Never Forget

The book hit the desk with a thud, causing dust to rise. The cover was midnight blue; the edges embellished with silver flowers. Papers of all different colours and sizes poked out at odd angles: newspaper clippings, photographs, the owner’s own writing. There was seemingly no order to the collection.

            Eden needed both hands to turn to a page at random. She lifted a piece of newsprint which had long ago faded beyond legibility, and found herself looking at a scrap of amber parchment. The writing was strong and black; tilted slightly to the right. The hand began neat and controlled, though it had been rushed, and at the bottom of the page the words were crammed into the corner. She began to read.

It was during the Dragon Wars, right near the beginning. They were fighting, always fighting. Huge shadows looming overhead, spurting out flames and frost and wind. The world was living in fear. They didn’t know what to do; too scared to speak out, to take action.

            So naturally they turned to me.

            Northern Dawnlight was one of the worst affected, so that’s where I was. Arcis was anchored in to the base of Leatach: I had set up camp. The roaring was the worst. It was like thunder, except constant and irregular. The soaring shadows you could ignore, but the pounding shrieks and battle cries were just piercing.

            Anyway, I’m making a short story long. Essentially, there I was. Cold, tired and dependable. I was walking through the mountains. There had been a royal decree for people to stay in their houses, and I was on hand to make sure that rule was followed.

            I won’t lie to you, it was an extremely lonely job. And I don’t often get lonely. But I got used to it. The mountains were cold in the truest sense of the word. Thick, consuming, bitter cold. Yes, I felt really alone back then.

            But you know all about that, I suppose.

            So, there I am, knee deep in snow, trudging along the mountains, the light was so grey that I had no idea what time it was, or how long I had been there. And then, suddenly, I heard a cry. It was quiet at first, and then as I walked further it became clearer and louder. I started to shout: hello? Is someone there? Where are you? I’ll help you.

            A shadow, so small. He was kneeling down in the snow with his arms crossed over his head, which was tucked beneath his knees. His skin was blue. I would have assumed him dead without question, if it hadn’t been for the shaking. I could hear him shivering and crying.

            Gently, I touched his shoulder. He looked up. His lips were white, I remember that much. I comforted him, gave him my coat. He wrapped his arms around me and I took him back.

            He didn’t speak for three days. I witnessed him slowly defrost. It’s amazing what good a warm bed, roaring fire and good food can do for even the most traumatised of souls. After those three days, he told me where he lived. I asked him if he wanted to go back there. He said yes.

            His mother was crying before she even opened the door. She said she knew, somehow knew that he would come back to her that day. I left her holding him.

            Three days, we spent together. Just us. I fed him, bathed him, tucked him in and told him stories. Comforted him when no one else could. He asked me if I was an angel. And I cannot for the life of me remember his face.

            You must understand, little one, a thousand years is a very long time. I have met so many people and seen so many faces. It’s like my mind is a sieve and only certain things refuse to slip through. Even my own mother’s face is fuzzy to me now.

            But you, my dia. Those scarlet curls, framing you. The way you always seemed to blink in pairs. The way your lips pursed like rose petals when you thought hard about something. The green of your eyes, which was so deep at the edge of the iris and became steadily lighter as it reached the delicate oval of your pupils.

            I will never forget your face.

            Because yours is the face that I failed.

            I am so sorry, little one.

Eden ran her finger along the parchment. Those final words were smudged with the stain of tears.

Lonely Hearts

ROYAL LADY, DUBBED THE ‘FAIREST OF THEM ALL’, SEEKS ADORING AND SUBMISSIVE MALE

Single female with perfect features, ripened like fine wine, and great ambition. Rich and not shy about it. Enjoys preening, black magic and the tainting of delectable fruit. Seeking man of stature, preferably with great social standing, for frequent complimenting. Must be willing to help plot deeds of wickedness and unfazed by close personal relationship with bodyguard.

Any interested parties must reply by personal visit to the penthouse luxury apartment in Times Square by midnight.

Disclaimer: Do not be alarmed if the appearance of said female is not what one imagined at first. Complex disguises are common and necessary.

Her Royal Highness (opening: revised)

Her Royal Highness (working title)

The stage appears as a hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. A woman sits at a large and glamorous vanity, looking in the mirror. The vanity is littered with make-up, tissues, magazines and empty glasses. The woman is elegant and middle-aged, with black hair, red lipstick and wearing a satin dressing gown.

HENRIETTA     Gin is magnificent, isn’t it? Timeless, you may say. From Hogarth to Gordon’s; crisp, fresh, never dull. (She chuckles.) And wine. Oh, wine! Full and dark and deep. When has anyone ever questioned wine, I mean, truly? It is staple ... iconic. It is fruit made poison, and yet how we love it.

It gets better with age, you know, wine. That’s what’s so magical. The longer it lives, the more we crave it. Wine does not fade away, it grows stronger.

 She finishes what is left of her current drink.

It was the greatest time of my life. I was snatched by a man with an eye for beauty. It’s always a man. He told me I was beautiful, and rightly so. I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

As she speaks she plays with her face in the mirror: pushing up her skin, nipping it, pulling her eyebrows and sucking in her cheeks.

I was known as The Queen, you know. Henrietta Regina Hawthorne. They got the nickname from my initials. See, people were clever back then. Not like now, chasing the skirt of any half-brained smile that takes their fancy. No, you see, I – I was something special. It’s so tough to make it in New York, not everyone can do it. You need that special something and by God I had it. I broke all the records: fastest selling cover, most internet searches, Sexiest Woman, Most Beautiful Woman, Most Powerful Woman. I was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It takes a lot, you know. Yes, people hop on for their fifteen minutes but it takes real skill to form a career - a lifestyle – out of it. Oh, and I did just that, believe you me. A million dollars for one shoot. Four photographs. Four. That’s how many were published. Each one worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand.

She walks across the room and picks up a half empty bottle of gin. She walks back to the vanity where she sits and pours herself a generous glass.

They loved me, the public. They couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t leave my house without getting a hundred photographs taken, each one ending up on the front of a magazine which would then sell thousands of copies. I was a drug. An industry. Without me the business was nothing.

She picks up a magazine.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. But no, there she is. Sparkling in the snow. And of course, of course she’s nude. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink.

Everybody’s favourite. Young. Fresh. Perfection. Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they all say, even here.

She points to the magazine cover.

Snow White Girl.

She laughs.

Well, not nearly as good as The Queen.

Customer Service

I bounded up like a dog,

Welcoming

Her into where I cannot leave.

I rub my head against her

And lick her face, barking with

Glee and enthusiasm.

May I help you with anything?

I say

Retrieve, fetch, guide, take.

No, no no no, no no

No,

I am fine.

She does not smile.

I am scolded.

But still I wag and lick and pant,

I still smile, okay, no problem,

And I try

To hide

The anxiety in my eyes,

Bad dog bad dog bad dog

The dog whistle blows,

I am expected not to hear,

I must not show that

It hurts me.

She knows that I can hear,

She knows I cannot growl,

She walks out and

I wait for my master to grant me

Freedom.

Rendezvous

Rendezvous

                     Along the beach

                                                 Get a milkshake

                                                                            Take off my shoes

                                                                                                           Count to ten

                                                                                                                                 Then it ends

Halls

Walking round halls. Down hall,
A long hall.
Perfectly personable stranger and

Perfectly strange person wait

in kitchen.

Pots and pans.

Washing up, washing machine, late nights, shouts outside, food shopping.

Cashpoint says four figures.

Saying goodbye at the end

of the hall.

Door double locked and

kisses on cheek.

Walking up halls.

Quietly lying in bed with

nobody. No body

Here.

Life in boxes, bed in box, box

off hall, hall in halls, halls

on road, road off

Home.

One figure.

Her Royal Highness

The stage opens to show a hotel room. It is well-decorated but messy. The duvet has been thrown off the double bed. Snow falls at the window. A woman sits in the corner at a large and glamorous vanity, looking in the mirror. The vanity is littered with make-up, tissues, magazines and empty glasses. The woman is elegant and middle-aged, with black hair and wearing red lipstick and a satin dressing gown. She finishes what is left of her current drink.

HENRIETTA

It was the greatest time of my life. I was snatched by a man with an eye for beauty. It’s always a man. He told me I was beautiful, and rightly so. I was the most beautiful woman in the world.

She picks up a magazine from the table and stares at the cover before throwing it to the floor. As she speaks she plays with her face in the mirror: pushing up her skin, nipping it, pulling her eyebrows and sucking in her cheeks.

I was known as The Queen, you know. Henrietta Regina Hawthorne. They got the nickname from my initials. See, people were clever back then. Not like now, chasing the skirt of any half-brained smile that takes their fancy. No, you see, I – I was something special. It’s so tough to make it in New York, not everyone can do it. You need that special something and by God I had it. I broke all the records: fastest selling cover, most internet searches, Sexiest Woman, Most Beautiful Woman, Most Powerful Woman. I was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It takes a lot, you know. Yes, people hop on for their fifteen minutes but it takes real skill to form a career - a lifestyle – out of it. Oh, and I did just that, believe you me. A million dollars for one shoot. Four photographs. Four. That’s how many were published. Each one worth two-hundred-and-fifty grand.

She walks over to the mini bar across the room, opens it and takes out a half empty bottle of gin. She walks back to the vanity where she sits and pours herself a generous glass.

They loved me, the public. They couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t leave my house without getting a hundred photographs taken, each one ending up on the front of a magazine which would then sell thousands of copies. I was a drug. An industry. Without me the business was nothing.

She bends down and picks up the crumpled magazine cover.

It’s a daring colour to choose, white. It could have been dull and drab. But no, there she is. Sparkling in the snow. Lying on a polar bear, of all things! And of course, she’s nude. Of course. That’s why she’s interesting. Nude yet distant. Undressed and yet completely naive.

She takes a large sip from her drink.

And now she’s the one that’s everywhere. Everybody’s favourite. Young. Fresh. Perfection. Pure as the driven snow. That’s what they all say, even here.

She points to the magazine cover.

Snow White Girl.

She laughs harshly.

Snow White. Well, it’s almost as good as The Queen.

These Damn Buttons

It seems to me that eighty will be one of those ages after which one feels completely transformed. Seventy-nine. Eighty. So much distance between those numbers.

            Well, not really, I suppose. Two hours and four minutes worth of distance to be exact.

            I’ll never fit. Suzanne must be joking. Quite a good joke, if one thinks it through. Turning eighty in a child’s bed. You’d be in fits, Ron.

            These damn buttons; too small for my fingers. I can’t – the tiny slit... my hands just don’t work the way they used to. I can’t even look at them without cringing, so creased and discoloured like a slept-in sheet.

            It’s getting to be a lot of effort, this buttoning. I walked around all day today with my cardigan buttoned up wrong. I simply couldn’t find the strength to start all over again. I suppose Suzanne thinks I’m mad for it. She can be so patronizing sometimes, Ron. She practically forced me to stay the night. Why she couldn’t simply pick me up in the morning I have no idea. She keeps talking to me in such a loud, slow voice. My hearing is perfectly fine, thank you very much. It was yours that went to the dogs, wasn’t it Ron?

            There, one done. I swear these are smaller than usual buttons, and they barely fit. The fabric is frayed around the slits. Tiny little white threads like veins or hairs. I can’t seem to push them away. They keep attaching themselves to the peeling flesh around my thumb.

            Suzanne did my hair today for the party. I can’t be dealing with any of it. I’m dreading it, Ron, if I’m honest with you. Michael’s coming, and I know how much you disliked him. Never thought he was good enough for our Suzanne, did you? Well he’s always round at ours now. What on earth will I have to say to Michael?

            She’s put me in rollers – plastic and spiky, pulling on my scalp. Honestly if you could see me, Ron, you’d cry with laughter. What a bloody picture. And then she sprayed something on their, and now my hair feels so wiry and stiff. Remember that lavender shampoo you got me last year. Oh, it was lovely, and now – Suzanne’s too old for all this malarkey, never mind me. Honestly, sometimes you’d think I was the child.

            I can’t sleep in this. My feet will go over the edge. The little’un’s fairy lights are going to keep me awake, and I can’t be bending down to find the plug. I’ll have to put up with the pink glow – it’s making me feel quite sick. You know I never could sleep with the light on.

            And it’s too quiet. Isn’t that strange, Ron? It’s too quiet to sleep.

            I suppose it’s because you’re not snoring.

            Done. Buttoned up to the top. I’ll leave the last one, do you remember when I buttoned myself right up to the neck? You told me I looked like a village priest, cheeky bugger.  My fingers are stained with the little imprints of these damn buttons.

            Do you remember that note you left me, Ron? Only one you ever left me, may I remind you. It must be, I don’t know, fifteen years old now. I’ve still got it. It’s right here, under the pillow. I’m never without it. You didn’t say much: remember to walk the dog, Suzanne’s calling round later, what’s for tea. But you said, ‘P.S. Working an early tonight. I’ll be waiting for you.’

            Oh Ron, I wish you were.

The Mid-Way Point

Everyone loved rainbows. It was what people were taught as kids, wan’it? Rainbows are pretty. Rainbows are great. He watched it arch over the street before him. Sorry but rainbows don’t make any fucking sense.

            It shouldn’t be sunny and rainy at the same time.

            He couldn’t explain it, not exactly. But it was easier to tell an ex-wife news than a current one. Bad news, that was.

            He walked down Grace’s garden path.

            It was like a practice run, wan’it? See how best to say things. When she reacted badly, it didn’t matter because he didn’t need to contact her ’til the bairn’s money was due.

            React badly? He knew Eliza would cry, scream, kiss him, comfort him and ask for comfort. He turned the corner after the gate and headed down the road. She would cling to him and shake him, try to knock it out, dislodge it. He’d be offended if she didn’t ‘react badly’ to be honest with you.

            He rubbed his wedding ring up and down his finger.

            What if she left him?

            The drizzle subsided slightly. A man drove past in a car. Music blasted from the shitty Ford. The man yelled something at him, laughing to himself. Tom didn’t catch what he said, but it didn’t sound like the bloody Lord’s Prayer, he’d tell you that for free.

            Two months ago Tom would have put that twat in the fucking ground. He’d have put him in a bloody hospital bed. No one dared to backchat him, back in the day. Built like a brick shithouse. But he was less broad now, skinnier, more and more each day just slipped off him like icing off a cake, or toppings off a pizza. A skinny pale base. He hoiked up his trousers.

            He turned the next corner, and the next one after that, down the back lane. He could hear the sea. Not necessarily the sea itself, but the sounds you associate with it; the sounds that all get grouped together as THE SEA: wind, seagulls, arcades, ice cream vans, kids playing. Their meaning was engulfed under the surface, sculpted and muted by the waves.

            Seagulls were pecking each others’ eyes out over a mouldy Tesco sandwich.

He just wasn’t hungry anymore. And anything he did eat came straight out the other end in a sea of red.

The sea. Taking over everything.

Red.

The sky was getting red now. He thought of Eliza’s red lips - pursing and falling, screaming, pouting and getting all wrinkly, tightening around her teeth.

He checked his watch. It was later than he thought. He had less time than he thought. And he had only just reached the mid-way point.

A woman walked past him, walking her dog. The dog looked like it’d had it really, older than sin. She was practically dragging it. As she passed he got a faint whiff of perfume, something slightly citrusy.

Eliza’s hair smelt like lemons the day he proposed. He had been to the supermarket the night before and picked up some shampoo. She’d asked for grapefruit, apparently. Lemon, bloody lemon. Honestly Tom, one job!

She’d cried and held him, kissing his neck and pushing herself into him so that their bodies were almost fused together. An inseparable force. A single unit.

What would happen when one half left?

It was funny how similarly people reacted to tragic news and happy news. Tears. Always tears. They took over like a personal sea. People literally overflowed with emotion.

Tom hadn’t cried yet.

It was suddenly night time. A sliver of moon lit his way along the alley. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed the button.

The screen lit up. 20.43. Four missed calls. He couldn’t tell her over the phone.

As he escaped the alley, blinded by the streetlamp, he ascended the hill towards his house. There was not a soul in sight.

He had always wanted to climb Mount Everest, as daft as it sounded. Something about the isolated achievement, accomplishing something huge completely alone. He imagined himself grabbing at chunks of icy rock, shivering with cold, and just as he begins to lose hope the ground curves slightly and flattens and he is filled with sudden energy. He begins to scurry and run. The wind blows in his face and snow lands in his mouth and melts as he laughs. He stands in the centre of the peak, only just large enough for him, and raises his arms in triumph.

He knew that probably wasn’t geographically accurate, but you know, it was a fantasy and all that. Just a fantasy.

This year I’ll do it.

Will ya now?

Yep. No more messing around. I’ll start a sponsorship.

Might wanna join a gym as well.

Sly sod.

Daft bugger.

Ha ha.

Alright then. I believe you.

Crackin’, so how much shall I put you down for, pet?

A bloody tuppence.

He stood staring at his front door. It loomed large above him, black with shadow. Slowly, he turned the key.

She ran to him.

In the early hours of the morning, as they sat at the dining table, their arms around each other, Eliza slowly wiped a tear from Tom’s face. Lipstick stained his cheek.

            ‘This will be your Everest,’ she said.

A Little Experiment with Script Writing...

BREAKDOWN

ACT ONE

SCENE ONE

A woman, ANGELA, sits in an office on the visiting side of a desk. The chair behind the desk is empty. She is well-dressed but tired looking. She looks around uneasily.

ANGELA

Typical, new job, then this. She’s going to flip. She’s going to flip her bloody lid... Well... I mean, they must expect these things sometimes... life outside work... people have lives. Families. Christ.

She turns around to look at the door then faces the desk again.

What kind of boss... no water provided in the office. Stupid cow. In my condition. (She laughs nervously.) In my condition. All that time at home... Harry, shit. Reel him back in, that’s what Mum would say. Reel him back in, Angela.

A woman, MARTHA, walks into the office. She is dressed in a smart suit, hair tied back and perfect make up. Although she is older than Angela, she looks better. Angela begins to stand but Martha signals her to stop. She takes the seat behind the desk.

MARTHA

Now, Angela-

ANGELA

Ms. Grey, I really-

MARTHA

As a new recruit, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But very rarely do employees request a private meeting with me on a Monday morning.

ANGELA

Yes, Ms. Grey, I’m very sorry-

MARTHA

It is the busiest time of the week, you know.

ANGELA

Yes, I’m so sorry.

MARTHA

So what is it you wanted to tell me?

Angela looks at Martha and then the audience. The stage goes 

black.

SCENE TWO

A middle aged man, HARRY, sits in an old-looking armchair in a murky living room. He is fidgeting, uncomfortable. Occasionally he looks up as if hearing someone moving around above him; his wife, asleep.

HARRY

Getting desperate now ... stopping and starting. It’s fine... then spluttering and wheezing. Useless old thing. That’s the problem... too long doing the same thing. (He pauses.) It gave out on us the other day. Don’t blame it, like. Angela going mental as usual... my fault the guy wanted four hundred quid. Unbelievable. She just ... yelling and nagging... hair tied back... baggy old jumper, and I just- I hate this fucking car.

He readjusts himself, running his hands through his hair and crossing and re-crossing his legs. He looks at his watch.

Better get ready.

SCENE THREE

A bar, night time. HARRY sits at the bar, several empty pint glasses next to him. A young, attractive woman, CHRISTINA, stands beside him. Her hand is on his shoulder. She is wearing a short skirt and a tight t-shirt.

CHRISTINA

You’re knocking them back, Harry. In a rush?

HARRY

Tired. I shouldn’t be- I’m just tired.

CHRISTINA

Well, then relax. Here, I’ll get the next round.

She beckons to the bartender.

Two pints please.

HARRY

Cheers but, I really, you know, it’s getting late.

CHRISTINA

Usually you’re full of energy.

HARRY

It’s just, maybe this- I mean, tonight’s just-

CHRISTINA

She caresses his hair.

What’s the matter, Harry?

HARRY

He looks around the bar.

Christ, it’s miserable in here, innit. Dark and, and-

CHRISTINA

What, romantic? Private? I think it’s great.

HARRY

I can feel my eyes going. I’ll have to get home. Angela, she-

CHRISTINA

She removes her arm from him, visibly annoyed.

For God’s sake, Harry, what’s-

HARRY

Oh, I can’t stop yawning. This’ll have to be my last one.

He takes the pint gratefully from the bartender and chugs half of it in one gulp. Christina turns away from him and begins putting on her coat.

HARRY

Sheepish.

Same time next week though, yeah?

Christina picks up her bag and storms out. Harry finishes his drink more slowly.

Tommy

Now little Tommy didn't like to play by the rules
People made the mistake of taking him for a fool
They say he got no direction, won't go very far
But he got a direction, headed straight for the bar

They say, 'heed my warning Tommy,
You gonna need to slow down
If you don't do that Tommy
Then you'll end up in the ground.'
Now listen to me Tommy,
They say you're walking on a thin wire
But even if you get burnt,
What's life without the fire?

And he says, 'I'm gonna bleach my hair,
Draining all the colour
And I don't really care what they think about it
I'm gonna get away,
Do you feel the same?
And if I got a tattoo could it say your name?'

Drink, drive, feel alive,
He got a tattoo on his back saying never nine to five.

Breakdown

'I thought you had it checked.'
   'I did, I mean, I- '
   'Harry...'
   'He wanted four hundred quid for it!'
   'Oh, for god's sake, Harry! You always do this. You always, always- '
   'Four hundred bloody quid, Angie! I could put that towards a new car.'
   'And what are we supposed to do now, Harry? You're supposed to sort things out! What am I supposed to do when- for god's sake, you can't even sort out a car, never mind anything else... Well, Harry?'
   'I wish I had a new car. A nice shiny new car.'
   'Oh well, problem solved! Pillock.'
   'You know what, Ang, I just might get myself a bloody new one.'
   'What, and just leave me with this piece of shit? And what am I supposed to do?'
   'First thing in the morning, I'll go for a new one. I'll- '
   'Oh stop it, Harry! We've got more important things to think about.'

Hiding a Secret From God, Part Two: Fear

There shouldn't be another me. The Lord makes us all as individuals. I want to close my eyes but what if she moves, jumps out and gets me? She is not me, of that I am certain. So what is she?
   As a child I thought I was staring into my soul., begging me to free her. I ran at the little girl and she ran towards me and in a smash of stabbing pain and shrieks that shards of my soul dug into my flesh. Doctors and nurses stabbing me more with tubes and needles: silly little girl, Mother said. Yes, I know, it's a silly fear really. A child's fantasy. My soul is in me, where God placed it.
   And yet, whenever I see myself stood before me I feel that pain.
   Ah, but here I am safe. Under the watchful eye of Mother Superior. There is no need to look at myself. What is outside is trivial, merely trivial, compared to what is within me.

Hiding a Secret from God

Oh yes, religion has always been very important to me. I owe so much to the Almighty. Believing in him is like carrying a companion with you wherever you go. Figuratively! Figuratively, of course. Yes, the church has always been my sanctuary. People can be so cruel, so judgmental in this world, but what I love about God is that he loves us all. He's so forgiving. Oh yes, sweet, forgiving, merciful God.

Monologue

It's a lot brighter in here than it is outside. Too bright, if you ask me. The rooms on either side all look the same.
   I take out my headphones and wipe my face. I'm wearing a leather jacket of all things. I mean, I know it's Newcastle, but really? My phone's getting damp in my hand.
   Why would she call me? What could she possibly want? She didn't even leave a message, so clearly she wants to talk to me in person. Oh god. Oh god, oh god. I undercharged that woman yesterday. But surely she would have left a message? It must be something worse.
   God, that time years ago when I was playing on my GameBoy and I heard Mam yelling for me from downstairs. But it wasn't just a yell, it was a proper angry yell. She used my full name and everything. I dropped the GameBoy and ran under the bed. I didn't even save the game.
   My phone's ringing, booming round the whole corridor. It's her. Christ, twice in one day? It must be urgent. I should really just answer., it's probably nothing. But what if it's not?
   Right, I'll go to this lecture and by the time it's finished, I'll probably have calmed down enough to ring her back. She might even leave a message this time.

Birds and Cages

I was kept in my room and told I couldn't leave until morning. Get some sleep, that's what he said. Demetto? Dragerro? Was that his name? I can't remember. He's gone now. He had him killed when he tried to touch me. I got so angry the room shook.
   That was ten years ago. I would fight him now. I would kill him myself.
   No. No, I wouldn't. That's the point. I remember ten years ago when I wasn't allowed to leave my room, and I yelled and screamed and shouted.
   And today, Aknesh told me I had to stay in my room, that I couldn't watch the full moon, and I just nodded. And he shut the door. And he's still there now. And I realised how much I have changed.
   It's very interesting. Maybe one day I will change back. Or change again into someone who commands and is not commanded. I must work on my presence.
   But how much does someone change? I'm already nineteen. How much more growing up do I have? Sometimes I stick my hand out of open windows and pretend I'm a bird. I could fly south for winter, or north, or east, or west. Because I could.
   I would just push off and fly away. If* I escape, I'm going to fly all around the world and see everyone and ask them all about what adventures they have had.

* If! That's unusual. What an odd thing to say: 'if'. When I leave this place I'm going to read this back and laugh at how stupid I am now. I'll be sitting in the highest branch in the tallest tree in a huge forest, sleeping under the stars. And I'll laugh at how stupid and inexperienced I am now. Free me will have presence.

Song of the Week

This week's song of the week is CHICK HABIT by April March.

This song made fame by making (and defining) the soundtrack to Quentin Tarantino's film Deathproof. It fits the film perfectly as, like Tarantino's work, it's cheeky, cool and not to be taken 100% seriously.

The song is short and sweet. In it a guitar riff is layered over by a girlish chant of lyrics warning a man to 'hang up his chick habit' before he does something he regrets. The lyrics give a sense of humour, but also of foreboding. Despite the childish quality to the vocals, these don't sound like girls you want to mess with. After every few lines the vocals are interrupted by siren-like warning sounds, increasing this feeling even more.

It's a silly, fun song. It all feels a bit tongue and cheek, especially with the band cooing the word 'Daddy' after every other line. They're playing a part and mocking it all at the same time, and that's what makes this song so great.

Best Lyric: 'Oh how your bubble's gonna burst/ When you meet another nurse/ She'll be driving in a hearse'

Book of the Week

This week's book of the week is UNION STREET by Pat Barker.

This is a bit of a forgotten gem of a book, as Barker is more well known for her novels depicting young men at war. However, her portrayals of North-East working class women struggling to get by are just as, if not more convincing.

Union Street is not a novel as such, but a collection of short stories about women of all ages whose lives are connected. These women live on the same street, and are familiar with one another. Some are even friends, but Barker's differing viewpoints show just how little they know about each other, and therefore highlights the irony in the title's reference to 'unity'.

The thing that most impressed me about this book's narrative is the beautiful amalgamation of gritty realism and poetic escapism. Barker isn't shy in her descriptions, they're often dirty, disgusting and (as consequence) harrowing and effective. But interspersed within these bleak depictions are moments of an otherworldly beauty. Maybe this is a reference to how much the women want to escape. Maybe it's Barker stating that this kind of life isn't so bad after all. But that's the beauty, it leaves it to us, the reader, to decide.

This is one of my favourite books of all time. It will stay with you long after you close it.

Perfume

The scent of her perfume,
Lingers on you.
For you to catch the scent,
For you to learn of a love,
That you came into and wrecked.

And me and her, we're ashes on the ground,
A dank and musty tomb,
But it's okay, you don't mind.
You still have her perfume.

Rendezvous

More and more travels up from the glass,
And the pink froth starts to descend,
The glare on the window masks the beach,
But salty air squeezes through the battered beloved walls.
In the glass you see yourself,
When time was an endless stream and life was a simpler thing,
But the liquid lowers and swirls in your mouth,
Counting down to the present scene.
And the barking and bellowing of life begins to fade,
The sunlight in the room lowers,
And there's movement in the tide.
Savor these final bubbling droplets,
Before it's time to face the outside.

Song of the Week

This week's song of the week is SOULJACKER PART 1 by The Eels.

I'm late to the party with this song, having only heard it for the first time earlier this year. But it didn't take me long to love it. This song is a pure rock n' roll riot. It starts off slow, with the regular pluck of guitar strings letting the listener know that something's about to explode. And then the chorus comes around.

The thing I love about this song is the fact that it's just a tale of utter rebellion. Rebellion against work, against school, against society as a whole and nothing in particular. It's just about wanting to scream and shout and make the world notice how unsatisfied you are, something everyone can relate to sometimes.

However, the song isn't entirely serious. There's an element of fun to the explosive 'Aw yeah' that precedes every chorus. In that sense, the band rebels even against its own song's message by taking it with their tongue firmly planted in their cheek.

Best lyric: 'Sally don't like her daddy/ Sally don't like her friends/ Sally and Johnny watchin' t.v./ Waiting for it to end'

Book of the Week

This week's book of the week is THE CUCKOO'S CALLING by Robert Galbraith.

One of the best things about this novel is the back story. Secretly authored by J.K. Rowling under a pseudonym, upon its release earlier this year the critics absolutely loved this gripping detective drama. Once it became clear that Rowling was the true author, no one could go back on their word and critics finally had to admit that J.K. Rowling is in fact a brilliant story teller.

But the story of its fruition does not overshadow the quality of this novel's own story. Without giving away spoilers, a famous young model is found dead on the street beneath her penthouse apartment; seemingly due to suicide. However, her brother is not convinced and goes to Detective Strike for answers on who could have done the deed.

Not only is the mystery itself extremely well thought out (I wasn't even close to guessing whodunnit!) but the characters of this novel really shine through. The blending of humour and emotion really brings these figures to life, so that by the end of the novel you truly care about them, as well as about solving the mystery. I would love to see more of this detective, and luckily Rowling's already confirmed that it will be the first in a new series!

Arthur

He sits alone. Another night. The opposite side of the dining room table is pristine as he gathers his grubby plate. Slowly, and with effort, he stands.
   "Oh, Edna. You'll never guess what happened today. I was at the butcher's and that man, the one you always said was thick as mince, he got to talking to me." Arthur stands by the sink, smiling. "Apparently he's doing a Masters in biochemistry, whatever that is. I suppose you can't tell these days, they'll let anyone in!"
   He laughs hoarsely, stretching his elbows until they crack. A spot of gravy from the plate falls onto his hand, blending in with the cluster of liver spots. Edna's 'when I was young' speech echoes around his mind.
   "It's always changing, in't it?" he says to the drawn yellow curtains. His smile fades. "Everything always changes."
   Arthur leaves the kitchen, and his body creaks as he enters the dim lounge. The walls are piled high with books. Edna's photo smiles at him lovingly from the mantelpiece. He lowers himself into his half of the two-seater sofa, flicking the remote and allowing noise to fill the room.
   Over the laughter of the telly, Arthur strokes the indent in the leather beside him. He ignores the screen,  focusing solely on the returning gaze of his wife, smiling at him from the photograph above.

Perfect

Where's my award from the academy,
For the scene that just played out?
It flowed so well. Perfect characterization,
All good up to this point.
Yours is the type who cries and cries
While mine lights up another joint.

And the director of the scene says,
Perfect. You're perfect for this role.
The perfect chemistry of sex, desire and misery,
I couldn't see the real you at all.

Where's my rousing standing ovation,
For the man I claimed to be?
Long dramatic pause. Fantastic expression,
All so good up to here.
In this scene it says you keep on trying
While I get consumed by the fear.

And the director of the scene says,
Perfect. You're perfect for this role.
The perfect chemistry of sex, desire and misery,
I couldn't see the real you at all.

Song of the Week

Taking a more upbeat stride away from the emotional and slightly depressing choices I've made so far, this week's Song of the Week is a true party starter. It's WORK BITCH by Britney Spears.

So, summer is over, the sun hides away for another 6-10 months (as is always the case in good old Britain!) and so it's time to get back to work. Luckily, Miss Spears has provided us with the perfect motivational anthem: if you want success, you've got to work damn hard for it.

The song begins eerily with vacant beats, before it picks up into what can only be described as sheer, brilliant madness. It's produced by Will.i.am, and it's no exaggeration to say that this is by far his best work. It does his usual trick of meshing and mixing and letting the end result speak for itself, but despite the craziness the song flows with a hypnotic consistency.

Arguably, the beat and production are the most prominent aspects of the song. However, it is Spears's voice which rings through loud and clear. She masters the line between robotic and alive as only she can, flicking between tones, moods and even accents so smoothly that you only realize ten seconds later. She somehow amalgamates everything that has built her up as an icon: sex appeal, manufacture, fun, and the flicker of a mysterious human being behind a veil of a cocky, confident and (surprisingly) English character, and lets it blend magically into four minutes.

This is not a song to be taken seriously. It's all tongue and cheek. Britney acknowledges her huge status in the business, stating that despite the criticism she HAS worked to get where she is, and will continue to have fun with it. And that's the main thing to take away from the song: Britney has fun, and encourages the listener to do the same. After all, what's work without the play?

Best lyric: 'Tell somebody in your town/ Spread the word, spread the word/ Go call the po-lice/ Go call the governer'