The Start of a Piece of Gothic Fiction

The night is lit dimly by the one working street light. After straining to read my work papers in the poor lighting for at least fifteen minutes, still not quite ready to return to my awful roommate, I fling them across onto the passenger seat.

I look up. A beautiful woman approaches me. She is tall and very slim, and her body is engulfed by a long black coat that just reaches the top of her high heeled boots. Dark hair tumbles down her back, gently swinging from side to side as she walks towards my parked car. She passes under the street light and my eyes crawl across her face, drinking in her pale complexion, and honing in on her full lips, which are painted a deep burgundy. I know that I should stop staring at her, but I can’t draw my vision away from her incredible beauty.

She reaches me. A long fingernail taps on my window, she bends down to peer through.

I wind it down. The bitter breeze immediately chills my skin.

“Can I help you?” I mentally kick myself for the shakiness in my voice. I don’t think I have ever spoken to someone this attractive before.

Her lips curl into a small smile before she replies.

“Yes. Yes you can.” There is something in her tone that seems to reach out and slither its way down my spine.

I laugh nervously, and look down for a second. That is her cue.

I feel a sharp sting in my neck and the world melts away.

- 7 Years later-

When I awake, she is gone. I can feel her absence. Or rather, I cannot feel her presence. Whenever she is nearby, a soft ache begins in my head; a pleasant ache, similar to when you press gently onto a fading bruise and even though you know you shouldn’t like the pain, you do. The farther from me she gets, the fainter the ache becomes, until I no longer feel it at all. Like now.

I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to focus on something other than the detached feeling in my head, the nothingness that reminds me that I am alone, that she is not close by. I try to concentrate on the accumulation of smells that linger on the lavish fabrics decorating the furnishings, but my nose does not register them. All I can register is the image of her face that is projected onto the back of my eyelids. Her cruel smile haunts my dreams and haunts my reality. I desperately want to be free from it, from this place, but I can't. I need her. 

Angels

In the glow of the evening sun,
The angel arrives, the angel comes,
With golden skin and golden wings,
An angel whispers, an angel sings,
They're beauty outside but ugly within,
Angels aren't virtue, angels are sin,
All-knowing minds you cannot fool,
Masters of evil, masters of cruel,
Cunning eyes as small as beads,
An angel lures, an angel feeds,
A gentle bite to human skin,
The blood flows out, the blood flows in,
Pointy teeth now stained with red,
A human dying, a human dead,
Sharp claws tear the flesh apart,
To reach their favourite, to reach the heart,
In the glow of the morning rise,
The angel leaves, the angel flies.

The Creature

The creature rose from the flames, it's mouth stretched into a silent scream. It's face, once beautiful, was distorted unnaturally and burnt flesh tore away in strips, leaving it raw underneath. As if sensing it was being watched, the creature's head snapped round to face the girl. She gagged and her hands flew to cover her mouth. Where the creature's eyes should have been were two bloody gouges, as if it had scratched it's eyes out with it's own talons. Perhaps it had.

Making You Laugh

"I could not push away the burning desire to make you laugh. As if your laughter was the sound that fuelled me, brought me to life. I could not live without it, for the thing that gave me the most happiness was seeing you happy."

Bluebell

Every year on this same day he returned to this spot. Always alone, always clutching a single bluebell, freshly picked. This year, his brown hair veiled his eyes, he had to keep shoving it back. It hadn't been cut for a while. The hands that were wrapped around the bluebell stem were red and cracked, the nails bitten down. His skin was washed out and shadows lurked beneath his eyes. He was tired, so tired, but he did not let this get in the way of what he had to do today, what he had to do on this day every year.

He is Gone (Re-draft)

Through my hazy state between awake and asleep, I feel him climb in next to me. The heat from his body immediately comforts me; I snuggle closer. For three hours his absence has left me restless, but now I am finally able to relax. His arm, slightly lifting my top, slides under my back. I peak down at his hand, curled around my waist, and sigh in contentment. I wish that for once it could still be there when morning arrives, when I am more awake. Yet every time the sun inches high enough to cast bright beams through my window, waking me, he is gone. The next day is no exception. An overwhelming brightness flashes behind my closed eyelids and stirs me. The emptiness on the sheets next to me engulfs any chance that it was real this time. 
The next night when he climbs under the covers, I shift my head so that it lies on his chest. Its gentle rise and fall reassures me that he has returned again, and that he hasn’t left me yet. He brushes his lips against my forehead. The kiss lingers there long after he draws away. As I slowly sink into a deep sleep, I feel his words tickle my ear, but am far enough gone that I can’t quite catch what he says.  

Writing Journal- 17/3/14

This week I have writing and improving my script. This script that I am working on is an adaptation of my fiction writing piece ‘Poison’. I have never written a television script before and so wasn’t sure if I was going to enjoy this task. However, I have found it really fun and interesting to do so far. In a way, it makes me think more about the visuals of the scenes. This is because I kept the visuals in ‘Poison’ very minimal, barely even there, in order to keep the scene, in a way, anonymous and mysterious, so the reader could imagine the surroundings the way that they wanted to. Whereas, when I was writing the script, I found I needed to put a lot more thought into where I wanted these characters to be, otherwise the piece would not have worked as well in script form.
I tried to take the key conventions from the existing scripts that I looked at, to use in my own. At the beginning of the scene there is a line that states if it is ‘interior’ or exterior’, where the scene is, and usually the time of day. For example, for my first scene I wrote:
INT. AIRPORT –- DAY.
As well as this, I made the basic layout of my script mirror that of all the other scripts I viewed. The dialogue is situated more centrally; each line is shorter than those of the descriptions/details of the scene.
Character wise, I did not have any names in mind. In my head, the characters were simply ‘Man, Woman, and Girl’. In the original version of ‘Poison’ this did not matter, as their names were not revealed at any point. This, again, left the characters more anonymous and mysterious. However, for the script I thought that I needed some sort of identification for the three. I quite liked ‘Man’ and ‘Woman’ for the man and the woman who is overlooking the scene, just for now, because it mirrors how their identities/intentions aren’t revealed yet. But I thought with the other female character, she needed to have a name. I had the name ‘Jane’ stuck in my head; every time that I thought of another and tried to apply it to her, I knew it didn’t sound right, and I kept returning back to ‘Jane’. So, that is who she became. 

Writing Journal- 23/2/14

This week, half term, I have been writing my ‘P#zazz Pizza’ review and re-drafting my travel writing piece.
I quite enjoyed the task of writing a restaurant review, which was with provided ‘notes’ from when I ‘visited the restaurant.’ I had never written a review for a restaurant review and so found it fun to try something new. However, my first draft had consisted of about 700 words, and when I read the task again, I saw that it must be only 300. So I then had to begin re-drafting, and cutting out a lot, which I found to be the most difficult part. This took a long time, as I didn’t know which bits I could sacrifice, and didn’t want to lose the personal voice I had created by taking out some of the quirky comments. But eventually, I managed to get it down to exactly 300 words, and I think that it is a lot more concise now as there is less of my waffling.
For my travel writing, I read through the part of my newest draft that I had already written, and then made some notes about parts/details that I could add to it. I remembered about the little boy who was staying on a pitch near us, which is a sweet story, and so I thought I would dedicate my biggest paragraph to this. So I began writing it. I tried to keep my ‘voice’ throughout, and to make it as interesting as possible by slightly exaggerating some details in order to add humour. For example, putting up the tent was pretty easy, but I thought it would make a better story if I tried to create a comical image of the four of us struggling. Overall I am quite pleased with how this draft ended up, and I think that it has improved drastically since the first draft.

Task: ‘P#zazz Pizza’ Restaurant Review (300 words)

My first impression of this pizza restaurant wasn't great. From the jazzed name ‘P#zazz Pizza’ to the over-the-top red and yellow décor, it was a bit ‘in your face’ for my liking.

My friend, Benjamin, and I booked online but were slightly delayed. Luckily, they kept the table. A sign of good service or a lack of customers?

The service was good, at this point, with friendly staff. The menus, delivered promptly, were good value for money with 2 courses for £10, including ‘beginnings’ and pizzas, with a range of vegetarian options.

The tables were tightly packed, creating a pleasant buzz of conversation, until a man a few tables away began talking too loudly on the phone. There didn't seem to be any policies on this; for a good 20 minutes we had to listen to him argue with his ex-wife about picking their child up from school. We’ll never know how Bethany got home that Tuesday.

Our waiter wasn't keen on serving tap water but eventually did. He also served bread while we waited for our starters; I chose salad with Italian dressing, and Benjamin, garlic prawns.

My salad was well mixed, but clearly straight out the chiller. Benjamin loved his prawns, and tried to force a couple on me, claiming they were ‘perfectly juicy’. I’ll have to trust him on that.

The pizzas, finally arriving after 50 minutes, were well sized. Mine was vegetarian, Benjamin’s was spicy beef. Unfortunately mine was soggy, however Benjamin wasn't disappointed; his beef was ‘pleasantly spiced’ and the crust, crisp.

Receiving the bill, I saw we were charged for the bread, making our total £25 including tip.   

Benjamin would return but I’m unsure. The food wasn't amazing, but one cannot complain too much for two courses at £10. Overall; my pizza lacked pizzazz.

Travel Writing: La Rive (new draft)

Upon arriving at La Rive, a campsite in the South of France; my home for the next two weeks, I couldn't wait to really get started on my summer holiday. My friend Charlie and her parents had adopted the privilege of being my family for the next fourteen days, which would be bursting with the wonders of having summer on a French campsite. The sun, a swimming pool, delicious food, and endless time for relaxing; what more could you ask for?

Whilst we were shown to our pitch, I could hear a bell ringing, the sound resonating around the site. Wondering what it could mean, Charlie and I changed into our bikinis and some shorts, and began to explore. The resort was full of little 'streets' of pitches and mobile homes. Each one was decorated with several hanging baskets of flowers, which were of the brightest colours. The pinks, blues, purples, and yellows seemed to glow in the light of the midday sun, which pleasantly heated my skin as we ventured through the site. I remember thinking ‘Wow, this definitely beats the endless stretch of French countryside we encountered on the way, and most certainly beats the classy overnight stay in the car park of a service station last night’. Unfortunately, the soundtrack of the many humming lorries just outside our caravan had provided a restless night’s sleep for me, and my window view of exhaust pipes and concrete hadn’t exactly been picturesque. Fancy hotels? Nah, not for me thanks.

After a relaxing first day spent by the pool, we had to tackle our first night at La Rive. Although Charlie’s parents would be sleeping in the caravan, we would be sleeping in a small tent just outside. And so we made a start on the evening’s first tent task; putting it up. This proved to be a lot more hassle than it seemed, with Charlie and I grasping corners of the tent like we were about to fold a large sheet, her dad scrambling around trying to make sense of the instructions, and her mum shouting things like “For god’s sake, Tim, this isn’t bloody rocket science!”. It must have looked rather comical to the neighboring families. The tent was soon up and secured, however, and after a night’s sleep I could surprisingly say that it was actually pretty comfortable in there. You know, as comfortable as a blow-up mattress on the ground could be.

And so our holiday began. Warm mornings eating fresh croissants, my favourite breakfast, hot afternoons in the mini water park, and cool evenings playing cards on the grass; we had it all. Speaking of water parks, we discovered the source of the occasional ringing that we could hear from across the campsite. Unfortunately, we discovered it the hard way. We were trying to avoid getting too wet during our first trip into the water park, as we had not yet been in the water, which was rather cold in comparison with the midday heat. However, things did not go according to plan. Looming above the large blue slide, one of four, was a giant bucket, and every so often a bell would begin to chime, warning all those below that the bucket was about to tip water over their heads. Two soaking wet teenagers later, we returned to our towels, laughing hysterically at the look that had been on the other’s face upon realising the bell’s purpose, a few seconds too late.

A particular highlight of mine was the little boy whose pitch was almost opposite ours. He couldn’t have been any older than 5 or 6 and, being French, could not speak a word of English. But this didn’t stop him becoming our favourite holiday friend. Our first encounter with him was on our fifth evening. Charlie and I had stepped out to play a game of badminton in front of our pitch and after a while we noticed that a little boy was watching us out of his caravan window. Upon our spotting him, he ducked down and his face did not reappear that night. However, the next evening when we did the same, he was standing outside his caravan, waiting for us. Not at first realising he was French, we said ‘hello!’, but were answered with a blank stare. He stood silently, observing our badminton game for some time before interacting with us. When Charlie whacked the shuttlecock so hard that it flew past my head, this little boy rushed over to it, picked it up, and handed it to me. I thanked him and smiled, and he promptly skipped back to his watching position. This continued to happen every time one of us dropped the shuttlecock until he was called in for dinner. The next evening when he appeared, he begun performing strange actions, such as stamping his feet or jumping up and down, all while grinning cheekily. We didn’t understand what he was doing, so when he next stamped his feet, I copied him. This made him laugh, and it became a game of ours; we would copy all these little movements he was performing. It was clear we had formed a true friendship when he picked us each one of the bright flowers from the nearby hanging basket. Charlie had a yellow one, and I, a purple, and we displayed them proudly in our hair. Every evening following we met him on the ‘street’ and he would play like this with us until he had to go inside. But after a while, during one day, while Charlie and I were sitting on the grass in our pitch, he ran over to us with his hands behind his back. When he pulled them out we saw he had a small sweet enclosed in each of them, and he gave one to Charlie and one to me before skipping off back to his caravan. We didn’t realise that these were in fact his parting gifts to us, and so the morning after we were quite disheartened to see his pitch empty, his caravan gone. But we savoured the thought of our little friend, who we grew to love in such a short space of time, without speaking a word of conversation to him.

More Detailed Version of “One Hundred Word Short Story 2” (now more than 100 words)

She stands alone, staring at me through the glass. A shapeless black dress hangs to the knees of her scrawny body. Marks decorate her legs; the yellowish hue of an old bruise, a faded scar from a cut. Her dark hair, thin and stringy, falls just below her shoulders. 
Her right hand is by her side, her left hidden behind her back. The sadness shining in her eyes engulfs me, and it’s only when she slowly exposes her left hand, the gleam of something catching in the artificial light, that I manage to shift my gaze from them. Her bony fingers clutch a long knife.
In one gradual movement, she draws it across her throat, her blood smearing the blade as it seeps from the wound. 
I feel a sharp sting at my own throat, and when I touch it my right hand comes away stained with a thick, dark liquid. My knees buckle and I crash forwards into the glass dividing us. 
The mirror shatters around me.

Poison (updated version)

I see him through the large swarm of people. He stands alone, completely still. His eyes, black, swallow me whole as he stares at me. I can’t move. My heart has frozen over and my blood has turned to ice. He begins to walk towards me. Each step he takes breaks me further. I try to scream out, but no sound leaves my mouth. The ice has spread to my throat. He stops in front of me, so close that I can feel his warm breath on my skin. He opens his mouth to speak.

And the words, like poison, drip from his lips.

I see her through the large swarm of people. She is completely still, her deep blue eyes wild with fear. I could not imagine anything more beautiful. I begin to walk towards her. I can see that she wants to run, to scream for help, but it’s like she doesn’t know how. A deer caught in the headlights. I stop in front of her. Her long, blonde hair catches in the artificial light and it takes everything in me to resist reaching out and touching it. I open my mouth to speak.

She drinks in my words, cringing as if they were poison.

I see them both through the large swarm of people. They stare at each other across the crowd, both completely still. Their eyes connect, his full of power and hers full of fear. She doesn’t move a muscle as he begins to walk towards her, people parting for him as he does. He stops in front of her, so close that their chests almost touch. He opens his mouth to speak, not breaking eye contact for even a second. Once he has spoken, he receives a small nod of her head in reply, and he laces his arm around her waist possessively. She says nothing as he walks her out of the building.

The last thing I see before the door closes behind them is the curl of his fingers, gripping her side like he’s never going to let go.

He leads me towards a car. It’s black, like his eyes. As I breathe in, his smell hits me and I wince at the sickly sweet odour. It wafts up into my nose and is so strong I can practically taste it in my mouth. It took me wash after wash to completely rid my clothes of that smell the last time I saw him. He opens the back left door of the car. His lips form a cruel smile as he eases me inside and shuts it again. As he walks round to the driver’s seat, I test the handle. Locked. It has to be opened from the outside. I rest my head in my hands, closing my eyes. The slam of his door is a concluding one.

He’ll never let me get away with this.

I lead her towards the car awaiting us. Something makes her wince, whether it be the pressure of my fingers on her side, or even the thought of what she hopes to be untrue; what I need from her. She is a smart girl, she’ll work it out. I smile down at her as I ease her into the car; she doesn’t smile back. Again, I have the urge to touch a strand of her hair, so beautiful in the light of the morning sun. Instead, I walk round to the driver’s seat. When I get in, I see that her head is now in her hands, shielding her face from my vision. Is she crying? No, she has too much pride to do that in front of me. But a small gasp still escapes her lips when I slam my door.

She knows that she’ll never get away with this.

He leads her towards a car. I move through the crowd of people still mingling, all of them oblivious to her, oblivious to him. All except me. Being sure to stay back far enough that I don’t draw attention, I watch him as he eases her inside the car. Even from this distance I still catch the cruel smile he flashes her before he walks round to the driver’s side and climbs in himself. He hesitates for a moment before shutting his door. When he does, the loud slam is followed by the gentle roar of the engine as it is awakened. I watch the car disappear into the distance, getting smaller and smaller until I can no longer see it.

He’d better not let her get away with this.

The trill of a ringtone breaks our silence. He reaches into his pocket and draws the mobile out, not looking away from the road. After glancing down at the screen momentarily, he holds it to his ear. In the rear-view mirror, I watch his eyes narrow slightly.

He listens for a few seconds.

“I do.”

A pause for a few seconds more.

“I won’t.”

He slips the phone back into his pocket.

His eyes catch mine in the mirror and I immediately shift my head to look out the window. Flashes of trees and road signs pull my focus as I attempt to concentrate on anything but him.

The only other person who knows. I hope.

The trill of my ringtone breaks my thoughts. I was thinking of her. Or rather, what she can give me. Recently I haven’t thought about anything else. I glance at the screen of my mobile and, after viewing the name, pick up. The voice that greets me is one I am all too familiar with.

“You have her?”

“I do.”

“Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

The caller hangs up.

Her eyes, still panicked, catch mine when I check the rear-view mirror. She immediately shifts her head. She’s probably been watching my eyes the whole time we’ve been in the car; she knows how much they give away about a person. But then why doesn’t she realise how much hers reveal to me?

She’s hoping I’m the only other person who knows. I wish I was.

On the other end of the line, the trill of his ringtone lasts too long for my liking. I scuff my boots on the gravel for a few moments, impatient. When he eventually picks up, I don’t ponder.

“You have her?” I know that he does.

“I do.”

“Don’t let me down.” I know that he won’t.

“I won’t.”

I hang up.

After moving across the car park, I slip into my car. I’m surprised he didn’t notice it here. He had no idea I was even watching him. Pulling out of the parking space, I glance at the glass doors of the airport’s entrance. Didn’t anybody ever tell her that you shouldn’t run away from your problems?  They always catch up with you in the end, and in this case they intercepted before she had even managed to get away.

I bet she’s hoping that he is the only other person who knows. She’s wrong; I know too.

The Message

I fumble around in my bag for my keys, unable to see clearly from the tears distorting my vision. I glance over my right shoulder, down the hallway of the flat. When my fingers find the sharp edge of the keys, I pull them out and don’t hesitate for even a second before unlocking the door. Once inside with the door closed, I lean against the back of it for a moment to catch my breath.
Just breathe, Melissa. Breathe out, breathe in. Breathe out, breathe in. It’s frustrating me that I have to remind myself how to perform a simple body function.
A flashing red light catches my eye. Someone’s left a message on the house phone. Taking one last gulp of air, I walk across to it and push the button to play it.
Hi Melissa. Please listen to this message, don’t delete it. I beg you.
I know that you don’t want to talk to me at the moment, but please, just hear me out. I need you to know what I have to say. I wasn’t-I’m not cheating on you, I promise. Look, I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. I was… I was going to ask you to marry me. That woman you saw me having dinner with, she is my friend from work. She was helping me plan the proposal! I love you more than life itself, Melissa, and I don’t want to lose you. Please… don’t leave me. I want-
Melissa? Is that you?
I was just leaving you a message!
What are you doing here? No, I don’t care, I just care that you are here.
You need to know that-
Wait, what are you doing?
Melissa?
Melissa, listen to me. Put the gun down. This is all just a misunderstanding.
Please. Don’t do this.
A gunshot fires, the line goes dead.

Snow

I thought that I would have a go at writing my own poem, like Oliver's Red Riding Hood one.

Your skin was pale; your lips were red,

“Our home is yours”, that’s what we said,

We took you in, you helped us too,

You cleaned our house, you made us stew,

My brothers and I, we didn’t know your name,

We didn’t know your story; we didn’t know your game,

On that night we were asleep in bed,

When you put a bullet through Grumpy’s head,

Then you killed Happy, Bashful, and Doc,

So I ran and hid in the grandfather clock,

Sleepy and Sneezy, they soon met your gun,

Out of my brothers, I was the luckiest one,

Their blood stained the carpet where they did lie,

And I knew right then that you needed to die,

I lifted my pickaxe, brought it to your head,

After a few swings, you were also dead,

I stepped over your body, lifeless on the floor,

I left it behind me; I walked out the door,

It’s a mystery, Snow; what happened to you,

Still nobody knows. Except me. I do.

He Is Gone

Through my hazy state between awake and asleep, I feel him climb in next to me. The heat from his body immediately comforts me, and I snuggle closer. After the three hours I have spent restlessly fidgeting, I am finally able to relax. His arm slightly lifts my top as it slides under my back, his hand curling around my waist. I sigh in satisfaction. I love the feeling of his skin on mine, and I wish that for once it could still be there when morning arrives. Yet every time the sun inches high enough to cast bright beams through my window, waking me up, he is gone.

The next day is no exception. An overwhelming brightness flashes behind my closed eyelids and stirs me. I can feel that his body is no longer entangled with mine, and opening my eyes confirms this. The empty space on the sheets next to me engulfs any chance that I might not be alone again.

The next night when he climbs under the covers, I shift my head so that it lies on his chest. I like to feel its gentle rise and fall as he breathes. It lets me know that he is still there, that he hasn't left me yet. He presses his lips softly against my forehead. The kiss lingers there long after he draws away. As I slowly sink into a deep sleep, I feel his words tickle in my ear, but I am far enough gone that I can’t quite catch what he says.