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♫