Writing from Work

Hi all,

Sorry, still no updates to those epic sagas I was writing. I'll get back to them, I promise.

This year I have only one student, a boy in year 10. I see him once a week for an hour and tutor him in English and he's actually starting to get a lot better. Over the course of this year I've had opportunities in and out of my tutoring sessions to do some creative writing. So today, here is all the creative writing I've done at or for work this year.

In case you want to pick and choose: the first story is a bit dull, the second is really short but a bit lame, the third is a set of 3 letters and the fourth is a play which, in my opinion, is pretty fun and you should definitely read it.

Anyways, enjoy!

♥Nancy♬

"Confusing Funeral"

Jake raised his right hand and adjusted his uncomfortable black tie. He was bored and he felt weird about being here, but mum was grasping his other hand pretty tightly so he wasn’t about to complain and upset her. Next to mum stood dad with his arm around her shoulders, leaving her other hand free to wipe her eyes. On dad’s other side was Sally, who was busy adjusting the hemline on her black dress. Usually dad would have complained about the length of her hem but this morning he hadn’t mentioned it. There weren’t a lot of people around. There were a few old people wearing black, frumpy clothes. Jake looked at the old men in high-waisted pants and thought that they couldn’t be comfortable. He looked at the old ladies with their silly little black hats and floppy flower brooches and was glad that the girls at school didn’t dress that way. Off to one side stood six men in dark military uniform. They all had stern, angry faces. Jake couldn’t tell if they were sad or not.

Two nights ago, mum had received a phone call from her Aunt Sylvie, Jake and Sally’s great aunt.

 “Hi Sylvie,” she’d said, and then, “what’s wrong?”

The rest of the family had been sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner, but dad stopped eating when he heard mum’s tone change.

 “He’s dead?” she’d said, and her free hand had flown to her mouth in shock. “Oh my god.”

Jake had stopped eating then, too, and so had Sally. Who could have died? Dad’s parents were happy and well and holidaying in Vietnam at the moment so it wasn’t them. Mum’s mum had died a long time ago.

 “Saturday?” mum had said on the phone, “that’s two days away.” And then, “I’m not so sure Sylvie...”

The rest of the family had waited patiently while mum finished the call.

 “We’ll be there,” she said, “thanks for calling, Sylvie.”

Jake tried to adjust his tie again. They were horrible things, ties, and he hated how uncomfortable this formal wear was. Why did you have to dress in all-black formal clothes for these things? The person in question couldn’t tell so Jake figured it didn’t matter. Dad had insisted though so here they were at the cemetery all in black. Sally bent down to retie her shoelace; or at least, that’s what she was pretending to do. Jake saw her texting on her phone and thought she was lucky that dad couldn’t see her. He thought it was pretty disrespectful of Sally to be doing that but she was only fourteen so he didn’t expect much more of her. He thought about all the study he had to do and sighed. He knew it was sad when someone died but he’d never met this guy and his upcoming Chemistry test seemed way more important.

Mum hadn’t explained the phone call that night. She just sat back down at the table and started eating again.

 Dad questioned her: “Beth?”

 “I’ll talk to you later,” she replied, and that was that.

The next night, after dinner, dad sat down with Jake and Sally to talk to them.

 “Mum’s dad died last night,” he said.

 “What?” said Jake.

 “Mum doesn’t have a dad,” said Sally.

 Jake said, “everyone has a dad, idiot.”

 Dad said, “Jake, not cool,” his tone was sharp and warning.

 “Sorry,” he said in reply.

Dad explained that they were going to his funeral tomorrow so they should cancel whatever plans they had for Saturday.

 “Are you serious?” asked Sally, angrily.

 “Yes,” said dad.

 “Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Sally got up and walked away to do her own thing but Jake wasn’t ready to end the conversation.

 “Mum doesn’t seem that upset, if her dad died,” he said to dad.

It wasn’t a question but he hoped that dad would provide an answer. He didn’t know anything about his grandfather on mum’s side and the way mum was reacting made him think that maybe he didn’t want to know anything.

 “Her dad was... he was an interesting character, Jake. They had a mixed relationship and it wasn’t always great for your mum. Hold on a sec.”

Dad left the table where they’d been sitting and returned a few minutes later with an old photo album. He explained that it was mum’s from before they’d gotten married. He showed Jake the old pictures in it.

 “That’s your grandmother,” he said, pointing to a pretty young lady in one picture, “she died when your mum was just seventeen. And that,” he pointed to a handsome young man, “is your grandfather, the year before mum was born.”

 “He looks like a nice guy,” Jake said.

 And dad said, “he was, at first.”

Aunt Sylvie came up to them. She was a very elegant lady. Her black clothes were neatly ironed and perfectly straight. She wore lots of black and silver jewellery and a little black hat on top of her silver hair. Jake didn’t like her very much, he never had. It had something to do with the fact that mum didn’t like her much either and also something to do with how posh and stuck-up she seemed.

 “Hello Beth,” said Aunt Sylvie.

 “Sylvie,” said mum, nodding at her in greeting.

 “Have you changed your mind about the eulogy?”

 “No, I haven’t.”

 “People will talk, Beth.”

 “I’m not doing it, Sylvie.”

Aunt Sylvie looked down at mum along her long pointed nose. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed together into thin lines.

 “Fine,” she said, and stalked off without another word.

Sally, who had actually paid attention through the whole thing, said, “wow!”

Her eyes were very wide and her eyebrows were raised in surprise.

 “Aunt Sylvie’s a total bitch!”

 “Sally!” scolded dad.

But Jake was watching mum and saw that she smiled a little, which made him think that she agreed with Sally, no matter how rude it was of her to say that.

Over near the group of military men, Aunt Sylvie was talking very animatedly and loudly.

 “His own daughter won’t even speak, despicable!” she said, loud enough that the whole family heard every word.

 “Told you,” muttered Sally.

Mum looked over at Sally and said, “yeah, she is, Sally.”

“Ted,” said mum, gently, from behind Jake.

He jumped in surprise; he hadn’t realised that mum had snuck up behind him while dad had been talking and showing him the pictures.

 “Come on Beth,” said dad, “Jake’s curious, you should talk to him.”

Mum seemed reluctant but at dad’s urging she sat down at the table with them.

 “Tell him about your dad,” said dad to mum.

She gave a huge sigh.

 “When I was little,” she said, “my dad was a really great dad. But when I was twelve, he went off to fight in a war. I missed him a lot and so did my mum, but we managed by ourselves for a while. And then he got back from the war and he was different.”

 Dad chimed in, saying, “today he would have been diagnosed with PTSD, do you know what that is?”

Jake nodded; he’d learned about post traumatic stress disorder in his psychology class. He’d done really well on the test about that stuff so he remembered it pretty well too.

 “Back then people didn’t know as much about PTSD, so he just went back home and had to get back on with life.”

 “He’d changed a lot,” said mum, sounding sad, “I know now that he was abusive, emotionally and physically. At the time it just seemed to me like he was a mean dad.”

Jake had nothing to say. He would never have guessed that mum’s life had included something like that.

 “I wasn’t his little girl anymore,” mum continued, “and I think that was hard for him. When I started dating your dad...”

Mum’s voice trailed off. Dad put his hand on her arm and they both gave a great big sigh.

 “Mum and I moved in together as soon as she turned eighteen,” dad said.

 “I haven’t seen my dad since then,” finished mum.

And that was the story.

The men in military uniform were all quite old, but between the six of them they had the strength to lift the coffin and carry it to the grave. Jake and his family stood well back as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Jake noticed that mum was crying, but he didn’t say anything.

 “Should we throw some flowers or something?” asked Sally, eyeing off the pretty white roses that the old people were starting to throw into the grave.

 “No,” said dad, “let’s just stand here.”

A priest came up and said some words, waving a smoking incense burner and sprinkling some holy water over the top of the coffin.

Aunt Sylvie came up next to say her words - the eulogy, they called it.

 “Jack was a great man,” she said, “a great brother to me, a great husband to Martha and a great father to Beth.”

Jake thought to himself, no he wasn’t. He wished that he didn’t know what his grandfather had really been like. He wondered if Sally would say nice things about him when he got old and died. He hoped that they’d be true things, not lies like Sylvie was saying. At least, he thought they must be lies. Because he’d listened to mum’s story and he couldn’t believe that a man like that was “great,” not in any way.

Was it possible to hate someone you’d never met? He’d missed his chance to meet his grandfather and find out what he was truly like. It seemed kind of unfair, like his grandfather should have had the chance to prove himself. All he had was the knowledge of what had happened to mum. He figured it wasn’t fair to mum, either, that her dad had changed so much after the war. Sometimes life didn’t seem very fair at all.

Jake adjusted his tie again and shuffled his feet. He felt uncomfortable being here, at the funeral of a man who had hurt his mum so much. And yet... he came from there, and so did mum. How was he meant to feel about all this?

The funeral service finished and everyone started to leave. There was to be a wake at Aunt Sylvie’s house but Jake and his family weren’t going. Before they left the cemetery, mum and dad walked up to the grave, holding hands. Jake and Sally stood back, watching them.

 “Mum’s acting really weird,” said Sally, quietly.

 “I don’t think she really knows how to feel,” Jake replied.

 “How are we meant to feel?”

Jake was silent for a while and then he said, “I don’t know. Sad, I guess?”

 “But we didn’t really know him.”

 “No,” said Jake, “we didn’t know him at all.”

Mum and dad spent a few minutes staring into the grave, talking quietly to each other. Then they turned and started to head back towards their kids.

Just before they reached Jake and Sally, Jake overheard mum say something quietly, under her breath.

 “Good riddance,” she said.

Jake didn’t think he was meant to hear that. He stayed very quiet on the way back to the car.

"Craig and the Bird"

Craig was walking through the park on his way to school when he heard a surprised chirping sound and then a crash. He stopped and looked around. Ah! There it was; a nest had fallen from a tree.

 "Oh my gosh!" said Craig, "there's a baby bird!"

The little brown bird was too small to fly. Craig picked up the nest but he couldn't reach high enough to put it in the tree again.

 "I'll be back," he said to the bird, and left it there while he ran to the shops.

In the cleaning aisle at Coles, Craig looked at the brooms. He was sure they'd be long enough to help put the bird back in the tree.

 "Damn," he said, when he read the price, because he couldn't afford a broom.

 "What's up, stupid?" asked Stella, a girl from school who was as tall as a giraffe.

 "Hey Stella," said Craig, "can you help me put a baby bird's nest back in a tree? You're tall enough!"

Stella burst out laughing.

 "No!" she said, and walked off.

 "What a bitch," thought Craig. Sadly, he headed off to school. Halfway there he met his friend John who had a nose like a pig.

 "Hey," said Craig.

 "You all right?" asked John.

Craig explained the situation.

 "I'll help," said John.

The boys ran back to the park. John gave Craig a boost and finally the nest was safely back in the tree! They ran back to school but they were still a bit late. Craig didn't mind because they'd helped save a little bird.

The End.

"Three Letters"

Pierre de Marseilles

The Palace

Marseilles

Dearest Pierre,

I write to you now as swift as a squirrel and more secretly than the mouse that hides its cheese. I can only hope and pray that this letter reaches you, and finds you well.

I fear discovery here and these English are not kind to the French. Perhaps it is the case that I will never see you again. Nevertheless, I travel for France as quickly as I can whilst still avoiding detection.

The English, Pierre, are planning a terrible ambush. But now you know and perhaps it will not be so terrible. Be cautious, mon cher, for they disguise themselves as Frenchmen. But their accents are atrocious and their mastery of French grammar little more than an abomination. Please be wary of all who dare to enter The Palace, lest you become the victim of a Trojan Horse.

As far as I am aware, they believe that the king is still in Paris. Send your army there, Pierre, if you still trust the intelligence of your most loyal servant.

And the girl, Pierre, I send her to you. She speaks English, Italian, Latin but no French, despite her pure French blood. Educate her, mon cher, and soon I hope to return to be a family with you and also her once again, if only I avoid discovery.

Be safe, my lord Pierre.

Faithfully,

Marguerite, Spy for the French

Francis Smith

23 Exwyzed Street

Fremantle, WA

Dear Franny,

I sure had a neat time with you last weekend! Not many other girls like to ride bikes anymore, they all want to roller-skate but I prefer riding so thanks for coming with me. My mum says you can come round anytime and she'll cook a nice casserole for dinner.

It was so chill of your mum to let us eat some of her mulberries. I heard she cried when Danny stole some and that your dad got real mad and chased him off. I felt sorry for your mum.

Do you want to come to the shops with me next week? I know you want to buy some jeans with flares like Cassie from down your street has. I don't like shopping but I wouldn't mind so much if we went together.

Anyway, Franny, I really want to hang out with you again. Peace out.

Love From, Alfie Johnson

The West Australian

Head Office

Osborne Park, WA

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to complain of the young hooligans who keep stealing my mulberries. Every year for the past 60 years my mulberry tree has produced beautiful fruit and for the past 59 years I've been able to eat it.

But not this year! Those nuisance youths have been stealing my mulberries and the police won't do a darn thing about it.

The world is falling apart, make no mistake. What sort of world is this where an 87 year-old can't eat her mulberries in peace?! All I wanted to do was cook a nice pie for my grandchildren - if they'll get off their blasted oPhones or xPhones or what have you to eat it!

Something must be done.

Regards,

Francis Johnson (Fremantle)

"A Dramatic Xmas Eve Party"

Setting: a suburban home dining room, the adult characters sit around the dining table, eating.

BEN: A glass, Maggie?

MAGGIE: Oh, just a drop, why not? It's Christmas, after all!

JESSICA: Everyone set? Cheers!

ROBERT: Here's to a Merry Christmas!

EVERYONE: Cheers!

A phone rings.

JUAN: That's me, excuse me. Hello?

SAMANTHA: So what are your plans for tomorrow, Maggie?

MAGGIE: Oh we're going to see my parents. And Joseph wants to drop by to see the baby so I told him he could come over in the evening.

JESSICA: Maggie, you've got to stop letting him back in your life!

BEN: Jess, honey, it's not your place.

MAGGIE: I can't stop him from seeing the baby at Christmas, that would be too cruel.

SAMANTHA: It's your grave, Maggie.

ROBERT: Ladies, leave Maggie alone.

JUAN: Amigos... I have to go.

JESSICA: Oh Juan, what's wrong?

JUAN: They need me at the hospital, it's a serious spine injury. It's time for me to do surgery! I am so sorry.

SAMANTHA: Well, you can't be blamed for saving lives.

BEN: Merry Christmas, Juan.

JESSICA: Let's eat!

They eat the Xmas Eve dinner.

ROBERT: Oh!

SAMANTHA: What is it, love?

ROBERT: I... ah... ahem. Were there nuts in this?

JESSICA: Yes, peanuts. Oh no! I forgot you were allergic!

ROBERT: Ahem. No trouble, will you fetch my epi-pen, Samantha?

SAMANTHA: I'll be right back.

BEN: Anything I can do, mate?

ROBERT: Cough! Water!

JESSICA: Oh Robert, I'm so sorry! I didn't even think. I love you!

SAMANTHA: I couldn't find the... you bitch!

JESSICA: It's not what it looks like!

SAMANTHA: You kissed him!

ROBERT: Cough! Epi-pen! Splutter!

BEN: Who kissed whom? Here Robert, drink this.

MAGGIE: I saw it too!

JESSICA: Shut up Maggie!

SAMANTHA: Where's the damn dpi-pen?

BEN: You kissed Robert? Jessica, how could you?

JESSICA: Find that epi-pen!

MAGGIE: Oh, if only Juan were still here!

A phone rings.

MAGGIE: Juan? Oh no! Joseph's in the hospital?!

JESSICA: Oh please, you don't even like him, that's why he divorced you!

The baby begins to cry.

BEN: I found the epi-pen!

ROBERT: Thank God! That's better.

She Wolf

Hello everyone!

I have not blogged in a really long time, as I'm sure you've noticed if you're a regular reader. And it's kind of unfair to you, because I've left you with tantalising threads of what was (apparently) a pretty good fantasy story and a teaser-trailer of another story.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions. If you liked Abracadabraholic, you might be wondering what's next in the world of alcoholic Ethan and what mysterious mission the police chief has for him. If you preferred A Fantasy Story, you might be simply dying to know what happens between Myrna and Darach now that they've been reunited; or maybe you'd prefer some backstory, how do they get past the Baron o' Mines to enter the dungeon and reach Darach in the first place?! Heck, you might even be a fan of my sewing blogs and be desperate to find out how my kirtles turned out (spoiler alert: pretty well, not perfect, and they're not 100% done yet so just be patient!).

A much as I'd love to answer these questions, my dissertation has been keeping me pretty preoccupied. I've got a lot of writing to do for it, as well as all my coursework. Also I'm sewing a patch for a quilt for a friend so that's taking priority over my more personal selfish sewing projects.

But today on the train I had a flash of inspiration and started writing! It's just a little snippet (self-contained, I promise; it’s not another “Part 1”) and I'm sure that this story, like most of my recent stories, will raise more questions than it can ever hope to answer. Regardless, I'm offering it up for enjoyment/critique.

I'd like to dedicate this story to my friend Aimee, because she's been having a rough couple of days and hopefully more wolves in her life will help with that.

Enjoy! (Also comment?)

♥Nancy♬

Running. A frantic dash through a thick forest of tall trees. It is dim in this forest, and getting darker as the sun slips closer and closer towards a hungry horizon. Before long it will be consumed in full and the sky will belch out a scatter of stars and a slim crescent moon.

Running. Heavy woollen skirts snatched up in haste, shoved into a plain leather belt to free strong legs from the trappings of feminine garb. The bodice of the dress: tight, but not too tight; nonetheless, her breasts heave and she pants. The green vines embroidered around the neckline rise and fall in time with every gasp for air.

Running. A predator follows close behind, heavy boots stomping hard into the ground: a stark contrast to nimble feet fleeing agilely through the grass and over protruding tree roots. His breath does not come as heavily: he is built for the chase.

Running. Red hair fallen loose from its braids flows free behind her like a cape. In her hand is a glass dagger with a hilt of shiny black obsidian; its wiggly edges make it look as if the glass blade is undulating out from its eery black base.

Running. Her goal is up ahead. The time is almost right and getting nearer every second as the horizon consumes the sun and regurgitates its celestial night-lights.

Light is in transition: it is dusk. Time is in transition: it is twilight. Up ahead, not so far now, the forest is in transition: the air seems to shimmer.

Running; faster now. She hits the invisible wall where the air seems to shimmer and slows suddenly, as if the crisp forest air has turned to water or translucent molasses.

Hanging; frozen in the air. Her clothes vanish and for a second she is naked: untouched skin exposed to falling night’s kiss.

Screaming; a second spent in agony. The transition is complete before her pursuer can catch up. Warm sunset turns to chill moonrise. Day gives way to night. Prey becomes predator.

Woman becomes wolf.

The wolf catches the glass dagger with graceful expertise, taking the obsidian hilt between her teeth. She turns to see her pursuer slowing; a look of confusion spreads across his face.

And then he grins. The woman would have been a pretty prize but it’s the dagger he wants and a wolf-pelt will keep a man warm long after he’s bored of a woman. He advances on the wolf.

Snarling; her lip curls. She leaps at him, knocking the measly human off his clumsy bipedal supports. Heavy paws force the wind from his lungs and leave him floundering in the dirt.

Running. A wolf escapes into the forest carrying her mysterious cargo far from the hunter. She is protected by the darkness. She is protected by the trees. She is protected by her lupine form.

And on she runs. In her mouth, the glass blade of wiggly-edged dagger seems to undulate out of its obsidian hilt.

Abracadabraholic Part One

Helloooooooo!

Well, I think this will be the last original writing you get for a while because the year is getting so busy. OMG. I’ll do my best to keep writing for the blog but my dissertation has to come first (did I mention I’m doing Honours this year? I’m doing Honours this year) so it might be a little light on for a while. At least I started the year well!

Anyway, seeing as how everyone seemed to enjoy A Fantasy Story, I was inspired to start work on another novel.

Clearly I’m much better at starting novels than I am at finishing them.

I promise to write this one in chronological order so that you don’t get confused about when things are happening.

The working title is “Abracadabraholic” and the first chapter is posted here for your entertainment.

Enjoy! (Feedback appreciated, as always; I’ll only get better with criticisms!!)

♥Nancy♬

Ethan Rackett accepted his certificate from the Chief of the station with a firm handshake and a polite, “thank you.”

 “I won’t speak long,” said the Chief into the microphone, “I know we promised you a party. But I wouldn’t be much of a Chief if I didn’t say that I was proud of y’all for expanding your knowledge like this. You’re a credit to the force.”

There was a pause, for applause. Ethan rolled his eyes.

 “Okay, look after those certificates because you’ll need them as proof of your training if we ever need to arrange a travel permit. Now enjoy the party!”

The Chief gestured to his second-in-command who had been designated DJ for the evening. The transition from formal speech to fun party was not a smooth one. Second-in-command fumbled with the microphone as the Chief handled it over and the sound system screeched a little as he pressed play on his computer. But, finally, music began to play over the speakers and the police station break room was transformed into a lame attempt at a celebration party.

Ethan’s buddy Juan came up to him and offered a friendly hand. Ethan shook it. He wasn’t feeling particularly celebratory but Juan’s grin was infectious; he found himself smiling back at his friend.

 “Hey good work, Ethan,” Juan enthused, “you gonna spread your wings now?”

 “To Wiz-land? Not a chance.”

 “Me neither,” Juan replied, “I wouldn’t go there if they paid me, man. But my Marguerite’s gonna be so proud of me, another fancy certificate like this under my belt.”

Juan’s girlfriend Marguerite had a fetish for self-improvement. As a result, Juan was one of the most highly qualified men at the Greenville Police Station.

 “She’s gonna cost me a fortune in framing,” he lamented, and wandered off to get some alcohol-free punch from the refreshment table.

Ethan stayed standing right where he was. He didn’t really feel up to partying. It had a lot to do with recent Life Events that had got him down but it was also because he didn’t think a two-week training course was really worth celebrating. It had been an intense course, with theoretical and practical components. It was meant to encourage tolerance and acceptance; Ethan was surprised that he’d passed that part. Especially after he’d threatened one of the guest lecturers. Still, it was a useful course. More and more cases were coming up that required this level of clearance.

He read his certificate. This is to certify that Ethan Rackett has completed the Wiznockee Information and Training Course and has achieved Level Two clearance and Firearms Allowance Three at the Wiznockee Border. It was authorised by the Chief of the Greenville Police Station. It was also authorised by the National Police Commissioner. That was a big deal and Ethan knew it. He was still finding it hard to get worked up about it, though, and he hardly thought that crazy Wiz-land deserved attention from the National Police Commissioner. There was so much crime nationally, surely they should have been solving internal problems before heading out to deal with the crazies.

Ethan felt a heavy arm fall across his shoulders and realised that he hadn’t been paying very much attention to the party around him. The Chief had snuck up on him again.
“Chief,” he said, politely acknowledging his superior officer while still secretly loathing him, and the job, and the world.

 “Rackett,” said the Chief, in a booming voice, “how would you like a chance to use that new qualification you’ve just earned, eh?”

What Ethan really wanted to say to the Chief was something along the lines of, “actually, Chief, I hate those crazy Wizzers and what I’d like to do is drink myself blind in my brand-spanking new apartment.”

But of course, Ethan didn’t speak his mind. Instead, he said, “new mission, Chief?”

 “New case, Ethan. We’re not superheroes, we’re police officers.”

Because that’s why he’d joined the force: to not be a superhero. Sure.

 “What’s the case?”

 “Sensitive stuff, Ethan. When’s your next shift? Monday? Come into my office first thing if you want the case. Or it’s business as usual.”

Ethan considered things. A case could be interesting. And if there was secrecy then there was also the potential for danger. Getting killed on the job was a better alternative than suicide, that was for sure. If you killed yourself you just looked like a coward. But if he had to go to damn crazy Wiznockee... well, that might change things.

 “I’ll think about it, Chief,” Ethan said.

 “See that you do,” the Chief said, and went off to the refreshment table to over-indulge on potato crisps and cheap lolly snakes.

Ethan left the party early. He turned his key the wrong way in the lock on his apartment door yet again. When he eventually got the door open he threw his keys lazily onto the kitchen bench, where they skittered over the edge onto the floor. He threw his certificate onto the bench too, where it joined the ever-growing pile of papers that was starting to take over the house from the kitchen outwards.

There was a glowing red 1 on his answering machine. He pressed the play button and got a beer out of the fridge.

 “Hi Ethan,” sniffled his mother’s voice, “I hope you’re doing okay. I’m having a lovely time on my recovery cruise.” She sniffled again and Ethan decided not to believe her. “I just wanted to check in with you, love. Edna sends her wishes.”

 “Hi Ethan!” called Edna from a distance, who didn’t sound half as sniffly as mum. She had fared quite well in her divorce. Mum had not fared so well when Dad’s second heart attack had killed him. Hence the sniffles.

 “I’m home in another week. I’ll see you then. Hope you’re holding up. Bye now.”

 “You have no more messages,” said the machine.

Ethan kicked his kitchen cabinet. It made him remember that he’d already taken his shoes off. He instantly regretted kicking the cabinet.

He went to sit down on his couch with his half-drunk beer and an unopened one to follow up with. He turned the tv on, flipped channels for a minute and let then let the remote sink down between the cushions. He settled in to watch Oprah. And then Ellen. Maybe The Doctors or the The View, afterwards. He moved onto whiskey after his fifth beer.

The next morning he woke up with a sore neck, a raging hangover and the tv still blaring its inane, mundane shows. It was a normal morning, really.

At midday, Ethan had mostly recovered from his headache and was enjoying the weekend by sitting alone in his dark apartment and pretending to sleep. And then the phone rang. He groped around on the couch, certain that he’d brought the handset down here at some point.

 “Hey,” he said, answering the phone without looking at caller ID.

When he heard the voice on the other end of the phone, he immediately regretted answering the phone in the first place.

 “Ethan?” said a pretty female voice. Once, that voice had been like a drug to Ethan. Now she sounded like poison. “Hi, it’s Amy.”

 “Hi Amy,” Ethan said, stopping at that because he had no idea what else he was supposed to say to her.

 “Hey, look, I’m just calling because I found some more of your stuff mixed in with my stuff. It’s all in a box, can I drop it round soon?”

 “Sure.”

 “I wasn’t certain if you’d be home.”

 “I’m home.”

 “I’ll bring the stuff round Sunday night, okay?”

 “Thanks.”

 “Bye Ethan.”

 “Bye Amy.”

There was a gentle clicking noise as Amy hung up the phone on her end.

Ethan sighed. Then he threw the phone towards the kitchen. It bounced on the tiled floor and broke open. He sighed again and got up, intending to put the phone back together. He changed his mind halfway through the process and got a beer out of the fridge instead. His supplies were running low. He made a mental note to sober up enough to get to the shops soon.

At 8pm, Ethan went to reassemble the phone. When it woke up again, he pressed speed dial three.

 “Lucky Moon Asia Restaurant,” said the man who answered.

 “Hey, it’s Ethan,” said Ethan, “can I just get the usual?”

 “Number 3, number 16, prawn crackers,” confirmed the guy on the phone.

 “Yeah.”

 “Fifteen minutes, Mr Ethan.”

 “Thanks,” said Ethan, and hung up the phone.

Ethan opened the fridge and pulled out his last beer. He kicked the fridge door shut. It severely rocked the unit and he watched for a moment, not even sure whether he wanted it to stay standing or to fall. It didn’t fall, in the end, and he cracked his beer open to fill in the time until he could go get his food.

Almost fifteen minutes later, he added that empty beer bottle to the ever-growing pile of empties next to the front door. He made a mental note to take them all out to the recycling. He was kidding himself and he knew it; they wouldn’t be taken out for weeks. It took a minute of scrounging around the messy kitchen bench before Ethan found his wallet. When he did, he shoved it in his back pocket and stormed out of the apartment. He didn’t bother to lock the door. What would people steal? The empty bottles and a crap old television?

As Ethan walked down the five flights of stairs to street level, he felt his head began to spin a little. He’d reached the stage that his mother would call “Dinner-Party Tipsy.” Usually he preferred to be at his father’s old “Pub-Night Stumble.” But he’d run out of beer so he probably wouldn’t get there tonight. He tried to remember whether he had any whiskey left.

On street level, he stormed through the door to his apartment building and turned left. Two buildings along the street was Lucky Moon Asia Restaurant. Bells rang above his head as he went in through the plastic curtains that hung over the door.

 “Hi Ethan,” said a young girl’s voice.

Ethan blinked to refocus and saw that Meili was at the cash register today. She was the owner’s sixteen year-old daughter. Ethan tried not to look quite so drunk.

 “Hi,” he said, “my order ready?”

 “Yes,” said Meili. She was adorable. Ethan used to imagine having a cute little girl of his own, one day. He no longer imagined that sort of thing.

 “Hi Ethan,” said Liu, the owner of Lucky Moon Asia Restaurant. “How are you?”

 “Same as ever,” Ethan said, with a nod of greeting. “How’s Sandra?”

 “Big as a house!” announced Liu, proudly. “But still, so sexy, eh?”

 “Dad,” said Meili, and escaped into the back of the restaurant.

Liu spent five minutes raving about how well Sandra was doing, how well the baby was growing and how he’d need to hire someone to take over the books for the restaurant while Sandra was on maternity leave.

 “It’s a problem, with family owned business, you know Ethan? Meili doesn’t want to work but her mum is pregnant, so she works. I don’t want a new bookkeeper, but my wife is pregnant, so I interview.”

 “Yeah,” said Ethan.

Liu handed over the food and Ethan paid by credit card, as always.

 “Bye Ethan,” said Meili, as she came to stand by the cash register again.

Ethan raised one hand in a wave and then trekked back up to his apartment. No one had been in to steal his junk. He ate his Chinese takeaway in front of more tv shows and followed it up with what remained of his whiskey. He really needed to go shopping. He slept on the couch again and woke up the same way he always did: with a sore neck, a raging hangover and the tv still blaring its inane, mundane shows.

Things were looking bad. He’d run out of beer and spirits. There were bottles, papers and empty Chinese food containers all over the apartment. His usual channel was running a Friends marathon and they were all way too cheery for his tastes. And Amy was coming round this evening, to return some stuff.

That last thought was particularly sobering. Ethan jumped up from the couch and rushed to the bathroom. For the first time since Friday morning he looked into the mirror. Jesus, he needed to do something about himself before Amy came round. And he should probably clean up the apartment a bit. He didn’t want to look pathetic. Even though he was.

He showered and shaved and put on clean clothes. When he realised that he’d just put on his last clean shirt, he kicked his chest of drawers and then hopped around clutching his sore foot.

Ethan cleaned up his apartment for the first time since he’d moved in. He took all his empty bottles out to the recycling. He took his dirty clothes downstairs to the laundromat next door to the Lucky Moon Asia Restaurant. He took a good, long look at the papers all over the kitchen bench and settled for pushing them all into one pile and wiping down the bench around them. He vacuumed the floor and poured some disinfectant into the toilet. Surely the place was clean enough, now?

There was a knock on his door. He ruffled up his hair, as if that would make it look better, and went to open the door.

 “Hi Ethan!” Amy said.

She looked as beautiful as ever. And she was as cheery as ever, too, which made Ethan’s heart hurt, which in turn made him think of his dad and how everything had gone to shit in his life lately.

 “Hi Amy,” he said, politely, and moved out of the doorway so that she could come into his apartment.

Behind Amy stood a tall, well-built man who was carrying a large cardboard box. He had the same brown hair and grey eyes as Amy and the same beautiful features. He was an Adonis.

 “Hey,” he said, following Amy into the apartment. He put the large cardboard box down on the space that Ethan had cleared on the kitchen bench. Then he turned to Ethan.

 “Hey Tim,” said Ethan.

 “Sup bro?” said Tim, and reached out a hand.

Knowing what was coming, Ethan tried to look enthusiastic as he took Tim’s hand to shake it and was, instead, pulled into a manly bro-hug. He chose not to point out to Tim that he was not, in fact, his bro. And never would be, because Amy had given back the engagement ring.

 “You’ve got a nice place here,” Amy said, looking around. “It’s very clean.”

 “Thanks,” said Ethan, then lied, “I’m trying to take good care of it.”

 “Any good hang-outs here?” Tim asked.

 “Nothing like the Brew Ha Ha back near Amy’s” - back near my old place, he didn’t say - “the Chinese place down the street is good though.”

 “You busy tonight? We’re going to a party. Amy’s gonna be my wingman,” Tim said, proudly.

Amy, who had been looking around the apartment, turned to face them. “I’m sure Ethan’s busy, Timbo. Let’s leave him to it yeah?”

 “Yeah, I got plans,” Ethan lied smoothly. “Give ‘em hell tonight, Tim.”

 “Thanks bro.”

 “See you later Ethan,” Amy said.

 “Thanks for my stuff. Bye Amy.”

Amy ushered her brother out of the apartment and let Ethan close the door behind them. He returned to his couch and watched tv until he fell asleep.

Lingerie

Hi everyone,

This is a short piece of fiction that I wrote and then I forgot what it was meant to lead into. So... there’s no actual story here, unfortunately. It’s just a snapshot of this character’s life.

I like the idea here, of someone alone in her bedroom slowly getting dressed. I really like the idea of being that relaxed and not having anywhere to be that means she’s rushing to throw clothes on and get out of the house.

However, I’m not particularly happy with the piece because I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen into the old trap of telling-not-showing.

That being the case, I would really appreciate some feedback. What does the piece make you feel? Bored? Intrigued? Like I’ve over-used the adjectives? Let me know!

Warning: wall of text. Sorry.

♥Nancy♬

Taking hold of both of the drawer knobs with perfectly manicured hands, she pulled the heavy drawer halfway open. To the untrained eye the contents of that top drawer might look like a jumbled mess. This was her drawer, though, and there was no one whose eye was better trained to survey its contents. She ran her hands over silky smooth satin, skimmed her fingertips across soft cotton and paused as she felt the netted texture of lace. She fondled red lace, her fingers light against the delicate fabric. She hooked one finger under an elastic waistband and then under a bra strap, pulling the matching set free of the other garments in the drawer. With a casual flick of her hand, the underwear landed gently on the nearby four-post bed. Outside the window, the leaves of a tall tree provided a filter for the morning sun. Despite the chill outside, the sunrise poured through the window and warmed the room in patches. She stretched, languid in the comfortable warmth. Before she brought her arms down out of the stretch she used one hand to squeeze open the clip on the top of her head, slowly extracting it from the mess of silken red hairs. She wandered across the room, her bare feet sinking into luxurious carpet, to place the polished wood hair clip neatly on a glass platter on her dressing table; her hair fell around her shoulders, big, loose curls tumbling with each step. As the morning sun rose higher in the sky, light fell over the dressing table. It refracted through a crystal bottle, scattering rainbows across the room. She looked down to see a splash of rainbow light on her hip. She touched the rainbow and felt her own alabaster skin under her fingertips.

16th Century Cream Linen Kirtle

Hello!

A short time ago I blogged about my Blue Linen Kirtle and I finished that post with a lament about how I am lacking in awls. I haven’t got an awl yet so I haven’t continued work on the Blue Kirtle. However, I’ve still been sewing a lot and I’ve made good progress with my next kirtle.

UPDATE: Since writing this post I have, in fact, received my awl, but I've been sewing much slower so this post is basically still up-to-date.

Kirtle #2 is made using the same pattern that Rosie helped me with. However, it has a very different structure from the Blue Kirtle because it is front-lacing instead of side-lacing. It’s also cream-coloured. The top fabric is from Fabrics-store.com and it’s IL019 5.3 oz/yd² in a colour called Krista. For the lining I used the same white linen that I used in my Blue Kirtle. The Cream Kirtle is also entirely hand-sewn using linen thread, except for the basting stitch where I used the same cheap cotton.

My process for the Cream Kirtle started in the same way that the process for the Blue Kirtle started. I cut out the pieces in interlining fabric. This time I used two layers of linen and one layer of the grey horsehair stuff. I didn’t really want it to be any thicker but because the cream linen is so light you can see the grey horsehair stuff through it. I didn’t have that problem with the Blue Kirtle because you can’t see the grey through the deep blue. Using two layers of the heavy white linen means that you can’t see the grey stuff through the cream stuff. Here’s a picture of those three layers:

As with the Blue Kirtle, my next step was to stitch the layers of interlining together. I used running stitch. Next step: cutting out the top fabric. I cut out the lining fabric at the same time to make sure it was the same size and shape as the top fabric pieces. I was pretty careful at this step because I think that wrong cutting-out of my lining fabric contributed to the shoulder-lumping on the Blue Kirtle. I also used a slightly smaller seam allowance this time and I didn’t have to trim any off. After all the cutting-out I used a big running stitch to baste the top fabric to the interlining.

Picture for proof:

And then, herringbone stitch! I remembered to take pictures of my herringbone stitch this time so you can have a look at how I did.

Along a straight edge:

Around a curve:

The next step after the herringbone stitching (which took forever, it’s such a slow part of the process) was to sew the seams. There were many more seams on the Cream Kirtle than there were on the Blue Kirtle. I sewed the side seams first and then the shoulder seams. I don’t really think that the order would have made a difference, I just did it in that order because I thought it would be better to sew the longer seams first. I used back-stitch because it’s good for seams. After I sewed the four seams (two side-seams, two shoulder-seams) on the top fabric, I sewed those same seams on the lining fabric.

Next, I pinned the lining fabric into the bodice. I started by matching the seams and then I tucked the seam allowance all under and pinned that down. For around the armholes I did the same thing, using little snips to be able to fold it in neatly. Interestingly, I was watching the “Jersey Shore” episode of Bones whilst doing this. I don’t know why I remember that. Anyway, I then sewed down the lining using slip-stitch. Here are a couple of pictures of the lining all sewed down:

I’m pretty happy with how the bodice has turned out so far. It doesn’t have any weird lumping that I’ve noticed yet and I think my sewing was mostly quite neat. The only part of the bodice that I’m not as happy with is the back panel, which is a V-shape. I’m not happy with it because it turned out not-very-pointy. I tried to make it pointy but it didn’t turn out very pointy and I don’t know how to increase the pointedness. Here’s a picture of how it turned out:

*sigh* Oh well, it will do.

I’ve done a bit more work on this dress but I haven’t taken pictures yet, so I’m going to keep this blog post short and sweet and leave it here.

The rest of what I’ve done is: cut out the skirt pieces, do the pleating, attach the skirt, sew the side-seams.

What I have left to do is: a bunch of finishing, remove basting stitches, a bunch of lacing-holes.

UPDATE: I may have done this stuff already (but not on the blue dress yet).

Hopefully by the next time I blog I’ll have completely finished both dresses! I should be able to sum them up in one post (with pictures)!

Thanks for reading :)

♥Nancy♬

Hysterical Pregnancy

Hi everyone!

I promised that there would be some more creative writing to come and here it is, yay!

No, it’s not A Fantasy Story. I still fully intend to write more of that but I haven’t been inspired and so I’m just experimenting with short pieces at the moment.

I don’t really have any background information to offer on this one; I pretty much just sat down to write and this was what came out.

I hope you enjoy it and, as always, I appreciate any comments you’d like to provide. I’ll only get better if I get some constructive criticism!

♥Nancy♬

She sits in a deep, velvet arm chair with her hands resting gently on her swollen belly. There is a tiny fire struggling to maintain vigour in the grate but she does not take any actions to help it survive. There’s not much left in the room. The floor is wooden but the thick layer of dust makes it difficult to tell. There is a coffee table with a now-cold mug of green tea leaving a wet ring on the glass surface. There is a photograph of a married couple on the mantlepiece; they look happy together. She pointedly avoids eye contact with the man and woman in the photograph. She caresses her distended abdomen. Empty. That’s what the doctor told her. He told her that her belly was empty and barren. He called her hysterical. A hysterical pregnancy. She didn’t believe it was kosher to call a pregnant woman hysterical; surely it was just the hormones making her a little crazy? She’d tried to explain that to Dan, but he’d believed the doctor and screamed at her for making her empty belly out to be full of growing life. Which it is, there is no doubt in her mind. She feels a flicker of movement.

 “Don’t kick,” she scolds, gently, affectionately, to the baby that she knows is wriggling in her womb.

She supposes it was wrong to blame Dan for walking out. They’d tried so long and so hard to have a baby. They’d both wanted the baby. At first, anyway.

 “Okay,” Dan had said, “we’ll go to a specialist.”

He had been so good to her, way back at that point. It seems so far away now. They had gone to the specialist. She remembers back to poking and prodding, appointments and injections, and test after test after test coming back... negative. She tries to forget.

And instead she remembers Dan saying, “we need to stop trying. It’s not going to happen.”

She’d gotten so mad and they’d fought. She regrets it now and wishes for Dan to come home to her. She glances up at her dusty wedding photo. For a split second she misses that woman, the one laughing and smiling with Dan on their wedding day. But she wasn’t pregnant. She stops missing that barren bitch and caresses her stomach again.

Dan will come home, she is sure of it. Once he realises that she’s actually pregnant this time, that’s when he’ll turn right around and come home. How could he not? They have always dreamed of raising a child together. Dan might have said otherwise during their fight on the night he left, but she was sure that he didn’t mean it. He can’t mean it now, anyway, she thinks. Not now that he’s had time to calm down; he has definitely realised that she’s truly pregnant this time.

A doubt niggles in the depths of her mind.

 “I don’t care anymore, I don’t want a baby!” Dan had yelled, on the night before he’d left.

 “Yes you do, you do,” she had yelled back, “we’ve always dreamed of raising a child together!”

 “That was your dream! And it’s not going to happen.”

 “It’ll just take a little longer.”

 “I don’t want to try anymore. I can’t live like this. I’m leaving tonight.”

 “You can’t leave! It’s dark and it’s raining. It won’t be safe on the roads.”

She had turned to logic in her time of need. A pregnant pause had followed. There was a kind of poetic irony to that.

 “Fine,” Dan had said. “I’m sleeping in the guest room. I’ll leave in the morning.”

She shakes her head gently to break herself out of the painful memory. Thoughts are whizzing around in her mind and she can’t do anything to stop them. Dan will come back. They will have this baby together. She’s not hysterical, she’s just hormonal. And her belly isn’t empty, it is full of growing life. It can’t be empty, not after what she did...

She remembers:

It was dark and lightning struck outside the window, lighting up the living room with its wooden floors, polished mantelpiece and deep, velvet armchair. This was a night where the weather was cutting the world off from heaven. How convenient. She lit a candle. She’d wanted a black one but they only had plain white candles at home. Did people really stock black candles in their homes? What would you ever need one for? Well... this. She sat on the floor in front of the coffee table with its glass top and watched as the candle began to drip-drip-drip its wax. She began to speak.

 “Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana.”

She’d read the names on the internet. They were names of goddesses, of female gods that, let’s face it, no one really worshipped. But it was nice to think that on this dark night of rain and storms and husbands leaving there was someone listening, even if it wasn’t God. And this was a woman’s problem.

She read the names again, “Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana.”

She spoke faster the second time, liking the sound of them, the rhythm and the unfamiliar sounds as they fell off her tongue. She said them again. She said them again. She was chanting.

She is not the chanting sort. And now, as she breaks out of that memory and back to reality for just a brief second, she feels bad for turning her face away from God. She turns to him now and makes a different wish, a wish for her husband to come home. It doesn’t feel as powerful as the wish she made on that dark and stormy night. She falls back into the memory.

 “Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana, Isis, Astarte...” she had fallen into a rhythm, a proper chant. But she could feel something building too. It wasn’t God, he didn’t seem to be watching. But it was a familiar force, something that could have been from her own religion and not from one of the crazy religions where the names she was chanting actually meant anything.

Again, she chanted, “Hecate, Demeter,” and she felt that same feeling that something was building, like a wave or bread rising, or an orgasm. “Kali, Innana...”

A pause. And then: “Lilith,” she hissed, and felt the presence of something very powerful all around her. Lightning cracked again. She had chanted women’s names but the last name, that was not a made-up goddess from a pretender’s religion. Lilith may have been demonic but at least she was Judeo-Christian and that had to count for something. And really, she was only turning aside from God, not away to Satan, just... aside. To a female power who could help with a female problem.

Thunder clapped and she made her wish in front of the dripping candle and in the presence of that female power.

 “Give me a baby.”

She snaps out of her reverie and feels sweat running down her brow even though it is a cold day. Her actions had worked. The night had been dark and God had not been watching, but she knows now that he must have heard her plea and understood what she had done in desperation. She smiles and caresses her beautiful, pregnant belly. Empty? Pah! She knows her body better than any doctor. She isn’t hysterical. This is not a hysterical pregnancy. She spoke directly to God and now she is pregnant.

Dan will be home any day now.

She begins to laugh. She is alone in a cold and empty house. Alone, with her cold and empty belly. Her soul feels cold, too.

She laughs. And laughs. And laughs, until the fire goes out.