Friday, 10 February 2012

Story time!

Hi guys!

I'm not sure why, but I seem to be getting a lot more hits recently, anyone else experienced this? It's enough to make me wonder if my link got posted elsewhere or something. Whatever the reasons though, hello to you all and it's nice to have you here!

Not a great deal going on for me at the moment, which I suppose is as disappointing as it is pleasing in many ways, so here's a slither of the story I'm still writing. Getting there slowly but surely...

The guard’s head was almost uncovered now; his arms had loosened their grip.
“Look at me,” Mark said. “LOOK.”
The guard smothered his head again. Mark raised his right foot high and brought it down hard on his ankle. The guard whimpered. The mood had changed from rabid to calculated. Chris was taking mental notes, Ricky was motionless and held the coldest stare he could muster.
The guard tentatively looked up, revealing a greenish bruise on his cheek and a split lip. He was greeted with Mark’s deep, penetrative eyes behind the black mask; he didn’t dare look to the other two boys for fear of angering Mark.

Quickly and without apparent thought, Mark’s empty left hand palmed the forehead of the guard, holding his face steady for an ugly, vicious blow with his right. A second and third followed, the object in his right slipped further from his grip to protrude and cause increasing damage. Each time his hand raised to wind up another hit, it left an impression in the guard’s face as though it were made of dough. His skin was changing colour from greenish bruising to deep crimsons, greens and blues. Bloody gashes looked almost black against his natural, unharmed skin and creamy beige formed marbled pools in the deepest of his wounds. Mark’s fist and the object within were stained a dark red from the first impact.
The damage was severe but the guard was silent. He was conscious but his head was spinning and his mind twisting in on itself.

Mark kept hold of the man's forehead with his left hand, allowing Chris to throw his left foot out and swipe at the man’s jaw from the opposite side, sending it drastically off kilter from the rest of his face. The guard was now unconscious. A conclusion had been reached. His head rested limp in the left hand of Mark; his eyes half-closed and glassy, his left was deep and bloodshot.
Chris kicked again with his left, jabbing rather than hooking this time, up into the nostrils of the man. Mark dropped the man's head and let his limp body slump prone against the wall, staring at nothing.

“C***,” said Mark. “Come on, let’s go.”
The boys silently walked away from the guard and past the fire exit. Mark picked his bag up and put the object he had been clutching back in.
“What was that?” Ricky asked, breathless.
“Rail screw.”

It's unedited (apart from the swearing) and part of a first draft, so go easy on spelling/grammar and I tend to repeat words by accident sometimes! I know this bit doesn't make much sense out of context, but I'd like to know if it seems too violent, or not violent enough perhaps. I aimed for realism rather than sensationalism, but everyone sees the truth differently and I wouldn't want to only represent myself if possible.

Anyway, thanks again for everything and hello to all my new (and old) readers!

Sunday, 22 January 2012


Cancelled ticket to Paris as I'm feeling suicidal. Will hopefully get through ok and pick up another in about six weeks, just need to fix up a little.

 99% of the time I'm unhappy but not suicidal. I hope I don't kill myself when I'm in that one percent.

I genuinely don't believe I will. As long as I believe that I don't feel unsafe, just scared.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

Quick Post.

Hello all!

First off all, I'm sorry I still haven't written back to those who wrote to me a while ago. I will get around to doing so, I promise!

Second, I'm not at all well. The daylight is scaring me and the night times are lonely. When the day isn't scary I get scared that I wasn't scared, and when the nights aren't lonely I wish they were. Nothing is making me happy at the moment, least of all myself.

I have a couple of promising work meetings coming up, which is lovely as I really enjoy them even when nothing comes to fruition financially. I have been selling and saving and have amassed almost enough to take off on my voyage. When I do, I will start a new blog and post the link here. I would simply post here about it all, but I want to be able to keep in touch with friends and family through it and I'm not comfortable with people I know seeing and reading what I've written to you guys. The other blog will be more cheerful, although not dishonest if possible.

As I said, I will speak to you all soon and put special care into the messages to the select few who have a been so generous with their time to me over the past month or so.

Next time I speak to you, it will be the night before I leave (around two weeks from now) and I will tell you how I'm feeling about my trip and what I plan to do on it.

Hope you're all well!

Thursday, 29 December 2011

The Plan

Sounds a lot more dramatic than it is, calling it "The Plan", as I'm planning some kind of Frankenstein experiment or a bank heist or something. The truth is, in case you don't remember or couldn't follow my 11-post explanation, the plan is this:

1 - Acquire money.
2 - Fuck bitches. Purchase open return coach ticket from London to Paris.
3 - Pack bag with one set of casual clothes, one suit, a laptop and any remaining money.
4 - Arrive at destination as early as possible, try to meet people who will let me crash for the night.
5 - Hitchhike somewhere else.
6 - Repeat 4 & 5 while working from my laptop and attempting to use my suit to open doors to fancy parties and cool jobs.
7 - Attempt to continue until I have enough money to actually rent a room.
7a - Come home
8 - Live the life I dream of rather than the one I've been dealt. Ideally be happy, but probably be marginally less unhappy.
8a - Be unhappy, try again some other time.

Ok, so step one is FINALLY out the way. I have around £100, which is enough for the ticket I want and about £10 spending money. In case you aren't familiar with our currency, £10 is not a lot of money. I currently spend £15 a week on food and that's considered pretty frugal by my friends.
The suit thing is optimistic at best, I'm not really expecting to get anywhere just because I look smart, but I do have faith in my ability to talk my way into and out of sitiuations (albeit in my native tongue, English) and so I'm hoping the suit will just make me feel good about myself while I do so. Shallow, I know, but why should I hide my shallow side? It's no great flaw to have flaws, and I shan't be kidding myself about mine.
Nor will I say "shan't" again.

I'm scared, terrified even, that this will become another failed adventure. Another desperate swipe at happiness that leaves me reeling when it fails. Even scarier though, is that I might succeed and become the novelist and journalist I want to become, living in the cities I want to live in with the people I love, and still be desperately unhappy.

I don't write about Depression much anymore, but only because I've run out of superlatives for how awful I feel.
Many of you will have experienced reactive depression, it's incredibly common considering how little it's spoken of, and it can be a crippling mess of a condition. It's the punch-in-the-gut strife that surrounds you like a hot bleach shower as you get your mind around some bad news, and it's the completely apathetic, empty, hollow zero-ness that comes with a terrible realisation or anti-epiphany. The events that cause reactive depression don't have to be typically "depressing" like a failed relationship or losing your job. It's the perceived scale of the problem that's important, not the scale based on the norm.

Short-term bursts of this feeling can be triggered by small things that have latched themselves in like a rusty key insisting on opening a creaky, cobwebbed door. This isn't reactive depression, it's just a similar feeling on a short-term basis.

My bleach showers come when I see a particular type of sunset, have contact with one of a few people (one of whom is possibly my best friend in the world), come across in-depth references to guilt and shame, I do something that I feel isn't authentic. I find these come crashing into me when I least expect it, although episodes don't usually last more than an hour or two. I'll often think of self-harming or have suicidal thoughts during these moments.
Incidentally, this is what I believe Winston Churchill meant by his "black dog".

My bedridden emptiness comes when I spend too much time with people, when I return from any traveling/journey over about an hour, when I have to speak to people about myself. I like talking about myself to be honest, but I just don't like having to do it.
I don't like having to do anything.
It's these moments that aren't so short term, occassionally last weeks at a time. I'm ok right now, but I can feel myself buckling, it's a little scary but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't comfortable when extremely depressed. These may be the times when I'm harming, thinking of suicide and hating me, the world and you, but there's a safety in the independence of depression. I can do whatever I fucking want, and if anyone notices, I don't care. It's completely careless. It's strange, you'd think carelessness would bring happiness and the freedom I'm always harping on about, but it's not the same carelessness. It's not carefree, which suggests I'm choosing not to care, it's careless, which to me suggests I don't have much say in it. It happens to me and I make the best of it while I can. I'd certainly rather be a selfish prick than a crying one. Sometimes anyway.

I hope to leave for Paris by the end of January. I'll keep you posted.

Also, I received two lovely comments on my last post and I didn't get around to reciprocating or even publishing. I've just been busy with Christmas and the like, and I will get around to publishing and replying to the relevant people soon, promise!
I think it's The Beholder and GB, who happen to be two of my favourites on this whole site anyway, so that's just plain nice.

Hope you all had merry Christmasses and will have happy new years! See you on the other side.

Friday, 16 December 2011

Amy and Chris

Well I wrote this about three weeks ago now, but it's set on Christmas eve and I'm feeling very festive so here it is! A little back story, although I like to think it's not overly neccessary, is that Chris and Amy have been together for a few years and are cuddling on the morning of the 24th December. 

As always, this is the first draft and hasn't even been proof-read or spellchecked, so bear with me if it's a little scrappy here and there!

The couple lay on Chris’ bed for nearly an hour with the TV on, chatting, cuddling, kissing and more. ‘Home Alone 2’ played quietly in the background, with both Amy and Chris occasionally glancing over and giggling, there hips still close.
Their time together ended with a shared “I love you” and the warmest embrace of the winter so far. She rested her head on his chest; his heart was beating in her ear and his arms wrapped around her shoulders, twizzling her amber hair. Her natural smell filled his lungs with every inhale and his stomach knotted itself as she traced eights over his belly button.

Amy took a slow, deep breath and looked up to her boy, pulling a face close to puppy-dog eyes, that in reality was just an attempt to make him love her even more.
“I better grab a shower then,” she sighed. “My dad’ll want be back in time for dinner.”
Christmas Eve dinner was a big deal in the Vine household, although not as big as Christmas itself. Christmas itself was when Mrs. Vine really pulled out all the stops.
“Ah, ok then babe, go on. I’ll be in in a sec,” Chris said with a smirk. He’d told the same joke dozens of times over the years and it never got old, to him at least.
Amy barely acknowledged the comment, knowing he wouldn’t come in while his mum was awake.

Amy stood in the shower while the waterproof, wall-mounted CD player echoed out a compilation album she’d made and left at the house. Chris’ mother, Jan, didn’t mind Amy’s ever-presence, she even enjoyed have a girl around the house sometimes and prided herself on how welcome Amy appeared to feel.
Chris, still laying in bed, had taken his moment’s privacy to check his phone. He’d noticed it vibrate as the two were getting ready for bed the previous night but didn’t want to check in front of Amy. He swiped the screen and saw it light up with the name Kristy.

“haha i kno! Aneway im goin to sleep now bbz, txt me tomo! night sxc ;) xx”

Chris felt a small screw tighten in his stomach, where Amy had tied knots with her delicate tracing earlier.

“only jus got your txt, sorry! have a good day today babe, speak soon ;) x”

He wrote his text quickly and with the same frenetic excitement that he got from painting trains. His thumbs almost shook with nerves and his breathing became laboured until it had finished sending. The screw in his stomach was now clinging onto all around it as it ploughed deeper and his mind felt heavier and heavier as his gut churned over.
The water stopped falling in the bathroom.

Chris locked his phone and pushed it back under his pillow, he could hear Amy’s feet thud one by one out of shower and onto the linoleum flooring. He heard, almost amplified by a panic he’d grown to expect when texting Kristy, the whip of a towel being pulled from a radiator. The music stopped.
“My turn yet?” Chris called.
“Yeah, sorry if I was ages!” Amy replied.
“Nah it’s cool babe, you weren’t!”

This is the first we hear of Kristy, and we go on to learn that her and Chris are sleeping together.

On a side note, are you all feeling Christmassy? I personally can't wait! I'll be helping my mum cook Christmas dinner, playing the role of a sous to her self-important head chef, but I love it! One downside is that I've had to more-than-halve my food budget for the last month to afford gifts, but at least it's kicked me into that diet I've putting off!

Enjoy, and criticism is encouraged and appreciated!

Thursday, 24 November 2011

About time...

... I used a Churchill quote on here! 

"Play the game for more than you can afford to lose... only then will you learn the game."
-Winston Churchill.  

 I love this one so much; I think it's a valuable lesson. 
People are too scared to lose what they believe they have, when really they'd have so much more (and so much of genuine worth) if they just risked everything once in a while. The big bets pay off more, and losing out in life only leaves you at rock bottom, and where better to start again than from rock bottom?

On another note, progress with my book is as well as I expected, not perfect but not bad either. I'm nowhere near the word count I'd hoped, but I'm pleased with the quality at least to a degree I'm comfortable with for a first draft.

Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends! 

Sunday, 13 November 2011

Let's backtrack a little..

Ok, so the writing is going slowly but well, at least I think it's going well.

The only chunks I've been posting before were following one character, Chris, and his escape from a chase. Running simultaneously to the chase, was this -

Chris was a long way from his home in London. He’d met with Thomas, his friend that didn’t run, at their local train station at midnight so they could jump over the barriers and make the journey south for free. Thomas was already drunk when they met, having just stolen a crate of lager from a nearby supermarket for the two-hour trip.
The two boys were well versed in overnight outings and whiling away the hours until the return train in the morning. Chris had spent almost two hours preparing for the night: charging his phone, labeling his equipment, layering his clothes, updating his iPod. Thomas had a less thorough process, relying more on lager for comfort through the cold.
Thomas hadn’t run when the police had cornered them at the mouth of the alleyway. He knew that running was right, but he also knew that the conditions of his bail would mean going down without a fight reduced the risk of prison. Combing through his scraggly blonde his hair with a frustrated sigh, Thomas silently looked at the officer that stayed with him, and presented his wrists for cuffing.

He didn’t know how far Chris had managed to run, and so asked the officer as they lowered his head into the car.
“What’s going on with the other matey?” he asked.
“We’ll deal with him separately, thank you.” came the reply. He wasn’t sure what to take from this, but he knew he’d have time to think. A bag full of spray paint, a camera full of evidence and a wallet full of ID ensured a lengthy interview and as much of the 24-hour detainment allowance the police could pretend to need.
Slowly, and without sirens, the police drove to the local station. Thomas looked keenly out of the window and, long after the house which Chris had chosen, saw two policemen jogging towards a man wearing black. A moment of disappointment was short-lived before he realised it wasn’t his accomplice.

“Is that the bloke that ran?” he asked.
“We’ll deal with him separately,” came a firmer response. “So don’t worry.”
Thomas knew what to take from the exchange this time; the police thought they were on top. He knew better than to allow himself another exchange, and even tried to maintain a downtrodden mindset to prevent a telling smile. He knew it was time to assume a character for the evening, but he needed to decide which angle to approach.
Should he admit everything? Should he lie through his teeth? Should he cry? Be arrogant? Amiable? “No comment.”?
He knew he had an hour or two to gauge the type of police officers he was dealing with, and several hours alone in a cell to cement his plan in his mind before the interview.

It also came to my attention that the account I signed up for this blog with is under the name "Chris".
That's not my name, and Chris (in the book) does not represent me, it's just the name I jumped to when I started writing! Same goes for Thomas, he doesn't represent anyone in real life. The story and characters, while based heavily in reality, are a mash of several events and people, with a healthy dollop of fiction thrown in.
This isn't an auto-biography, it's not even a semi-fiction, it's just fiction. I hope that doesn't spoil it for anyone!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy (as much as one can enjoy an out-of-context excerpt from an unfinished amateur book) and as always, criticism is welcomed and encouraged!