Zoe Adams's Blog, page 8
June 23, 2014
Writing Challenge - Day 23
To all who are reading this,
Another Monday is upon us. They are bittersweet, aren't they? It means you have to wake a little earlier than you had the previous day, look smart instead of comfortable in whatever your comfortable clothes are, and drag yourself into the day job. It's been a crazy day indeed, but we're still alive from it!
Here is the twenty-third piece of fiction!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 23. - HOLLOW
"My condolences." She heard that a lot these past few weeks. Everywhere she went, those words seemed to follow her. Guests at her home, her family and friends, the local supermarket, the florist, the church. Even her beautician had said those words, and she was a bright young thing, with fake tanned skin, and blonde extensions in her hair.
Nancy was sick of those words. Very few of those people actually meant it. Most of them said it out of politeness and tradition. As Nancy stood at the bar, a wine glass in her hand, still more people said it. She ut on a thin smile, nodded her thanks, and returned to her business.
Oscar's funeral was filled with his friends. They crowded around a table, their heads bent low over their pints, murmuring words. Nancy knew in reality they were upset that they were missing their Sunday league football game and a bacon sandwich, and she could see their fingers itching to tap out status updates on their mobile phones and upload them to Facebook.
The younger crowd, the sons and daughters of the mourners, had clustered together. There was no way they were talking about school work, and she watched one of the older boys write something on a coaster and push it to the girl with the black floral headband. She grinned, slipped it in her satchel and mimed, "Call me."
Nancy should be upset, she knew she should be. It was her husband of six years that they had buried today. He had suffered a major heart attack and died before she had even had time to call the paramedics. And it was all her fault.
He never paid her any attention. Not any more. He was more interested in reliving his youth with his sad middle aged friends, and going to the pub. He didn't want to help her with anything, or eat home prepared dinner with her. He didn't want to converse with her. And his lack of interest in sex was another thing altogether.
And then she had found out his lies. She had found out that he had a mistress. She had found out that his footballing trips and business weekends with the boys, and work, had been nothing but sordid little dirty weekends. Marcy - even her name was horrible - was using him, and he just couldn't see it.
So Nancy had called him out on it, shouted a bit, and stood and watched as her husband died before her eyes. When he lay on the living room floor, still and stiff, Nancy had made herself a cup of coffee, had a cigarette, and finally rung for an ambulance, pulling out all the stops to make them believe she was a grieving housewife.
In reality, she was a hollow, horror show of a woman. An egg without a yolk, a chocolate figure with a centre. A woman without feeling.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: The Ballerina and the Revolutionary by Milla V
Another Monday is upon us. They are bittersweet, aren't they? It means you have to wake a little earlier than you had the previous day, look smart instead of comfortable in whatever your comfortable clothes are, and drag yourself into the day job. It's been a crazy day indeed, but we're still alive from it!
Here is the twenty-third piece of fiction!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 23. - HOLLOW
"My condolences." She heard that a lot these past few weeks. Everywhere she went, those words seemed to follow her. Guests at her home, her family and friends, the local supermarket, the florist, the church. Even her beautician had said those words, and she was a bright young thing, with fake tanned skin, and blonde extensions in her hair.
Nancy was sick of those words. Very few of those people actually meant it. Most of them said it out of politeness and tradition. As Nancy stood at the bar, a wine glass in her hand, still more people said it. She ut on a thin smile, nodded her thanks, and returned to her business.
Oscar's funeral was filled with his friends. They crowded around a table, their heads bent low over their pints, murmuring words. Nancy knew in reality they were upset that they were missing their Sunday league football game and a bacon sandwich, and she could see their fingers itching to tap out status updates on their mobile phones and upload them to Facebook.
The younger crowd, the sons and daughters of the mourners, had clustered together. There was no way they were talking about school work, and she watched one of the older boys write something on a coaster and push it to the girl with the black floral headband. She grinned, slipped it in her satchel and mimed, "Call me."
Nancy should be upset, she knew she should be. It was her husband of six years that they had buried today. He had suffered a major heart attack and died before she had even had time to call the paramedics. And it was all her fault.
He never paid her any attention. Not any more. He was more interested in reliving his youth with his sad middle aged friends, and going to the pub. He didn't want to help her with anything, or eat home prepared dinner with her. He didn't want to converse with her. And his lack of interest in sex was another thing altogether.
And then she had found out his lies. She had found out that he had a mistress. She had found out that his footballing trips and business weekends with the boys, and work, had been nothing but sordid little dirty weekends. Marcy - even her name was horrible - was using him, and he just couldn't see it.
So Nancy had called him out on it, shouted a bit, and stood and watched as her husband died before her eyes. When he lay on the living room floor, still and stiff, Nancy had made herself a cup of coffee, had a cigarette, and finally rung for an ambulance, pulling out all the stops to make them believe she was a grieving housewife.
In reality, she was a hollow, horror show of a woman. An egg without a yolk, a chocolate figure with a centre. A woman without feeling.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: The Ballerina and the Revolutionary by Milla V
June 22, 2014
Writing Challenge - Days 20, 21 & 22
To all who are reading this,
It is a terrifying thought that we are into the last part of the challenge. It's an experience, to say the least, but I'm loving it. I haven't posted the last few days due to my personal life and some much needed time off. I was unable to post, but I am back now with the posts.
I hope you enjoy.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 20. - WASH
Connie had seen enough blood in her lifetime. She had grown up with her woman's monthlies, and given birth to three beautiful children. There was more blood later on, when her eldest child, her daughter, suffered the same pains when the moon became full. And her two rough housing young boys were always fighting. With themselves, other village boys, and later other grown men. They would visit home, blood stains on their armour, swords swinging at their sides, their mounts weary and hungry.
Her precious soldiers. Her knights. Her sons.
Wilheim and Tomas. Twins. They had come into the world fighting, fists pumped, and Connie couldn't be prouder of them. Immature as they could be, they had risen high into the ranks of the Kings Guard. They were trusted knights, soldiers through and through. They won wars, participated in tourneys. Any scars they bore, they wore them with pride, whilst Connie chastened them around the dinner table. Her husband would chide her for her actions, whilst her Rosie would beg to hear more of their tales.
When Connie saw the horses marching and hearing the wagons rolling along the dirt tracks into the village, she knew that someone had fallen in the battle. And as the wagons rolled closer to her home, she dropped the basket of vegetables from her hands, letting the potatoes roll around the ground. Her legs caved from beneath her, and Rosie urged her upwards, and into the small house where she could sit at the table. She clutched a small cup of ale, whilst Rosie went out to meet the wagons.
Connie needed her husband, but his work in the town put him a sort horse ride away. Connie needed Rosie - she would keep her stable. She needed Wilheim and Tomas, her brave, handsome boys. In her eyes, both of her boys were still toddlers, running around the garden, uprooting the vegetables and laughing about it.
Rosie entered the house, the Captain of the Guard close behind. They carried two bundles of white cloth, stained with blood. Wilheim and Tomas's blood.
She couldn't hear a thing that Rosie or the Captain of the Guard said. She just stared at the cloth bundles.
"Mama?" Rosie said. "Shall I..."
Connie drew the bundles close to her, breathing in the scent of her sons. Her blood. These would be cloths that she wouldn't ever wash. They were the only things she had left of them.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 21. - MOON
Angeline strolled out onto the balcony, wine goblet in her hand. Her long blonde braid hung down her back, and fastened with a blood red ribbon. Her pale skin was practically glowing in the moonlight - there was not a single cloud in the sky. She swore a fitted black sleeveless shirt, and a pair of long black trousers. A silver belt, imbued with ruby gemstones was fashioned at her waist. A single silver ring was on the ring finger of her right hand, and the diamond twinkled in the light. The blood red robe of the vampire's guild concealed most of her outfit from view. The heels on her suede boots were chunky and there was no fear that she would fall off of them.
The tattoo on her arm itched like crazy, but she knew that she was not alone. Everyone who had graduated from the academy had gone through the same procedure, and as she had looked out on the sea of faces as the tattooing had begun, she had never felt prouder in her entire life. She was the only female to have passed any trials, any education and now she was the guild's only female warrior.
And her family had not even been here to witness it.
Swinging herself up onto the balcony ledge, any feminine grace was forgotten. She let her leg dangle over the ledge, as she cocked the other so her knee was up. She swallowed more of the blood wine from the goblet, wriggling her fingers. The ring caught the moonlight once more, and she was instinctively brought back to the previous nights conversation with the person she had once called sister.
Monique stood in the underground car cark, leaning on the hood of her black Porsche 911, a cigarette in her hand. She looked gorgeous in her light pink cocktail dress, and matching designer shoes. A clutch bag was tucked underneath her arm. She idly checked her watch, as Angeline approached. Sin, her guardian and tutor, hung back at the car, letting the two sisters meet.
They had not seen each other since Angeline had left for the academy.
Angline opened her mouth to say hello, but Monique interrupted her.
"Neither our parents or myself will be at your little ceremony tomorrow evening."
It had knocked the wind right out of her sails. Angeline couldn't believe it. Instead of responding to such a blunt remark, she pulled a throwing star from beneath the folds of her leather coat and threw it at her sisters feet, making Monique jump back onto the bonnet itself.
Now, as moonlight trickled down onto the ring, Angeline pulled it from her finger and threw it as hard and as far as possible. She would no longer be associated with that so called excuse for a family. Not any time in this lifetime anyway.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 22. - SHAMAN
The village crowded around the fire as the shaman spun on the stage, in her thin woven sandals. Her staff was adorned with feathers, beads and small bones - animal and human alike. Her dress of thin material clung to her womanly curves. She stopped suddenly, facing the crowd. Her eyes glowed white, and her body shook. Her arms were straight, like wings of a bird.
She intoned softly, the words echoing in the night's air:
"Heed my warnings, dead children of Shorefield. I have Seen. The destruction of the land is approaching, as was predicated by the stars so long ago. While the rebels gather in their masses to fight against the Inner City warriors, people live in fear. And not just us. Far out to deserts, and into the coldest mountains, they live in fear of a great and terrible will ravage the world as we know it.
"You must beware the city dweller, a felon from the Otherworld. His acceptance will shake the world to its core, while rise to power will put our lives at stake. Nobody will be truly safe, when we will live in a world of life and death.
"There will be five. Five will walk this landscape, charged with the power to protect not just themselves, but our citizens from the horrors that await us.
"The Warrior. A strong, courageous young man. A heart of gold, with the will and determination to stand tall where those have been beaten into submission.
"The Healer. The one with the pure of heart, and the deepest compassion for the others around her, including her enemies.
"The Hunter. To pinpoint the enemy and his next move, this once hostile stranger will be a great asset in the battlefield.
"The Thief. Whether emotions or coin, he will not be taken lightly. While restless and unstable, he will have the ability to change others.
"Lastly, The Mage. Yet to reveal herself, the presence grows stronger. A triumphant female with the strength of the body and mind."
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: A Feast For Crows by George R. R. Martin
It is a terrifying thought that we are into the last part of the challenge. It's an experience, to say the least, but I'm loving it. I haven't posted the last few days due to my personal life and some much needed time off. I was unable to post, but I am back now with the posts.
I hope you enjoy.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 20. - WASH
Connie had seen enough blood in her lifetime. She had grown up with her woman's monthlies, and given birth to three beautiful children. There was more blood later on, when her eldest child, her daughter, suffered the same pains when the moon became full. And her two rough housing young boys were always fighting. With themselves, other village boys, and later other grown men. They would visit home, blood stains on their armour, swords swinging at their sides, their mounts weary and hungry.
Her precious soldiers. Her knights. Her sons.
Wilheim and Tomas. Twins. They had come into the world fighting, fists pumped, and Connie couldn't be prouder of them. Immature as they could be, they had risen high into the ranks of the Kings Guard. They were trusted knights, soldiers through and through. They won wars, participated in tourneys. Any scars they bore, they wore them with pride, whilst Connie chastened them around the dinner table. Her husband would chide her for her actions, whilst her Rosie would beg to hear more of their tales.
When Connie saw the horses marching and hearing the wagons rolling along the dirt tracks into the village, she knew that someone had fallen in the battle. And as the wagons rolled closer to her home, she dropped the basket of vegetables from her hands, letting the potatoes roll around the ground. Her legs caved from beneath her, and Rosie urged her upwards, and into the small house where she could sit at the table. She clutched a small cup of ale, whilst Rosie went out to meet the wagons.
Connie needed her husband, but his work in the town put him a sort horse ride away. Connie needed Rosie - she would keep her stable. She needed Wilheim and Tomas, her brave, handsome boys. In her eyes, both of her boys were still toddlers, running around the garden, uprooting the vegetables and laughing about it.
Rosie entered the house, the Captain of the Guard close behind. They carried two bundles of white cloth, stained with blood. Wilheim and Tomas's blood.
She couldn't hear a thing that Rosie or the Captain of the Guard said. She just stared at the cloth bundles.
"Mama?" Rosie said. "Shall I..."
Connie drew the bundles close to her, breathing in the scent of her sons. Her blood. These would be cloths that she wouldn't ever wash. They were the only things she had left of them.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 21. - MOON
Angeline strolled out onto the balcony, wine goblet in her hand. Her long blonde braid hung down her back, and fastened with a blood red ribbon. Her pale skin was practically glowing in the moonlight - there was not a single cloud in the sky. She swore a fitted black sleeveless shirt, and a pair of long black trousers. A silver belt, imbued with ruby gemstones was fashioned at her waist. A single silver ring was on the ring finger of her right hand, and the diamond twinkled in the light. The blood red robe of the vampire's guild concealed most of her outfit from view. The heels on her suede boots were chunky and there was no fear that she would fall off of them.
The tattoo on her arm itched like crazy, but she knew that she was not alone. Everyone who had graduated from the academy had gone through the same procedure, and as she had looked out on the sea of faces as the tattooing had begun, she had never felt prouder in her entire life. She was the only female to have passed any trials, any education and now she was the guild's only female warrior.
And her family had not even been here to witness it.
Swinging herself up onto the balcony ledge, any feminine grace was forgotten. She let her leg dangle over the ledge, as she cocked the other so her knee was up. She swallowed more of the blood wine from the goblet, wriggling her fingers. The ring caught the moonlight once more, and she was instinctively brought back to the previous nights conversation with the person she had once called sister.
Monique stood in the underground car cark, leaning on the hood of her black Porsche 911, a cigarette in her hand. She looked gorgeous in her light pink cocktail dress, and matching designer shoes. A clutch bag was tucked underneath her arm. She idly checked her watch, as Angeline approached. Sin, her guardian and tutor, hung back at the car, letting the two sisters meet.
They had not seen each other since Angeline had left for the academy.
Angline opened her mouth to say hello, but Monique interrupted her.
"Neither our parents or myself will be at your little ceremony tomorrow evening."
It had knocked the wind right out of her sails. Angeline couldn't believe it. Instead of responding to such a blunt remark, she pulled a throwing star from beneath the folds of her leather coat and threw it at her sisters feet, making Monique jump back onto the bonnet itself.
Now, as moonlight trickled down onto the ring, Angeline pulled it from her finger and threw it as hard and as far as possible. She would no longer be associated with that so called excuse for a family. Not any time in this lifetime anyway.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 22. - SHAMAN
The village crowded around the fire as the shaman spun on the stage, in her thin woven sandals. Her staff was adorned with feathers, beads and small bones - animal and human alike. Her dress of thin material clung to her womanly curves. She stopped suddenly, facing the crowd. Her eyes glowed white, and her body shook. Her arms were straight, like wings of a bird.
She intoned softly, the words echoing in the night's air:
"Heed my warnings, dead children of Shorefield. I have Seen. The destruction of the land is approaching, as was predicated by the stars so long ago. While the rebels gather in their masses to fight against the Inner City warriors, people live in fear. And not just us. Far out to deserts, and into the coldest mountains, they live in fear of a great and terrible will ravage the world as we know it.
"You must beware the city dweller, a felon from the Otherworld. His acceptance will shake the world to its core, while rise to power will put our lives at stake. Nobody will be truly safe, when we will live in a world of life and death.
"There will be five. Five will walk this landscape, charged with the power to protect not just themselves, but our citizens from the horrors that await us.
"The Warrior. A strong, courageous young man. A heart of gold, with the will and determination to stand tall where those have been beaten into submission.
"The Healer. The one with the pure of heart, and the deepest compassion for the others around her, including her enemies.
"The Hunter. To pinpoint the enemy and his next move, this once hostile stranger will be a great asset in the battlefield.
"The Thief. Whether emotions or coin, he will not be taken lightly. While restless and unstable, he will have the ability to change others.
"Lastly, The Mage. Yet to reveal herself, the presence grows stronger. A triumphant female with the strength of the body and mind."
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: A Feast For Crows by George R. R. Martin
June 19, 2014
Writing Challenge - Days 18 & 19
To all who are reading this,
Today, we have two pieces of fiction from the Writing Challenge, since last night I was unable to post.
So, enjoy!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 17. - LIPS
Her black painted lips purse as the idea formulates in her mind. This is something she has wanted to do for years, and she will accomplish this crazy idea of hers if its the last thing she does. An Ouija board is going to be the perfect Halloween present to herself. She calls her friends Nathalie, Emma and Dale, and they agree to it. Her house. They'll be over for films and pizza like normal, but this time it will be different.
On the twenty-ninth of October she finishes decorating her house. Her light purple painted lips grin in triumph. She has masqueraded the front with odd shaped pumpkins and lanterns. Creepy straw mannequins are embedded in her front garden, along with a makeshift gravestone. Two stuffed ravens from a taxidermists are perched on the eaves of the porch - one is called Edgar, one is called Lenore. The house is fit to bursting with barrels of sweets and chocolates that are already being discounted before the prices shoot back up for Bonfire Night. She got weird looks at the supermarket checkouts, but it's never fazed her in the slightest.
On the thirtieth of October, commonly known as Devil's Night, her lips are painted a rich red. Her tongue pokes out, as she puts the finishing touches to her costume. She sits in her living room, occasionally eating potato sticks from a bowl, whilst she fashions the ribbons from velvet and stitches them to the dress. She is excited for her costume and she can only hope others will appreciate it too. The gang all have theirs planned too.
Nathalie is coming as Freddy Krueger. She has crafted the blade fingers from a substance called worbla, and attached it to an old leather glove. It has taken her months of attempts, but finally it is ready.
Emma is coming as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas. She has stitched the material for the entire costume and has been planning the make-up for weeks.
Dale is coming as a zombie. Plain and simple.
On the thirty-first, at six o'clock, she is ready to begin. Her black hair has been curled and pinned up into ponytails. Her white is white as porcelain, with dark eyes and long lashes. Her lips are painted a crude pink, to match the dress. She is the perfect image of a China doll. Her friends arrive, and they open the wine. They order, and then consume pizza in copious amounts whilst watching horror movies.
At twelve, she pulls the Ouija board toward her from under the sofa. It's been passed down from generations, but she has never used it. Tonight is the night. She takes off the lid and a white powder rises and sets in the air. The lights go out. They scream.
Nathalie, Emma and Dale fight their way out of the house, crying for help. They are scared. Something has happened for their beautiful artistic, Gothic friend, is no longer alive. She is now the helpless doll that she had been dressed as.
Her lips are open in fright, still a gaudy shade of pink.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TOO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 19. - SUMMER
Lisa was sprawled on the sun lounger in the back garden, letting the sun tan her skin. She had been sent a free sample of sun lotion from a beauty company, and she would write a review of it shortly for the women's magazine she wrote for. Her editor was expecting lots of articles focused on things to do in the summer Where to take your children if you had them. Cheap and fun free days. The best body care products. The diets that worked, and did not work so well.
The only problem that Lisa was facing, as she idly tapped her fingernails on the side of her work netbook, was that her brain felt like mush. The words didn't want to come out, and it was torture working when the day was so bright and beautiful. She couldn't imagine being in an office on a day like today.
"Sod it." She shut down her laptop, packed it into the bag, and locked it in the kitchen, like usual. She took up her handbag, slipped her sandals back on, and decided to take a long walk around town. Maybe stop off for a cheeky drink if her local wasn't busy with kids only just old enough to drink.
She stood outside her gate. She loved living in England. The sun shone beautifully, when it wasn't chucking it down with rain. Kids roamed past her with their parents, some on scooters and bikes. Little girls were in pretty dresses and jelly shoes, whereas the boys wore colourful character shirts and grubby shorts. Footballs would be tucked under arms as they trotted along, desperate for an ice-cream or a lolly pop.
She continued on, cutting through the park. There was fresh cut grass that smelt great, whilst more children played. There were skipping ropes, hula hoops, more ball games than enough, roller blades, skateboards and BMX bikes. The climbing frames, swings, see-saws and slides had queues, they were that busy!
And then - she knew what to write. Turning on her heel, she hurried on home, tapping on her phone all the notes she had for her first article of the summer. She was going to try and bring back the fun she had experienced as a child and a teen. What the kids of today were still enjoying!
It was a refreshing sight for a summer's day.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (20114)
Currently reading: A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin
Today, we have two pieces of fiction from the Writing Challenge, since last night I was unable to post.
So, enjoy!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 17. - LIPS
Her black painted lips purse as the idea formulates in her mind. This is something she has wanted to do for years, and she will accomplish this crazy idea of hers if its the last thing she does. An Ouija board is going to be the perfect Halloween present to herself. She calls her friends Nathalie, Emma and Dale, and they agree to it. Her house. They'll be over for films and pizza like normal, but this time it will be different.
On the twenty-ninth of October she finishes decorating her house. Her light purple painted lips grin in triumph. She has masqueraded the front with odd shaped pumpkins and lanterns. Creepy straw mannequins are embedded in her front garden, along with a makeshift gravestone. Two stuffed ravens from a taxidermists are perched on the eaves of the porch - one is called Edgar, one is called Lenore. The house is fit to bursting with barrels of sweets and chocolates that are already being discounted before the prices shoot back up for Bonfire Night. She got weird looks at the supermarket checkouts, but it's never fazed her in the slightest.
On the thirtieth of October, commonly known as Devil's Night, her lips are painted a rich red. Her tongue pokes out, as she puts the finishing touches to her costume. She sits in her living room, occasionally eating potato sticks from a bowl, whilst she fashions the ribbons from velvet and stitches them to the dress. She is excited for her costume and she can only hope others will appreciate it too. The gang all have theirs planned too.
Nathalie is coming as Freddy Krueger. She has crafted the blade fingers from a substance called worbla, and attached it to an old leather glove. It has taken her months of attempts, but finally it is ready.
Emma is coming as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas. She has stitched the material for the entire costume and has been planning the make-up for weeks.
Dale is coming as a zombie. Plain and simple.
On the thirty-first, at six o'clock, she is ready to begin. Her black hair has been curled and pinned up into ponytails. Her white is white as porcelain, with dark eyes and long lashes. Her lips are painted a crude pink, to match the dress. She is the perfect image of a China doll. Her friends arrive, and they open the wine. They order, and then consume pizza in copious amounts whilst watching horror movies.
At twelve, she pulls the Ouija board toward her from under the sofa. It's been passed down from generations, but she has never used it. Tonight is the night. She takes off the lid and a white powder rises and sets in the air. The lights go out. They scream.
Nathalie, Emma and Dale fight their way out of the house, crying for help. They are scared. Something has happened for their beautiful artistic, Gothic friend, is no longer alive. She is now the helpless doll that she had been dressed as.
Her lips are open in fright, still a gaudy shade of pink.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TOO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 19. - SUMMER
Lisa was sprawled on the sun lounger in the back garden, letting the sun tan her skin. She had been sent a free sample of sun lotion from a beauty company, and she would write a review of it shortly for the women's magazine she wrote for. Her editor was expecting lots of articles focused on things to do in the summer Where to take your children if you had them. Cheap and fun free days. The best body care products. The diets that worked, and did not work so well.
The only problem that Lisa was facing, as she idly tapped her fingernails on the side of her work netbook, was that her brain felt like mush. The words didn't want to come out, and it was torture working when the day was so bright and beautiful. She couldn't imagine being in an office on a day like today.
"Sod it." She shut down her laptop, packed it into the bag, and locked it in the kitchen, like usual. She took up her handbag, slipped her sandals back on, and decided to take a long walk around town. Maybe stop off for a cheeky drink if her local wasn't busy with kids only just old enough to drink.
She stood outside her gate. She loved living in England. The sun shone beautifully, when it wasn't chucking it down with rain. Kids roamed past her with their parents, some on scooters and bikes. Little girls were in pretty dresses and jelly shoes, whereas the boys wore colourful character shirts and grubby shorts. Footballs would be tucked under arms as they trotted along, desperate for an ice-cream or a lolly pop.
She continued on, cutting through the park. There was fresh cut grass that smelt great, whilst more children played. There were skipping ropes, hula hoops, more ball games than enough, roller blades, skateboards and BMX bikes. The climbing frames, swings, see-saws and slides had queues, they were that busy!
And then - she knew what to write. Turning on her heel, she hurried on home, tapping on her phone all the notes she had for her first article of the summer. She was going to try and bring back the fun she had experienced as a child and a teen. What the kids of today were still enjoying!
It was a refreshing sight for a summer's day.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (20114)
Currently reading: A Feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin
June 17, 2014
Writing Challenge - Days 16 & 17
To all who are reading this,
Today, we have two pieces of fiction from the Writing Challenge, since I was unable to post last night.
I had been to the cinema to see X:Men - Days of Future Past, which is a great addition to the franchise, with a brilliant cast who are perfect for the roles. I am crushing on the younger Charles, younger Eric, Wolverine (no matter what), Quicksilver, Hank McCoy, Blink and Mystique. Trask is a fabulous villain. And the urge to cosplay is building!
Anyway, after that mini review, here we go!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 16. - FEATHER
I know that nothing will hurt me. I know that I will survive anything that life throws at me. I know that I am protected, and will be kept safe from the dangers of the world.
A guardian angel watches over me.
I can hear you scoff now as you read this, dear readers. But I am protected by a guardian angel, and if you don't believe it, here's the proof. Yet you're still laughing at me.
I can hear your voices: "Beth, it's a feather. That's not proof. You could have taken that from a pillow or even from a duck. Hell, it could be from any bird that has flown over your house, or one that has been left behind if your cat has chased it away."
But it's an angel, I know it is. I've spoken to him.
He's a tall, handsome stranger. He stands in the shadows and watches over me as I sleep. He has long fair hair that falls in his face and his skin is unblemished. His eyes are of the most vivid blue that whenever I see him I feel like I am drowning. He wears a black leather trench coat that falls to the tops of his thick soled army boots. Jeans are clad on his long, muscled legs, whilst his equally black shirt falls open, showing a bare chest. The only thing that are white are his wings, which are as long as a two person leather reclining sofa.
He has stepped from the shadows and spoken only once. I never knew he was there until I was sixteen, and I woke from my slumber when a disturbance outside my window, near the dustbins. I climbed from bed, pulled open my curtains and a man fell through the window. There was no smash of glass, no noise of any kind. I fought a scream back, and tried to ask the man if he was okay.
He clutched my hand, and that was when I saw his eyes. I helped him up, and let him sit on my bed to rest. I bought him a glass of water, which he didn't drink at all. His voice when he spoke was soft and gentle.
"Thank you for your assistance. You have no need to fear. I will never hurt you."
That's when I knew he was a guardian angel. He must know that the bullying had finally reached its toll and I had cut into my wrist with a razor blade. He kissed my forehead, and stood up, spreading those magnificent wings. He drew them around himself, spun once and disappeared, leaving only a single feather behind.
He watches me still. I know he does. He could never hurt me. He loves me, you see.
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 17. - SWIM
"Swim."
I heard his voice and fought against the bonds that restricted me. The cords binding my wrists behind my back, and around my ankles made things so difficult, but survival was key. I had to see him again. I had to. I thrashed as much as humanly possible against the bonds, and managed to get part of my hand free. I continued my harsh movements, until my hands were completely free. An air bubble escaped my mouth, and I knew I had to move quickly.
I kicked out, letting my hair stream beside me, making believe that I was a mermaid, and that I was not dying. I pumped my legs up and down, whilst I struck hard for the surface with my arms.
Finally, I broke the surface. Taking a deep breath, and treading water as best as I could, I struck for shore. The blood rushed in my ears and my head felt light, but as my arms slapped the surface, I hit sand. Trying to get a grip, I hauled myself upwards, until I could sit upright on the sand.
I had survived. My clothes clung to my body in curves I didn't know I had, and my hair was stuck to my face. My chest was tight, my head dizzy and I was slowly loosing circulation in my legs.
Far off down the beach was a wooden cabin, the trees behind it leading into a woodland area. I was far from home, and seeing him was becoming a much more difficult task. Finding a sharp shell, I cut through the cord on my ankles, and managed to stand on wobbly legs. I was like Bambi as I staggered along the beach, making deep footsteps. The cabin seemed to get further away, but my feet hit the planks of wood on the cabin's front steps.
I hauled myself upright and pushed open the door. White light flooded my eyes -
"She's stable. Let's get her into ICU."
"Will she be alright, doctor?"
"She's a fighter, your daughter. She'll come around properly in no time. Then we'll learn more about the accident."
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal and Stigmatized Zealots and Cynics in The Process by Corey Taylor
Today, we have two pieces of fiction from the Writing Challenge, since I was unable to post last night.
I had been to the cinema to see X:Men - Days of Future Past, which is a great addition to the franchise, with a brilliant cast who are perfect for the roles. I am crushing on the younger Charles, younger Eric, Wolverine (no matter what), Quicksilver, Hank McCoy, Blink and Mystique. Trask is a fabulous villain. And the urge to cosplay is building!
Anyway, after that mini review, here we go!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 16. - FEATHER
I know that nothing will hurt me. I know that I will survive anything that life throws at me. I know that I am protected, and will be kept safe from the dangers of the world.
A guardian angel watches over me.
I can hear you scoff now as you read this, dear readers. But I am protected by a guardian angel, and if you don't believe it, here's the proof. Yet you're still laughing at me.
I can hear your voices: "Beth, it's a feather. That's not proof. You could have taken that from a pillow or even from a duck. Hell, it could be from any bird that has flown over your house, or one that has been left behind if your cat has chased it away."
But it's an angel, I know it is. I've spoken to him.
He's a tall, handsome stranger. He stands in the shadows and watches over me as I sleep. He has long fair hair that falls in his face and his skin is unblemished. His eyes are of the most vivid blue that whenever I see him I feel like I am drowning. He wears a black leather trench coat that falls to the tops of his thick soled army boots. Jeans are clad on his long, muscled legs, whilst his equally black shirt falls open, showing a bare chest. The only thing that are white are his wings, which are as long as a two person leather reclining sofa.
He has stepped from the shadows and spoken only once. I never knew he was there until I was sixteen, and I woke from my slumber when a disturbance outside my window, near the dustbins. I climbed from bed, pulled open my curtains and a man fell through the window. There was no smash of glass, no noise of any kind. I fought a scream back, and tried to ask the man if he was okay.
He clutched my hand, and that was when I saw his eyes. I helped him up, and let him sit on my bed to rest. I bought him a glass of water, which he didn't drink at all. His voice when he spoke was soft and gentle.
"Thank you for your assistance. You have no need to fear. I will never hurt you."
That's when I knew he was a guardian angel. He must know that the bullying had finally reached its toll and I had cut into my wrist with a razor blade. He kissed my forehead, and stood up, spreading those magnificent wings. He drew them around himself, spun once and disappeared, leaving only a single feather behind.
He watches me still. I know he does. He could never hurt me. He loves me, you see.
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 17. - SWIM
"Swim."
I heard his voice and fought against the bonds that restricted me. The cords binding my wrists behind my back, and around my ankles made things so difficult, but survival was key. I had to see him again. I had to. I thrashed as much as humanly possible against the bonds, and managed to get part of my hand free. I continued my harsh movements, until my hands were completely free. An air bubble escaped my mouth, and I knew I had to move quickly.
I kicked out, letting my hair stream beside me, making believe that I was a mermaid, and that I was not dying. I pumped my legs up and down, whilst I struck hard for the surface with my arms.
Finally, I broke the surface. Taking a deep breath, and treading water as best as I could, I struck for shore. The blood rushed in my ears and my head felt light, but as my arms slapped the surface, I hit sand. Trying to get a grip, I hauled myself upwards, until I could sit upright on the sand.
I had survived. My clothes clung to my body in curves I didn't know I had, and my hair was stuck to my face. My chest was tight, my head dizzy and I was slowly loosing circulation in my legs.
Far off down the beach was a wooden cabin, the trees behind it leading into a woodland area. I was far from home, and seeing him was becoming a much more difficult task. Finding a sharp shell, I cut through the cord on my ankles, and managed to stand on wobbly legs. I was like Bambi as I staggered along the beach, making deep footsteps. The cabin seemed to get further away, but my feet hit the planks of wood on the cabin's front steps.
I hauled myself upright and pushed open the door. White light flooded my eyes -
"She's stable. Let's get her into ICU."
"Will she be alright, doctor?"
"She's a fighter, your daughter. She'll come around properly in no time. Then we'll learn more about the accident."
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal and Stigmatized Zealots and Cynics in The Process by Corey Taylor
June 15, 2014
Writing Challenge - Day 15
To all who are reading this,
We are officially halfway through this self-imposed writing challenge! That's right folks, including today you have read fifteen short pieces of fiction. That amounts roughly to 11,250 words - just over a minimal word count for a novella! Isn't that a scary thought? It is in my mind!
It is also Father's Day, and on behalf of sons and daughters all over the world, I would like to wish every single parent a happy and joyous day. Times are tough, but a Dad will love you unconditionally forever, no matter what.
Now, before I start sobbing my eyes, you can read a Father's Day piece I wrote here, or you could just continue reading and hit the next piece of short flash fiction!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 15. - SONG
She had captured her heart the moment he opened her mouth. Lightning had struck, and she was sure that she was smoking at the corners.
Olivia was sat in BAR FIGARO, a little Italian place just off the high street, with her friends when she saw him. The girls had gathered for their monthly dinner date and gossip, leaving whatever partners they had at home. She had been best friends with Hannah, Jade and Mia since secondary school and now in their mid-twenties, they were still as close as could be. They all held full-time jobs in different fields of work, and always made the effort to have a big catch up at the end of the month. If any parties fell in between, so be it!
Hannah was a long legged brunette, and worked as a receptionist in a busy doctor's surgery. She had routinely flirted with one of the male nurses, but he had rebuffed her advances so far. She was quite smart when she applied herself to a role, especially boy snaring.
Jade was Asian, and recently married. She had met her husband when they had both attended a managers convention in the next city over (she was in Food Processing, he was in Local Government). Excitedly, Jade had announced earlier on at the restaurant that she and new husband, Aaron, were already expecting their first child.
Mia was the classic blonde that men constantly drooled over. She forgot things easily, often hurt herself and asked stupid questions. She worked in a classy Spanish themed restaurant, and the only reason she hadn't been given the sack, was that she was the most practised at making exquisite tasting cocktails.
And Olivia? She often thought she was a token item to have amongst the group. Working in retail in the town centre, Olivia had several tattoos and piercings, wore strange clothes which then often came into fashion, and was openly gay.
"Have any of you girls been here before?" Olivia asked, sipping her Martini and lemonade through a straw.
"Oh yeah, the food is just gorge! They have this sauce that... Well, lets say if it went on the waiter, I would lick it straight off!" Mia giggled behind her hand, and then scratched herself accidentally with the garishly painted false nail on her middle finger.
"And they often put these singers up on that tiny stage. You know, to give them a chance and get more money in." Jade stared longingly at the empty wine glass that hadn't been removed from the table. "Aaron brought me here not long ago. Something tells me he doesn't fancy an of my cooking again."
"Least you have someone to cook for," Olivia and Hannah said in unison. They were singletons. Mia didn't count. She had too many men texting, calling and Facebook-ing her on a regular basis.
The food arrived, stopping any conversation about men for the time beginning. The talk turned to calories, gym memberships, puddings and, "have some of this" whilst forks and spoons were waved around. Olivia demolished the spaghetti carbonara that had been laced in front of her, and tore into the garlic bread. She had eaten a good chunk of it, when she heard, "Testing, testing, one two three."
Olivia looked up, and the garlic bread fell onto her plate.
A willow like figure was stood on the stage with an acoustic guitar in hand. Her hair was cut short like a pixie, and her ears were lined with piercings. She wore a strappy top that showed a good amount of cleavage, and baggy jeans. She had chunky sandal type shoes on her feet.
In a word - gorgeous.
Mia nudged Olivia's arm. "You might want to put your eyes back in your head. You're staring."
"I'm not, I'm just-"
"You're staring. Stop it. You'll freak her out."
"I won't!"
The girl on the stage looked directly into Olivia's eyes, and Olivia wished she could turn invisible.
"I'm Mary-Grace, and this first song's a cover. This is Dead Memories by Slipknot."
Mary-Grace began to sing and play. What was initially a hard rock metal track was an unearthly acoustic track, that was haunting and ethereal, and everything in between. She loved the original track, but this was something completely new and strange. Corey Taylor's voice on some tracks was now the double in this voice of the passionate and enigmatic singer.
Olivia applauded the loudest of all, and was determined to get Mary-Grace's number before the time was out. Even if Mia, Jade and Hannah insisted that if they became an item their initials would spell, "OMG".
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
If you're interested in hearing the original Slipknot track you can find it here: DEAD MEMORIES
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
We are officially halfway through this self-imposed writing challenge! That's right folks, including today you have read fifteen short pieces of fiction. That amounts roughly to 11,250 words - just over a minimal word count for a novella! Isn't that a scary thought? It is in my mind!
It is also Father's Day, and on behalf of sons and daughters all over the world, I would like to wish every single parent a happy and joyous day. Times are tough, but a Dad will love you unconditionally forever, no matter what.
Now, before I start sobbing my eyes, you can read a Father's Day piece I wrote here, or you could just continue reading and hit the next piece of short flash fiction!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 15. - SONG
She had captured her heart the moment he opened her mouth. Lightning had struck, and she was sure that she was smoking at the corners.
Olivia was sat in BAR FIGARO, a little Italian place just off the high street, with her friends when she saw him. The girls had gathered for their monthly dinner date and gossip, leaving whatever partners they had at home. She had been best friends with Hannah, Jade and Mia since secondary school and now in their mid-twenties, they were still as close as could be. They all held full-time jobs in different fields of work, and always made the effort to have a big catch up at the end of the month. If any parties fell in between, so be it!
Hannah was a long legged brunette, and worked as a receptionist in a busy doctor's surgery. She had routinely flirted with one of the male nurses, but he had rebuffed her advances so far. She was quite smart when she applied herself to a role, especially boy snaring.
Jade was Asian, and recently married. She had met her husband when they had both attended a managers convention in the next city over (she was in Food Processing, he was in Local Government). Excitedly, Jade had announced earlier on at the restaurant that she and new husband, Aaron, were already expecting their first child.
Mia was the classic blonde that men constantly drooled over. She forgot things easily, often hurt herself and asked stupid questions. She worked in a classy Spanish themed restaurant, and the only reason she hadn't been given the sack, was that she was the most practised at making exquisite tasting cocktails.
And Olivia? She often thought she was a token item to have amongst the group. Working in retail in the town centre, Olivia had several tattoos and piercings, wore strange clothes which then often came into fashion, and was openly gay.
"Have any of you girls been here before?" Olivia asked, sipping her Martini and lemonade through a straw.
"Oh yeah, the food is just gorge! They have this sauce that... Well, lets say if it went on the waiter, I would lick it straight off!" Mia giggled behind her hand, and then scratched herself accidentally with the garishly painted false nail on her middle finger.
"And they often put these singers up on that tiny stage. You know, to give them a chance and get more money in." Jade stared longingly at the empty wine glass that hadn't been removed from the table. "Aaron brought me here not long ago. Something tells me he doesn't fancy an of my cooking again."
"Least you have someone to cook for," Olivia and Hannah said in unison. They were singletons. Mia didn't count. She had too many men texting, calling and Facebook-ing her on a regular basis.
The food arrived, stopping any conversation about men for the time beginning. The talk turned to calories, gym memberships, puddings and, "have some of this" whilst forks and spoons were waved around. Olivia demolished the spaghetti carbonara that had been laced in front of her, and tore into the garlic bread. She had eaten a good chunk of it, when she heard, "Testing, testing, one two three."
Olivia looked up, and the garlic bread fell onto her plate.
A willow like figure was stood on the stage with an acoustic guitar in hand. Her hair was cut short like a pixie, and her ears were lined with piercings. She wore a strappy top that showed a good amount of cleavage, and baggy jeans. She had chunky sandal type shoes on her feet.
In a word - gorgeous.
Mia nudged Olivia's arm. "You might want to put your eyes back in your head. You're staring."
"I'm not, I'm just-"
"You're staring. Stop it. You'll freak her out."
"I won't!"
The girl on the stage looked directly into Olivia's eyes, and Olivia wished she could turn invisible.
"I'm Mary-Grace, and this first song's a cover. This is Dead Memories by Slipknot."
Mary-Grace began to sing and play. What was initially a hard rock metal track was an unearthly acoustic track, that was haunting and ethereal, and everything in between. She loved the original track, but this was something completely new and strange. Corey Taylor's voice on some tracks was now the double in this voice of the passionate and enigmatic singer.
Olivia applauded the loudest of all, and was determined to get Mary-Grace's number before the time was out. Even if Mia, Jade and Hannah insisted that if they became an item their initials would spell, "OMG".
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
If you're interested in hearing the original Slipknot track you can find it here: DEAD MEMORIES
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
June 14, 2014
Writing Challenge - Day 14
To all who are reading this,
We are slowly approaching the halfway mark! The last challenge for writers I completed was the ELEMENTAL CHALLENGE and it was for fifteen days. This is almost like doing two elemental's, which I think are always fun!
So, without further ado, we are onto our next prompt.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 134- MILK
My mother always told me: "Never cry over spilt milk". Sadly, the story that I am about to tell you involves me crying over a small puddle of spilt milk in my kitchen. The doctors and psychiatrists have recommended I write down this tale, to see if it helps things get any better. I suppose that we shall have to see.
My name's Robyn and I'm twenty-three. And I am the victim of paranormal activity.
I moved into my new place just a few short weeks ago. It was my first home. Well... flat. A small first floor place, just big enough for me and my guinea pig, Hamish. I am scrimped and saved for the deposit, and even my parents helped. I bought second hand furniture, and called it "shabby chic". Some of it I brightened up with a bit of paint, and a good clean. Some stuff had to be bought new though, but those things I was happy for.
It took a day and a half to transport some of my belongings. The big stuff had already been installed like the new fridge freezer and a washing machine. The delivery men had told me and my parents that I should get to sorting the heating out, because the flat was chilly. I laughed it off, saying that a window must be cracked open slightly. After they had gone, I pulled the cardigan I wore tighter around myself.
The first night alone, I barely noticed the lack of heat. I was so busy setting up the bed, filling drawers, unpacking boxes of books and films. Hamish seemed skitty in his indoor hutch, but I put it down to the new home. It was incredibly different to what he was used to, and I set about hooking up my CD player, and dancing around to Fall Out Boy. That night, I slept soundly in my double bed, my duvet tucked up around my chin.
The next day, I finished setting up my flat, and wrote out a shopping list of what I needed, starting with cleaning supplies, and then later down the list, actual food stuffs. My parents picked me up, and we went around the local large superstore, piling the trolley high. When we brought the bags home, I made them both a celebratory coffee, using my new kettle.
In the afternoon, after they had left, I tried taking Hamish out of his hutch, but he squealed and squeaked like a crazy person. Instead, I topped up his food bowl, and gave him an extra large helping of all his favourite vegetables.
As I read on the sofa, I kept hearing the kettle whistle, as if it had boiled. Then it would go off, and five minutes later, it started again. I called my Dad, explained what was happening, and he told me to unplug it. So, following his advice, I did it. And still, I heard the kettle whistle, on and off. Hamish's squeaking was getting louder and louder. The book in my lap, which was shut and had a bookmark in it, suddenly opened and shut, the bookmark flying out across the room, landing my the CD player. It turned itself on, and without warning, the radio crackled into life. I never bothered to have the radio tuned, and here it was, playing Compass FM, without a care in the world.
I spoke aloud to myself: "I'm not going crazy."
I reached for the glass of cold milk on the side table, beside the sofa, and took a drink. I spat it out onto my shiny wooden flooring. The milk was warm, as if I had warmed it in a saucepan on the stove, like Mum did when I was little.
As I looked up from my milk puddle in disgust, I felt dead inside. There, hovering above the puddle, was a black cloaked figure. Its face was mottled and rotting, whilst the nails had fallen off. Bones protruded from where the legs would be, and it wore no shoes. The cloak was drawn tight about it, and part of me suspected that beneath it, the figure was naked. That was something I did not want to think about.
The figure lifted a hand, or what was left of it, towards me, and I screamed. I screamed bloody murder, burying my face in my hands, whilst its voice, so gravel like, towered over mine, telling me that I must, "Get out". I was terrified, I had no idea what was going on, until my neighbour burst in, and tried to get me to calm down. I struck out and hit him so hard that he stumbled back, and landed on his butt in the warm milk puddle.
Since then, I have spoken with various people. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Police and paramedics, doctors and nurses. Psychiatrists of every shape and size, with every varying degree known to human kind.
And now, I don't live in my first flat. Hamish lives in his hutch, with my parents, but they send me updates all the time. Now, I live on a psychiatric ward of a hospital, pumped with drugs, living a recurring nightmare that that black phantom will come back for me, that he is not finished with me. What he wants - I don't know. Why me - I will never know. All I know is that I cannot stand the sight of milk.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
We are slowly approaching the halfway mark! The last challenge for writers I completed was the ELEMENTAL CHALLENGE and it was for fifteen days. This is almost like doing two elemental's, which I think are always fun!
So, without further ado, we are onto our next prompt.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 134- MILK
My mother always told me: "Never cry over spilt milk". Sadly, the story that I am about to tell you involves me crying over a small puddle of spilt milk in my kitchen. The doctors and psychiatrists have recommended I write down this tale, to see if it helps things get any better. I suppose that we shall have to see.
My name's Robyn and I'm twenty-three. And I am the victim of paranormal activity.
I moved into my new place just a few short weeks ago. It was my first home. Well... flat. A small first floor place, just big enough for me and my guinea pig, Hamish. I am scrimped and saved for the deposit, and even my parents helped. I bought second hand furniture, and called it "shabby chic". Some of it I brightened up with a bit of paint, and a good clean. Some stuff had to be bought new though, but those things I was happy for.
It took a day and a half to transport some of my belongings. The big stuff had already been installed like the new fridge freezer and a washing machine. The delivery men had told me and my parents that I should get to sorting the heating out, because the flat was chilly. I laughed it off, saying that a window must be cracked open slightly. After they had gone, I pulled the cardigan I wore tighter around myself.
The first night alone, I barely noticed the lack of heat. I was so busy setting up the bed, filling drawers, unpacking boxes of books and films. Hamish seemed skitty in his indoor hutch, but I put it down to the new home. It was incredibly different to what he was used to, and I set about hooking up my CD player, and dancing around to Fall Out Boy. That night, I slept soundly in my double bed, my duvet tucked up around my chin.
The next day, I finished setting up my flat, and wrote out a shopping list of what I needed, starting with cleaning supplies, and then later down the list, actual food stuffs. My parents picked me up, and we went around the local large superstore, piling the trolley high. When we brought the bags home, I made them both a celebratory coffee, using my new kettle.
In the afternoon, after they had left, I tried taking Hamish out of his hutch, but he squealed and squeaked like a crazy person. Instead, I topped up his food bowl, and gave him an extra large helping of all his favourite vegetables.
As I read on the sofa, I kept hearing the kettle whistle, as if it had boiled. Then it would go off, and five minutes later, it started again. I called my Dad, explained what was happening, and he told me to unplug it. So, following his advice, I did it. And still, I heard the kettle whistle, on and off. Hamish's squeaking was getting louder and louder. The book in my lap, which was shut and had a bookmark in it, suddenly opened and shut, the bookmark flying out across the room, landing my the CD player. It turned itself on, and without warning, the radio crackled into life. I never bothered to have the radio tuned, and here it was, playing Compass FM, without a care in the world.
I spoke aloud to myself: "I'm not going crazy."
I reached for the glass of cold milk on the side table, beside the sofa, and took a drink. I spat it out onto my shiny wooden flooring. The milk was warm, as if I had warmed it in a saucepan on the stove, like Mum did when I was little.
As I looked up from my milk puddle in disgust, I felt dead inside. There, hovering above the puddle, was a black cloaked figure. Its face was mottled and rotting, whilst the nails had fallen off. Bones protruded from where the legs would be, and it wore no shoes. The cloak was drawn tight about it, and part of me suspected that beneath it, the figure was naked. That was something I did not want to think about.
The figure lifted a hand, or what was left of it, towards me, and I screamed. I screamed bloody murder, burying my face in my hands, whilst its voice, so gravel like, towered over mine, telling me that I must, "Get out". I was terrified, I had no idea what was going on, until my neighbour burst in, and tried to get me to calm down. I struck out and hit him so hard that he stumbled back, and landed on his butt in the warm milk puddle.
Since then, I have spoken with various people. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Police and paramedics, doctors and nurses. Psychiatrists of every shape and size, with every varying degree known to human kind.
And now, I don't live in my first flat. Hamish lives in his hutch, with my parents, but they send me updates all the time. Now, I live on a psychiatric ward of a hospital, pumped with drugs, living a recurring nightmare that that black phantom will come back for me, that he is not finished with me. What he wants - I don't know. Why me - I will never know. All I know is that I cannot stand the sight of milk.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
June 13, 2014
Writing Challenge - Day 13
To all who are reading this,
Posting the thirteenth post on Friday the 13th? Will this be an unlucky post? I certainly hope not!
Let's rock this blog!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 13. - INK
I had heard common conceptions about tattoo parlours since I was a little kid, but I had never let it bother me. I was always fascinated with the body art that littered peoples bodies, and whenever Uncle Paul, or Uncy Paul as I used to call him, came over, I would trace the tribal lines on his forearm. I would follow the intricate details of the pin up girl on his upper arm, not knowing what her saucy smile and winking eye were truly telling us. I learnt to read and spell with the words on his wrists and knuckles - MUM, DAD, FAMILY, LOVE and HATE.
I would draw all over myself in felt tip marker pens. My arms would replicate Uncy Paul's, whereas my legs were a canvas of childish scribbles, like caterpillars that I had traced around a penny to give it that perfect roundness. Butterflies with intricate dotted wings. The faces of cats, dogs, rabbits, and other drawings that came to me. My mother would go spare when she saw the state of me, and haul me off to the bathroom to scrub the indelible ink from my skin.
I was seven when I got my first temporary tattoo. It was a Hello Kitty design, the happy cats face so bright and colourful. The bow looked plump and her cheeky expression brought a smile to my face. My poor frustrated mother had caved in and chosen me a girlie design, and we promptly applied it to my arm. I was so proud of it, and wore a cap sleeve t-shirt to show it off to everyone in town that we passed. The trouble came when the design had fully removed and I went to school with it still on. I was told off my the Headteacher, and I kicked up such a fuss that I was excluded for the rest of the day, and my furious mother had to bring me home. She blamed Uncle Paul, her brother, for putting such silly notions in my head, but I became even more curious and impassioned.
Whenever I walked past Cal's Parlour on the way to secondary school, the shutters would be up. I would spend a good ten minutes picking out my ever changing favourite designs from the window displays, and hurrying along when I realised I would be late to meet my friends. I'd hurry along, and take part in my lessons, all the time doodling on the back of my hand and books. You would imagine that my art lessons were fabulous with my skill, but I wasn't a great artist and I never will be. I appreciate it more than you will ever realise, though.
I bought books of tattoo designs and read everything I could on the subject. I was determined to be well informed, and not listen to the rumours about watering down the ink, or reusing needles. Rumours I knew were fake and spread by other tattoo artists. I proudly defend Cal's Parlour to the extent that I did two weeks work experience with them when I was at school. I maintained the reception area and sold the hand crafted jewellery, framed designs and made tea and coffee for all involved, from the artist to the customer.
They took me on as a full time receptionist on my eighteenth birthday. I was always popping back to talk designs and offer my help. I was surrounded by what I loved on a daily basis and I had never been happier. And I kept my promise to my mum. I wanted to have ink of my own, but I waited. And waited. And waited.
Now the time has come. Mum and Uncy Paul, the man responsible for introducing me to this incredible art form, are dead. The car they were travelling was hit by a lorry driver, who was intoxicated whilst behind the wheel. I'm living with my Dad now, in the house I grew up in. I'm moving out soon though. My parents divorced when I was young, but I've never been bothered about my Dad. He never made an effort with me, and still can't be bothered now. I mean, I told him I was coming to Cal's to get my tattoo done, and he just said, "Have fun." Like I was still five and playing with dolls.
Now, I'm sat in the chair and I've never been more scared. Cal himself is sat beside me, ready to ink Uncy Paul and Mum's family crest onto my arm - a symbol of the love I feel for them. I know they are looking down on me. Uncy Paul is proud, while Mum still wears a frown. But I know she loves me, just as much as I love her.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
Posting the thirteenth post on Friday the 13th? Will this be an unlucky post? I certainly hope not!
Let's rock this blog!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 13. - INK
I had heard common conceptions about tattoo parlours since I was a little kid, but I had never let it bother me. I was always fascinated with the body art that littered peoples bodies, and whenever Uncle Paul, or Uncy Paul as I used to call him, came over, I would trace the tribal lines on his forearm. I would follow the intricate details of the pin up girl on his upper arm, not knowing what her saucy smile and winking eye were truly telling us. I learnt to read and spell with the words on his wrists and knuckles - MUM, DAD, FAMILY, LOVE and HATE.
I would draw all over myself in felt tip marker pens. My arms would replicate Uncy Paul's, whereas my legs were a canvas of childish scribbles, like caterpillars that I had traced around a penny to give it that perfect roundness. Butterflies with intricate dotted wings. The faces of cats, dogs, rabbits, and other drawings that came to me. My mother would go spare when she saw the state of me, and haul me off to the bathroom to scrub the indelible ink from my skin.
I was seven when I got my first temporary tattoo. It was a Hello Kitty design, the happy cats face so bright and colourful. The bow looked plump and her cheeky expression brought a smile to my face. My poor frustrated mother had caved in and chosen me a girlie design, and we promptly applied it to my arm. I was so proud of it, and wore a cap sleeve t-shirt to show it off to everyone in town that we passed. The trouble came when the design had fully removed and I went to school with it still on. I was told off my the Headteacher, and I kicked up such a fuss that I was excluded for the rest of the day, and my furious mother had to bring me home. She blamed Uncle Paul, her brother, for putting such silly notions in my head, but I became even more curious and impassioned.
Whenever I walked past Cal's Parlour on the way to secondary school, the shutters would be up. I would spend a good ten minutes picking out my ever changing favourite designs from the window displays, and hurrying along when I realised I would be late to meet my friends. I'd hurry along, and take part in my lessons, all the time doodling on the back of my hand and books. You would imagine that my art lessons were fabulous with my skill, but I wasn't a great artist and I never will be. I appreciate it more than you will ever realise, though.
I bought books of tattoo designs and read everything I could on the subject. I was determined to be well informed, and not listen to the rumours about watering down the ink, or reusing needles. Rumours I knew were fake and spread by other tattoo artists. I proudly defend Cal's Parlour to the extent that I did two weeks work experience with them when I was at school. I maintained the reception area and sold the hand crafted jewellery, framed designs and made tea and coffee for all involved, from the artist to the customer.
They took me on as a full time receptionist on my eighteenth birthday. I was always popping back to talk designs and offer my help. I was surrounded by what I loved on a daily basis and I had never been happier. And I kept my promise to my mum. I wanted to have ink of my own, but I waited. And waited. And waited.
Now the time has come. Mum and Uncy Paul, the man responsible for introducing me to this incredible art form, are dead. The car they were travelling was hit by a lorry driver, who was intoxicated whilst behind the wheel. I'm living with my Dad now, in the house I grew up in. I'm moving out soon though. My parents divorced when I was young, but I've never been bothered about my Dad. He never made an effort with me, and still can't be bothered now. I mean, I told him I was coming to Cal's to get my tattoo done, and he just said, "Have fun." Like I was still five and playing with dolls.
Now, I'm sat in the chair and I've never been more scared. Cal himself is sat beside me, ready to ink Uncy Paul and Mum's family crest onto my arm - a symbol of the love I feel for them. I know they are looking down on me. Uncy Paul is proud, while Mum still wears a frown. But I know she loves me, just as much as I love her.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Heaven Or, How I Made Peace With The Paranormal And Stigmatized Zealots And Cynics In The Process by Corey Taylor
June 12, 2014
Writing Challenge - Days 11 & 12
To all who are reading this,
Today, we have two pieces of fiction from the Writing Challenge, since I was unable to post last night. I had some time away from the computer, as I had been on it non-stop at the day job on Wednesday.
So, without further ado, here we go.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 11. - STORM
"It was a dark and stormy night... No, no, no, that won't do at all!"
Angie scrubbed out the line that she had written with her pencil. It wasn't right - nothing was right. Being a writer was the hardest thing in the world. She had to make a deadline and the juices were not flowing. Why was it so hard to put pencil to paper and write the damn short story?
She tried once more. "Night had drawn in, and lightning lit up the sky... How cliché?"
By now the page was covered with eraser marks and scribbled lines. There were copious paper balls littered around the bin. Not all had made their way into it. Her desk was littered with paper shavings and lead chunks, where she had pressed too hard and broken the nib off. Propped up towards the left side of the desk were several well thumbed paperback books. Helpful tips were highlighted with strips of sticky notes and pen marks. Corners had been folded and straightened back out again. Receipts were stuck in the back, from the original first purchase. A dictionary was falling to pieces, and a thesaurus was near pristine condition.
The bulb flickered above her head, and Angie reached for the pale blue coffee cup. It was precariously balanced on a tattered notebook, like usual, and the notebook was spotted with coffee droplets. She took a gulp, and swallowed hard. The coffee was cold and tasted horrible. She made a mental note to make herself another cup, but knew it wouldn't happen. Instead, she dug in the doodled pencil case and brought out a rolled cigarette. Pushing herself away from her desk, she opened the window of her flat, leant out and lit her cigarette. The flame shot up, and she inhaled the night air deeply before taking a drag.
"Come on nicotine, help me think." The smoke spiralled up and away into the night, whilst the thunder rumbled overhead. The weather had been awful these past few days, but even so, she had not managed to write. She had done her weekly shop, tidied up, had lunch out with a friend. And no matter what, creativity refused to flow.
She stubbed out the cigarette on the window ledge, before flicking it out onto the street. As she moved back to shut the window, a great flash of lightning lit up the sky, and she could see everything around her. Persistent joggers in high visibility gear. Dog walkers. Even a few teenagers running with their battered umbrellas, and their hoods up. Cars trundled along the busy main road, whilst motorcyclists swerved to avoid doing any damage to their machines or themselves. The cove was in the distance - the water dark and ominous, the boats bobbing up and down tied to their moorings.
Lightning well and truly had hit.
Angie locked the window with a flourish, sat on her chair at her desk, pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her and began to write.
"Humans would have you believe that mermaids do not exist. That we are the product of mythology gone crazy, and the animator Walt Disney. Any expectation you may have of us is about to be shattered. How and why I hear you asking? Well, what kind of creature do you think is narrating this tale of hardship, woe, and forbidden love?
"Why, a mermaid of course?"
By the time that midnight had rolled around, Angie was very happy with her short story. It was ten pages in length, but she wasn't sure just how many words that truly was. Her wrist ached like hell, and she had not made a fresh drink. In fact, she had gotten quite sweaty as she bent low over the paper, letting the artificial light fall upon her, as her arm flew over the pages, telling the tale of Melpommene the Greek mermaid, and her ill fated human lover, Antonio. Their love was dashed like his head upon the hard rocks, and Angie felt herself shed a tear more than once as she wrote. All she needed was a title...
As she stood and cracked her back, the thunder rumbled. The storm had been raging now for several hours and when she was younger, she used to be terrified. Now, she knew they wouldn't hurt her. They were the perfect writing conditions.
Just like her sailor Antonio needed perfect conditions to sail his ship across the waters, before the storm well and truly hit.
Angie wrote her title with a flourish : Weather Eye on The Horizon.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 12. - DECAY
"Mummy, Mummy!"
"Mind the cake!" Lucy squealed, as her excitable eight year old daughter came running through the kitchen. She wiped her hands on an old tea towel, and pushed the cake further onto the table. Jade was her pride and joy. As the crazed child in a school uniform barrelled into her, she realised just how infectious her daughter's smile was.
Jade's blonde high pigtails were haywire. She had bright eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose and onto her cheeks. She had a bright smile, even with a wobbly tooth on the top line. Her school cardigan was buttoned wrongly, and her white polo shirt had a small trail of baked bean juice down the middle. At least her pleated skirt was clean, but her socks looked disastrous. She must have had P.E. She looked over her daughter's head at the kitten calendar.
Thursday. Yep, P.E. day.
"Have a good day, chicken?" She kissed Jade's rosy cheeks and then the tip of her nose.
"We had a big assembly to say goodbye to Miss Mitchell. She's in Heaven with the angles."
"Angels, sweetie, angels. Go on through to the sitting room now chicken, and Mummy will get you some juice and a biscuit."
"Crusty creams, crusty creams!" Jade went bouncing along the hall, kicking her shoes off as she went. They clattered against the wooden flooring, and she heard her husband pretend to be a monster, and scaring their daughter silly.
"How are you, darling?" Jake moved into the kitchen, Jade's school and P.E bags in his hand. He hung them over the back of a chair, and leant in to kiss Lucy's cheek.
"Yeah, I'm okay..." Lucy curled her arms around her husband, drawing him closer to her. It was good that the school were paying Miss Mitchell tribute, but at the same time, it chilled her to the bone. Lucy had found the poor teacher on a playing field, when she had taken the dog out for a walk. The smell of decay was already upon the primary school teacher. There were no visible wounds, yet she had called the police straight away. It was only later on, when she had given her statement, and she was trying to relax and get everything out of her head, that she felt sick. That the realisation that Jade's teacher was dead. And that she had found her. A person like Miss Mitchell should not have died like that!
"Luce... Luce, are you sure you're okay?" Jake wiped the falling tears from her eyes.
"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine. I've got to Jade her snack." Trying to keep her composure, Lucy took biscuits from the jar, and poured a beaker of fresh orange juice from the fridge. She caught sight of the defrosted chicken breast that was on the shelf for tonight's dinner, and for a moment, she thought she saw Miss Mitchell's glassy eyed stare.
The beaker fell from her fingertips, the juice spilling all over the floor.
"No, I'm not okay, Jake. I need to sit down."
Copyright - Zoe Adams
Currently reading: Seven Deadly Sins: Settling the Argument Between Born Bad and Damaged Good by Corey Taylor
Today, we have two pieces of fiction from the Writing Challenge, since I was unable to post last night. I had some time away from the computer, as I had been on it non-stop at the day job on Wednesday.
So, without further ado, here we go.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 11. - STORM
"It was a dark and stormy night... No, no, no, that won't do at all!"
Angie scrubbed out the line that she had written with her pencil. It wasn't right - nothing was right. Being a writer was the hardest thing in the world. She had to make a deadline and the juices were not flowing. Why was it so hard to put pencil to paper and write the damn short story?
She tried once more. "Night had drawn in, and lightning lit up the sky... How cliché?"
By now the page was covered with eraser marks and scribbled lines. There were copious paper balls littered around the bin. Not all had made their way into it. Her desk was littered with paper shavings and lead chunks, where she had pressed too hard and broken the nib off. Propped up towards the left side of the desk were several well thumbed paperback books. Helpful tips were highlighted with strips of sticky notes and pen marks. Corners had been folded and straightened back out again. Receipts were stuck in the back, from the original first purchase. A dictionary was falling to pieces, and a thesaurus was near pristine condition.
The bulb flickered above her head, and Angie reached for the pale blue coffee cup. It was precariously balanced on a tattered notebook, like usual, and the notebook was spotted with coffee droplets. She took a gulp, and swallowed hard. The coffee was cold and tasted horrible. She made a mental note to make herself another cup, but knew it wouldn't happen. Instead, she dug in the doodled pencil case and brought out a rolled cigarette. Pushing herself away from her desk, she opened the window of her flat, leant out and lit her cigarette. The flame shot up, and she inhaled the night air deeply before taking a drag.
"Come on nicotine, help me think." The smoke spiralled up and away into the night, whilst the thunder rumbled overhead. The weather had been awful these past few days, but even so, she had not managed to write. She had done her weekly shop, tidied up, had lunch out with a friend. And no matter what, creativity refused to flow.
She stubbed out the cigarette on the window ledge, before flicking it out onto the street. As she moved back to shut the window, a great flash of lightning lit up the sky, and she could see everything around her. Persistent joggers in high visibility gear. Dog walkers. Even a few teenagers running with their battered umbrellas, and their hoods up. Cars trundled along the busy main road, whilst motorcyclists swerved to avoid doing any damage to their machines or themselves. The cove was in the distance - the water dark and ominous, the boats bobbing up and down tied to their moorings.
Lightning well and truly had hit.
Angie locked the window with a flourish, sat on her chair at her desk, pulled a fresh sheet of paper towards her and began to write.
"Humans would have you believe that mermaids do not exist. That we are the product of mythology gone crazy, and the animator Walt Disney. Any expectation you may have of us is about to be shattered. How and why I hear you asking? Well, what kind of creature do you think is narrating this tale of hardship, woe, and forbidden love?
"Why, a mermaid of course?"
By the time that midnight had rolled around, Angie was very happy with her short story. It was ten pages in length, but she wasn't sure just how many words that truly was. Her wrist ached like hell, and she had not made a fresh drink. In fact, she had gotten quite sweaty as she bent low over the paper, letting the artificial light fall upon her, as her arm flew over the pages, telling the tale of Melpommene the Greek mermaid, and her ill fated human lover, Antonio. Their love was dashed like his head upon the hard rocks, and Angie felt herself shed a tear more than once as she wrote. All she needed was a title...
As she stood and cracked her back, the thunder rumbled. The storm had been raging now for several hours and when she was younger, she used to be terrified. Now, she knew they wouldn't hurt her. They were the perfect writing conditions.
Just like her sailor Antonio needed perfect conditions to sail his ship across the waters, before the storm well and truly hit.
Angie wrote her title with a flourish : Weather Eye on The Horizon.
Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 12. - DECAY
"Mummy, Mummy!"
"Mind the cake!" Lucy squealed, as her excitable eight year old daughter came running through the kitchen. She wiped her hands on an old tea towel, and pushed the cake further onto the table. Jade was her pride and joy. As the crazed child in a school uniform barrelled into her, she realised just how infectious her daughter's smile was.
Jade's blonde high pigtails were haywire. She had bright eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose and onto her cheeks. She had a bright smile, even with a wobbly tooth on the top line. Her school cardigan was buttoned wrongly, and her white polo shirt had a small trail of baked bean juice down the middle. At least her pleated skirt was clean, but her socks looked disastrous. She must have had P.E. She looked over her daughter's head at the kitten calendar.
Thursday. Yep, P.E. day.
"Have a good day, chicken?" She kissed Jade's rosy cheeks and then the tip of her nose.
"We had a big assembly to say goodbye to Miss Mitchell. She's in Heaven with the angles."
"Angels, sweetie, angels. Go on through to the sitting room now chicken, and Mummy will get you some juice and a biscuit."
"Crusty creams, crusty creams!" Jade went bouncing along the hall, kicking her shoes off as she went. They clattered against the wooden flooring, and she heard her husband pretend to be a monster, and scaring their daughter silly.
"How are you, darling?" Jake moved into the kitchen, Jade's school and P.E bags in his hand. He hung them over the back of a chair, and leant in to kiss Lucy's cheek.
"Yeah, I'm okay..." Lucy curled her arms around her husband, drawing him closer to her. It was good that the school were paying Miss Mitchell tribute, but at the same time, it chilled her to the bone. Lucy had found the poor teacher on a playing field, when she had taken the dog out for a walk. The smell of decay was already upon the primary school teacher. There were no visible wounds, yet she had called the police straight away. It was only later on, when she had given her statement, and she was trying to relax and get everything out of her head, that she felt sick. That the realisation that Jade's teacher was dead. And that she had found her. A person like Miss Mitchell should not have died like that!
"Luce... Luce, are you sure you're okay?" Jake wiped the falling tears from her eyes.
"Yeah... Yeah, I'm fine. I've got to Jade her snack." Trying to keep her composure, Lucy took biscuits from the jar, and poured a beaker of fresh orange juice from the fridge. She caught sight of the defrosted chicken breast that was on the shelf for tonight's dinner, and for a moment, she thought she saw Miss Mitchell's glassy eyed stare.
The beaker fell from her fingertips, the juice spilling all over the floor.
"No, I'm not okay, Jake. I need to sit down."
Copyright - Zoe Adams
Currently reading: Seven Deadly Sins: Settling the Argument Between Born Bad and Damaged Good by Corey Taylor
June 10, 2014
Writing Challenge - Day 10
To all who are reading this,
This blog has reached a whopping 100 posts today! I never thought I would get this far - my old blog dwindled out within a few months, so to reach 100, is an amazing achievement! So I just want to thank you to all those who click the links, read the posts, ReTweet and Favourite when the links are posted onto Twitter, +1 on Google+, Like and Reblog on Tumblr. Yes, I seem to post everywhere...
Thank you for your kind words and support on upcoming projects, releases, interviews and reviews, posts and more. You are the kind of people who keep writers like me going. It is as much your blog as it is mine!
And, it's also a really special blog today too - besides the celebratory post. We are also officially halfway through this writing challenge on post 10! Isn't this awesome? Now, I know we have squeezed two into one posts on occasions, but I am still writing and that is what matters.
So... On with the show.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 10. - HAIR
Gwen kept to the side streets, her footsteps light as she moved across the rooftops. The boots she wore had thick soles and encased the muscles in her legs, and she leapt from place to lace, grasping her hands on the poles and wooden beams that protruded, landing catlike with every opportunity. As she moved onto the next rooftop, she swung herself too far and her arms flailed as she hit the smaller barn roof on the outskirts of the town. She landed in a crouch, and rolled out flat, her breath coming out in one great, "umph".
Groaning, she stood, brushing down her clothes. Dirt, straw, and even bird droppings, had covered her. Her black tunic was fitted at her chest, but trailed loosely around her hips. She had secured it though, covering her matching black leggings with a leather belt. The buckle was silver and had been hand crafted. Cole had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday, and she wore it everyday. Her arm braces were leather to match her belt, but without any silver buckles.
Standing on the roof, she could really appreciate the beauty of the city. High rising buildings towered over the smaller dwellings, whilst the streets still hustled and bustled with life. City watch guards were stalking the streets, keeping prostitutes and over zealous merchants selling their wares, under control. It was her city, and it always would be.
Far into the distance was the outline of the castle. Darkness was setting over it, just as much as the darkness was inside of it. Once upon a time, that had been her home. She had been a princess. She had been a person of worth. Her father had ruled, whilst a wet nurse kept the ever adventurous and cheeky princess in line. She had taken lessons in sewing, dance, poetry and so much more. She had even been betrothed to a neighbouring prince, until he had shown his true colours.
Gwen had been taken away that night, to spare the sight of her beloved husband-to-be murdering her father.
Ever since her midnight flight, Gwen had been training for the moment when payback would be hers. She would make the selfish bastard pay for what he had done to her and her family. Looking back, he would never expect the would-be assassin to be the Princess Gwendoline. She didn't even look like her old self.
A scar under her left eye. Freckles glowing underneath her hood from time spent in the sun. She was a lot thinner than she used to be. And her long luxurious blonde hair was gone. She kept it shorn close to her head with a knife, and had darkened to a grubby dirt colour. Cutting her hair had been a hard decision, but as Cole had repeatedly told her:
"If you were caught and your hood fell, the first thing they would do would be to grab our hair. They would bare your neck and slice it open. And believe me Princess, it is the same colour as mine."
So one night, she had handed him a knife and sat solemnly before him. She heard every gut wrenching slice through the strands and she let a silent tear fall down her cheek. Once she had got used to it though, she quite liked it. At times she still woke up and went to brush her fingers through it, but realised too little too late that it was all gone.
Guards were shouting from the market square. Swords were clashing left, right and centre, and swearing was coming thick and fast. She could hear them at close range. She saw a man crouching from a nearby rooftop, and she heard a loud piercing whistle. Corey had given her the signal. His idiot brother couldn't be trusted to do anything, could he?
"Cole, what have you done?" she murmured to herself, making sure her hood concealed her. She vaulted into a hay stack from atop the roof, crawled out and headed for the road. Her boots thumped on the cobblestones as she walked. Shutters were being drawn shut as the shouts got louder. No matter what happened in this town, people were terrified of the guards and what they might do to the people of the town.
"He's going to get himself killed one of these days," she said. "You do know that, right?"
"He get's the idiocy from papa, you know? Mama was never so stupid." Corey dropped in beside her, emerging from the shadows. His voice was soft, melodic even, especially when he spoke about his parents. Corey, and his strong headed brother Cole, had been turfed onto the streets for two different reasons.
Cole had been a thug and bruiser. Got on the wrong side of the law and had eventually built himself up to be a castle guard. He had been responsible for helping Gwen escape...
And Corey... Well, his parents didn't appreciate that he was a homosexual.
Gwen felt for the blade on her right hand brace. The feel of the steel brought all her senses back to her. She had work to do. Her, and Cole, and Corey.
After all, the night was still young.
© Copyright - Zoe Adams (2014)
Currently reading: Seven Deadly Sins: Settling the Argument Between Born Bad and Damaged Good by Corey Taylor
June 9, 2014
Writing Challenge - Day 9
To all who are reading this,
You join us for the next blog post in the challenge, but you also join us as we pay homage to Rik Mayall, the comedy genius. I first saw Mayall on television on an old BBC 2 rerun of The Young Ones (1982 - 1984), when he played Rick. A self-proclaimed anarchist studying sociology and/or domestic science. He writes bad poetry and calls himself, "The People's Poet", and "spokesperson for a generation". I loved how Mayall looked with the badges on his blazer and found the show funny, even though my favourite character was Vyvyan Basterd played by Adrian Edmondson. The two went on to star together in Bottom (1991 - 1995), where the two brought slapstick and comedy to a new generation.
R.I.P Rik Mayall (1958 - 2014).
And now, onto the blog! I would attempt comedy, but I struggle to write that kind of thing.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 9. - FINGERS
"What's the situation?"
"Female in her early twenties. No sign of a struggle. Dead on arrival. Body has been mutilated."
"Ah, shit. Not the first thing we need on a Monday morning, eh?" Greg pulled on his gloves as he walked into the house. A young uniformed officer was erecting even more police tape around the property, and trying to shoo the children and rubberneckers away. The last thing they needed was photos of police entering the house on Turnpike Lane to be circulating on all the social networking sites.
Greg could smell cigarette smoke. It permeated the hallways and the wallpaper had yellowed with the use. He had a feeling that if he touched the wall, his fingers would come away sticky and smelling, and no about of washing would take it away.
Cigarettes wasn't the only smell though that curled its way up his nostrils. Urine - human and animal - mingled with alcohol. Sweat was pungent, as well as other body odours that made the very stomach turn over. Greg had endured worse though, as he stepped through the cloying dirt, grime and dust that covered the carpet, he began to wonder how badly this young woman has been mutilated.
"We're up here, guv." An officer hung over the handrail at the top of the stairs, a handkerchief muffling most of his features.
Christ, it must be bad, Greg thought as he moved up the stairs, his footsteps heavy.
Upstairs, the smell of cigarettes was even worse. Mixed with some form of substance that somebody had been abusing recently. Keeping his arms close to his body, he moved to the door where a crowd of white suited people stood.
"In here, guv."
Greg stepped through into a room that could have belonged to his teenage daughter. The room was painted a cerise pink, and had faded pop stars on the walls. He faintly recognised McFly and Busted, but there was also female singers. There was a recent magazine pull out propped up on the magazine, depicting a rather tattooed David Beckham advertising men's boxers.
The dressing table was filled with various tubes of mascara and lip gloss. There were sticky patches here and there, and face powder was littered all over the mirror itself. Hair bobbles, clips, combs and brushes were everywhere. It was like an artists palette, apart from the packets of unopened condoms.
The bedclothes were heaped on the floor, along with various other garments. Tiny pairs of jeans, shorts of varying colours, skimpy tee shirts, bras, mismatched socks, various scrappy pieces of lingerie...
There was a lump on the single bed, covered by a thin sheet. Greg had a feeling that he knew what was coming, and he signalled the closest person to remove it for him. The sight was shocking.
An Oriental woman was sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were wide, dark and glazed. Her skin looked waxy, and her lips were froze in a pout, a gaudy red shade of lipstick smeared across and onto her cheek.
She wore very little. It was a thin lace number, black in colour with little pink bows that matched the wallpaper on the shoulders and between the cleavage. Her breasts were small, and the material only just covered her lower regions too. A matching thong lay entangled around her ankles.
Sex crimes were always violent. He had seen plenty of them on the job. But perhaps the most worrying was the fact that the girl was missing both of her middle fingers. And they hadn't been found yet.
"Do we have an ID on her?"
"There's a passport," the officer said, as he moved around in the bedside cabinet. Besides the passport, he unearthed a half-empty bottle of vodka, a few pages of Chinese handwritten script, a guide to speaking English, a half broken figure of the lucky cat, and a red envelope, with a golden sticker o the back of it, sealing it shut. "She's Jiang Zhang. She's twenty-two, from Beijing."
"How long has she been in England?"
"It's hard to tell, but we can look into it, guv."
"Good. See that you do. Jiang Zhang didn't deserve this-" Greg pointed to the girl on the bed, without looking at her. His gaze as on the passport photo. It showed a round faced young girl, with a black bobbed haircut and happy eyes. She looked nothing like body on the bed.
This young girl was the same age as his eldest daughter, Chrissie. All he wanted to do was get back home, rouse her from her beauty sleep and hold her tight. Sex crimes when the girl was so young was something that caught him right in the chest, and he didn't particularly like to work them, but he had to. Criminals needed to be caught, and that was his job.
Jiang had been someone's daughter after all. No parent should have to see something like this.
© Copyright – Zoe Adams (2014) Currently reading: Piercing by Ryu Murakami
You join us for the next blog post in the challenge, but you also join us as we pay homage to Rik Mayall, the comedy genius. I first saw Mayall on television on an old BBC 2 rerun of The Young Ones (1982 - 1984), when he played Rick. A self-proclaimed anarchist studying sociology and/or domestic science. He writes bad poetry and calls himself, "The People's Poet", and "spokesperson for a generation". I loved how Mayall looked with the badges on his blazer and found the show funny, even though my favourite character was Vyvyan Basterd played by Adrian Edmondson. The two went on to star together in Bottom (1991 - 1995), where the two brought slapstick and comedy to a new generation.
R.I.P Rik Mayall (1958 - 2014).And now, onto the blog! I would attempt comedy, but I struggle to write that kind of thing.
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 9. - FINGERS
"What's the situation?"
"Female in her early twenties. No sign of a struggle. Dead on arrival. Body has been mutilated."
"Ah, shit. Not the first thing we need on a Monday morning, eh?" Greg pulled on his gloves as he walked into the house. A young uniformed officer was erecting even more police tape around the property, and trying to shoo the children and rubberneckers away. The last thing they needed was photos of police entering the house on Turnpike Lane to be circulating on all the social networking sites.
Greg could smell cigarette smoke. It permeated the hallways and the wallpaper had yellowed with the use. He had a feeling that if he touched the wall, his fingers would come away sticky and smelling, and no about of washing would take it away.
Cigarettes wasn't the only smell though that curled its way up his nostrils. Urine - human and animal - mingled with alcohol. Sweat was pungent, as well as other body odours that made the very stomach turn over. Greg had endured worse though, as he stepped through the cloying dirt, grime and dust that covered the carpet, he began to wonder how badly this young woman has been mutilated.
"We're up here, guv." An officer hung over the handrail at the top of the stairs, a handkerchief muffling most of his features.
Christ, it must be bad, Greg thought as he moved up the stairs, his footsteps heavy.
Upstairs, the smell of cigarettes was even worse. Mixed with some form of substance that somebody had been abusing recently. Keeping his arms close to his body, he moved to the door where a crowd of white suited people stood.
"In here, guv."
Greg stepped through into a room that could have belonged to his teenage daughter. The room was painted a cerise pink, and had faded pop stars on the walls. He faintly recognised McFly and Busted, but there was also female singers. There was a recent magazine pull out propped up on the magazine, depicting a rather tattooed David Beckham advertising men's boxers.
The dressing table was filled with various tubes of mascara and lip gloss. There were sticky patches here and there, and face powder was littered all over the mirror itself. Hair bobbles, clips, combs and brushes were everywhere. It was like an artists palette, apart from the packets of unopened condoms.
The bedclothes were heaped on the floor, along with various other garments. Tiny pairs of jeans, shorts of varying colours, skimpy tee shirts, bras, mismatched socks, various scrappy pieces of lingerie...
There was a lump on the single bed, covered by a thin sheet. Greg had a feeling that he knew what was coming, and he signalled the closest person to remove it for him. The sight was shocking.
An Oriental woman was sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were wide, dark and glazed. Her skin looked waxy, and her lips were froze in a pout, a gaudy red shade of lipstick smeared across and onto her cheek.
She wore very little. It was a thin lace number, black in colour with little pink bows that matched the wallpaper on the shoulders and between the cleavage. Her breasts were small, and the material only just covered her lower regions too. A matching thong lay entangled around her ankles.
Sex crimes were always violent. He had seen plenty of them on the job. But perhaps the most worrying was the fact that the girl was missing both of her middle fingers. And they hadn't been found yet.
"Do we have an ID on her?"
"There's a passport," the officer said, as he moved around in the bedside cabinet. Besides the passport, he unearthed a half-empty bottle of vodka, a few pages of Chinese handwritten script, a guide to speaking English, a half broken figure of the lucky cat, and a red envelope, with a golden sticker o the back of it, sealing it shut. "She's Jiang Zhang. She's twenty-two, from Beijing."
"How long has she been in England?"
"It's hard to tell, but we can look into it, guv."
"Good. See that you do. Jiang Zhang didn't deserve this-" Greg pointed to the girl on the bed, without looking at her. His gaze as on the passport photo. It showed a round faced young girl, with a black bobbed haircut and happy eyes. She looked nothing like body on the bed.
This young girl was the same age as his eldest daughter, Chrissie. All he wanted to do was get back home, rouse her from her beauty sleep and hold her tight. Sex crimes when the girl was so young was something that caught him right in the chest, and he didn't particularly like to work them, but he had to. Criminals needed to be caught, and that was his job.
Jiang had been someone's daughter after all. No parent should have to see something like this.
© Copyright – Zoe Adams (2014) Currently reading: Piercing by Ryu Murakami
