Synaesthesia...

       Hey, merry Boxing Day, I hope you had an awesome Christmas/Hanukkah/winter, etc. I felt like writing lazily today, but I also wanted to get my teeth into something a little bit. I thought I'd try to explain how I see the world. Maybe you won't get this, because it's pretty abstract, I guess. Perhaps it will make perfect sense and will give a name to something you couldn't explain before, and didn't know was a 'thing'. 

      Also, I've sorted out the comment thing so that now anyone can comment. Please feel free to if you've found this in any way interesting. This is a completely true account of how I think of things, and hopefully I've worded it in a way which makes some shred of sense to at least one of you.

       I see things like they’re colours. There’s a name for it, but I can’t remember what it is. I don’t think I’ve explained myself very well; what I mean is, when I think of days of the week, months, numbers – whatever, my mind associates a colour with it. Wednesday is yellow, February is an icy sort of blue and the number two is red. Sometimes ‘two’ is big and red on a yellow background, but that’s not all the time.

            I swear, by the way – in case you were wondering, that I’m not under the influence of any alcohol or drugs – this is an ‘all-the-time’ thing. Synaesthesia. That’s what it’s called. There are other types – some people personify these things, rather than just let their mind colour them in.

            I place so much emphasis on colour; perhaps because of my ‘condition’, perhaps because I’m mildly obsessive-compulsive in my tendencies. I like to put coloured pencils and felt tip pens in ‘colour order’. My idea of colour order is essentially the order of the colours in the rainbow. Sometimes I like to start with red and move through orange, then yellow, through green then blue, purple, pinks etc. Sometimes I mix it up and begin with yellow; as long as it’s logical in my mind. Sometimes I spend minutes, sometimes ordering my stationary can take half an hour – there is no greater joy than getting a set of coloured pens of pencils which are already in the right order.

            I also eat sweets in colour order. Although, that tends to be flavour-based; unless it’s M&Ms.

            It’s not as uncommon as you might think and it’s not unpleasant. It only becomes unpleasant when something interrupts the order in which I place my colours; I hate so much when someone else uses my pens/pencils and put them back in the wrong places. I hate this for two reasons; firstly, it makes me physically uncomfortable to see colours in the wrong order – yellow should never go next to dark blue, green should not go next to red unless it’s Christmas. Secondly, I feel really awkward and regimented sitting there swapping them all over in front of them, so I have to be uncomfortable about the placement of my pens until I can move them. It’s fine if they’re in a pencil case as they move around by themselves, but if they’re in a line, it makes me crazy.

            The only thing about being obsessive about colour order for whatever reason, and also seeing things as colours, is that I get pretty irritated that I don’t see the days of the week, the months or number sequences in colour order. I can live with that in terms of months and numbers, which I’ll explain – months have more pastille colours than weekdays so the colours look far more pleasant together than Wednesday and Thursday do. Numbers are brighter colours, typically, so also look more pleasant together. In addition to this – numbers are rarely (past the age of 6 or 7( orange and purple)) placed in order of 1, 2, 3, 4 etc. Therefore, numbers present less of a problem in my mind because they jump around a lot. I should/could also mention here, that numbers don’t often remain still; they sometimes pulsate and expand and shrink. I think that comes under the same umbrella as seeing things as colours; like I said, there are different types of Synaesthesia.

            Going back to days of the week – they’re a sequence, and are written one after the other generally, or at least are thought of in order. This then becomes like the pen thing, where dark blue and yellow look awful and uncomfortable together in my mind. I think I said earlier that Wednesday in yellow; Thursday is a dark purple, so looks marginally better than dark blue would, but the yellow of Wednesday is murky and mustard like – not a nice canary yellow like the number one is.

            The honest truth about this is that if you don’t have Synaesthesia, you won’t really understand synaesthesia. This has probably been the best way I could describe and/or explain it, without getting super technical. The other truth, of course, is that I have very little clue as to the technicalities here; I think it’s to do with synapses in the brain interacting in abnormal ways – which is fun.

Life is so good with this much colour, and I can’t imagine a world where things weren’t colours; probably in the way that you can’t imagine which kind of crazy I see the world through.

         One last thing I will say is that I’ve seen things in this way since I knew what numbers and letters and colours were – so as far as I know, it’s not something you develop. The colours may have faded as I’ve gotten older, but that could be down to the day; sometimes colours are just more vivid. If only you could see the plethora of colours which I can see right now while I’m putting this into words. (Mostly it’s purple, but there are splashes of red and orange here and there, and bits of blue - it’s nicer than it sounds.) I will tack a quote I found when I was looking for the name of this which I totally got, and which made me feel pretty warm inside: '...Pat Duffy told her father, 'I realized that to make an R all I had to do was first write a P and draw a line down from its loop. And I was so surprised that I could turn a yellow letter into an orange letter just by adding a line." 

                Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy the rest of the festive season, Laura

                                               xoxoxox

Silence

     Hey! Here's a horror-y piece I did last year. I should clarify that when I say 'last year' I mean the last academic year. Actually, this piece was for the Hallowe'en week, so it was last year in both senses...whatever. Anyhow, I hope you like it, I was, and am, pretty pleased with it.

‘The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown’ – H.P. Lovecraft.

  

He crouched, in absolute quietude. It was so deafening that he could barely form a thought. After a moment or so, he became aware of small sounds, which would usually be an irritant to him. The plink, plink, plink of a cheap, ill-fitted tap over a presumably cheap, ill-fitted sink. There was laughter from the room beyond, and the sound of cutlery being made to dance over bacon and china. In a way, this indication that human life was so close was a comfort to him; however they didn’t take away from the fact that at any second, he could be ripped from behind the iron curtain in which he had found sanctuary.

                The world went dark; it had been for quite some time when finally, he awoke; stiff from crouching for so long. He wasn’t sure what had roused him at first, and could not completely remember why he was there to begin with. Then he heard the wailing of hinges as heavy footsteps entered the room. He held his breath. Eyes wide; sweat beginning to escape his pores. His limbs shook violently, threatening to throw him off-balance, revealing his position to whoever belonged to the footsteps.

                The being stopped almost right outside the stall he was occupying and, evidently unaware that he shared the space with anyone else, began to whistle something which could have been anything, and was quite clearly out of tune.  The sound was comforting to him, aside from being almost intolerable to the ear. His lungs released the stale air from within themselves, grateful for the fresh oxygen which was now filling them. The whistling stopped, The gentleman outside his dingy asylum zipped up his trousers and exited. Not bothering to wash his hands.

                He breathed a second sigh of relief, he was alone again, or so he thought. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. The room wasn’t well lit, mostly due to the fact that he was sitting inside a small cubicle in a dark corner; the whole bathroom had one broken bulb, one flickering bulb, and one dim bulb. The tiles landscaping the walls were at one time white, however they were now a murky colour somewhere between grey and egg-shell blue. The floor wasn’t any colour he’d ever seen before, but more an amalgamation of white, yellow, brown and most disturbingly of all; red.

                He began to relax a little bit, fidgeting to try and make his position more comfortable. That’s when I decided to alert him to my presence. I could tell he wasn’t expecting it at all, after all, I don’t make much of an entrance, and I can remain in the same position for hours, blending in with the surroundings, appearing as only a ripple in the light or a shadow in the darkness; sometimes people do a double-take, and on the second glance they scrutinise my general area as if they expect me to wave. As I dropped I gained substance, I landed on him with quite some weight to me, I felt him become rigid, felt his muscles tighten and his blood run cold. All the hairs on his body stood to attention and he tried to scream. The scream failed and all he managed was a squeaky whimper, and a tiny amount of urine escaped his bladder. He knew what to expect; we’d made our feelings clear to him from the start. We don’t do favours for free. He should have known that he can’t escape us; we see all, move through time and space, move through walls and mountains, pass through the core of the earth and feel no pain. We can tear a man limb from limb, and never feel remorse. So this is what I planned to do: take him out into the main part of the bathroom in which he’d taken refuge, and tear him apart, piece by piece, as if he were a simple child’s toy.

                ‘Please! Please, no!’ he wailed, as if it were going to help. I merely sneered in reply. His eyes were bulging now; I could see the terror mounting and feel it too, coming from his very heart, his veins, his sweat. He panted panicked pleas, apologies and empty promises. It was too late for all that. I began bounding his body to the air around him; stretched him out like the Vitruvian Man, he struggled against my invisible bonds, looking to his left arm, then his right, eyes ballooning as he felt my ropes boring into his wrists; seeing them draw blood even, but not actually witnessing them do the work.

                I was enjoying this. I fed off of his fear, turning it into pure ecstasy. He writhed and wriggled, trying to free himself from the trap I was creating just for him. I summoned some of my fiercest and hungriest demons. They gnashed their jaws at him, salivating. He howled, the way that humans so often do. Nobody in the room yonder heard a thing, nobody came to his aid; they were all too busy pouring bitter coffee into their already over-stuffed bellies.

                 I began by tearing open his shirt, revealing his fast inflating and deflating chest. Then I made small lesions, allowing his blood to escape, driving my minions to distraction, they began giggling with the anticipation of sinking their teeth into fresh human meat. I then began breaking the bones in his fingers, turning them to grit; I continued this all the way up his arms, through his chest and down his legs. I left his head alone, I wanted him to see this, actually feel and bear witness to the consequences of his betrayal. He vociferated his pain, as if it would make a difference. He was becoming desperate now, trying anything to make me stop. I considered it for a moment; leaving him there on the floor of the dirty bathroom, all his bones crushed to dust and bleeding from his bare torso, for some innocent person to find him, and probably vomit, ending up mentally scarred for the rest of their life. But I didn’t have any desire to upset innocent humans, so I dropped him from his shackles, giving my followers the signal that they were to begin their feast.

                They tore him limb from limb, spraying blood across the bathroom floor, intestines and bone dust leaked out, he screamed the entire time. Eventually, there was silence; apart from the plink, plink, plink of an ill-fitted tap, over a very ill-fitted sink.

            Hope you liked it! I may be a bit more absent than normal for a while; deadlines and whatnot, you know how it is.

             If I don't post between now and Christmas, MERRY CHRISTMAS GUYS! And happy New Year!

                                 Thanks for reading, Laura

                                                                xoxoxoxox

http://www.free4down.net/search/christmas-animals/

Deleted posts/ Jeff and the Giant Apple

       Hiya. I've unfortunately had to delete a couple of blog posts today - Awakening and How to Fight a Dragon - which is a big ol' shame, seeing as they were two of the most popular blog posts on here. Anyway, I had to take them down because I want to submit them for coursework, and it says in the guidelines that the work can't have been published in any way, shape or form, prior to submission, which I didn't consider when I posted them.*cry*

        I'm thinking I'll be putting them back up a while after I get the results back for them, which will probably be in February, and they're likely to be of a higher standard by then too. So, to make up for taking dragons away from you, here's a sci-fi-ish piece I wrote for my coursework last year, it's a bit Douglas Adams-y, because I love him and he is my literary hero. I called it Jeff and the Giant Apple, because we were told to write a story including 'an apple, a painter, and an abandoned castle.' This how my mind works:

The castle was chilly, damp and musty. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d been asked to do a  job in a decrepit, abandoned castle; they’d gone out of fashion in 2136, only a few years after coming into fashion. The problem with castles in general, is that nobody wants to eat a meal which takes at least half an hour to get to the table after being served. They tried in vain to come up with a solution; moving the dining tables closer to the kitchen – this only resulted in a rise in doctors’ appointments. Then they tried conveyer belts, but it turned out that they tend to move at about the same speed as people, and don’t move faster when shouted at. They even tried teleportation devices, which, apart from being a huge eye-sore, caused gargantuan fires, wiping out an entire generation of RoboMaids43Z. Eventually, they gave up on the whole escapade, leading to a massive increase in caravan sales.               

                He looked around, shuddered and then noticed something, or rather, nothing, because the thing he had noticed was that something was missing. There was no dust, cobwebs, or mould. He stood open mouthed for a while before reminding himself that a person who can afford a castle can probably afford a self-cleaning one. Just as he came to this realisation however, he saw a figure with an extremely bulbous head standing silhouetted against the doorway opposite him.

                ‘H...hello?’ the painter offered, not expecting a reply, at least not one in his own language. The reply which he at first thought he had imagined shocked him more than seeing the outline of the thing in the first place.

                ‘Ahh, hello, daahling! What is bringing you here?’ from this, the painter could deduct with near certainty, that the creature he was speaking with was female, mostly. ‘Don’t be shy, daahling! Would you like a pina colada?’ the painter stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape, not able to answer with anything more than a blink.

The creature began moving towards him, he considered running from the place screaming, but firstly, his legs would not move, despite all of his willing, and secondly, he was pretty sure that anything with a head that round would either have super-Martian speed, or an army who did all the running for it. Instead, he came up with the plan that it the thing got too close to him; he could shoot it in the face with his Paint-o-Matic Ray gun carbine 3000, which would at least give him time to get to somewhere near the front door.

Once the thing came into the light however, he realised that it was not a ‘thing’ at all, but an oddly proportioned woman wearing a somewhat abstract hat.

‘That’s a very, abstract hat’ blurted out the painter, not exactly knowing how the woman would react and wishing he hadn’t said anything.

‘This old thing? Thank you, daahling! I made it myself you know!’

‘Oh, you did?’

‘Yeees, I entered it into a competition once on saturn, when it won me first place for largest apple in the galaxy-‘

‘It is a very large apple’ observed the painter

‘Don’t interrupt me daahling! Where was I? Yes, when it won me first prize for largest apple in the galaxy, I didn’t want it to go to waste, so I emptied it and made 50 apple pies for the local laundrette and use the outside as a hat, it makes for very good storage you know. Now, about that pina colada...’

‘When you say storage-‘

‘Pardon daahling, oh, yes, I like to keep things in my hat, why at the moment, my little kitty cat is in there! Come out now Mr Nibbles! He’s very shy.’ She lifted up the apple to reveal a mass of bright orange hair, from which she lifted a tiny grey tabby. She now held the kitten out in front of her with her hands under his front legs. The painter had never seen a cat display such a range of emotions, anger, fear and confusion were among the mix, but it seemed that it was becoming more and more difficult to form expressions as its tiny head sunk into its shoulders and its body extended by the second. Eventually the woman put down the cat and it scurried away into the shadows, not to be seen again for some weeks. ‘Well, I won’t see him again for a while; it’s so much easier when I keep him in my hat.’ The woman sounded remorseful as she watched the cat scuttle away, but quickly turned back to the painter with a large grin ‘So, daahling, you never told me your name! And why you are here.’ It took a moment for the painter to register that he had to answer this.

‘Oh erm, I’m Jeff, and I’m here to paint.’

‘Very good, daahling! Yes, it’s the upstairs lavatory; it’s been such a boring shade of hot pink for so long, I really would like a change you know’

‘What colour were you thinking of changing it to?’ the woman considered for a moment, before returning her attention to him

‘I think what might be nice, is a little, apple green daahling, to match my hat, don’t you think?’ Jeff nodded, not really in agreement, it was more to do with the fact that he thought the woman was totally insane, and reasoned that if he were to argue with her, she might become quite unstable. ‘Now daahling, you still haven’t answered my question; would you like a pina colada?’

‘Erm, it’s a quarter past ten in the morning, isn’t it a little early for cocktails?’ Jeff asked meekly. The woman stared on and considered for a moment.

‘I could make it a mocktail daahling; I take out the pineapple and make it with apples instead?’

‘I think the idea of a mocktail, is that you take out the alcohol, not the fruit.’

‘Well where’s the fun in that daahling! Ok fine you have your way; you can have some fruit juice.’ She turned around and began to saunter off. Jeff began to follow her.

‘I’d rather tea, if you’ve got any.’

‘Daahling, I haven’t seen a tea bag since 2112’ Jeff turned around, dejected, if he was going to carry on being a painter in this day and age, he would have to start bringing his own tea bags. 

I hope you enjoyed this, I still like this one, so it must be a bit good.

Thanks for reading! Laura

                               xoxoxox

Elephant

       Hey, this is a bit of a deviation from my normality. It's not often I say I have normality either, so this is a day of firsts. What I was actually going to put on here to break my normaility, was to put on a list of my favourite films/books and whatever, under the assumption that you'd be remotely interested. Anyway, I was just procrastinating, again, and I stumbled across this video of an elephant who paints himself holding a flower. At first, it looks like he's just doing lines, but seriously, watch it all, because it's AMAZING! 

I originally saw it here:


but it's also on YouTube, here


I think that's all, I know I only posted yesterday, but I watched this with my mouth wide open, and had to share it. I hope this makes your day as awesome as it made mine, Laura
                                                                                                   xoxoxoxox

The Best Laid Plans...

             Hi! This is something I wrote last year, I kind of like the language in this one, and because it's pretty different to the other stuff I've put on here lately. It's something which I think could be quite good to develop because of the nature of the characters and the scope for parallel narratives. Anyway, I hope you like this piece, it's not like my usual, but it's okay :)

‘I really do love you, you know.’ He wasn’t sure if he’d intended to say this aloud, but oddly, he didn’t regret saying it.

                ‘I know, Tom’ She didn’t look at him, he was glad about this. Somehow, it would hurt more if she looked him in the eyes while he was telling her this.

                ‘It’s just, being here, when I look at you, it’s like you’re actually glowing, in the way that angels do, and while this probably isn’t what you want to hear, I need to say it. When I look down into the water, and I see you next to me, I know I don’t deserve you. Richard’s lucky to have you, he really is, I hope he knows that.’ She looked up at him this time and smiled.

                ‘How long have we been friends now, Tom? fifteen years? And you’ve been here for me more times than I can even count, I just feel like if anyone doesn’t deserve anyone, I don’t deserve you.’ It was true; he’d been as loyal as a dog, following her like a lost lamb, offering her a shoulder to cry on in the worst of times, and laughing with her in the best of times.

                ‘Just so you know though, your friendship is enough for me.’ There was some truth behind his words; he did feel lucky to have her friendship, though however hard he tried, he couldn’t convince himself that it was enough. He looked to the snowy ground beneath their feet. This forest had heard some of their deepest, most heart-felt discussions, it had watched them play through summers, seen them grow together. It had witnessed that kiss they shared once near the lake. Tom wondered if the trees knew how he felt about Jenna, and whether they wished as much as he did that she’d feel the same for him. He looked towards the lake which was now frozen over, the spot where they’d shared such a significant moment in their lives. The moment he fell in love with her more than he thought possible.

                ‘Richard asked me to marry him.’ He hadn’t seen that coming, mostly because he’d been so absorbed in the perfection of the past, but partly because they’d only been together for around six months, and he was under the impression he may still have time to win her for himself. ‘I said yes.’ In that instant, the whole world disappeared, falling into itself all around him, he wished it would engulf him; just take him away from the situation, he’d been so at ease up until that point, but now he was wounded, it was as though she’d covered a sword in salt and driven it into his chest, twisting as she went, smiling all the time.

                ‘Congratulations. I mean really, wow. When’s the wedding?’ he forced the words out, forced himself to sound jovial. To him it couldn’t have sounded more false.

                ‘Next June, well, this June coming I guess, I can’t believe how quickly this year has gone.’ She was more animated now, as if by telling him, she’d freed herself of some disgusting secret. 

               ***

                His first thought, when asked to stand for the bride, was not as he’d expected it would be. He’d imagined he’d be so overcome with grief at losing her to another man, one whom he disliked intensely. He was in fact taken over with such a blissful state of awe at her intense beauty in her ivory dress, sweeping along the ground behind her, that he could barely breathe. He was sitting near the front of the church, as she had requested. Throughout the ceremony, he didn’t hear a word, apart from the customary “If any person here present knows of any reason why these two people may not legally be joined in holy matrimony, please speak now, or forever hold your peace.” He looked at the side of her head and shifted in his seat, he could have sworn he saw her head twitch towards him, was this a warning, or a quiet plea? Did she want to be rescued? He imagined himself the hero, and Richard the villain, Jenna the damsel in distress. He imagined swooping in on a rope, vanquishing Richard and cutting the ropes which were entrapping Jenna with a huge, ruby and diamond handled sword, then riding off into the sunset on the back of a horse. The moment passed to speak up and he looked up in time to hear “You may now kiss the bride” and to witness the eternal loss of his princess.

                ‘Congratulations, I’m so pleased for you both, Jenna, you look beautiful.’ Well, it was half true and that was the best he could do at present. All of the guests were now in the grand hall of a grand manor house, about to eat grand food, and hear grand speeches, while drinking grand wine, and toast to the newly married couples’ grand life together. Tom was seated at a table with his, and some of Jenna’s, close family.

                Half way through the evening, while Tom was standing somewhere on the outskirts of the room, Jenna’s father stumbled across the room to him. He’d been drinking quite steadily since dinner and was at a stage of intoxication where he was going to be honest, but not within earshot of the person he was being honest about.

                ‘I’ve aaallways liked you, Tom.’

                ‘Thank you, sir’

                ‘And I’ve never liked that Richard bloke, bit of a dick, I remember once, when you were five, saying that one day, when you were nearly as old as me, you were going to marry our Jenna.’

                ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten that!’

                ‘I only wish things had worked out differently for you, Tom, you’ll always be like a son to me.’ And with that, he stumbled away, leaving Tom in a state of both shock and reminiscence. He wished more than anything things had turned out differently too, but he also knew that he couldn’t change or control who you fall in love with, or who falls in love with you. Besides, Jenna was happy, so shouldn’t he be happy for her? He abandoned the rest of his drink, and went to tell the newlyweds once again, how happy he was for them both.

                ‘Thanks again for coming, Tom’

                ‘It’s no problem, Jenna, I’ve had a blast, so sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to Richard, extend my thanks and apologies to him, won’t you?’ she smiled and took his hand in hers, leading him across the slowly emptying dance floor, towards the exit.

                ‘Of course’ she leaned into him and kissed his cheek.

                ‘Let me know when you land tomorrow, I don’t care what time it is’

                ‘Sure I will, have a safe journey home.’ They exchanged one last smile. He knew that now, their relationship would never be the same; they’d never walk through their forest again, past the willow trees, and the lake. ‘HEY!’ it was Jenna shouting to him from the doorway, framed there like something out of a dream. She ran across the gravel towards him and almost threw herself into his arms. ‘Don’t ever forget how much you mean to me, you hear me? Don’t you dare!’ She kissed his cheek again, for longer this time. Then she let him go. She stood and watched him disappear into the night, like a candle’s flame extinguishing in a gentle breeze.

                                   Thanks for reading, Laura

                                                                  xoxoxoxox

Grace

       Hey! This is hot of the press, I wrote it for this week's assignment. I think I could have done the end a little bit better but I hope it makes your head spin a bit, like I kind of intended. I wanted it to be a bit more 'sinister', because my last few things have been a bit more whimsical/sarcastic. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!      

 

                 ‘I’ve been in love with Grace for one year, two months, three weeks, two days and half an hour. I first saw her in the supermarket, then two weeks later in the gym. I saw her two more times in the supermarket, and then, I saw her in my mother’s living room.

                I was scared to look at her but I could hardly look away. My mother is used to me being quiet, but I think even she noticed something was a little off.  I hardly touched my dinner and was scared to drink my tea, in case I spilled it or dribbled it, or choked on it; then I’d look stupid in front of her and she wouldn’t smile at me anymore.

                She looked different when I saw her in October. It had been three months and I was starting to worry that she’d gone away. She’d styled her hair differently this time and her make up darker. She looked really beautiful, even though she wasn’t smiling. I wondered if she looked angrier because of something I’d done. I didn’t bother her this time, because she looked like she didn’t want to be bothered.

                I next saw her in December. She looked radiant; she was wearing a thick red jumper and was really beaming at me. I took her to lunch that day, and then back to my place, where I plucked up the courage to speak to her;

“You look really beautiful” I said, she only smiled in return. “That’s one of the things I like about you, you’re modest.” I told her. She was still smiling back at me, her face hadn’t changed at all but I didn’t mind. She had one of those really lovely smiles that brightened up the room. She was just so quiet; why wouldn’t she speak to me? “Tell me something about yourself” She still only smiled back. I didn’t know whether to be endeared or annoyed. We watched some TV together and then I took her for a walk to the park. We sat there on the bench for an hour or two, and then I went home, alone.

I felt bad about leaving her in the park, but then next time I saw her; in February, she was smiling at me again. She looked even more stunning now than she did in December – she was wearing a blue dress, it was a really nice blue too; it complimented her eyes and her skin tone perfectly. I wanted to take her out again that day, apologise for leaving her in the park like that; I think she’s the one, so I wouldn’t want her to ever think badly of me. Just as I was approaching her, another man took her away from me. I was crushed, because she’s mine.’

‘So what did you do then?’

‘Well, I followed them. I wanted to see where he was taking her, and what he thought he was doing, taking my girl away from me.’

‘Where did he take her?’

‘I don’t know. I decided that if she liked this guy, and he could make her happy, she should go with him. She might decide that she likes me better and come back to me. I’ve seen her around since, and she’s been smiling and wearing nice clothes; so I guess she’s happy.’

‘Okay, Adam, this has been a good session. I’ll see you again next week.’ I closed my notebook and left the room. Three assistant nurses were moving towards me, anxiety and the need for gossip deepening their crow’s feet and loosening their hairspray.

‘Well, what’d he say?’ asked the eldest, ‘He seems so…so normal, I can’t picture him doing what he did!’ They stood staring at me, expectantly, their eyebrows raised in encouragement.

‘Look. He firmly believes – or he wants us to believe that he firmly believes – that he simply let the guy walk away from the supermarket – ‘

‘What, he doesn’t remember the fight at all? But he bit chunks out of the guy’s arm!’

‘I know that, but judging by what he’s told me, he was in a different mental state to the one which he is in now. My guess is, he really doesn’t remember what he did to this guy, and after a couple more sessions; I think I might be confident enough to swear it in court.’

‘Wow. Imagine if a bloke would react like that to you, Susie! It’d be scary, but really romantic too. You know, in a psychopathic sort of way. So, what does this girl look like?’

‘Well, you can see her in just about any newsagent’s, supermarket, basically; anywhere that sells magazine.’

‘What? Why?’

‘She’s Grace McEllen. He saw her photo on the front of a magazine, and constructed an entire narrative in his head; wherein she was his girlfriend and not just a photo on the front of a magazine. So, I’ll catch you ladies at lunch? I have my 2 O’clock now. Bye.’ I turned on my heel and left them standing there gawping. You’d think that working in an institute such as this would make them more ready for that sort of story. Evidently not.

I hope you liked it!

                            Thanks for reading, Laura.

                                                             xoxoxoxox

Badgers

        Hey everyone, how are you doing? I wanted to share this, because I don't write poems often, and I liked how this one came out. I wasn't able to submit this as a coursework entry because it's not prose, but I wanted people to see it, because, let's be honest, who doesn't like whimsical poems about badgers? Right? so, with that being said, I hope you guys enjoy this, because I had so much fun writing this.

I took some pictures one fine day,

I took the pictures all the way,

They will help me to remember, that odd day in late September.

It started when I leaped from slumber,

And began to sing a number,

From my favourite west-end play, I sing it each and every day.

I went outside to take some pictures,

Appreciating nature’s fixtures,

I went inside and got my Kodak, and put spare batteries in my rucksack.

I took a picture of a tree, 

I took a picture of my knee,

I took a picture of a cat and then I put it in a hat.

I took a picture of a mouse,

I took a picture of his house,

I took a picture, then one more, and put him on my kitchen floor.

I took some pictures of the lake,

I took a picture of a cake,

I ate a slice and then another, then I took some for my mother.

I took a picture of a dog,

And then some of a sinking bog,

My lost my wellies in the mud and then my feet went slap, slap thud.

I took a picture of a pie,

And then I threw it at the sky,

When it crashed back to the ground, I crept away without a sound.

I took a picture of some honey,

I took a picture of my money,

I had about a pound that day, and spent it on a bale of hay.

I took a picture of a cloud,

I took a picture of a crowd,

I wondered what they were crowding for, and saw it was a tiny door.

I took a picture of the door,

It was blurred, I took some more,

Then I saw the door had vanished, and I thought that I’d been banished

To another world it seemed,

Unless I’d entered some strange dream,

For I was standing in a field, holding a great copper shield.

A badger ran up and bellowed,

‘HELP US, HELP US! MY DEAR FELLOW!’

I pulled out my sword and off we went, to a great big yellow floating tent.

I hopped inside and all I saw,

Were rows of badgers, ceiling to floor,

I tried to pause to take a picture, but was met with waves of stricture.

I was taken near the centre,

And told not yet to enter,

The ring which was drawn slightly wonky, and contained a sleeping donkey.

They poked him with a metal rod,

And slapped him with a fresh caught cod,

When he finally awoke, he coughed and spluttered, began to choke.

Eventually he caught his breath,

And told me that his name was Seth.

I nearly offered him a carrot, but the badgers told me ‘he’s fed parrots!’

I was challenged to a duel,

With what was actually a mule,

I put one foot into the ring, and then wondered why I should fight the thing.

The badgers then began to say,

What had happened one dark day,

The mule had come from some strange land, and told them theirs could be as grand.

He said he’d make their rivers shimmer,

As if they were looking through a mirror,

But instead he ate their food, and spent his days in foul moods.

When it turned out he had lied,

The badgers all sat down and cried,

Now they had no food to eat and the mule had broken all their seats.

‘Before I fight him,’ I told their leader,

‘I’ll photograph the little bleeder’

Snap flash! Snap flash! My camera went, lighting up the massive tent.

This threw the mule into a tizzy,

So fighting him was rather easy,

It only took some forty seconds, without the use of any weapons.

We lead the mule into a cage,

He did not even show us rage,

I took a picture of him inside, he tried to kick, his hooves were tied!

We sent him back to whence he came,

He said ‘I’m sorry, so ashamed’

The badgers noisily rejoiced, and many, many thanks were voiced.

I took some pictures of the badgers,

I took some pictures of their ladders,

We had a feast upon the hill, and hung bright flags from the windmill.

When morning came I went back home,

And told the story to a gnome,

He laughed and asked if he could see the pictures of this crazy dream.

I took my camera from its baggage,

Whilst munching on a tasty cabbage,

I pressed ‘view mode’ and nearly died, for there had been no film inside.

         Thanks for reading, I hope you liked the bathos at the end of this. (Just in case you didn't know, bathos is the feeling of being let down, typically at the end of a story.) 

                                               Laura

                                                       xoxoxoxox