The Awakening Conscience

I pull on the large rope which hangs flaccidly next to the large oaken doors. Inside, a bell rings My hands shoot to my hair, checking my ribbon is in place, feeling for any strays. A bee floats in the flowers next to me. I watch it languidly drift in the summer air as I wait. A thirst begins to take hold of my throat, is he coming? Has he decided he has better things to do, other people to see? I can feel a light damp patch forming on my brow, the white cotton of my dress begins to itch against my legs. I lightly finger my lip (a habit of mine since my early years) as I think of what to do. Should I go? No, I've come this far. My hand reaches for the rope once more and suddenly the door flies open. A rush of cool air smacks me in the face. I let myself be pulled in. He laughs, muttering to me as he spins me around in his arms, tying a multi-coloured shawl around my waist. As I come to a stop I feel his hands lingering on my thighs. My eyes drift up from his gloved hands, over his jacketed arms and onto his moustachioed face. I notice his eyes flick up to my face, having been angled somewhere south only seconds before. He smiles at me and steps back, the floorboards groan under his feet and the back of his head appears in the mirror behind him. It's one of many in the house. It seems as though he must have had more mirrors than wallpaper when decorating.

I open my mouth to speak but he cuts over me, explaining that he's had the music room set up and I must come through. I nod compliantly as he takes my hand. He guides me past the ornate staircase and through the narrow hall. We enter a small, cluttered room. A large mirror hangs on one wall and a piano takes centre stage. He turns to face me, gently tugging my hair from its ribbon. He drops his gloves to the floor and falls heavily into the chair behind the piano. His hand drifts over the keys, his finger plunging at intervals as he holds his other hand out to me. I walk over and sit in his lap, his breath tickles the nape of my neck. I look down at the floor and see a cat's tail disappear under his chair. I feel his hands reach around my throat, tugging at the pink bow I had worn since I had begun to walk. I shiver as his fingers dart around searching for the clasp that held it. I lift my head and my eyes are met by a vast and colourful garden, stretching out through the open window in front of me. My mouth drops and I try to stand. He laughs, holding on to one of my arms as I try to pull away. I defiantly pull my arm free, whispering no as I walk towards the window and the garden beyond.

One Hundred Word Story

I push open the door of the capsule and we step out. We’ve landed in the centre of a barren field. Before us sits a city, seemingly abandoned.
“So this is the future!” says Felix, laughing nervously.
“Let’s go” I whisper, shivering.
We walk quickly across the dry soil, pulling our hoods over our red ears. Inside is a large courtyard and in the centre stands a statue, one arm stretched out and festooned with nooses. There’s something familiar about it. I see a plaque at the bottom. It says, King David Green. My stomach clenches. The statue is me.

I got it onto EXACTLY one hundred words, although it pained me to get rid of some of it. Some criticism would be lubberly jubberly. See you all on Monday evening!

Oli! :D

The Kissing Tree

A woman climbs to the top of the Kissing Tree, clutching at ripe fruits and fresh leaves. At her flat the carpet is mouldering, the wallpaper is peeling, her daughter is starving. The woman wears a long colourful dress, her hair is in a headscarf and a small basket is strapped to her back. Peach by peach she fills her latticed container, the straps cutting lovingly into her dark shoulders as she does so. The sun stretches itself across the blueberry sky above her, scolding any clouds in its path. Once she has filled her basket she begins her slow climb down the Kissing Tree. When her sandals touch the bottom she breathes in deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow with her wrist.
She turns and screams. She has been caught.

Opposite her sits a blind dog, its mangy coat covered in flies. The woman drops to her knees and howls, begging the dog to forgive her through yelping sobs. The blind dog stares into her eyes, watching her and waiting. The woman begins to crawl towards the dog, hands and knees scraping over the dusty ground. She reaches the blind dog and they are touching, nose to nose. A small tear falls from her face and moistens a spot of ground beneath her. The dog sticks its tongue out and licks her sharply on the lips. A brilliant light fills the orchard and suddenly in the place of the blind dog stands a regal man and in place of the woman sits a dog, surrounded by fuzzy peaches. The man ties a piece of rope around the dog's neck and guides it from the orchard.

A scream is heard in the distance.

Modern Love Story

We stand in the kitchen. The room feels suffocating, like it's being slowly filled with stagnant pond water. His words have wrapped around me like a boa constrictor, pulling my throat tight. I drop into the worn kitchen chair and rest my head in my hands. I notice the smell of tomato soup still hasn't left the room.
"Look at me" he says, his voice breaking lightly, "Please."
I look up, I'm blinded by the sudden burst of bright sunlight from the large window above the worktop. I see him only in silhouette for a few seconds before he shifts into focus. He looks old. The usually endearing faint lines around his eyes seem deeper. I spot a small brushstroke of grey on the side of his head.
"Why?" I breathe, looking him up and down, "Just...why?"
He closes his eyes and his nostrils flare as he breathes. His hands feel for the edge of the worksurface behind him and he leans back. I slowly stand and walk to the other side of the room, adopting the same position as him I wait for an answer. I notice how faded the blue on the cupboard doors is, how stained the cooker has gotten over the years.
"I did it because...I don't...don't think I'm in love with you anymore"

My fingers tighten upon the worktop. A small tear carries itself down my face and hangs on my chin. He takes a step towards me and I put my hand up, resting my palm on the chest of his grey t-shirt. I shake my head and my black curls bounce about my face. Biting my bottom lip I turn and look out of the window. Free of blinds or curtains I can see our two little boys running about the garden. I breathe slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth. My hands rest next to two dirty mugs and a pile of used teabags, my chin falls onto my chest.

I hear the door close behind me.

A Grain of Sand.

At night the darkness is impenetrable. The wind sweeps the empty streets, angrily pulling down signs and pushing over bins. There are six of us in total, me, Maria, John, Monica, Simon and Mohammed. We stick together. It's a way of holding onto the last vestiges of humanity really. Community. Friendship. Love. Such meaningless words now. How can words have meaning anymore? When the end has come and carried off your mother, your father, your neighbour, your teacher.

Humanity. Once a great mountain upon the Earth, now a grain of sand floating in the ocean. There was no panic, no urgency in death. "Of course I won't be affected, I'm the centre of my universe, I can't die". The last error of the human race.

I suppose I should tell you more about Us. We're the immune.
I was a baker, of course, there's no flour now. Maria was a nurse, she saw the original waves first hand. She doesn't talk much. John was a model, the third wave left him disfigured. Monica was a famous singer, I didn't really know her until the second wave left her deaf. I was all over the news. That poor woman. Simon was a history teacher, he was in the very first quarantined school. All the students and teachers choked to death in front of him, their lungs filling with blood. Mohammed was a photographer, well I suppose he still is. He documents everything we find with disposable cameras. He has hundreds in his trolley.

We've discussed repopulation. No one wanted to. Who would want to bring a child into this world?

Sometimes I sit and laugh. All those laws and wars about religion, race, gender, sexuality. What was the point? We had a chance to be happy and we squandered it.
Still, we walk on. The six of us. We tell stories, writing them down for Monica, we huddle together for warmth, we carry each other when we get too tired, we quarrel, we love. Isn't it funny? How on the brink of everything, at the precipice, surrounded by death, humans resort to one thing. Love.

Inspired Arthur C Clarke's quote: 'Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.'

Spring.

Yesterday the blossom appeared on the Tree.
Powdery pinks and powerful whites strung themselves on the ends of mint green branches. A small spider busied herself amongst the bottom branches, repairing her damp web after the previous night's gale. She spun and spun, creating an intricate trap for the next unsuspecting insect to cross her path. A small team of ants marched just below her, up and down the trunk, collecting food with military precision. At the top a small thrush squealed with delight, spotting an unwary worm enjoying the moisture in the grass below him. He puffed up his body and swooped acrobatically down from the tree, snatching the worm up in his beak. At the trunk of the tree a rabbit nibbled on some grass, chewing with one ear pricked up. A small beetle scuttled past, rushing through the grass in search of food and shelter. Inside the dense foliage a caterpillar munched on a small leaf. he was surrounded by his brothers and sisters, already sealed into their chrysalises. A bee hovered up to one of the buds of blossom, bumbling around it until he could be sure there was nothing worth taking yet. Another bee shot past him and he raced after her, in hot pursuit. A small cluster of aphids settled on one of the uppermost leaves, agreeing on a tactic of everyman for himself. Unknown to them a ladybird waited in the branches below.

Today the Tree was cut down.

Modern Red Riding Hood, ReDraft

White painted fences line the street,
I have her legs, her arms and her feet.
She's been here since last winter time.
Still, mother awaits the doorbell's chime.

She'd come exploring with a light,
that through the darkness shone so bright.
From in my room I heard her feet
And took my axe into the sleet.

Now her head rests in my fridge,
oh, how she shouldn't have crossed that bridge.
I'm warning all you girls and boys,
Who enters my wood, my axe destroys.

Travel Writing

We pull up at the campsite in Narbonne with three suitcases, one tent, a myriad of camping equipment and four exhausted people. I remember feeling every bone in my body click as I stepped from the heavily loaded in car into the even heavier air. The het was almost intolerable but we were here now, determined to act like Southern Europeans for ten days before we got back home to tea, rain and proper toilets.
We all stumble into the accueil where my parents stare at me expectantly until I squeeze out some nearly incomprehensible French. A smell of disinfectant and air-conditioning fills the air, clean yet musty.
"Mais oui monsieur, suivez moi!"
The Asian receptionist, who, I later learnt, speaks six languages, guides us to our pitch. Then comes the bit everyone dreads. Putting up the tent, constructing our holiday home, building the shelter. However it's said, after a sixteen hour slog in the car, it's no more inviting. I help unload the car and get scolded by my parents for bringing more books than clothes and then inconspicuously slip off to look for a shop. I do this under the guise of "scouting out the local area". A reconnaissance".

I've come here to practise my French and learn more about local customs. After the thé au lait incident (a story for another time) I am nervous but I can do anything, I survived the péages! The campsite is a veritable soundtrack of Europe, French over here, German there, Dutch down there, English under here. My eyes skip over the tents and caravans, size envy soon setting in as I spy things to add to my Dad's 'Things To Buy For Camping' list. Chlorine fills the air as I wander past the large swimming pool. This is soon replaced by the inviting smells of the boulangerie. I follow my nose to a small building practically oozing French cuisine. Breads, cakes, rolls, baguettes, pastries and so much more line the shelves. I make a mental note to return later with more money and many bags. A small radio sits on the counter, under which is a fridge bursting with drinks. The radio vomits French into the air, fighting with the shouts from the kitchen out back.
A small woman walks into the shop from the kitchen, her size and stature inversely proportional to the power of her lungs. "NON, NON, NON, NON , NON...ÊTES VOUS BÊTES?" As she sees me she smiles and mutters to herself in French that I don't understand. I quickly buy my lemonades and leave. The tent was nearly habitable by the time I returned.

Modern Red Riding Hood

Picket fences line the street and no one will ever know.
The girl lies in the basement, her body smashed to and fro.
I put her there last winter, when all was bright and white.
In my draw I keep her gloves, her hat and her flashlight.

She'd come exploring all alone, at midnight, among the dark pine trees.
I heard her footsteps from my kitchen, went out and smashed her to her knees.

She had no right to be there, to be walking in my wood.
Now her parents miss her, their daughter oh so good.
Let this be a warning to all you girls and boys.
Never enter my wood or risk being the next one my axe destroys.

An Enticing Begining

Meeting Mr Ross has inspired me to attempt to write an enticing beginning, something which "makes you want to read on"!

Thick ropes thrummed in the wind. Snapping taut and then whipping from left to right. The huge hot air balloons which they tethered down filled the sky with sunset pinks, fresh greens, opulent blues, canary yellows, rich oranges and thick purples.  Men, women and children of all colours and ages slid down ropes and traversed ladders. They grouped in tight masses under the shade of the mammoth wooden houses which hung from the balloons. Each house had an intricate pattern of painted lines and pictures, no two were the same. Penelope Cross looked on, the small window which sat in the wall above her bed framed the scene. She watched as the large groups slowly became one, congregating near the city gates. Penelope sat back, her view now obscured by her headboard, she glanced around her room. It was small. A pile of clothes sat on a wicker chair in one corner, to its left her doorframe was filled by a dirty sheet. The walls were bare save for a few scrape marks. Penelope drew in a deep breath and placed her feet on the floor. Her Lemon yellow dress shifted awkwardly on her tiny and bony body. Womanhood had yet to take hold of her and the bust of her dress hung awkwardly even though it was pinched with a pin. She reached under her bed and pulled out a cracked mirror, she tried smiling at her reflection. She was discontented. Her light blonde hair was slowly slipping out of its delicate bun, there were some smudge marks on her face. She was thirteen, in her last year of school and lived with her mother and brothers. Though she loved them, she dreamed of leaving, seeing the floating towns of Rhyn, meeting the Snow Harooms, climbing trees! She knew it could never happen, she was old enough to understand that the government never let people leave Niriim.

I hope y'all like it! Any feedback would be wonderful! :D Thankies!

Asylum

The window in my room has a white frame. It has a metal latch in the middle and consists of eight sections of glass. To open it you have to slide the bottom section over the top. Of course, then there is the metal grille behind it. They put it there to stop jumpers. That's how it works here, no part of your life is left uncontrolled. My bed sits below the window. It has a metal frame and a springless mattress. The blue covers are coarse and hairy. The door is white. The door is always locked.

They put me here three years ago. I tried to kill myself when she left me. My whole life shattered in one moment. From then on I never bothered to switch on the lights, it was always dark anyway. I left off the heating because it never made a difference. You know when you sleep awkwardly on your arm and you wake up with pins and needles so bad you can't move it? Imagine that in your whole body.

I have a small hair clip. The ones ladies use to hold their hair back. I keep it hidden. I won't tell you where. Sometimes I sit on my bed and play with it. Snap, snap...snap, snap...snap, snap...snap, snap...snap, snap...snap, snap. I imagine it's me. I wish I were that simple. Snap...snap...open...close...on...off.

I've seen the sheets. The ones the doctors and the nurses keep about me. They think I'm crazy. They thing I'm wrong. But I think they're just scared. They have to call me mad...psychotic...because if I'm not an anomaly, if I'm not crazy, then they have to question themselves.

Travel Writing

Hi, I really struggled to write some 'traditional' travel writing. Therefore, I have opted for the Gulliver's Travels approach: making it all up. Yes, it is fictitious, no, my life isn't this cool.

The old boat creaked in agony as we pushed it from the rocky shore. I was the last to leave the icy waters and jump in. My nose burnt as I breathed in and my mouth produced small clouds of condensation as I breathed out. Our whispers pierced the air as our oars sliced through the water. I looked up at the castle, it glew like a candle atop a cake of rock. One or two fairies fluttered about the small lantern that led our ship forward, tiny spurts of fire shooting from their mouths as they danced entrancingly. I pulled my cloak tighter around me as droplets began to fall from the sky, spattering our clothes. I looked to shore and watched as each leaf glew a deep red as a raindrop hit it. The woodland we had left behind us began to light up as if a wildfire had suddenly taken hold of the trees. I looked back to the castle, imagining the great feast which awaited us inside. My stomach moaned thinking of the juicy fruit, the roasted meats and the steaming vegetables.
I heard a light laughter out on the water and saw a water-nymph boat, fashioned from leaves and petals, floating past. The females lighting the way with their petals. Every three years this party took place, every year it surprised me. last year it ended three days later with Duke Gornstone spreading his great, emerald wings, taking to the sky and creating a huge fireworks display for us. Swallowing different potions before he left to make his fyre-stomachs produce the dazzling colours.
The waters moved thickly around us and our self-conscious mutterings became songs and shouts, led by the mountain Brownie who sat, paws crossed, at the head of the boat. The moon was huge that night, it cast a strong, white light on the far side of the lake, contrasting the red trees behind it. Suddenly the castle was above us. The one hundred steps up drawing nearer. I pulled my bag closer to me, hearing bottles clink and packages rustle. When we reached the bottom of the steps an elderly woman sprinkled a handful of dirt and motioned for us to walk up.

The party awaits.

Oliver Pilcher. Any feedback would be lovely.

Current Ideas for 'The Young Oyster'.

Current Desks and Stories:

News (NIBs)- (Year 9s: Charlie, Phoebe, Ellie, Max)
Article about Miss Clarke's book and Samaritan's Purse- Isabelle Dicks- Working On
Charlie and Max- Canteen Food- Working On
Phoebe and Ellie- New Teachers- Working On

Features- (Year 9s: Courtney and Lucy)
Interview with Ms Russell/ Sullivan-Tighe: Courtney and Lucy- Working on

Arts-
Hannah Abbott- Article on Film (The comeback of Comic book Films)- Received
Sean Drury- Something about theatre/Lindley Players- Yet to be asked
Modern Frankenstein- Working On

Sports-
Oli Small- Not sure on article- Working On
Jessica Kay- Not sure on article- Yet to be asked

Celeb Gossip-
--------------------------------
We could hold school poetry or story writing competitions.
We could hold school photography competitions.
A2 Science students must do a research project- Something on modern science in Newspaper.
We could have a maths question of the month.

Modern Frankenstein; Or the Extra Modern Prometheus

Frank Steinman:
I sit for hours in front of the autopsy. Organ after organ is removed as the monotone voice wearing a lab coat explains what she is doing. The lecture finishes and I walk out with the others, slipping into the toilets as they go off outside. I wait to hear the 'pap,pap,pap' of Dr Oppenheimer's sensible shoes and walk back into the corridor.

It's always cool in these buildings, that sort of chill that sends goose pimples marching around your body. They do it to keep them fresh. The bodies, the organs and the animals. I push the doors of the lecture hall open gently and walk up to the wrap which covers the corpse. I know from previous experience that I have about seven minutes before the obese porter will get off of his fat arse and come for the body.

She's old, about seventy, but she'll do. I peer into the trays, most of what I need has already been cut out for me. Cold, metal trays are sticky with blood and vitals. I pull the rubber gloves over my chapped hands and lift the kidney. Its gelatinous substance seems to cling to my hands as I deposit it in my lunch box filled with ice. I reach into the wrap and slide my scalpel through the skin of the old woman, slicing off a section of her stomach. I place it over the kidney in my lunch box and clip it closed. Now I just had to get a rib. I crouched on the floor and opened my black briefcase, lifting my handheld saw and straightening out again. I shift the shroud and pull back the flap of breast which hangs from the woman. My saw begins to scream as I place it upon the bone, a fine powder shoots away as I grind through the woman's frame.

As I pack away the rib and saw in my briefcase and pull the shroud back over the corpse I hear the unmistakeable trundling of the porters trolley. My breath quickens as I walk quickly over to the double doors, away from the noise. I push through, walking as if on a route march, and slip out into the courtyard. All around me people are grazing on their lunches, I watch as they masticate the food, pondering the complexities of the human body. How would I obtain a jaw bone without someone noticing? I notice Clerval walking over to me and put on a smile.
"What's for lunch today?" He asks, snatching my lunchbox from me.
"Nothing." I spit back, snatching my lunchbox back and strapping it to my briefcase.
"Are you coming out tonight? It's curry night again, last week me and Eliza..."
"Of course not, I have my project."
"Oh yeah" Clerval looks at me as if he is hurt, "And what on earth is that powder all over your sleeve?" He starts to brush it off for me and I give him a large, toothy grin.

We Don't Talk About the Garden Shed

Sitting at the bottom of the garden is everyone's little box of shame. That small, wooden structure with its cobwebs, its toys and its strange junk that nobody seems to want to claim.
The garden shed.

Each one has its own story. The creation of a robot, built from parts in an overly-priced magazine. The patio that will never be lain. The rusting bikes of that family who are always complaining about the price of petrol. But my shed is different. We don't talk about it. Not because of the UPE (Unfinished Project Embarrassment) or even the OUB (One Use Barbeque) but because of The Incident. One Tuesday evening, Mum was writing a letter of complaint to the grocers and Dad was baking for the Church fete, I got bored. Yes, bored. Blue Peter's origami Barrack Obama had grown frustrating and the algebraic equations set by Ms O'Brian were no more inviting, so I wondered into the garden. The apple trees were bursting with fruit and the grass was overgrown. I picked up a disused, moulding cricket bat and walked through our personal jungle, dragging it beside me. I saw a pigeon fling itself from one of the trees, squawking manically, and noticed something odd. We have a shed? I ducked under the laden branches and walked the seven paces to the shed door. It was pretty big. It covered about the width of our garden but I couldn't see how far it went back. I rapped my small fist on the door and only got a hollow echo in return. The back of my neck began to prickle and my arms went cold. Why didn't I know we had a shed?

After about five minutes I plucked up the courage to try the door. It wouldn't budge. Why was it locked? The only door Mum and Dad ever locked was the one to their bedroom, for when they were doing 'Special Prayers'. I took a step back and tried to determine the distance between the floor and the window. I can reach that, I thought, I just need a kitchen chair. I walked back to the kitchen, dumping the bat by the back door. Dad was still baking his Victoria Sponge.
"Can I use the chair?" I asked.
"Yes, Ben" he replied sharply, "Just don't take up any space in the kitchen, I'm trying to bake". I knew Dad was serious when he used the B word. His ultimate dream was to get on the Great British Bake Off. I walked down to the shed, lugging the chair in front of me. I placed it in front of the grimy window and stepped up. I leant in, straining my eyes to see something in the dark shed. Nothing. Perhaps I need to be higher? What else could I use.

I went to step down.

My foot slipped.

My head hit the floor.

It took them three hours to notice I was missing. Then one hour to find me. By the time they did there were already bugs all over me. The blood had dried a crown in my blonde hair, a halo in the dirt around me. They cried, of course. But then they realised what had happened. I was moved into the shed but now I couldn't see what was really inside. The tools and the boxes which surrounded me. They watered the ground I had lain on for so many hours and then went to bed.

When people ask they say, "He's with his Aunt, we just can't cope sometimes." Mum still writes her letters and Dad still bakes his cakes. But they never, ever talk about the garden shed.

Oliver Pilcher. Any criticism would be great! Thanks! :D

It Could Happen to You (Jane Doe draft two)

I sit alone in the café, my legs are crossed under the small round table. It is snowing outside and all the birds have gone south for the winter. I watch the flakes settle leisurely on the windowpanes. After a while I pick up the menu which has been left for me by the waiter, his sweaty hand imprinted on the black, plastic spine. I scan over the poorly printed pages and sigh. Nothing.
The man on the table next to me laughs loudly as he pushes a forkful of sweet, dark chocolate cake into his mouth. His wife sits invisibly next to him, her grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. The third member of the table is a man with plum red cheeks and hair to match. His form didn't fit the chair, his sides spilling off like an overfilled bath.
I'll just have a salad I suppose.
The room is hot and I can feel my brow getting a little sweaty. One small bead of sweat slips down my face and hangs on my chin before dropping into my lap.
Has Madame decided? Of course, a salad would be lovely.
I watch the waiter shuffle back to the kitchens and then glance around. The café is small. Tiny windows framed with damp let in little light, dusty cushions sit on matchstick chairs and a fire roars in the hearth under the large portrait of a wiry man. He is in the process of unsheathing a large sword from his hip and stands next to a regal looking horse. As I gaze at the painting I begin to absentmindedly crack my knuckles, earning me a reproachful glance from the grey-haired woman. For something to do I reach into my handbag and pretend to search for something. My hand closes over my diary and so I take it out and start to read it.
Saturday 3rd September: Bake cake for Lou- Visit Mum
Sunday 4th September: Recycling bin- Clean out birds- Visit Mum
Monday 5th September: Early Shift- Complete forms for H.W and C.N
Tuesday 6th September: Visit Mum- Food shopping

Your salad, Madame. The waiter clunks the bowl on the table and walks swiftly away. I lift my fork and look at my meal. Mottled brown lettuce leaves, shrivelled peppers and oily black olives. I sigh, pushing it around my plate, not wanting to eat it. I look up and see the waiter watching me from the kitchen doors so I press my fork into the salad, smiling hesitantly at him. I slide it into my mouth, trying not to think of what was going in. I bite. My teeth slip over the lettuce and press into something gelatinous. An olive perhaps. I push harder and the outer flesh suddenly gives way and my teeth sink right through. It explodes in my mouth, runny and stringy all at once. I gag as I swallow, feeling as though it were half in my mouth and half in my throat. I press my chin to my chest, eyes closed as I feel it slip down.

I breathe when it's gone. I open my eyes slowly and lift my fork from where I dropped it on the table. I pick over one of the salad leaves and my stomach lurches. The salad rests on a bed of live slugs. My eyes begin to water.

I look up and try to shout for the waiter but my mouth won't open, the waiter is showing a young couple to a table across the room from me. I bang my fists hard on the table but with each strike the room seems to elongate, the waiter now seemingly in the distance. My chest fills with a scream that can't escape and when I feel I am about to burst the window behind me flies open. A strong wind slices through my body and flakes of snow litter my table. I stand and turn to close the window, my jacket is ripped off by the wind, my shirt blown open and the wind seems to scream at me. Goose pimples cover my bare skin as I reach in vain for the window, my arms keep being blown back, my shoulders start to ache. I lose my balance and my back smashes onto the table. I lay there sobbing as the light swings above me, making the shadows dance.

My body has gone numb, I can only hear the rushing of the wind now. Even the slugs, as they slide over my naked stomach, only exist in my eyes. The tears are frozen on my cheek, the cold is so bitter that my legs feel like a dead weight. I try to close my eyes, to block it out, but the tears have frozen my lids open.

My hand closes around the fork again, it feels warm, inviting, a part of me. I lift my hand above my face, still lying on the floor, and examine the fork, perhaps if it were inside me I would feel warm? I lift my other hand up, skin touching metal, metal caressing skin. I trace the prongs of the fork against the veins in my wrist. Don't veins lead to the heart?
I press the fork harder and harder with each sweep up my wrist until the warm blood begins to spatter on my blue cheeks.

Slowly the wind becomes a voice, calling out to me, the dancing shadows take the shape of human arms. I reach for the swinging light but a hand pulls my arm back down. I glance down as a pair of rubber gloves prod my stomach, the grey-haired woman stands at the end of the bed with a clip board. She looks at me gravely. A wiry man with a cleaner’s trolley plods past, led by the waiter, seemingly distressed, his hair still greasy. A tight leather band holds my mouth closed, it bites into my cheeks bringing tears to my eyes. I don’t understand. I want my mum. Where’s Lou? Who are these people? Where am I?

Why is the window open?

PLEASE give me feedback, I am not sure if the end weakens it?
Thanks guys! :D

House

You approach me and I know who you are.
Your eyes. Your beautiful eyes. They say eyes are the window to the soul. Your soul is perfect.

You demand it of me. You demand to be let in without words, without gestures. I know it and it terrifies me.

If eyes are the window to the soul then skin must be the bricks and mortar. The mouth the door. Only good leaves your house. Every noun is a Saint and every verb a philanthropist.

The garden of your hair makes me weak. You and all your good begin to break me apart. They say the kitchen is the heart of the home. You've left my gas on and now I 'm burning to the ground. Every part of me is heat and butterflies. Destruction and beauty. Is that love?

How is it you posses the keys to me? You can open me as easily as one does a book. Your words are the code to my safety deposit box, your movements are those needed to open my safe. I let you enter without thinking of the consequences. What evil could come of an angel?

You are Lucifer.

I try to flee but you know all the secret passages of my heart, you can find the light switch of my soul. I wish our doors had never met and yet I am glad they did.

My paint has begun to flake. Mould has destroyed my floorboards. My windows are black with dirt. My kitchen is abandoned. Yet you sit on the hill next to me. Warm and glowing. People come to your parties still. My door is nailed shut. My garden is full of weeds. My path grows longer each day.

No one has come with filler, nails and a hammer. I am the shack in the swamp, the cottage on the moors. I sit in the bath and watch the last of the power drain from me as my final light goes out.

Oliver Pilcher.
333 Words.

Jane Doe

I sit alone in the café, my legs are crossed under the small round table. It is snowing outside and all the birds have gone south for the winter. I watch the flakes settle leisurely on the windowpanes. After a while I pick up the menu which has been left for me by the waiter, his sweaty hand imprinted on the black, plastic spine. I scan over the poorly printed pages and sigh. Nothing.
The man on the table next to me laughs loudly as he pushes a forkful of sweet, dark chocolate cake into his mouth. His wife sits invisibly next to him, her grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. The third member of the table is a man with plum red cheeks and hair to match. His form didn't fit the chair, his sides spilling off like an overfilled bath.
I'll just have a salad I suppose.
The room is hot and I can feel my brow getting a little sweaty. One small bead of sweat slips down my face and hangs on my chin before dropping into my lap.
Has Madame decided? Of course, a salad would be lovely. I watch the waiter shuffle back to the kitchens and then glance around. The café is small. Tiny windows framed with damp let in little light, dusty cushions sit on matchstick chairs and a fire roars in the hearth under the large portrait of a wiry man. He is in the process of unsheathing a large sword from his hip and stands next to a regal looking horse. As I gaze at the painting I begin to absentmindedly crack my knuckles, earning me a reproachful glance from the grey-haired woman. For something to do I reach into my handbag and pretend to search for something. My hand closes over my diary and so I take it out and start to read it.
Saturday 3rd September: Bake cake for Lou- Visit Mum
Sunday 4th September: Recycling bin- Clean out birds- Visit Mum
Monday 5th September: Early Shift- Complete forms for H.W and C.N
Tuesday 6th September: Visit Mum- Food shopping

Your salad, Madame. The waiter clunks the bowl on the table and walks swiftly away. I lift my fork and look at my meal. Mottled brown lettuce leaves, shrivelled peppers and oily black olives. I sigh, pushing it around my plate, not wanting to eat it. I look up and see the waiter watching me from the kitchen doors so I press my fork into the salad, smiling hesitantly at him. I slide it into my mouth, trying not to think of what was going in. I bite. My teeth slip over the lettuce and press into something gelatinous. An olive perhaps. I push harder and the outer flesh suddenly gives way and my teeth sink right through. It explodes in my mouth, runny and stringy all at once. I gag as I swallow, feeling as though it were half in my mouth and half in my throat. I press my chin to my chest, eyes closed as I feel it slip down.

I breathe when it's gone. I open my eyes slowly and lift my fork from where I dropped it on the table. I pick over one of the salad leaves and my stomach lurches. The salad rests on a bed of live slugs. My eyes begin to water.

I look up and try to shout for the waiter but my mouth won't open, the waiter is showing a young couple to a table across the room from me. I bang my fists hard on the table but with each strike the room seems to elongate, the waiter now seemingly in the distance. My chest fills with a scream that can't escape and when I feel I am about to burst the window behind me flies open. A strong wind slices through my body and flakes of snow litter my table. I stand and turn to close the window, my jacket is ripped off by the wind and my shirt blown open. Goose pimples cover my bare skin as I reach in vain for the window, my arms keep being blown back, my shoulders start to ache. I lose my balance and my back smashes onto the table. I lay there sobbing as the light swings above me, making the shadows dance.

My body has gone numb, I can only hear the rushing of the wind now. Even the slugs, as they slide over my naked stomach, only exist in my eyes. The tears are frozen on my cheek, the cold is so bitter that my legs feel like a dead weight. I try to close my eyes, to block it out, but the tears have frozen my lids open.

My hand closes around the fork again, it feels warm, inviting, a part of me. I lift my hand above my face, still lying on the floor, an examine the fork, perhaps if it were inside me I would feel warm? I lift my other hand up, skin touching metal, metal caressing skin. I trace the prongs of the fork against the veins in my wrist. Don't veins lead to the heart?
I press the fork harder and harder with each sweep up my wrist until the warm blood begins to spatter on my blue cheeks.

Oliver Pilcher.
890 Words.