Monthly Archives: October 2011

A knock at the door

This was my practice Enkerlish, sorry, English, essay. Creative Writing.

A knock at the door.

I had been waiting for my pizza far too long for my likening, and had already prepared, cooked and half eaten one I had made myself. I wasn’t going to pay. It was an unusually hot day in August. Gordy was in the shower and I could hear the rush of water in the background. The gooey, cheesy, almost perfect pizza I had created was warm in my mouth and smelt like pure beauty. I sat on the tatty couch, with pizza in hand and turned on the TV.

The knock came as I sat down. I groaned and told Gordy I would get it. As I approached the door, I got the taste of metal in the back of my throat that should have warned me, but I ignored it; I was probably just sensing another fight with the Pizza delivery boy, or so I thought.

I opened the door and was staring not at the face I expected. The person at the door was not the seventeen year old with the spotty, pus filled face and red cap which coved greasy brown hair.

My brain went into lock down, the clockwork engine slowing then coming to a stop. He had found us again. He had found us, just when life was starting to get back to normal. Jarvis Fryer had come to ruin my life once more. He pushed past into the flat before action registered in my brain, his curly black locks bobbing on his head as if not completely attactched, trying to escape. I would be trying to escape if I was Fryer’s hair. He bounced onto the couch, flicking of his shoes, grabbing a slice of pizza, making himself at home. I stood in front of the television, demanding to know why he had come.

Fryer sat up, clasping his hands together. I looked at the floor as he spoke. His shoes lay in a mess on the floor, by the sofa. They were tatty and worn, probably from miles of walking, chasing, and standing on street corners while more than just words were exchanged. How many ribs had the shoes kicked, I wondered. How long in till the shoes came into contact with my own ribs?

I looked into Fryer’s eyes and that’s when I saw it. The crazy, insane boy wanted me. He launched at me, dragging me across the room, my own hood covering my eyes. I felt a crack as I was pulled past the chair by the door. The door slammed shut, shaking the frame.

Gordy walked in from the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair still dripping wet. The door bell rang and he went to answer it, kicking the shoes out of his path. Alex, the adolescent delivery boy, handed over the pizza in exchange for a fiver from my own wallet. Gordy shut the door, took the pizza to the couch and settled down to watch the new film on Sky, with no recognition of my disappearance what so ever.

Bethonie Waring

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The fight

This one was for a competition called Wicked Young Writers. It’s based on a true story. Well, something that was almost true. It means a lot. There were 2000 words, I think. We just had to write whatever we wanted. And this was my entry:

Wednesday Evening

On Friday, the last day of school, someone is going to die. It could be anyone. It might be Nobody, also known as me. We don’t know who it will be but it’s definitely going to be someone and I am genuinely scared for my life. I shouldn’t be involved, but I honestly don’t regret that I am. And it’s all for a stupid boy.

I’ve never been in love before so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. I’m going to sound like a weird, hormone filled kid, just like every other teenager in the entire world, I know, but he doesn’t even notice me. Nobody ever notices me. I’m not going to go on about my undying love for him too much because it’s tacky and boring and that’s not what this is about. His name is Fidelio and he doesn’t even know I exist.

He is the reason why I might die Friday afternoon.

The important thing is, stuff’s been going on. Bad stuff. It’s supposed to be a secret but, naturally, everyone knows. The U-time crew, a gang of boys and men who used to be boys from the surrounding areas, is in trouble. For more than twenty years the U-time crew and the Nightingale hood, probably the most deadly gang in the entire area, have been engaged in the present tense form of mortal combat. I’m not going to lie and say I know anything about the Nightingale hood. I know absolutely nothing, but I know they’re dangerous.

Everybody knows that now.

Two weeks ago, Oliver Smithin and his small time U-time spin off gang jumped a small time Nightingale gang. Ever since then, Oliver Smithin’s small time gang have been ‘disappearing’, ‘reappearing’ in the hospital. And on Friday, with the last day of school a half day, something’s bound to kick off. Which would be fine with me. Except Oliver’s best friend is non gang member Fidelio. And Fidelio’s the one who’s going to get hurt. I know he is. That’s why I’m not fine with it.

Friday afternoon

I’ve never seen a fight in real life before. I’ve read books with fight scenes, I’ve seen the films. I’ve made notes on enough literate fight scenes to write a paper on it, but it’s not the same in real life as in books. It’s really, really not the same. In books, you cannot feel the pulse of the person next to you, thundering along at a thousand beats a second. In real life you can. In books, you cannot feel the surge of the crowd at your back trying to push past you. In the books, no matter how much you feel for the characters, they  are not real people. Fidelio was a real person.

I was a real person. Oliver was. The boy pointing a gun at his chest was. In the split second of reality we were all real and nothing else mattered.

But split seconds end, and so did this one.

I wasn’t even supposed to be here. I’d told my mum I wouldn’t be. But I couldn’t stop myself. Fidelio…

“Fidelio,” I whispered, my voice inaudible.

I grabbed Fidelio’s hand. He squeezed tight, but never took his eyes off his best friend. No body else did either.

“Let’s sort this out, Harry,” Oliver said, surprising me with his responsibility in the conversation. “Me and you. No one else.”

Harry sneered, turning the gun in his hand, the single, deathly finger still pointing at Oliver threateningly. He smiled.

“Ok then,” he said “Send your lot to the back,”

Oliver nodded and I could feel at least half of the people behind me reluctantly shuffle to the back, but Fidelio didn’t move. On the other side of the crowd, like a wave moving through the student spectator sea, the other gang moving away. Harry’s eyes fell onto Fidelio.

“He’s not U-time,” Oliver said “He’s allowed to stay.”

Harry nodded slowly. With his free hand, he pointed to me.

“You girl,” he spat “Other side.”

My heart was thumping inside my throat. I couldn’t speak with it stuck there.

“What?” I chocked.

“Stand on his other side,” Harry snapped “His right side.”

I slid quickly onto Fidelio’s right side. He wrapped his arm around me. In the single moment, I felt happy. Then I realised why I was needed. Unfortunately for Harry, Fidelio was left handed.

Davey’s birthday party.

You guys remember Davey, right? The mute french kid. Yeah, this is something I found not quite finished, so I finished it. Lucy and John talking about their son’s sixth birthday party, told from the POV of his father:

“John,” Lucy said quietly, not looking up from her vegetable chopping “Davey wants to have a birthday party for his seventh. And I was thinking that maybe he could have one this year.”

I looked down at the thing that had somehow birthed from my wife. Davey was playing with a train track my Dad had given him for Christmas a few years ago. You see, normal children his age would make the sounds, the voices of the people. Not the boy on my living room floor.

“A birthday party?” I sniffed, looking over my work again for no reason other than it was an excuse to get out of playing trains “Why would he want something stupid like that?”

“Well his friends are all having them now,” Lucy began.

“Friends … ha,” I muttered “Stupid kid ain’t got no friends,” I looked down at Davey again. He smiled back at me. I grinned “Hey, so what’s this about you wanting a party?”

Davey nodded quickly, putting the train down with an eager smile. I patted my lap, and Davey jumped up to sit with me.

“Now, I know all you’re friends are having party’s and stuff,” I said slowly “But what you really should know is that they only have parties because their mummies and daddies are meanies.”

Davey looked up at me, clearly confused. The poor moron couldn’t understand a window.

“The only reason they have parties is because their mummies and daddies want to look at all the kids. And then they find the best one’s and they snatch them.”

“John, don’t say things like that.” Lucy said.

I groaned “Ok, do you know how much a birthday party costs, Lucy?” I waited for an answer, but she gave me none. “Davey? Do you? How much does a birthday party cost?”

Davey looked up at me. I could tell he didn’t know. He was five. He wasn’t supposed to know how much a birthday party cost. With a weak smile he looked down at his hands, counting on his fingers before showing me ten didgits. I laughed.

“Ten!” I cried “Ten! If you can find a birthday part that costs ten franc you can have one.”

“John, for once it doesn’t matter about the bloody money!” Lucy snapped, “Stop being so tight!”

“Tight!” I yelled “Tight! Tight doesn’t put the money on the table. Tight doesn’t get you nice clothes. Tight doesn’t pay for this, this, this thing to go to private school.”

“Come on, John,” she said, begging almost “You always said you wanted him to be normal. Well, this is normal.”

“Normal!” I cried “He wouldn’t know normal if it walked and talked like you and I. Normal kids have friends. Normal kids play sports. Normal kids speak.”

Davey shifted uneasily on my lap, tried to slide off of my lap. I grabbed him.

Normal kids sit on their father’s laps.”

Davey didn’t move.

“Please, John,” Lucy said, quietly “It will be good for him.”

I sighed. Maybe she was right. And, and, I was fairly sure the thing on my lap’s birthday was some time in the spring. Perfect timing for any sympathy votes. Eventually, I nodded.

“Go on then,” I said “You’ll have a birthday party. And you will like it.”

A most bleak out look on life.

Write. Write something. Just write!

Obviously I found myself unable to write anything.

This is something I wrote a while ago. I’m not quite sure where I was going with it. There is no story line. It’s just a piece of writing, but I thought I should post it anyway, because I cannot write a thing today.

A most bleak outlook on life.

It rain’s everyday here. The rain plummets down from the sky. People say that they are god’s tears, for god has reason to cry, they say. They say god has reasons to cry, for we have corrupted the beautiful world which he made for us to live upon and enjoy, but I say god has no reason to cry, for god does not have to suffer. God does not have to live upon this world that is not wonderful nor beautiful. God does not have to live a life that is not a life but merely a schedule of things to do. So I do not say that the rain is God’s tears. I say that they are the tears of people past as they look down at the world that they have left and they look back at the memories which they would rather forget.

The rain that is tears pours into a grey world. Everything is grey. The green grassy plains that are drawn in children’s fairy tale world are now grey pavements that support the feet and worries of a thousand people. The green grassy plains are not real. The buildings lean tall and grey up into the sky like giants. They are like God’s loyal servants that are forced to look down on his undermined slaves. Their tall, outstretched hands reach up to the grey heavens that are not as heavenly as everyone says they are.

I have given up. I have given up on hope and on joy and on peace. A thousand wars rage against a world that has no sides. We are all the same and yet we hack at our enemy’s for their differences. And you only stir up the nonsense with the money stirring.

It seems impossible to think about the world in a way that is full of nothing but dismay, but I try to see the happiness in the world. I try to imagine a world where there is no crime, where there is no hurt and pain. To feel pain and swallow fear.

I try.

The disappeared

This one’s from a competition called The Disappeared from the British Red Cross. The idea was about people who had gone missing and was for National Missing Person’s day or something similar (30th August). I think my entry was ok. The problem I have is I always write from the wrong point of view. There was no word limit, only that the entry must fit onto one side of A4, which this following entry does. This was my entry for the Disappeared.

Mummy!

Hello Mummy! Can you hear me, please? It’s me! Daniel!

I miss you Mummy. Can I come back home soon please? Mr Sir won’t answer when I asked. He says it’s down to you. I don’t know what that means.

I miss home. I’ve got a bed and as many blankets as I want, but it’s not my

bed.

Can I tell you something secret, Mummy? I don’t think Mr Sir and his friends are English. They speak in a made up language, and like to talk about wee a lot which is gross, don’t you think so Mummy? They only speak in their wee- wee language to each other, to me they speak in English but their voices sound funny and I have to try not to laugh.

Mr Sir and his friends are nice. They’re weird and funny looking but they’re nice. They let me have ice cream, and sweets whenever I want. Sometimes it makes me sleepy though, but Mr Sir says that’s because I get too excited.

Sometimes we go down to the sea to see the boats. The house is really close to the sea, I

can see it from my bedroom window! So we go down there a lot. It looks so

pretty, Mummy. When you come to take me home we have to go to see it, together.

Mummy?

Don’t go Mummy! Mummy! Mummy…

 

It wasn’t the first time I’d had the dream. It wasn’t the first time I’d woken up from it, shaking. It defiantly wasn’t the first time I’d sat up all night in tears, scared to fall back asleep, to hear my little boy’s voice again. Because he was my little boy really … really.

Really…

They, the others, thought it was stupid. He was just another kid to them. They just wanted the money. It was never about the money to me. Daniel was like my own son. I’d had him for three years, near the beach on the southern coast. And when they took him away from me, locked me up here, I have never hurt so much in my life. He was my little boy.

I guess that’s how she felt.

The mother.

You would think a woman who hadn’t seen her kid in three years wouldn’t be allowed to have him back, but apparently when the child’s ‘kidnapped’ the rules changed. Daniel wasn’t kidnapped. He was happy where he was, with me. He got used to it. He … he … he …

No matter what I say I can’t convince myself what I did was right. But them, taking him away from  me, they didn’t do anything right ether.

He’s gone now. Disappeared…

I’ll get him back though. If she could do it, the mother, then I can…