Chameleon Device (Some Writing)

While there are plenty of interesting things happening in my life at the moment, none of them are the sorts of things that I plan to be blogging about. I've also been very very busy, or at least very very lazy and haven't been doing any writing.

But apparently some people enjoy reading my writing (you guys are freaks! jk) so I thought I'd just post something short and a little bit old to keep you satisfied until I write something new.

This piece (it's called Chameleon Device) is probably about 2 years old now; I think I wrote it at school but really, who knows? My memory's not that good! The main background knowledge that you need is that "INH" stands for "Insert Name Here" i.e. INH is the name I'm using for the character in this story, who has no name yet.

The other thing that is important is that I think I may have been experimenting with the thesaurus when I wrote this, so please forgive me. (If that doesn't make much sense, just get on with reading it and I'm sure you'll understand. It full of exciting words like "dirigible".)

One last disclaimer: I actually kind of hate it. The first paragraph isn't bad, I guess, but the radio conversation is just ridiculous.

Just read it already, okay? :

The chameleon device on the pedal-chute was independent of that on the carrier ship, so INH flicked the switch to “on” the very second that her vehicle began to plummet from the open floor of the military dirigible. All military pedal-chutes were fitted with the chameleon device, a useful gadget that imitated the physiological phenomenon that made its reptilian namesake famous. When it was turned on, the vehicle was rendered virtually invisible, although it was detectable in other ways such as infrared cameras. INH pedalled a few times to unfurl the huge wings of her pedal-chute. They caught the wind and she began to coast gently to the earth below.
‘Pedal-chute 5, come in, over,’ crackled the radio.
She picked up the microphone, turned a few knobs and replied, ‘this is pedal-chute 5, launch successful, over.’
‘Pedal-chute 5, status report,’ it crackled again after a short pause.
‘Currently coasting on minimum pedals, ETA to ground ten minutes, over.’
‘All pedal-chutes, you have your instructions. Good luck. Over and out.’

Hope you survived.

As always I appreciate any feedback - feel free just to comment with something completely random if you like, at least I'll know that you read the blog. (Obviously actual feedback is preferred.)

I promise I'll write something better for next time.

♥Nancy♫

Walking at Night

This is what I did at uni today. I had a philosophy lecture so naturally I had to write something.

Read (or not, whatever):

Tonight the moon is big and bright and yellow, hanging low in the sky. It’s fairly warm and that light illuminates the world at this dark hour. I’m walking down a street, passing slowly by parks and houses. The electric glow of the street lights is harsh compared to the moonlight. My right hand is a little cold. But my left hand is warm, my fingers entwined with those of another. It’s midnight, the witching hour. I can’t help but start to imagine all sorts of fairies and magical creatures coming to us, to greet us in the night, to play in my hair and tease us both as they flutter about. They don’t come. Of course they don’t come. I don’t really expect them, they’re just silly fantasies, but tonight’s the sort of night that could almost make me believe they might. The world stays quiet. The only sound is the occasional hoot of an owl, the chirp of crickets and our footsteps on the road. A shadow bounces across the street, too big for an owl.

“What was that?” I ask. Some internal voice asks me why I’m so nervous.

“I don’t know. Bird, maybe?” my companion replies. He gives a casual shrug.

I grip his fingers more tightly. An owl hoots. I catch myself before instinct has me looking around wildly for it.

I’ve barely begun to say, “where?” when he points with his left hand. In a tree to our right sits a little brown owl. Its eyes glow yellow like the moon. Surely something that small couldn’t have cast the shadow I saw. It hoots again, a perfect repetition of the last sound. I give a little sigh and loosen my grip. A sudden chill breeze slices through the warm, still air. I shiver.

“Are you cold?” He drops my hand. “You can wear my jacket.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I insist.

But he’s taken off the jacket already. I do feel better with it on. Better still when seconds later he takes my hand again. It’s strange how lonely I feel until he does. From the corner of my eye I see a flash of white-or-silver. I whip my head around to look but somehow I’m too slow. He doesn’t notice, so we keep walking. A moment later I see it again, white-or-silver moving impossibly fast. Was that a tail?

“Did you see that?” I whisper. I’m gripping his hand so tightly it must be hurting.

“No, I didn’t see anything. Are you okay?”

He’s so calm, so rational. There’s nothing there, just a little owl, just the yellow moon low in the sky.

“Of course, it was probably just a cat... or something.”

I breathe deeply and relax my grip again. We’re still walking, we haven’t stopped, ambling comfortably down the middle of the deserted road. Around us are houses, some tall, some small. Most of them have big, beautiful gardens and satellite dishes upon the roof, the white curves poking up through the trees. The forest of houses is buried in a forest of trees. Suddenly: clip clop, clip clop! The sound of hooves is unmistakable. As I look all around it fades into the distance. I realise I’ve stopped walking and dropped the hand of my companion.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, reaching out his hand, which I take. “Are you scared?”

“Did you hear a horse? I heard clip clops!”

“Are you sure? I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Oh,” I say.

He quickly adds, “I’m sure you’re just tired. Don’t worry.”

When he smiles and squeezes my hand, I smile back. I feel safe. At least I do, until again I hear hoof-beats, louder this time, and see another flash of white-or-silver through the trees. I’m sure I see a tail this time, it must be a tail. Then it’s gone and I find that I’ve stopped walking again, that I’m trembling and being watched with wary eyes by my worried friend.

“Did you see that? Did you hear it?”

“I didn’t see or hear anything. Look, we’ll be home in a minute. Can you stay calm until then? Stop freaking out?”

“But I’m sure I saw...” I sigh. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just ‘cause it’s so late. Let’s go.”

I reach for his hand and take it yet again. Somehow it still seems comforting; I start to worry that perhaps next time it won’t. We turn another corner and I find that we’re suddenly in our street, just out of sight of the house we share with three others. The gardens are smaller down our street, the satellite dishes reduced to more old-fashioned antennae, but the trees still feel like a forest. Hoof-beats fill my ears again; determinedly, I continue walking. This time when I look it’s there, clearly there for me to see on my right, just for a split second but definitely there. It’s white-or-silver, with a tail and a mane. I blink and it’s gone again. I nearly leap out of my skin when an owl hoots. My companion squeezes my hand, holding my fingers tightly and safely. I try to smile but on the inside I’m terrified.

“Look, we’re home,” he says, reassuringly, even though we’re still four houses away.

As home draws nearer I find myself getting more and more nervous. Our house-mates have forgotten to leave the light on for us; with his left hand, my companion pulls his keys out of his pocket, preparing to open the door with only the yellow moonlight by which to see. We reach our house, the one in the left corner of the cul-de-sac, and step up onto the grass. A few paces and our feet find the stepping stones leading through the mini-forest that is our front garden. We let go of hands so that he can unlock the door with his right one, and once more the sound of hoof-beats - clip clop, clip clop - fills my ears. I turn away from the house and I look. And there it is, standing proudly on the neighbour’s lawn. It’s white-or-silver body is glowing almost gold in the light of tonight’s yellow moon. It’s almost a horse. Almost, except for that long, thin horn, glittering like starlight and radiating magic. I’m distracted from its beauty by the sound of the lock clicking open. My companion is waiting with the door ajar, beckoning for me to enter with him. Breathless with fear and excitement, I turn back to gaze once more upon the unicorn. It’s gone. I stare into the dark night, trying to find it. Where could it have gone? A cloud starts to pass over the low-hanging, yellow moon. The unicorn is definitely gone. There’s not even a sparkle left behind. With a sigh - I can’t decide if it’s relief or sadness - I turn away and go inside.

Okay, that's it.

So, thoughts? There's a few clichés in there which I decided were unavoidable (thanks Luke & Jess for trying to help). Umm... yeah. So obviously this was another attempt to improve my use of the first person. It's kind of a cute little piece I think. I was trying for suspenseful but I'm not sure I managed that.

To use another cliché, this one sourced straight from myspace: comments plz.

♥Nancy♫

P.S. As always it doesn't have a title. Suggestions?

Stabby Violence, Yay!

I don't concentrate in philosophy lectures. Last semester I drew a lot of pictures - they’re in an album on my facebook if you're interested, but I'm not a great artist (not even mediocre), so don't feel that you're missing out if you haven't seen them. This semester though I've mostly been writing when I'm not listening to the lecture, which is good because it's much more productive. Also, I don't know if you've noticed this but lately I've been very violent, and I think this is coming through in my writing because on Thursday in philosophy I wrote the draft of this story.

Anyway, enough introduction, here's the story:

The alley is dark; there’s no moon tonight; I can just see my surroundings from the dim glow of the street light outside the alley. It’s dark and dank and dingy. What’s worse is the smell. It’s a combination of dead things and the odour of the stale water that’s dripping from the skewed lid of a garbage can. The sound of footsteps reaches my ears, starts to fill me with the confident rhythm of his walk; he’s right on schedule. I guess it’s him from the sound of the footsteps, but even with that clue I know it’s him before his dark figure enters my line of sight. It’s the smell of cologne that does it. I always hated his cologne. Right now I can’t remember a time when I was more nauseous. Hiding’s easy in the alley. There’s no shortage of old crates, of trash cans, and a stinking blue dumpster behind which I’m crouched. The metal staircase is at the back of the alley. There’s no way he can get there without passing right by my hiding spot, and right by me. It wouldn’t be the first time. If he discovers me? I’m not worried about that. I’ve waited here like this before. Twice before, in fact. That makes this the third time he’ll walk right by me, oblivious to my presence, and go up the stairs. It’s the same every time. He never knocks on the door. I wonder if maybe he used to, when it first began, and they’ve merely abandoned the formalities now. I guess I’ll never know. And anyway, it’s different tonight. Things are about to change. I step out before him and he stops, shocked.

“Hi honey,” he says, his voice an octave high, maybe even two. “What are you doing here?”

I stay silent and concentrate on stopping the shudder of disgust that threatens to shake through me. He sickens me. He’s got his stupidest fake smile on, the sort that he usually reserves for real estate agents, used car salesmen and, of course, me. But there’s fear behind those eyes. My lips twitch into the tiniest of smiles. What I have planned is going to feel fantastic. “Honey?” he says again.

He holds out his hands for mine. I ignore them. I bring my own hands out from behind my back. It takes him too long to realise what I’m holding. What is it? A wedding present from an unimaginative friend. A huge, sharp, butcher’s knife. It glints menacingly in the gloom for a moment. And then I can’t see it anymore; I can hardly see anything. He attempts to defend himself, to push away the knife. He tries to grab me and hold me still. All his attempts fail. For once I am powerful and he is powerless; he’s powerless to stop my movement, my motion, my momentum as I lunge forward and plunge the knife into him. It’s difficult - I didn’t expect it to be so hard. He falls to the ground and I collapse there with him, over him, pushing the blade further into his abdomen. His flesh seems to slice easily but it’s the other parts, the inside parts, that resist. And despite that resistance I push and push and push and the blood starts to splash out, pouring over my hands and wrists and dripping everywhere. That red, red liquid; it’s flowing so fast, spraying over me. I lick my lips and I can taste it, that hot, metallic taste. It’s his life in liquid, and I’m tasting it and taking it and trying so hard to hurt him more and more and more. I need all my strength to pull out the knife and all of it again to push it back in; I’m wreaking havoc on his body. I stab him again and again, fully aware that it’s useless now, that the extra blows won’t make a difference, but revelling in the activity, the motion, the sight of all his blood escaping everywhere. And I stop. I’m stained and dripping with his blood and streaked with my own sweat. I let go of the knife, still stuck in him. I clamber up from the ground. I leave.

And that's it. The end. La fine.

At the time I titled it "Infidelity" in case anyone could be stupid enough that they didn't get the theme just by reading it. However, if I ever decide to become a playwright I have a fantastic idea for a play which I am going to title "Infidelity" so I won't use that for a title now. If you can think of an appropriate title for this story, comment with your suggestions.

In case you're interested (and if not, skip this paragraph) my aim in this story was to work on writing a quality piece of writing in first person. Another aim was to use some more poetic techniques, so you might notice a lot of repetition and alliteration. I don't know if you can feel the tone that I was going for in this piece; if you can then feel free to comment and tell me.

As always I appreciate any feedback, and if you read my blog can you at least put a comment saying you've read it? I like to know who my audience is.

Thanks for reading! xoxo

♥Nancy♫

I Only Wrote a Sentence Today

Fun fact: I'm a pacifist.

I don't like violence. I understand that many people enjoy it, and on occasion I can appreciate that it does have some entertainment value. For example, when the violence is medieval style and they're all wearing lots of armour etc. and no one gets hurt.

But as much as I'd like you all to think of me as sweet and innocent and non-violent, my mind doesn't always work that way.

This next piece of writing is a whole one sentence long. I did think about working it into a narrative, but I can't be bothered. It just seems important to post it now. It's dialogue. In fact, not even dialogue, it's monologue. Just the speech of one character:

"I will rip your throat open with my bare hands just to feel your hot blood splash out over my skin."

I think it's a nice image, don't you?

Comments and critiques welcome.

♥Nancy♫

Some Writing For Your Enjoyment

Wow, it's been a while (i.e. too long) since I've blogged. And, actually, while I've done plenty of exciting things lately, none of them have really been blogworthy.

Okay, except for Midwinter, but I'm too lazy to write that blog. I promise I'll blog when we do another camping weekend, okay?

Oh, right, and I quit Italian.

But anyway, nothing overly big and exciting has been happening, so today's blog is just going to be me sharing some writing - it's definitely been too long since I posted any of my work for you to read.

Today's piece is just a very short piece, which doesn't have a title yet so extra points if you comment and think of a good one. I'm not really sure what (if anything) I'm going to do with it yet. I was thinking it might be the start of a good romance, or even maybe some kind of horror/ghost story (think about that one after reading and see if you can imagine what I am imagining there).

Also, for a fun analytical exercise, try comparing this piece to "Just a Paragraph of Prose," which I posted here in February. They're both kind of romance-y pieces so it might be interesting to spot common themes or something (I don't know how bored everyone is at the moment).

As always your comments are more than welcome, in fact they are encouraged. Enjoy!

"Do you think you could ever fall in love?"

"No," she said, perfectly casual, but in a voice that suggested absolute certainty.

"Oh."

He stopped walking, right there in the middle of the disused road they walked, between old warehouses and the sea wall. Her next two steps crunched loud in the gravel before their linked hands stopped her too.

"Why not?" he said.

She looked quizzically at him and said, "why not what?"

"Why don't you think you could fall in love?"

A troubled look passed over her face, and she sighed. It was a big sigh, a great, heaving sigh, as if she knew that she was about to face a difficult task. In a weather change so apt it could have been scripted, the wind picked up and the salt spray made him shiver, though she ignored it.

"Charlie, when you think of love, what do you think of?" She didn't let him answer. "Valentine's Day?"

"Uh, sure. I guess so."

He was a little confused. Charlie had never really spoken to his girlfriend about love before, but he certainly hadn't expected such ice in her tone, or the anger that he'd heard when she spat out the name of the February fourteenth holiday.

"You're wrong, Charlie," she said, and again continued speaking even though he opened his mouth to reply. "Love is not Valentine's Day. It's not hearts, or flowers. It's not adorable couples. It's not kissing your girlfriend at the back of the class."

Charlie blushed for them both at the mention of that memory, and zipped his jacket up a little higher. When his tongue swept quickly across his dry lips, he could taste salt.

"It's not cute," she finished.

"Oh. Okay."

After a moment he began to walk again, hoping that she would too. After five steps, she did and quickly caught up with him. Their steps fell into time, so that anyone listening to the crunch of the gravel beneath their feet would only have heard one walker. A huge spray of water blew at them, and Charlie took his girlfriend's hand again, their fingers interlocking, and pulled her over to walk closer to the warehouses, away from the ocean.

"The thing is, Maggie," he said, licking his lips in nervousness and tasting the salt again, "I think I'm in love with you."

It was her turn to stop walking, dropping his hand almost violently.

"Didn't you hear me? Love is not what you think it is. It's not cute."

"Well, then, what is it Maggie?" he asked, finally getting annoyed.

He zipped his jacket up just a bit higher again, then folded his arms and gave his floppy hair a shake.

Maggie took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as she could. She was shaking a little, and knew that Charlie would think she was cold. He wouldn't even imagine how angry she was. It was almost a relief to have the chill breeze blowing and the salty mist from the ocean spraying them with that persistent, and oh-so-natural rhythm.

"Listen to me, Charlie, and listen well because I'm not going to say this to you again. Love is not cute. It isn't happy, or nice."

Charlie folded his arms tighter to his chest, He couldn't believe how angry Maggie was. He could see her shivering and hoped it was just the cold. When he'd asked his original question he'd expected a simple response, an easy answer, something like, "maybe, one day." He hadn't intended to start an argument.

"Love, Charlie? Love is maddening. Love is painful. And beyond all other things it is terrible and shocking and devastating."

He frowned, thinking. She stood there in the silence, tasting salt in the air as passion made her breathe more heavily than usual. Slowly, she began to calm.

Charlie reached for her hand. Maggie let him take it, trying to get the peace. They began to walk again; they were nearly past the warehouse and onto paved road, off the gravel, about to head up the hill and away from the angry sea.

"Well anyway," Charlie said, when he was satisfied that he had mulled it all over for long enough, "I'm still pretty sure that I'm in love with you."

The speed with which Maggie tore her hand away from his was blinding. They both stopped walking, this time in perfect unison. She looked at him. Although she slowly shook her head at him, the gesture was hardly needed. The look she gave him managed to encompass her sadness and her blazing fury. She turned and walked away, choosing an alternate route home.

Charlie was left shivering in the wind, utterly perplexed and newly single.

Okay, well that's it. I would love to hear your comments. I think there are some really corny clichés in there, but overall it's not that bad is it? Maybe a little self-aware, especially closer to the end? Also, let me know if there's too much dialogue, and as always I'm especially interested in anything you have to say about setting. I was also trying really hard to incorporate different kinds of imagery, like smell and taste. Please please please comment if you have any opinion whatsoever!

Thanks for reading,

♥Nancy♫

Interactive Writing: Part 2

If you read "Interactive Writing: Part 1" then you'll know exactly what this is about. I'm going to put in three activities this time, and that way this will be the last post about these silly writing things.

I did write one other one, but I'm not going to put that into my blog because it's tied too closely with the story that I'm writing (and should be working on now instead of doing a blog entry) and I'd rather not share it yet.

First up is: "Show, Don't Tell" which of course is a phrase that you will have heard if you've ever had any instruction whatsoever in creative writing. See if you can guess the profession of the protagonist in this short passage:

She leans on the reception desk, tapping her acrylic nails on the hard surface and examining those on her other hand. It’s almost time to get them rebalanced. The bell rings - finally, something to do, it’s been such a quiet morning - and a woman enters the shop.

“Hi, how are you this morning.” Her smile is big and friendly - make the customer feel welcome and comfortable.

“Good thanks Peg, and yourself?”

“Fine love. Are you just having the usual today?”

“Of course I am, you know me!”

The client goes to sit in a chair and Peg follows, gathering the tools of the trade. She adds an apron to her own uniform, and an apron to the customer. She looks into the mirror in front of her and takes the time to tidy herself up a little. Then she begins to work, and they chat.

“Did you see Debbie Ringer?” the client asks, in that voice people use when they have juicy gossip.

“I did, Margot, I did, and let me tell you I wouldn’t have let her do that. Whoever’s been looking after her should be sent back to school. It shouldn’t been done or it should’ve been done different.”

“And the tan, Peg, did you see?”

“It is a bit shocking,” Peg said, tactfully. She paused a moment and reached across to a nearby shelf to get the purple spray-bottle she’d forgotten whilst gathering her tools.

“It’s orange!” Margot cries, cackling with laughter.

“Hold still for me, will you dear?”

“Sorry Peg.”

“This enough off? Little shorter maybe?”

“No, no, that’s a perfect length.”

As Margot tries her best to hold still and Peg continues working they exchange more gossip.

“Sarah, Max’s youngest, is gaining weight - word is that she’s pregnant!”

“Someone saw Don Butcher in town with another woman.”

An hour later, Peg finishes work. 

“You look fabulous Margot!” she exclaims, not modest in the least.

Margot primps in the mirror before paying and leaving, and Peg gets out the broom to tidy up.

Okay, so, next piece. This activity is called "PROSH Retro," and we had to write about PROSH from two different perspectives. I don't think I did it very well - this piece kind of sucks so feel free to skip it (or just stop reading here). But I kind of like the characters that I made up so I might use them in something later. NOTE: It has two parts.

Characters: Fabian and Yasmin are a couple who are doing PROSH together. Fabian does not want to be doing it, but Yasmin is really excited about raising money for all the charities.

Part 1: Fabian

It is half past four. In the morning. I’d say that I’m not entirely sure why I’m out on the Oak Lawn with a bunch of drunk idiots at half past four in the morning, but that would not be the truth. I know exactly why I’m here. It’s because Yasmin didn’t want to do this alone, but she wouldn’t let me talk her out of doing it. This rave is going for way to long. It’s cold and not even fun. Also, our costumes are totally lame. Why did I let her do this? Because I’m a good boyfriend, that’s why. And I guess it’s nice that we get to spend time together. Oh gross, someone just vomited right next to us.

“Come on Y,” I say, “let’s go somewhere else.”

We move further away from the rave. Yasmin doesn’t complain because she’s not into the rave either. She just loves to help charities, which is one of the things that I love about her. But when helping charities involves getting up at four o’clock to drive to uni, well, I lose some of my supportiveness. I actually don’t think that selling the papers is going to be that bad, you know? I mean, who doesn’t love harassing randoms around Perth? I don’t know how much money we’ll make. Yasmin wants to make heaps. I don’t care that much - I’m sure that we’ll get heaps overall - I just really want to sell the pile of papers that we get. I’ve already managed to convince her that we don’t need to stay for the dumb parade, so maybe we can go home and sleep for the rest of the day. I’m so glad I don’t have any afternoon classes on a Wednesday.

Part 2: Yasmin

Fabian pulls me away from the rave. To be honest, I was kind of having fun. I mean, I’m not high or drunk, which is good coz it means that I’m not spewing like the guy who nearly got vomit all over Fabian’s shoes. But I look really hot in this fairy costume, and it’s so much fun to dance, even though it’s nearly five o’clock in the morning and I am SO tired.

“Aren’t you just so excited Fab?” I ask, even though I know he’s not.

“Sure, Y,” he says, and I’m really pleased because I can tell how hard he’s trying to use a normal voice instead of sarcasm.

I really love to help people. I volunteer a lot and I always donate to charities. But this is also a chance to dress up in a silly costume and hang out in the city with my boyfriend for a morning (even if it’s a bit early), and it is going to be awesome. The Oak Lawn is going to be so gross after this!

“Smile Fab, this is fun,” I yell, and he tries.

I hold his hands and dance. He rolls his eyes, but he does a little groove, and I think that I might be getting him into the PROSH mood.

“The music’s so loud,” he says.

I roll my eyes and don’t tell him that that’s kind of the point. He gets a grumpy look on his face, which seems ridiculous because he’s wearing pixie ears.

And now, the last piece that I'm going to share is "Image into Text". We had to choose a picture and write a piece based on the emotions of the picture. Can I put images into my blog?

Apparently, yes. That's the picture that I used, and (just to be different) I wrote a poem. Dad helped edit it. It doesn't really have a title, but I was thinking "Nostalgia" because that's what it's about.

Things were better, back then.

Rain always seemed wetter, back then.

I’m sure night-time was darker, back then.

And weren’t autumn leaves crunchier?

I’m sure they were, back then.

Shelves were sturdier, back then.

Surely cleaning took less time, back then.

And wasn’t the old couch comfier?

I’m sure it was, back then.

Food tasted better, back then.

I just know people were friendlier, back then.

Could it be because I was younger?

Things were just better, back then.

Thanks for reading - hope I didn't bore you too much. Comments appreciated, as always.

♥Nancy♫

Interactive Writing: Part 1

Yesterday, I handed in my creative writing assignment. This was a "Folio" consisting of >1800 words of a story (I gave in about 3500 words and a synopsis of the remainder of the plot), a commentary i.e. evaluation of my work and the interactive writing exercises that we did.

Interactive writing (which is the stupidest name ever) is where we stay back for an hour (yeah, right) after our creative writing lecture, and we spend that time doing a writing exercise. The idea is to encourage us to write everyday, but what it actually achieved was to have me in a flurry on Tuesday night trying to a) find pieces I'd written that are kind-of like the exercises and b) write all of the ones I couldn't pretend to have done already.

I did manage to find bits and pieces that I'd already written. One of them actually was something that I'd done a couple of days after the interactive writing session (I never actually stayed to write during that session). One was just something totally random that I'd written that luckily fulfilled the criteria for one of the exercises.

I ended up handing in 6 interactive writing exercises. There were 7 in total and we had to provide a minimum of 5. Surprisingly enough, even though I wrote pretty much all of those in the space of about an hour & a half on Tuesday night, they actually turned out pretty nicely!

And so, you get to read them.

Here today you get exercise 1: "Special Place" and exercise 7: "Space Invaders"

For "Special Place" we had to write about a place that is special to us. Instead of just a whole lot of description (which is lame) I wrote a little story. Then, in "Space Invaders" we had to write about that space again, but this time we were required to put an invented character into that place and write about how they experience it, which should be different from how we experience it. Got it? Here are the two pieces: (PS I chose the ice arena as my place.)

“Special Place”

It’s bright. The lights are off, but the sun’s out outside and enough light comes in through the skylights. It’s cold, too, especially because I have no jumper. It was just too hot outside to bring one.  I’m sitting on the blue bench, the one at the bottom of the first set of benches. They’re wooden and all of them have chipped paint; they have real character. Today, the arena may as well be empty. There are a few kids; they’re chattering, excited.

“Did you bring band-aids?” asks a little girl; she’s done this before, I can tell.

Her friend hasn’t though, and the first girl tries to be encouraging.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, “you can hold onto the edge.”

“But what if I fall over?”

“I fell over twice the first time.”

The second girl looks like she might whimper.

The mother behind them steps in at this point. “You’ll be fine if you take it slowly.”

I can’t help but smile; they’re cute. Besides, with so few people here they really have nothing to worry about. When it’s empty like this it’s easier for everyone, but especially for new skaters. They aren’t even that many stupid hockey boys, so the girls don’t really have to worry about those idiots bashing into them and then speeding away without saying sorry. That said, it’s amazing to watch the hockey skaters; it must feel amazing to go that fast. The clock - it’s slow; it always has been - hits ten o’clock. This is when the session is supposed to start during the holidays, but it takes another minute before the voice of the DJ crackles out of the dodgy speakers and permits us to get onto the ice. I leap up from the benches as the first girl unlatches the barrier gate. I open the gate, taking the time to pull it the full way around so it doesn’t get in everyone’s way. The girls step on, wobbling, before I have finished. Thump. The first one, the one who has been here before, has fallen over. I rush to help, as does the mother, but both the girls are laughing and she gets up without a complaint. She starts to skate, a little wobbly but not bad, and then goes to peel her friend away from the barrier to teach her to skate without holding on. And then it’s my turn. I pass through the gateway, step out into the cold and onto that hard, slippery surface. I push, enough to get going, to speed past the girls to do one lap, two laps, three before they’ve even completed one, getting faster and faster with each step, speeding along, streaming along, gliding... I stop pushing, feet together. It feels like flying. 

“Space Invader”

“OMG Kayla, what are those?” I ask, as Mikayla rummages in her handbag (imitation Prada, but kind of cute anyway).

“Ah, socks.”

“Those are not socks. Those are, like... old people bed-socks or something.”

Honestly, it looks like two black fluffy caterpillars went to sleep in her bag.

“Mum says I’ll get blisters if I don’t wear them.”

“Whatevs Kay,” I say.

The door to the ice arena is heavy, but I pull it open and go in. The line’s not too bad. My brother went ice skating on a Saturday night once and said it was packed, but it looks like everyone has better things to do on a Sunday at one thirty. Through another set of doors, I can see a bunch of people already skating.

“Gosh Izzie, check them out.”

I look as Mikayla points through the door at a small group of girls who are doing this weird twirly things.

“Trackpants much,” I say, looking at one of them.

Her pants practically scream Target. I readjust my cute long necklace (I got it from a designer on the internet) over my linQ sweater dress (the same one that Jessica Alba wore once) and pay the $17 to get in. We go through the glass doors and get hit by a blast of cold air. I try not to shiver. Mikayla pulls on her woollen coat (I think she got it from Myers, but it has these great buttons). We go to get skates from the hire desk. The guy is a little kid, like, fourteen or something, with acne.

“Who chose the colours for these?” Mikayla asks.

We’re both disgusted, because the blue and red plastic skates are so ugly. We go to sit down on these wooden benches. They’re really uncomfortable, the paint is chipping off them all and I’m a bit worried that we might get splinters. I shiver.

“Aren’t you cold Izzie?” Mikayla asks.

I just shrug. Putting on my jacket will ruin my look. Mikayla makes me put it on, but I don’t let her know how much warmer it makes me. (It’s a woollen coat, kind of like hers, but the buttons aren’t quite as nice.) I quickly take off my long necklace and switch my earrings to a pair that I had in my handbag (Tiffany & Co.), which is disappointing because I was wearing genuine Gucci earrings, but at least I had averted the fashion crisis. It would be hard to pull off the horrible skates though, but I didn’t have much choice.

“You’re not seriously going to wear those?” I ask in shock, as Mikayla pulls the fuzzy socks out of her bag.

“Yeah I am. I can’t hurt my feet.”

When she took off her boots (mid-calf boots with buckles; they’re genuine Manolo Blahnik’s - her only birthday present this year) I noticed that her feet were covered in band-aids. She does foot modelling part-time. I roll my eyes.

“Whatevs Kay,” I say.

I slide my stocking-clad foot into the gross skates. They are so uncomfortable. Mikayla makes me do hers up tightly because she’s worried about her ankles. I do my own up. We ignore the DJ as he says the rules over really low-quality speakers. We walk down the stairs, holding onto the rail, which is freezing cold. We step onto the ice.

“Look at that Izzie,” yells Mikayla, pointing to the middle of the ice.

A girl wearing jeans (from Target by the looks of them), a T-shirt (French Kitty) and her own, white skates is spinning.

“Wow,” says Mikayla, and we both watch the girl until she comes out of the spin, with her arms held out.

Having done ballet since I was six, I know that she’s not really that good, but Mikayla’s impressed.

“At least her skates look okay,” I admit.

Mikayla starts to skate, but after a few steps she trips and falls down. She laughs.

“God Kay,” I moan, looking around.

She’s laughing like a total lunatic, but I’m just embarrassed.

“Help us up Izzie,” she says, and I do.

A really cute boy in hockey skates is laughing at us.

“Come on,” I say, rolling my eyes and starting to skate.

We’re going to spend the next two hours going around in monotonous circles. It is cold. The whole place is kind of disgusting. Mikayla and I seem to be the only ones here with any kind of fashion sense. I feel like dying.

La fine.

If you've read this far, you might notice the parallel endings that tie the two pieces together.

I'll post a couple more pieces next time I blog - I hope you like this stuff; it's a bit random.

♥Nancy♫