Ron

Short story exercise, week FOUR. Prompt: Ambition. I wanted to parallel the ambitions of a young autistic boy with that of a Fox.

We live on a farm. Dad always says, ‘Living on a farm is something to be proud of.’ I’m not sure I agree. I tell the children in my class I live on acreage or a demense, because they have no idea what I mean by that. I used to tell them I lived on an estate because it sounded posh like in Monarch of the Glen, but they thought I meant a council estate.

I like to pretend I’m a fox. I silently skulk around the house in the dead of the night, tip toeing all the way. I know where every creaking floorboard is and exactly how quickly to turn each door knob. The only tricky part is the latch on the kitchen door, it always rattles despite my steady hand. This is where musical statues comes in handy, I always win. Listening out for a single sound, but the only noise I hear is the low grunting of the pigs as they try and sniff out their late night snack. Mum says ‘If you have milk and cheese before you go to bed you’ll have nightmares. I do not want you waking your father!’

Sometimes I wish I was a fox. I like to watch them from my bedroom window. There’s one that comes every night at the same time, when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the one, I’ve called him Ron. He cautiously comes in from the hole in the bush I made when I was hiding from Mum. Then he runs along the length of the bush to avoid the security light, behind my swing set and back down behind the chicken coup. I watch him with the great anticipation I have when watching the dog shows Mum takes me to. He’s perfected his route and he’s onto the last hurdle. He pushes the mesh that surrounds the chickens house, prodding it to see how much resistance Dad has troubled him with; quite a lot. Then he starts to dig at the ground, but this takes too long and I fall asleep.

Dad is angry. ‘Those bloody (he says a word I’m not allowed to repeat) vermin, they’ve only gone and slaughtered the whole bloody lot of ‘em. Every single bloody one,’ he kicks over a bucket of water which goes everywhere, but most falls through the gaps in the floorboards. I think Ron might have got in this time, I know I shouldn’t smile, but I can’t help it.

I didn’t know if Ron would come back. Mum said, ‘All the chickens have been killed by those rodents, those bloody rodents that are good for nothing except hats.’

I thought of Ron sitting on top of Mums head and started to laugh. ‘Mum,’ I said, ‘Foxes aren’t rodents, they are part of the dog family, even though they are more like cats,’ and was sent to bed early.

That night I woke to a flood of lights attacking my room, for a minute I thought I was about to be abducted, but after a while nothing happened so I got out of bed and went to the window. It was Ron. He was staring up at my window, his eyes looked like the marbles I get every Christmas, but have no idea what you do with them. He stood there frozen, his chest as white as a ghosts. I heard a loud thump next door and Dad shouting in-between yawns ‘They’re back yawn again, I’m not having this any yawn more.’ I heard his door slam and the sound of his feet pounding the stairs. Ron must have gone off course.

Mum came in, sat on my bed, pulled me close and put her hands over my ears. It was then, and only then I realised what Dad was about to do. ‘Ron!’ I screamed, ‘Ron!’ I kept screaming his name until my head hurt. Mum wouldn’t let go as much as I fought her off. ‘He was only feeding his family, let me go! Dad kills the chickens for us to eat, why can’t Ron have one?’ I wriggled, scratched and tried to bite her arm. ‘Fucking!’ I shouted as loud as I could. Her palm came swinging from a height and landed right on my cheek sending a burning sensation through my whole body. I fell asleep.

I’ve decided I’m moving to the city when I’m older. It’s where all the foxes go when they don’t like the farms and the country side. I don’t want to be a farmer and I don’t want to live here any longer. I don’t want to sound like my parents either, the other children at school don’t sound the way I do. They sound like Fantastic Mr. Fox. I want to talk like Fantastic Mr. Fox, not a farmer.

'Hup, two, three, four'

Writing The Journey exercise, week ONE. Prompt: Childhood. I wanted to capture the innocence of a young child and go off on little tangents, whilst still having a physical journey take place.

Today we are going to see the elephants. I have waited all week for today, and finally it’s here. Mum said it’s going to be a long journey, about two hours by car to get to Chiang Mai. But I don’t mind, we were on the aeroplane for a lot longer. Whenever we go on a day trip I always fall asleep. Mum says it’s the heat that ‘zaps it out of you’ and that’s what happens when you’re a child. I remember hearing Dad telling Mum that I was a ‘trooper’ for managing to stay asleep through the bumpy car rides, so sometimes I pretend to be asleep even when I’m not. I try not to scrunch my eyes up as that is a giveaway of fake sleeping. I’ve already picked out a name for my elephant.  I’ll call him Dumbo. Dad says I can ride the biggest elephant they have if I’d like.

The car pulled up and Mum gently shook me. I jumped out of the car expecting to see the elephants, but they weren’t here. ‘Mum, Mum, Mum, where are the elephants?’
‘We aren’t there yet hunny bun, we’ll be there shortly,’ she said as she patted my head.
‘But you said it was a two hour car drive.’ Mum stopped paying me attention and gave the driver some money. The money here is much more colourful than our money. It comes in greens, blues, and reds and has pictures of elephants on. Our money has pictures of old people. Dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders as we started going down a muddy path to the river. There were lots of rocks in the mud so it made it hard to walk. Mum kept telling Dad to put me down before he dropped me. But I didn’t want to be put down because I had the best view, so I tightened my hold on Dad with my legs.

We got to the bottom where there were some old, long boats waiting for us. The smell of the river made me feel a bit sick.  One of the men who live here put a plank from the mud to the boat so we didn’t get our feet wet. Mum made a little scream as the boat wobbled which Dad thought was really funny, so I started laughing too. This made Mum cross. This wasn’t like any other boat I had been on, this one had tiny blue seats made out of wood, with nails sticking out a little bit and the paint peeling off. We had to sit towards the back of the boat because it filled up quickly. The engine was really noisy so I put my fingers in my ears to block it out. That’s what Dad does when Mum is shouting at him. But it doesn’t work very well because I could still here the engine. I didn’t like this boat. The water was really high and it nearly came up to the edge of the boat. I’ve seen this when I’m in the bath and my toy boats are sinking, if too much water comes in, the boat will sink all the way to bottom and make a clunk sound. I got a bit scared and hugged Mum.

We weren’t in the boat for very long. I counted to sixty, eight times. Which means the boat took eight minutes to get to the other side. I think we could have walked it quicker. We were the last people to get out of the boat, which I didn’t like as the smoke from the engine kept making me cough. Dad bumped his head on the roof, which made Mum laugh, but I didn’t want to make Dad cross so I pretended I didn’t see. When it was my turn to get out I didn’t want to walk down the plank again, so I tried to jump. As soon as I jumped I got scared again because the water was really brown and I thought there might be snakes in it. But Dad caught me and I clung on tightly.

When we finally got to the top of the stairs, which were made of more mud with bits of wood, I could see the elephants. I tried to run off to see them but Dad grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go. I tried to fight him off, but he is stronger than me, and I always lose. So I sulked instead. This side of the river was very different from the other side. It was like being in a jungle, the floor is covered with green plants and there are lots of tall trees too. It smells better on this side. There’s a small path that we have to follow, in single file, so Dad went behind me and Mum was in front. The jungle is very noisy too; all around me I could hear this loud noise. ‘Dad, what is that noise?’
‘Crickets’ he replied and pushed me on.
I didn’t know that crickets could make this noise, I sometimes watch it with Dad on a Sunday on the TV, but I haven’t heard them make this noise before. Maybe it is a secret noise to tell the team that they are going to hit the ball really far. I tried to run off again, but Dad had his hands on my shoulders, making sure I couldn’t go anywhere. I tried to wriggle out but he just pushed down harder.

I heard Mum gasp, and quickly pushed past to see the elephants.

I thought they’d be running around chasing each other, splashing water and blowing their trumpets. But they had big chains around their feet which looked really sore. They clinked as the elephants tried to shake them off, but the trees were stronger than them.  ‘Oh, my, look Bill. Look how malnourished they are. Go feed them some pineapple or something,’ said Mum, with her hands to her face. When Mum has her hands to her face it means she isn’t happy. But I didn’t know why. The elephants had funny shaped heads, they were big at the top and then went in and then back out, like a monkey nut. They looked hungry; I think this is what malnourished means.

Whenever Mum cries, I cry. 

My Life in Briefs

Short story exercise, week THREE. Prompt: Life in Brief. I decided to interpret the prompt childishly, but make the story serious.

The black and gold dressing gown gliding over my body, caressing my skin, supple and soft, was the highlight of my day. It made me feel luxurious, it made me feel invisible, draping my body like a piece of Japanese art. The black trim, absent of all colour, conceals me within its protection, keeping me away from the fearful experiences I’m susceptible to. The gold, guarded by the black, was my outlook on life; optimistic and healthy, but safe. Patterned with lanterns and feathers, but secured by blossom and its trawling branches, curving inwards to keep them from floating away.

The scent of honey and chocolate flickering often frees me, taking me to that other place, that place where I can enjoy life’s pleasures. I would lie against a tall tree, surrounded by blossom with a trail of thick amber slowly making its way down the length of my body, filling my naval en route. I would take bites out of my finger nails which were made of the darkest, richest cocoa you could imagine, crumbling on my lips and falling into the flowing sweetness that made me tingle in the right places.

‘Cynthia, you got five minutes girl, don’t you be late!’ bellowed the door as it shook, testing its hinges. Reality resumed.  I blew out the candle, tightened my gown with another knot and made for the door. The stickered mirror, stained walls and worn carpet crept back in as a constant reminder of my life.

As I opened the door I was blinded by a foray of lights dancing across my face. ‘Honey, clean up your face, you can’t be going on like that! You heard what Danny said: “No nose candy!”’ ordered Shuga-Eve.

I made my way to the top of the stairs as my song started, three, two, one ‘You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you’.  I’ve performed it a million times; the moves are a thoughtless process. The knots come undone, my shield slumps to the floor in a golden heap. I’m left, as I always am, in my leather underwear; exposed and forever frightened. The only positive being that the lights are so bright I can’t see the swine that surround me, snorting, whistling and shouting things they’ve picked up from their dirty habits.

I tease the chrome bannister with my leg, polished to perfection with that phallic motion, and squat. Down a few steps only to crawl back up so that everyone can see what a nice tight ass I've got. The rest becomes a blur. I feel the occasional hoof wedge a dirty twenty in my panties, but I don’t see it. I am their trough and they are hungry. It’s just the way it is.

This is only the beginning of my shift, next I’ve got to see if my John[1] is in, otherwise I have to work the room. I put on my seductive eyes. ‘Want some company?’ I’d say, or, ‘Buy me a drink?’ I tend to end the night slumped over the bar with one hand still clutching an empty glass and the other in someone’s zipper. Every night is the same: the people, the music, the abuse and the lack of self-respect.

I've saved my tips for as long as I've worked here. At least they're safe, clean and secure.

---

[1] John – a patron of a hooker.

Burnt Toast

Short story exercise, week ONE. Prompt: Accidentally. I wanted to start with a trivial act and turn it into some sort of melodramatic scene.

I awakened to a flood of bells filling my ears. I knew that sound too well for it to be anything other than the smoke alarm. I must have dozed off for a couple of seconds, not much longer. But with that sound, that awful dreaded sound, I knew what came next. It was hard to decide what was worse, the beacon of sound smashing against my skull, delivering a deafening blow or the heavy thuds I heard from above. I feared them both.

I ran to the kitchen, opening the door to a cloud of black and white swirling in on each other as it danced around the kitchen. My vision was blurred and my eyes were crying, they could feel the weakness in me, they cried for the smoke and they cried for me. I opened all the windows and doors hoping the cloud would be my nine and vanish through the escape route I had so desperately provided, but instead it lingered and laughed as it waited for my misfortune.

The thuds became louder; the door over head was slammed. I clung to the tea-towel waving it about frantically to stop the bells, to stop that ugly little man from pulling those ropes. The smoke never made its way upstairs, it always hung about in the kitchen teasing me with the possibility. It was always the bells that gave me away.

‘Just close your eyes, everything will be alright,’ I told myself. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’ I repeated over and over.

Thud, thud, thud came the rage. I panicked not knowing what to do next, paralysed by fear, tormented by memories. I could hear my mother’s voice ‘Don’t you fret my dear' she would say, ‘run, run, run away’.
I turned to run but instead collided with a wall. It grabbed my arm like a vice. Still deafened by the piercing ring of the bells I could only make out a mountain of abuse that encumbered me, rendering me incapable of movement.

He shoved me to the counter, pushing my face towards the source of all of today’s problems.
‘Smell it!’ he bellowed. ‘Fucking smell it! That burnt and bitter smell sums up this bloody marriage! Can you smell it?’ pushing my face closer.
He forced me over so that the back of my head was now against the counter surface. The only thought going through my head was one of being an observer to this scene.
‘Taste it! Open your fucking mouth,’ he wrenched it open with what felt like claws for fingers. He smashed the blackened bread down and it broke into honeycomb like pieces. I could hear what sounded like gravel being walked across as he crushed the combs into smaller pieces with his fist. As he stuffed them into my mouth I tried to swallow  quickly and think of honey so as not to taste it, but the crumbs acted like a sponge and my mouth became dry, the metallic taste took over as I gagged.

‘Catch the crumbs my little toaster. You’ll learn one day,’ he taunted.

Cousin Chris

Today we said farewell to a much loved family member, there were tears, laughs and fond memories, but most of all there was support. I wrote a poem in honour of Chris, for my Auntie, which I read out at the ceremony.

To Mum

I am the cars that pass you by.
I am the birds up in the sky.
I am that noise you cannot find.
I am the one who knocked the blinds.

I am the one that pressed the bell.
I am the one you thought did yell.
I am around you here and now.
Please don’t worry, I’ll stick around.

I won’t forget you, please don’t fret.
I’ll keep you close, close to my chest.
I am that reflection you thought you saw.
Just remember me, and you’ll see me more.

Wipe those tears from your face.
And remember mum, I’m in a better place.

I’ll see you soon, but not too soon.
Go on and live your life, I’m proud of you.

                                                      Johno Fagan (11/09/12)

Worst song of the 21st Century?

It kills me to say this, but there is a worse song than Rebecca Black's infamous 'Friday'. Not only that, but it is from the much loved Nicki Minaj. 'Stupid Hoe' is a pointless, offensive and to be honest SHITE song that became the most viewed Youtube video in a 24 hour period.

I think for most, it is 3.30mins of our lives that we won't get back! So of course I thought I'd subject you all to it, 'tis only fair. 2.53mins is probably the worst part about it

FYI she sings the words "Stupid Hoe" 51 times by my count =/ it was painful. 

Although, much like Rebecca Black's 'Friday' is had led to quite a few parodies, which we all love to watch. One of my favourites being - 

Vinny, 2012 - "It's quite catchy, but so is crabs, doesn't mean people like it though."

She's Too Good to Lose

The Liverpudlian beauty Rebecca Ferguson has finally arrived with her much anticipated album 'Heaven' and I am glad to report that it is brilliant! Peaking at #3 in the UK certified Platinum due to brilliant opening sales.

Lead single 'Nothing's Real But Love' really showcases her stand out voice, especially amongst all the dance tracks that seemed to have clogged up the charts as of late. Second single 'Too Good To Lose' is just as great, if not better, hopefully giving her a second Top 10 hit. However, I am hoping she is going to release some of her more upbeat songs such as 'Run Free' or 'Fairytale', as they tend to fare better in the charts currently.

Rebecca really is one of the most refreshing voices of 2012 thus far, along side Lana Del Rey.

An album where every song is as good as the one before is quite an accomplishment, and is surely going to aid her in her attempt at cracking America, a job British Female artists have been doing quite well at recently (Adele, Florence + the machine, Ellie Goulding & Jessie J).

Heaven:

Nothing's Real But Love
Glitter & Gold

Shoulder To Shoulder

Fairytale

Mr. Bright Eyes

Fighting Suspicions

Teach Me How To Be Loved

Run Free

Diamond To Stone
Too Good To Lose

I can't choose a favourite track as they are all great =] 

When will I see you again?

     November 20^th 1983

Living in a doll’s house is every young girl’s dream. You have the perfect life, flawless home and textbook family. Your dog doesn’t bark or make a mess, you don’t have to do the washing up, you don’t have to mow the lawn and your neighbours aren’t utter vexations. The white picket fence never needs touching up as the paint shimmers in angelic glory and the house remains triumphantly immaculate.  You have an attentive husband and well-behaved children, your dinner parties are the talk of the town, your only concern being everyone looking in. Mama always bored me with her lectures on how I should aspire to marry well. I will, but when I find a man I truly care for was my rehearsed reply.

                                                                                                            November 21^st 1983

I often mill around the house trailing my finger in the hope of feeling an imperfection, a misplaced ornament, a mirror violated with finger marks or some graffiti on the Parisian wallpaper of stick men standing outside their stick house with red crayon grins taunting me. I have taken an interest in tea; I’ve recently discovered Earl Gray, an unusual tasting tea, but perfection at the same time. From counting the cups on the table one would infer that I’m drinking between ten and twelve cups a day - black, of course.

                                                                                                                November 22^nd 1983

Two hours had lapsed since entering Marcie’s Tea Room. It was a new addition to the classy High Street that was already littered with quirky boutiques, over-priced grocers that sold pretentious vegetables and shops that weren’t quite clear as to what they were selling from looking at them. It had stone paved flooring covering every inch, decorated with white iron garden furniture that curled at the feet, tie on cushions plagued by floral designs and potted plants spaced sporadically. On the walls hung pictures of swans by lakes, kites fluttering high above the tree line and other such scenes - they were quite tranquil.  However, I couldn’t help but sense a clique within the women who occupied those seats; legs crossed, pinkie stretching out at the perfect angle. They would look up as the chime jingled upon my entering, but would immediately return to their prior engagements, not paying me a blinds bit of notice, except for the quiet mutterings.

When I arrived back at the house I felt a sense of unfamiliarity, there was a cold stillness hanging in the air like a foggy Monday. I paced around for hours looking in on the many rooms we have. I noticed the piano sitting there draped in a white sheet just asking to be touched, to feel the warmth of someone’s hands caressing it sweetly. The awful truth is I don’t remember if that someone is me or not. I don’t think I know how to play the piano. I continued through the house, looking in on the children’s rooms, their beds made and rooms mirroring that of a showroom. I’d taught them well; they may have their allowance this week. I ran my finger along the surfaces.

                                                                                                                 November 23^rd 1983

Over the last couple of years I keep experiencing a gut wrenching feeling that something isn’t quite right, a sort of longing every now and then. I do feel sometimes lost. I presume it may be due to my husband always being at work, which I gather from his newspaper changing shade and the coffee staining his cup. He really does slave away; we are saving for a conservatory that we want in time for the summer. As for the children, they must be at school or studying for examinations. They really are bright children; Oxbridge children in the making, they definitely take after their father.

                                                                                                                 November 24^th 1983

I’ll sit for hours flicking through old photo albums, running my fingers over the smiling faces of my handsome husband and infant children. They were splendid days; take for example the day we spent in Hyde Park during the summer of 1931. The park was full of life with families out having picnics on that scorching Sunday; trousers rolled up to the knees, shirts unbuttoned to the naval. It was a lovely day. I remember Michael and Charlotte hurriedly devouring their ice-creams, getting most of it around their mouths, so as they could row on the Serpentine. Bert was sprawled out on the grass with his hands tucked behind his head, smiling as he slept. I sat there for hours reading a book and observing my family, such a delight. It feels like a lifetime ago now. I can’t remember the last time we sat down as a family and just talked.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 November 25^th 1983

Today I remembered the Serpentine accident.

                                                                                                                 November 26^th 1983

Our house is quite grand, I can go anywhere I like, but my favourite spot is sitting in the conservatory with a cup of Earl Gray looking out onto the garden remembering times past. As the sun chases the moon and the moon chases the sun in return, like a game of tag, I sit there, remembering. Remembering to remember. I’ve often watched the leaves go from an effervescent green to a warming red, followed by a cosy orange before dropping to the ground as a crispy brown, crumbling upon impact. Sitting in the conservatory is like being in my very own looking glass, a glass panelled house with a view in every direction. I often momentarily feel as if I might be a pilot of an aircraft or submarine, but these are just silly thoughts, a woman piloting an aircraft would be quite the scandal.

                                                                                                                                                                                        November 27^th 1983

I went to see Sarah today, like I do every week, to show her my diary. I sat in her creased olive green arm chair that squeaks every time I redistribute my weight. It’s very distracting. Sarah was sat right in front of me this week, which was unusual as she’s usually sat behind her glossy desk scribbling away as we talk. It’s as bad as that? I thought to myself. I remember her telling me some very distressing news, but for the life of me I do not remember what it was. As hard as I try to remember, the more distant it appears to be. Her face was a mixture of sadness and frustration; perhaps she’s having problems at home? I do hope not, she’s a lovely woman.

                                                                                                                 November 28^th 1983

I spent today like most days, floating around the house like a misguided ghost, the days all seem to blur. I was in the attic for a few hours rearranging some of the children’s toys and a few of Bert’s old newspapers. I better go get dinner ready, they’ll be home shortly.

The Capsizing Bench

Cowardice can be seen as running away and not facing the vulnerability, fear and hardships that life can often pose. You are often emasculated by your peers for possessing such a quality.
             Take, for example, that man sitting on the bench over there; head in his hands slouched over as if he’s perched on the side of a boat about to fall, not dive, into the dark gloomy waters beneath which are occupying his mind. His actions leave him hoping to be swallowed up by the cold harsh body. Saturated, weighed down as he sinks further and further into the murky waters hoping to hit rock bottom, hoping that it can only get better from there. Desperately gasping for breath as he’s consumed, still fighting, but to what avail? His lungs spilling over, full to capacity as the light becomes a distant flicker tantalising the surface.
            Wrinkles plague this man’s face. He is a defeated silhouette of a man, who stoops as he walks; he is the personification of disappointment.
            He didn't mean to react the way he did, he didn't mean to hurt anyone, but the pressure got to him, he couldn't take it anymore, he was crushed. Constant questions, constant demands to know his thoughts on which colour looked best, because there is a noticeable difference between maroon and burgundy. He didn't like being the star of the show; a show that had rocketed from town hall to Broadway, the constant attention was too much. It was no longer just the two of them.
            Were his cracks not evident? The water spilled in, dampening his mood. He wasn't himself, reverting into his shell to hide from it all. His life was going to change, he knew this, he welcomed this, but he didn't realise it would be such a big leap. Why did it have to be such a spectacle?
            He sits on the bench. He is a broken cowardly lion who will never find his bravery. He should have been standing there, watching her glide down the aisle; serene and tranquil like an untouched lake.
            Were his cracks not evident? The water gushed in, knocking him from his feet. He was quiet. He had little input. She spoke and he listened. Not uttering a word. Nodding like the dog who sits in the back of your car. He spent more time at work. He hated work, but it meant he didn't have to deal with the wedding. That and he needed the extra money. Scared of opening his wallet in case that cliché moth fluttered out, laughing at him as it reached heights he was unable to achieve.
            In  the months leading up to the wedding he sat on that bench many a time, wondering what to do, how to approach the issue, but each time walking away none the wiser. Red palm prints embedded in his forehead as the weight went unsupported. Not knowing how to get out of this, not knowing how to make it right. He could try and swim to the surface but the arms of the ocean pulled him back, flailing, but never letting him go. 
            This man knows what he must do despite the weight crashing against his chest, only eased as the tide retracts momentarily. If you were observing this man you would see that he is torn, unsure of what he might do next, staring from beneath at the fractured moonlight on the surface.
            The Heavens opened, each drop bruising his peachy skin maroon and burgundy in colour, forcing him to seek shelter. The wail of the rain carries her sobs in every pitter-patter. He imagines her sitting at her dressing table, staring at her cracked reflection as she’s battered by the rain at an angle. Dripping as her hair desperately clings to her face; she continues to sit, solemn, shivering and wondering what she’s done wrong. Tears and rain becoming one create black streams down her face, as she remains dull and expressionless.
            He loosens his cravat, takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder, his rose falling into a puddle. As he goes to pick it up, he sees her reflection through the ripples, broken.  The wedding is exactly what he wanted, yet he remains on the bench fighting with his demons. He couldn't help but cower from the shotgun wedding. Wiping the rain from his face he breaks into a run, and then a sprint, leaping over puddles as mud clings to the bottom of his trousers, he imagines himself hurdling. As he runs he realises he doesn't care about anyone else, he doesn't care about the flower arrangements, or who sits next to who, he just cares about her, she is his life and he needs to fix this, before it’s too late.
             He can breathe; he can exhale deeply and feel relief, and no longer is it a struggle. He shakes his hair like it’s his mane, from side to side, emerging as a new man, a man who is going to take control and lead with pride. Everyone makes mistakes, he realises this, but mistakes can be corrected. He runs with desperation, he runs with determination, he runs carelessly. He realises the church is on the next block, and runs faster than he is capable of, but he can’t afford not to push his limits. He realises he spent too much time sitting on that blasted bench.

Johno Fagan

2012

So it's the middle of January and I'm yet to blog, time to wipe the thick layer of dust that has gathered me thinks.

My Creative Writing coursework has been handed in (hurrah!) and I now patiently await judgement. In the mean time I thought you could have a look at the end result and let me know what you think.

=]