WIP First Draft Extract 02/09/2017: Character Introduction

Claire wasn’t what her parents expected her to be, in fact there were many times they considered the possibility they brought home the wrong child. If it wasn’t for her father’s murky green eyes and her mother’s sharp nose they’d have been certain of it. Where they saw a man’s face, Claire saw his soul. There was something about the world that equal parts fascinated and horrified her, and within that ever expanding world was James.

Before James met Claire he was certain of his future. He would graduate, return to Edinburgh to work for his father, marry someone just so, have children and watch them follow in his footsteps. All of this would be followed by the inevitable end that greets all of the earth’s children. It didn’t scare him then that his life was to be no more than mediocre, but after he met Claire, it terrified him that he might not discover her.


Even I’m not entirely sure what this is or will be, I just felt the need to write and this is what found me. I plan on going with the flow with this one, so stay tuned for more of Claire and James. To be continued

– Beth. 

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Johnny Got Shot

Johnny Got Shot

Three, two, nope I can’t do it, not a chance in Hell. I’ll just have to get myself home and call Frankie. Frankie always knows best, I doubt he’s seen this before, but still, he’ll know what to do.

Jeez that hurt more than I expected, and now blood is pouring out from where the bugger shot me. Man I wish I had a phone. Why didn’t I listen to Mindy? She said, “Johnny you’ll regret it, everyone has one these days, what if you get shot in the leg?” Okay, so she didn’t say that last part, but imagine if she did?  That would have been funny. Actually, no, no it wouldn’t. This is so far from funny that I am now laughing hysterically as I drag my limp bleeding leg through the dusty path. Just what every open wound needs, dust.

If I had taken the arrow out I would have bled out there and then, back there, with the roses and those blue ones, I can never remember what they’re called. My mum always used to pick them and put them in the kitchen window. They were crawling with bugs, but she never seemed to mind, I always thought it peculiar.

An arrow in the leg is always better than being dead, that’s a saying, right? Well it should be, because it’s true. Who wants to be dead? Then again, who wants an arrow in their leg? I sure as Hell don’t.

I was just wandering through the way, and bang, the psychopath shot me. Okay, so it was less of a wander and more of a run, but who needs details? I have an arrow in my leg, what more do you need to know? It hurts, and now that I’m thinking about it even more it hurts even more, I need to take my mind off of it. Wow I feel woozy. I thought keeping the darn thing in would keep me plugged up? Turns out that was a stupid thought.

Come on Johnny walk faster, faster. It’s more of a crawl really. If he’s still behind me he’ll have an easy job of finding me, there’s a trail of my blood thick as my arm behind me, any fool could track me.

I used to shoot, when I was younger. Say nine or ten, I only did it for a little while. I stopped when my dad ran off with the waitress from the restaurant that sold the good peach pie. I love peach pie, but now it carries with it a bitter undertone of abandonment and resent. Still, I eat it every Friday night.

I wonder if mum still puts those blue flowers in the kitchen window. When I get home I think I’ll call her, it’ll be nice to hear her voice again, to tell her that I have been missing her, and that, well, I love her. I suppose I should probably apologise too, you know, for stealing from her.

What? When my dad left I didn’t know what to do with myself, my head was all over the place, and when Frankie told me to sneak the Mars into my pocket it only took the one time to get me addicted. That’s what got me into this mess, stealing. If I hadn’t have stolen from mum I wouldn’t have had to leave home, and I wouldn’t have ended up in my sorry excuse of an apartment sleeping with the roaches, and I wouldn’t have wandered through this dreary little village and tried to make off with a prize chicken, and I wouldn’t have been shot in the leg. So, if you think about it, this is Frankie’s fault.

I wonder if Frankie has ever sewn anyone up before. I know that he’s resuscitated a few people, he’s a hero around our parts, people don’t see him the way I do. Not many people know about his stealing, they don’t realise that a janitor’s wage couldn’t have afforded him such a hot lifestyle. They all see me though, they always have. I’ve got a rubbish poker face, that’s my problem. That, and the fact I listened to Frankie.

I’ll never forget my mother’s face when she found out. Oh the veins on her forehead almost jumped out and strangled me she was that mad. It was only a couple hundred quid, I needed a new bike, mine only had one wheel. Where was one wheel going to get me? She always went on at me to get a job, but how could I get to a job with one wheel on my bike. Slowly. And I don’t do slowly. Well, I am doing now, but I only have one leg.

I can almost see the road, man it’s far away, but it’s so close, it’s one of those what do you call thems? We learnt about them in English, and when I got home I told my mum about them, but she was too busy crying to take notice. She always cried, especially after dad left, I don’t remember seeing her smile. Boy I wish she was here now, she’d know what to do. When I get out of this mess I’m going home, home home.

Come on Johnny, not far now, I’m almost at the road. Oh man, things just got a whole lot woozier. Is it getting darker out here, or am I about to pass out?

Why Poetry

Finding words that roll off the ton-

gue,

can be just as hard as tonguing ‘gue’

When words are all I have,

to have lost them terrifies –

My mind cannot stay still,

for fear I might forget my name,

Never-mind the rest

This is what I want, more than that,

but my words are too simple,

says he

My words are too perplexing,

says she

Worlds, voices, action, love, death,

they play in my mind, I speak the words,

I sing the scenes,

yet pen to paper, fingers to keys,

nothing

spills

over

Not even one

drop,

I am not even a leaking faucet,

– Or tap as we call it

I avoid the chance to admit why,

I find myself here,

with this blank white page,

begging me to say something,

to give myself to it, to you,

to hold nothing back, but I –

Call it fear,

or doubt,

or both

This is where I am, this is why,

but this not who I am,

this is not.

The

End

 

It be well

I red a lot when I were young

Books and poems wrote by authors

People I dreamed of becoming

There words made me feel knew

They replenished my mind

And cleansed my sole

I writ until my hand did blister

And then I writ some more

I tried to find the secret, but

Wear it was I never discovered

In a book I red at school

One man writ that grammar,

That old muse, was key.

Yet, after all that I have read

and seen, and felt,

I say that love cannot be tamed,

By grammar, or anything else,

For when you love something,

Truly,

You give your time, your life to it,

You never stop,

And then one day

You start to get it right,

And suddenly,

Your dream of writing an epic poem

For generations to come to admire,

To create a world of wonder,

To make that girl proud

Of the person she has become,

It be well.

Is Anyone Out There?

I came here bushy-eyed and bright-tailed,

No, wait, what was it they said?

With an open mind I flew right in

Regardless of humiliation, and pain.

Anxiety followed me here, that’s right,

The soul sucking curse couldn’t let go.

Friends and family look on like I’m lost,

Which I do not doubt, but I do doubt myself.

Is there anyone else here? Honestly, please.

Show yourselves, you supposed angels

Such wonder I was promised, yet behold,

Nothing.

Drama was something I loved,

But the wizard didn’t pay out,

So I kept the shoes and ran.

Where are the people, where is the community?

My tail is dulling and my eyes are moulting,

Perhaps this isn’t the place to be,

perhaps it is.

The apocalypse would show me more company,

Solidarity is in the heart of a mindless corpse,

I could have an army of friends – don’t say it.

I came here, that was enough then,

But now you crave more, you demand it.

Where are you? You aren’t here, are you?

I thought not, but still I savagely write,

Passage after passage.

Take me there, to the centre of your world,

But don’t get too close. I get attached.

It gets messy.

Crazed eyes forever watching, where are you now?

Silence is all I find, and plotting,

Money, views, money, views, money,

The driving force, the protagonist, the villain,

The prize yet to be won.

You are at home, you are found,

Whilst I sit outside, thunder in my heart,

Rain on my brow. I don’t like rain.

I hate the outside, I can’t stand the inside,

But I want to go there, and be here.

Bushy brights, tailed eyes,

I’ve got you, don’t worry.

I’ve got you.