from my writing years ago which I've resisted changing. I thought that belonged on here today, on this delightful, peaceful dreary afternoon.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Teaser: The Avenger

Can you ever imagine a moment so awful you wish you were anywhere but here? That you wish you were having a nightmare and beg yourself to wake up, when deep down you know it’s real. Well, hell, it wouldn’t hurt so much if it wasn’t real, would it?
            I stared down the street at the smoking wreckage before me. I couldn’t speak, could hardly think about anything except what I had just witnessed. The screeching of the tyres, the deafening sound of smashing glass, the splash of red on the dark gravel. And I couldn’t look away. 
I saw the car moments before it hit. I saw her step onto the road, and I ran, I yelled, but it was already too late. And I just couldn’t look away.

You can call me Ave. It’s not my real name, but it’s what they called me now.
I don’t really remember much about the days before I came here; they’ve done their best to make me forget. I’ve done my best to forget. But sometimes when I’m still here between jobs I watch the young Catholic schoolgirls in their ridiculous straw hats with the bows, and wonder what it was like to be one of them. I wasn’t always this way: cold and emotionless. I was a normal girl once, when it mattered. Before they tore me away from it all.
I thought of the day they found me in the rain, huddled in a ball protecting myself from the onslaught of the icy needle-like shards of water that pounded against my bare arms. I’d had my legs brought up against my chest, with my arms on my knees, my head resting atop them. The tears dried up, only to be replaced by the cold London rain that drew my hair out of its delicate coiffure and down my back in sodden clumps.
It was winter, I think. But in London it was always winter, the sky ever grey, just the way I liked it. That day the sky had only reflected the emptiness that I felt, having lost everything that ever mattered to me. My family, my friends, everything: Gone. And it had hurt like a bitch.
“Are ya alone, luv?” The voice broke me from my memory.
“No”, I replied striding past the Bald cockney, who leered at me, his greasy black and yellow teeth glinting in the lamplight.
“Yer look like ya might need some company there, darlin’.” He pressed on, following close behind me.
I stopped and turned to survey him pityingly. He was a dreadful sight with his ragged old trousers and shirt covered in dirt and mud, his scarf fraying at the ends. He was a typical Whitechapel dweller of the 1880’s. I almost would have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t been trained to restrain such emotions years ago. They only got in the way.
I flipped him a gold coin. “Tell me where Mary Kelly is and you’ll get another.”
The cockney caught it, putting it between his teeth untrustingly. He found it genuine and grinned, pocketing his meager wealth. “Follow me, yer highness.”


Every one has moments like this.

You don't want to study, although you know you should. You don't want to work, all you want to do is read, or write perhaps.

I feel like that now. But what to do?

I guess the starting point would be what I'm feeling:

I hate him. I do. The way he made me feel, the way he makes me feel now. I hate that I ever saw something in him, that I ever thought he was good. I can't stand that he chose her over me and doesn't even seem to notice how I felt, what I feel now. How much I suffered. I just wish I could take back those days, knowing then what I know now. How much every single one of those moments wasn't worth the grief.

I think that's what hurts the most. Knowing that every tear, every sob, every painful memory was for nothing.

How could you? How could I?

You'll never make me that vulnerable again.


I thought that every inspired writer should have a blog. At least that's the way it seems online.

So, I thought, if I'm an inspired writer too then maybe I should create one. Now, in the internet world, my persona as a writer exists.

Welcome to my world.