I made a wordpress...

So I am trying to branch out and learn more about other Internet blog spaces and so I made - this. Pretty please have a look and tell me what you think. I may switch to this as it looks quite snazzy.

IndieInk

Once again I am so lucky to be a featured artist on IndieInk's wonderful blog for art and literature. Please do check it out and if you really like it share it with other people via the options on their website below my photograph!

The chicken or the egg?

Something I wrote - unfinished and unedited and unsure if I should continue...

*

“Ou et le ooof?...s’il vous plait? Le ooof? Poulet,” said Charlotte
“Je ne sais pas…Poulet est la!” said the supermarket attendant
“No…Poulet…ooof,” said Charlotte, cupping her hands desperately as her dinner slipped further away. Charlotte as a rule mimed everything she didn’t know, however some proved trickier as she found out the hard way when her newly rented apartment had no toilet seat.

“Oooh uff! Uff! Pas oooof!” chuckled the supermarket attendant, shaking his head at another tourist who couldn’t pronounce his language.

Charlotte grabbed the box of eggs and with her head down, bracing herself for the checkout. The terrible couple of minutes was always the worse as she hoped the cashier wouldn’t ask her a question, wouldn’t find her out she didn’t belong there.

“C'est 2 euros et 50 cents, c’est tout ?” asked the cashier.
Charlotte had got this one, and with a “oui” walked away proud that she had picked up something in two whole months in Paris.

No new messages, no missed calls, ‘no one has tried to communicate with you’, it might as well read. She longed for just one word, one English word to verify she was good at one language. In the two months Charlotte had come across only one English couple, honeymooning and giggling, looking for directions to the nearest “boulangerie”. When they had discovered she too could speak their language she felt they were both relieved and disappointed, not to meet a real Parisian. From then on she took to a simple “desolee” in her best French accent, coupled with a hurried Parisian wiggle so that she neither got involved in a French conversation she couldn’t uphold nor another disappointment, a stain on anyone else’s experience.

Her experience too was stained. She took to wandering, overhearing conversations both in French and English, and those usually in English were in an overexcited American accent which similar to the honeymooning couple, spoilt the familiarity altogether.

Exciting stuff

Something exciting happened yesterday...

My photo was featured here

I failed to supply my blog with my photo, mainly because not much is going on...yet, but IndieInk is a great independantly run company supporting the arts of all kinds and recognising those who just wouldn't have much of a chance (like me) anywhere else. It is also a great place to showcase without those added worries and pressures other journals have. So if you have some writing or art, send it in! You have nothing to lose and lots to gain!

In his footsteps

Mr Green walked down to his postbox but still it wasn’t there. Seven days he thought, two more and he could officially complain according to Post Office policy. He walked back up his path and bent down to pull out a new dandelion that had sprung up. Bill had always been a friendly postman and never late but he couldn’t help but distrust him lately. Twice in one month he’d had mail come late or not at all and twice it had been opened already. So Mr Green dedicated the beginning of his retirement to the surveillance of Bill.

He had ordered a new magnifying glass out of one of those floppy magazines free in the Sunday papers as his final test for Bill, commenting to his wife after he didn’t really need it. However, it was essential for his enquiries and so he excused himself of the expense and threw his old one away.

Trying three times in the past to set up his street’s own neighbourhood watch, he had failed leaving only whispers and jokes behind about his nosiness. It had crossed his mind that these recent activities had been an extension of this, but Mrs Green dismissed it telling him to stop being so silly.

Lately he had awoken exactly half an hour earlier than usual, so he could wash and dress before Bill turned into the street. Frightened of being caught, he had abandoned the idea of using binoculars and instead given his glasses an extra clean. Mrs Green disliked this recent change but said nothing, choosing to go back to sleep instead.

Beaming down from the far window Mr Green would count the houses as he approached his letter box. He had only a few minutes each day to survey living so close to the end of the street and so opened his eyes extra wide to make sure he took it all in. It infuriated him most that Bill would turn his back to the house at the very second he posted their mail. He was never fully able tell if he’d held anything back.
“He’s done it again” he’d say waking Mrs Green.

After watching a programme recently on the Discovery Channel named ‘Liars and Cheats: body language’, he felt confident he could have known if he was guilty or not just by his facial expressions and movements. Sometimes if Mrs Green slept long enough he’d wait and watch Bill deliver to the odd numbers across the road, attempting to test his new found abilities. Though always remarking it was useless without his binoculars.

The eighth day came and he awoke slightly before his alarm feeling his own excitement in the air. Mrs Green routinely sighed and rolled back over, giving out an extra huff it seemed. Mr Green appeared to swell with apprehension and pride at how far he had come with his enquires. Yet nothing came and nothing gave Bill away. Tomorrow was Bill’s final chance he told Mrs Green under tense breath.

That night Mrs Green urged him to let it go for his own sake, but he refused muttering about morals and order. Mrs Green was never able to give him children and she thought now how much they both needed them.

He twitched all night. Watching TV he twitched. Reading he twitched. Even eating he twitched so much he gave himself hiccups, exaggerating these twitches. Mr Green could not sleep either. He lay in bed fantasising about catching Bill, being thanked by the whole street for his braveness. Mrs Green couldn’t take his fidgeting anymore and said it might be better if he went downstairs and he agreed. Finally, he fell asleep long after various versions of this fantasy had continued playing out as he lay uncomfortably but alertly on their sofa.

The final morning came and Mrs Green turned off the alarm in Mr Green’s absence. She hesitated wondering if Mr Green was up. Instead she got up herself and went and stood in place of Mr Green, placing herself in the exact spot his footprints had indented over the days into their well tendered carpet.

She did not wash and dress like Mr Green but waited. Half an hour passed and there was no sign of Bill at all. No noise could be heard downstairs and she felt relieved that he’d finally taken her advice to let it go. As she came away from the window Bill turned the corner. The same excitement that gripped Mr Green each day filled her whole body as she studied in his place.

Bill stopped momentarily at the house before fumbling in his bag. He began digging deep down as though he had something he wasn’t sure was really there. She wanted to walk away and remove herself from the crime, but stuck in Mr Green’s footsteps she found she couldn’t stop watching. Bill, chewing his lip and looking both ways stuffed a black parcel into his pocket. Mrs Green gasped and went back to bed.

An hour later Mr Green woke aggrieved. He cursed himself for not bringing his alarm clock with him and set about walking down to the post box. Two white letters addressed to him lay inside and he huffed back missing several new dandelions in his anger. Mrs Green came down and consoled him, apologising for falling back to sleep and not waking him.

“Did you see anything? Did you see...?” he asked, studying her face.
“Oh not much, I think I saw him at next door very quickly”, she said chewing her lip and, looking around.
Mr Green smiled, picking up the phone to report the crime.

I know I shouldn't but...

I have decided to post some of my older short fiction. Mainly because I am actually half proud of them compared to my newer, rushed work and partly because I know deep down no publishing company wants them! They also remind me a wonderful and exciting fourteen weeks attending Shakespeare&Co workshops in Paris. So if anyone's interested here goes...

Sketch Book Project....or not?

Confession time. Disappointingly, I have not had any time at all to do my sketch book and well, the deadline is Wednesday. I blame the following;

- Christmas
- Airline repeats on Sky2
- My sister Lucy for encouraging me to watch Airline repeats
- University, obv

Probably more. I am instead going to still complete this but at my pace and for your pleasure only. It was rather ambitious to think I could do it and be in my third year at uni. Wish me luck!

Across the road

He leaves his house each day. Sometimes more than once a day and it is agonizing. OCD they call it. touch, touch, touch, touch, move back five paces, return, touch, touch, touch, touch , move back five paces, look, look, look, look and now you can leave. Agonizing. He cannot do anything but think of the door. The door that is unsafe and will be broken into one day. The day he forgets. But, of course he won’t forget. He wishes he could.

First step...

So far, the front cover! Done very very quickly I should add, and with no sense of direction...

However, someone (who will remain unnamed) has given me a good idea for its direction. Initially this was going to be a writing project but it seems I have too much university stuff to do. I do though, have LOTS of pictures from my time in Paris. So, going on this persons idea I am going to construct a book of photos as postcards with the writing reflecting the photograph. All will make much more sense when I'm done. The title suitably I thought should be in French and hopefully catch the eye of more people! Shameless, I know...

Tom woke up to his hand burning.
*
“Can you pass the peeeeas pleeeease” chuckled Mary.
“Now Mary, you must be very nice to your brother. He’s going through a tough time at the moment aren’t you baby” said their mother.

Tom grunted and walked off, remarking he wasn’t hungry, before his mother could tell him again, ‘You must eat something ’.

Tom sat on his bed and looked down at his bandaged hand. Annoyed he’d done it punching a wall and not the boys making his life hell. High school was different he’d been told, new people, new start. No nicknames and sly kicks when the teacher wasn’t looking and even when they were sometimes.

He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. Tom thought about doing it with a toaster in the bath, like he’d heard about once. However, Danny told everyone in R.E class about how he dropped a glass of water on his and instead of making a big bang it fused and shut off. ‘To stop people doing silly things’ Danny’s mum had said. Tom hated bathes anyway and thought ‘what a way to be found’.

With the absence of hooks and a high ceiling, that was off too. You could also get that one wrong he’d read online, be paralysed for the rest of your life. He couldn’t do that to his family as much as he hated them.

Pill’s were tricky. The doctor’s anti-depressants weren’t strong enough and they made him sick. The thought of being found in is very own pool of unhappiness, alive, was too much to stomach. Tom felt a push on his bladder and flashed opened his eyes, getting up to go to the toilet. Small tasks that keep you going seemed pointless to him and he walked out not bothering to flush or wash.

He contemplated his other options for a while and laughed out loud. Living, he thought, was his very own suicide it seemed.

“It is so nice to hear you laughing again honey, mummy worries when you come home with hands like that” said his mother appearing at his door, bending to kiss him on the head.

Tom grunted again and rolled over. He stared at the prayer candle the vicar had given him on Sunday, locking eyes with a carved out Jesus drawn in black wax. ‘Even he had troubles’ the vicar had reassured him. Reaching out to retrieve it, he strained his bad hand and let out a yelp. The matches in his pocket would do, since planning to start smoking hadn’t got off the ground yet.

Lifting his body up he bent to reach the candle, gazing at it up close. The vicar told him to pray with it and he’d know Tom was doing this and pray back. Tom wasn’t religious but lit it anyway. It was something to watch. It’s immediate destruction and power, fascinated him.

He leant back and closed his eyes. Tears drifted down and felt warm on his cheeks. The pills wouldn’t work as long as the kicking, name calling and punching were happening he knew. Lifting his eyelids and he grabbed the brown chunky bottle with his name on and threw it at the wall.

“Night smelly” said Mary giggling.
“Mary! I heard that, apologise now!” said their mother.

But she wouldn’t and Tom shut his eyes again and fell into a sleep he hoped to get stuck in.

Five in the morning, Tom awoke to the smell of burning. His bandage lay balancing on Jesus’ face, burning in unison. Tom jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Hesitating he dangled his burning bandage over the sink.

‘This is it’ he thought. Tom began crying and returned to his bedroom. Laid back and watched it burn.

Shit.

Sketch book Project

A quick post to let you know about my future project...as the writing seems to have come to a messy standstill. My boyfriend recently told me about this website http://arthousecoop.com/projects/sketchbookproject . The basis is you pick a theme and they send you a sketch book and away you go! You do not have to stick rigidly to it nor do you have to draw neccessarily, so for me this is kind of perfect. I picked 'The greatest story ever told' and will be experimenting with voice and narrative in a diary esque style throughout (atleast that's the plan). If time allows I will also attempt to illustrate or photograph. For now, I think I am just a little bit shitting myself over the pressure of a whole book to fill. I will scan and upload entries as they happen if anyone out there is interested! (They also offer a digitalising service at an extra $20 or $40 later, but I think that's a little too optimistic for me). So if you fancy it do! The books will tour cities in America and you will be notified when somebody reads it, all very exciting and good for the ego!

*Have now been informed this is a reference to the Bible. I feel very stupid but will continue regardless

unexpected

Terry carried on down the road. Forty eight doors and not one ‘yes’ yet. He knocked hard this time to match the grandeur of the door. This door had one of those neighbourhood watch stickers on its window, reminding him he wasn’t welcome. His charity collection box remained empty and he began welling up. It seemed pointless to continue.

As Terry walked away he heard what he thought was a woman shouting. Plagued by sleepless nights, tossing and turning (in-between crying), Terry shook it off as mild insanity. The shouting became screaming and he ran back to his previous competitor, attempting to latch his ear on its highly polished surface. Sure enough this woman was screaming, screeching, adding to the inhospitable feeling surrounding Terry.

“Hello! What’s happening? Are you in pain?” asked Terry. Unsure sure why he’d asked the last question, it seemed the obvious culprit for such a well behaved road.
“I’m having a BABY, you idiot. Call me an AMBULANCE!” shouted the woman. Terry didn’t carry a mobile phone after his wife died. Too many calls of sympathy and encouragement. And they weren’t going to get her memorial garden that he’d promised, completed any quicker.

Terry sought help from the neighbours he hadn’t yet tried, cut short by an expected silence. The road’s peculiar stillness once again ran through him. He'd only just begun getting back to “normal”, as promised.

He caught sight of a middle aged man walking his dog towards him and looking again, making sure it wasn’t a mirage. The man didn’t have a phone either but if he told him the house number he’d go home right away and ring them. Terry agreed and trotted back to the house.

His ear once again met the finely lacquered door, checking the woman was still OK. The front and back door couldn’t be opened and Terry told her he wasn't going anywhere until proper help came. Her crying grew louder and Terry couldn't help but think only about his wife Mary now. She didn't cry once.

Twenty minutes and several panicked exchanges passed, the ambulance finally arrived. Terry briefed the men and thought best not to hang around now they had the door open.

He could no longer continue collecting for Mary’s cause and dropped the bucket on the expecting woman’s wall. This was Mary’s purpose all along.

Expecting

Helen was going to walk home. Instead the bus came at the very point she made this decision and so she quickly changed her mind. It was rush hour and she hadn’t realised until suit after suit surrounded her. There was something quite comforting she thought about this enclosure but knew it would be only minutes until it turned to discomfort.

Seeing a seat Helen squeezed past, pardoning as she went until she made it sat down successfully. Guilt creeped into her as she sat watching others sway from each other as the bus moved along and she wondered why nobody had sat there to begin with.

Shit, she thought glancing over to the sticker next to her seat. She was in the priority seat. Reserved only for the disabled and the elderly. Neither of which at the age of 27 and fully able, she could really qualify for. Helen looked up to see a young tall smartly dressed man scanning her over, looking she assumed for her disability. She looked over at the picture next to her seat at the funny looking block coloured people and thought how nobody really looked like them anyway. One body sat sideways in a wheelchair, one body hunched over with a walking stick and aha', one body stood sideways pregnant. She looked at the body sat in the wheelchair again and wondered how hard it would be to illustrate it from the front.

Too embarrassed to get up she only had one criteria she could really qualify for. She thought how disabling pregnancy would be for her at this point in her life, especially after her scare only a month ago. Helen had never been able to put on weight as a teenager, something her mother had told her would catch up with her and never did and thus lacking the resemblance to the blooming block person she needed to fit.

Now, further sets of eyes were on her and scanning her body harder. Helen grabbed her bag and placed it in front of were she assumed her womb lay, smiling.
“Excuse me but there is an old man standing here and you’re sitting down as if...well as if you don’t care” said a suited woman.

Helen hadn’t noticed the old man at her seated level and began flushing with shame. She had to decide there and then whether to tell them she was pregnant and feel like a horrible person inside or get up and move for this man who probably was having real difficulty standing and make known to everyone she was a horrible person.

“Oh...oh...I’m sorry” Helen replied, making the woman smile. The old man in question looking oblivious throughout this action.
“I’m sorry but I’m pregnant you see. 3 months only, but the doctor told me to avoid crowded areas” Helen continued, transferring her blushing to the woman. Others around began chattering in whispers, the accusing woman turning away.

Helen sat riding the bus to the last stop clutching her bag, relieved she hadn’t let everyone know what a terrible thing she’d done.

Two weeks later Helen had another scare.

About this blog space...

Hello to anyone who may be reading....

This blog has been created out of a want to write flash fiction, short stories and small snippets of fiction. As a recent exchange student in Paris I stumbled upon and undertook 2 fantastic workshops at Shakespeare&Co concentrating on Voice and Plot/Narration in fiction. From this I have been encouraged and thoroughly inspired to continue with writing! Please feel free to comment with feedback, all is very welcome as everything I publish will be first (maybe second) draft!

Kathryn