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.
Tuesday, 29 October 2013
Sunday, 27 October 2013
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.'
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.'
Thursday, 24 October 2013
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, 20 October 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, 19 October 2013
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!
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!
Sunday, 13 October 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, 12 October 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, 10 October 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
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.
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.
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