Moving house.

So I'll be away from the blog for a while.
Big decision. All happened very fast.
Excited though!
Well, I'll be back with you as soon as I can!
Sorry!

Art projects and Fires in Winter.

Happy weekend!

I haven't posted much art at all. For a long while. So here is my project :)

 ^That is what my project looked like a few weeks ago...

^And that is what it looks like now. I'm pretty happy with it :)

More for my 'promise' now, a little bit of Fires in Winter.

I woke up screaming. Either my dream was real or fake. I felt a sense of pure, concentrated fear melt through my body. I thought it must be true. Must be. Margo left with some other alliance members. The day before, news came through that she was missing, and then I had the dream.

“Ellen? What’s up? Bad dream?” Bonnie Smith turned over in the bunk below me to get a clearer view of my face and smiled enthusiastically. “Don’t worry. Smile. It was only a dream, okay?” I nodded, but turned away to stare at the ceiling.

It wasn’t a dream. It can’t have been. Margo’s dead.

Margo is dead.

The one woman I thought of as a Mum, or maybe a Gran, was dead. She’d been shot by who looked like a ten year old girl, but couldn’t be, because she said they had worked together, and Margo was fifty-something.

So many questions were flying through my head. Nothing made sense.

But it was a dream. It can’t have been real.

But it was.

I was at war with myself. I turned back onto my front and eventually fell back to sleep, a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep. No murders.

This is my first draft. I don't usually look back on my writing until I've finished. I know that sounds weird and a bit stupid, but I have to wait at least a week so I have a fresh head before I look back on it, or I just glance over silly mistakes.

*Also, the 'man' in the bottom left of my project is actually my friend with her hair up. It was a bit of a fail ;)

Might review a book tomorrow :)

It's f-f-f-friday!

It's Friday! Yay! Not that I hate school - I love school! - But Fridays are always good :) Here's some more of my old novel, continuing from yesterday.

“How many children are there?” I asked, for I had noticed the plural.

“Ten.”

“Ten?” My voice was a little strained. How could a fourteen year old girl cope with ten children? It seemed impossible at the time.

“Yes. There’s John, he’s your age, he should be able to cope. Then there’s Mary and Laura, who are both ten. And there’s Laurie, Eleanor and Hattie, all nine. Grace and Ben, eight. Small at five and tiny Tara at two.” I was gaping at this time, and closed my mouth as soon as I remembered how to.

“Sorry, Small?” The name confused me.

“Yes. He does not know his name. Or his parents. We took him in. He goes by the name Small, and likes it well enough. You’re observant.” I blushed. “Come with me. One of the servants will look after this man and help fix his carriage.” She added, noticing me glance at the other man who had followed her up the hill, confused. I followed her, willing to see my new home.

I gasped as soon as we entered the hall. It was the first room after the huge, flowered garden and tremendous double doors stood at the entrance. Two servants, or workers of some sort, opened them. This hall I found myself stood in was huge, with a polished floor, paintings on the whitewashed walls and carpeted stairs that led up to a walkway which several children were stood on. I counted. Then again. Smiling to myself. There were definitely ten of them. I stood nervously, then noticed the plaque on the wall next to me, which read;

Farthingale Manor, an awarded home for the mental.

New plan. Ditch the 'Unseen' novel, or keep hold of it and leave it till later, and work on this one and Fires in Winter for now. Hows your Friday coming along? Been eating a banana, I seem to have an overwhelming addiction to them at the moment.

By the way, do any of you writers know of any blogfests coming up that I could join in with? Damn, I need to post some of my art, haven't in ages. Might do that later...

I ask the weirdest of questions.

As promised, something I wrote today:

The carriage jolted me awake, coming to a sudden stop. I jumped, clutching madly at my seat, not knowing what was happening.

“Sorry Miss! Bloody potholes in this bloody road. Came down ‘ere yesterday and the flippin’ carriage nearly tipped over! Sheesh!” These comments weren’t exactly helping my confidence levels as a flood of nausea rose suddenly through my stomach. “Don’t worry Miss! Nearly there! I’ll get these potholes one day, I’ll bloody get ‘em!” All I found with this carriage driver was that he liked the word ‘bloody’, he hated potholes and he didn’t really care for a young girl’s confidence in him at all. He hurtled down the road, the carriage swerving and shaking this way and that. “HA! Miss, you’re white as a sheet! Don’t panic, see, I’ve got it all under control. Nearly there, see? Just down this road now. There you have it Miss! The great Farthingale place. Never seen anyone come this way before Miss. Come on, come on, nearly there!” He was talking to the carriage at the end there. I was still scared as I peeped out of the window, at the ghostly, incredulous building before me, in the valley below. It was gothic enough, yet it had beautiful gardens and a lovely atmosphere. I didn’t really know what to think of it. I was just leaning out of the window to get a clearer view, then – BANG!

My eyes fluttered open, the sunlight streaming down, making patterns on the grass and warming my cheeks. I took a minute to take this in, then realized what had happened. I sat up, too fast, my head started spinning. I saw that the carriage was upturned, and the driver was fussing about it, trying to sort it out. Another man was there, and a woman as well, they were walking up the road. I sat up more slowly, and the gathered my wits and began to stand up, my legs shaking. Suddenly the woman I had seen walking up the road was behind me, supporting my back, “You are Cassandra Green.” It was a statement, not a question. I nodded. “Hm, you are very pretty. Straight nose, shiny hair. But ever so pale skin. You shall be good for the children, and the children will do good for you, it may seem. I am Mrs Hare, the cook.” I smiled and shook her hand, taking in the wide smile, the grey hair and the large woman, and thought she was nice enough on first sight. 

I started writing this last year. Yes, last year. I left it alone for a good six months but have recently found it in my computer. So I carried on writing, and this is what I have written so far today. Very Jane-Eyre-y, weirdly.

And now a question for you. Each day, you wake up (6:30.. urgh.) and get ready for school/work, then leave, then get back home. What do you most look forward to?

Yeah, this is a really odd question, I know. I can explain; when I was on the bus going home today, I was most looking forward to my shower. Weird. I have 40 degree showers, and my parents complain about the steam. They say it's unhealthy but I find it so relaxing. I was just wondering what you guys look forward to most when you come home from whatever you did in the day.

FRIDAY TOMORROW! Good feeling :)

The Chrysalis Experiment; Prompt #13

Yep, I joined the Chrysalis Experiment - a short story every single week of the year. Here we have it then. Fall into the ocean. Revel in it.

‘In loving memory of Cara Green. Died 13^th March 2011.’

What a lovely way to finish off my life. No flowers next to my grave then. I’m floating next to my little coffin, smiling mischievously, as always. Mind you, whenever I see that gravestone, my heart (my heart? Does that count anymore?) melts. In a bad way. It makes me think of how stupidly I died. For no apparently clever or important reason.

I just needed to. I couldn’t stand my life anymore. I’m sighing, and wanting to return home for once. See how my death’s affected my family. Like that’ll help the nightmares. I hover down the path, through the gap in the trees, across the road until I’m standing outside my house, like I did every day, the days I’d come home crying, running to hug my Mum. ‘Don’t think about that. It’ll hurt.’ I tell myself. I notice the strong smell of flowers coming from inside. It’s been a month since I died. It’ll be the gifts and sadness, probably. But I look through the window, and I can tell it’s not. The flowers are all orange blossoms. I remember that I used to wear them in my tangled, overly-curly hair when I was younger. Mum had decorated the house with them. That hurt. Why did everyone have to think of my death as a bad thing? Sure, it hurt me. It hurt my family, and even they know how bad I felt about school and everything that I hated. ‘Shataap.’ I whisper. I must forget it all. ‘Stop thinking you hurt everyone. There must be some little rainbow-y, butterfly-y place here somewhere!’

I’m standing in my bedroom. With my brother, who has now made it his second-home. He has dragged his drum kit in here, along with his computer and desk, so he gets his own little space. Even here, where my brother’s raving, is covered in orange blossoms. It’s hurting my ears, the stupid noise from his stupid drum kit is deafening. I leave, trundling to my little sister’s haven.

She’s dancing. Ballet, just as I guessed. She always is. I’m suddenly having déjà-vu to little Rosa taking my hand and dragging me into her room to show me how to pirouette. I laugh, but again, there’s an element of sadness here as well. Wilted orange blossoms in the corner, and ‘Adagio’ being the piece of music she’s attempting to dance to over the racket down the hall.

I leave. I keep an orange blossom to hold in my coffin, to keep the smile on my face, if I can. Hey, who says death has to be all mourning and sad? Moments pass. I’m stood on the cliff, the very one. My face scrunches up with pain and sadness. Why, stupid girl, why did you come back here? But then I have an idea. My body isn’t in my coffin. They didn’t find it. They just knew I didn’t return, then they found my bag on the shore. Hang on...

Now I’m at the bottom of the ocean. The place I fell. Well, jumped. And there I am, pale and cold, resting on the sand-bed. My hand is now on mine. A smile is on my death’s face, but it’s growing. This is one good feeling. But wait... No way.

I’m drenched, shivering and drained of energy, attempting to knock on my front door.

And there’s Mum, Lisa, Dad, my brother.

And we’re hugging.

And I’m not dead anymore.

Smiles can be found everywhere. Even at the bottom of the ocean. Even on the dead.

It is short, I know. It's no way good. I hate writing in present tense, I find it so much easier to write in past, but I had a go just this once. Didn't really work. I'm not the best at short stories, hence why I joined up, so I could improve.

Bad writing day. Bad day in general, in fact.

-Sigh- might review some books some time soon:)

R.E. coursework sucks.

Hellooo blogsphere. Hey, I'm getting into this now! Anyway, read the title and you can probably guess what I'm doing^^


The church bells chimed, signalling midnight. But I wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet. He smiled at me, making my heart pound mercilessly and grabbed my hand. He started to run, pulling me behind him, until I caught up pace and ran next to him. 

♥♥♥♥

The E stares at me from the page. I check the front, just to make sure I didn’t have someone else’s paper. No, it definitely says Taiven Winters. Well, I’m sure some of the other girls must have got E’s, or worse. Suddenly I’m not so sure, they all seem to be hugging and rejoicing. I sigh, and put my paper into my bag, where I don’t have to look at it. I have enough to deal with at the moment, without Aunty Liz giving me a lecture about effort, revision, and anything else she can pick a fault with. 

I wish I hadn’t had to move here. I came from a big city, where I had lived all my life. I had had the choice of about 50 schools there, but here, where there was just the one secondary school, I had to like it or lump it. Everybody had grown up together here, but I was an outsider, and nobody tried to hide it, apart from Aunty Liz.


Well, that is what I have written today. I'm not sure whether to somehow morph it into one of my current manuscripts or start another, but this is my promise to you:
I shall write something, and post it here everyday.
Well, every day I can. Maybe every two days. 
And I'll tag these posts with 'promise'.


OOH! Question for you writers out there. Are you doing Script Frenzy? I might. Not sure yet. Off to learn about Hindu worship now. Fun fun fun? Nope.

Did you know I'm in a band?

Yep, my friend and I, Rose, form a band called Liquid Speed. We're working on our first album and everything's  all good at the moment. Hopefully it will be done by the summer holidays.
I use the iPad and Mac product Garage Band to write our songs. They aren't the best, but it's coming long well at the moment.

<Yes, we have very weird album art. That probably won't be the final version. I drew it. Not the best.

If you are in a band/like music, where do you get your inspiration from?
Any 'band updates' will be tagged:)