New WIP

Hello again,

This spare time which is appearing with my holidays is such a blessing. It's allowing me the time to finally do what I want to do and not just what the school wants me to do. Today I wrote over 2000 words for my latest project and had I been still in school, that most likely would not have happened.

I thought I would share the prologue that I wrote today and see what people think about it. It gives a small insight as to what this next project of mine is about. All I can tell you at this point is: pirates and space. I will allow for your imagination to conjure up whatever thoughts those two words together bring to mind. Maybe a parrot with its head in a fish bowl thing?

Before anyone chooses to begin reading it--yes, I am aware that it probably still needs some work. This is still sort of rough. It has been written out on paper, then typed up onto the computer and then re-read again. But as always, there can still be some mistakes.

You can find the link to the prologue linked below :) Just copy and paste the link into a browser and you should be all set to read it :)

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B8tP-bcW3PLVSnJodzd4c1VlbHc/view?usp=sharing


Thanks to anyone who reads it. I don't mind if nobody reads it at all but thought I would just put it out there and see what happens. Your advice or thoughts would be much appreciated. :)


~Maddie xx

Maggie Stiefvater's The Scorpio Races

Heyyy,

So this will be my first book review on my blog. I have reviewed many books on my Goodreads page, which is here: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/8686975-pasomaddie
But never on this page. So I thought I would explore my thoughts in more detail on here.

The last book I read was The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater. This book is about a girl and a guy who both live on this small island called Thisby. Every November, a dangerous horse race takes place. But these aren't normal horses. These are horses which the sea has created and spat out onto the beach. These horses are dangerous and don't eat grass like normal horses. They eat meat. When Puck Connolly, the main female protagonist, sees her future turning in a direction she never imagined, she enters the race which she never wanted to race in. Sean Kendrick *swoons* is the male protagonist of this story. With the story split into two perspectives, one per paragraph, we get to see the different sides of the story at personal levels. Maggie Stiefvater effectively captures the two perspectives without causing for them both to sound like the same person.

I loved this book. When I first picked it up, I wasn't sure what to expect. I had read a few of Maggie Stiefvater's books before - only her Shiver series -  and they had been... all right. Look at that, sort of two book reviews in one. Anyways, I hadn't been the biggest fan of them. I mean, I liked them, but I didn't love them.

The Scorpio Races though.... Wow!

This book was definitely not something that I had read before, and is something that I can never imagine myself reading again. It was a really unique idea and the first sentence: 'It is the first day of November, and so, today, someone will die," = instantly captured.

I wish there was more to the story, even though I know with the way it ended there probably isn't a whole lot more that you could do. But you only got to see the beginning of Sean and Puck's relationship and never really got to see where it went afterwards. And what happens with Corr? And with Sean's job at the Malvern yard? What about Mr Holly? Does he end up staying in Thisby, or does he go back to America? It honestly wouldn't surprise me if he did remain in Thisby. There are still so many questions that I want to be answered.

The characters are great. Puck was all right, she wasn't too much of a whiny protagonist, which was good, and Sean... well, Sean was Sean and I liked Sean. I liked him a lot. Mr Holly became one of my favourite characters along with Sean. Mr Holly just had this fatherly quality to him and was just genuinely nice. As always with most stories, you get the bad people - bad as in villains, not necessarily bad as in just annoying characters - like Mutt and Mr Malvern.

Overall, I think I would give this book a 4.5/5 stars out of 5. I loved this book, I loved the characters, and I loved the originality of it.

If you haven't read it yet, then I highly recommend you go seek it out from a library or a book store and get your hands on it.

~Maddie xx

Brisbane Writers Festival and New Friends

Hey guys,

Last Saturday was the 5th of September, 2015 and this meant that it was Brisbane Writers Festival time! I had been eagerly awaiting this day for weeks, maybe even months, mostly because my all time favourite author was going to be making an appearance. Cassandra Clare had arrived in Brisbane!!! *Squeals with delight*

After a stressful week of dreaded QCS exams and despite having even more exams the following week, I felt like I could afford to spare a single day of my study filled weekend to go see my favourite author. So off I went, driving in to town with my bright yellow 'loser' L plates on the car and hoped to meet Li Cunxin (author of Mao's Last Dancer) to get my book signed. But unfortunately I don't think he was signing. So I scurried (thanks for the word, Brett) across the Victoria Bridge to what was the Love YA session. This session ran all afternoon with various authors giving speeches ranging from the importance of human characters right through to publishing pathways. After having waited around to see Li Cunxin, who I never ended up seeing anyway, I arrived late at the first session of Love YA.

First up, it was Christine Bongers, Deb Fitzpatrick and Daniel Herborn. While I arrived late to their talk, I still found their chat rather interesting. I am now finding I want to read all of their books, as I have never read any of theirs. This is dangerous! I really do not need to extend my TBR pile any further!! But the deed is done! These authors discussed love, relationships and the feature of ordinary humans in their creations. It seemed that they had all written about their own experiences and I find that this makes a book very relatable for the reader. That gives me even more incentive to read their books.

Next was John Marsden. This session I didn't see much of as about two weeks ago, I joined a group on Facebook called Aussie YA Bloggers & Readers. While I had known that some of them were going to be at BWF, I had no idea whether I would find any and meet them in real life. However, at the end of the first session, I did. I met Brett, Jeann and Maureen, and later on Meleika. These people were all so lovely and I found myself fitting with them straight away. It was like I had found my people! For an introvert such as myself, I was surprised to find that I had absolutely no problem talking to them and developing a friendship with them. I went to lunch with Brett, Jeann and Maureen before heading back up to the John Marsden presentation just so I could get my book signed.

David Burton, Eliza Henry Jones and Kristina Shultz spoke next and they talked about the various pathways to publishing. This I found to be one of the most interesting topics of the day as someday I wish to be published.

Finally it became the moment I had been waiting for. Cassandra Clare and Holly Black!! It was so good to hear them talk. They were hilarious and had the whole room laughing the entire time. There were so many people dressed up as shadowhunters, runes included, that I almost felt a little bit left out! I felt sort of bad for Holly Black as Cassie got most of the questions from the crowd. I guess not as many people have read Holly's books as they have Cassie's. I confess... I am one of those people. I have never read a Holly Black book. I've just hoarded them. While I got a book signed by Holly, I had to pretend that I had read her books. She asked me a question about it too and I just about died.

I also got Cassie's signature and got to ask her a question about writing. I asked her: Aside from reading and writing more, what advice do you have for aspiring authors? I got her stumped for a little while before she finally gave me an answer. This is what she said: Write the book that you want to read. If the book you want to read doesn't exist yet, write it.

I had wished that I could go to BWF all weekend, but unfortunately, I couldn't afford to have another study-free day.

My City of Heavenly Fire book is now signed and now sits proudly on my shelf with the front page marked in black ink, and so does my Spiderwicks Chronicles book and While I Live (John Marsden). I had such a great time at the Brisbane Writers festival and already can't wait for next year. I'm already wondering which American authors are going to be making an appearance. I love the new friends that I've made and the interests I share with them. Hurry up next year!!

~Maddie xx

Wanting To Get Published

Hi Guys,

So, its holidays and that means I am writing like crazy. So as you know, I have been writing novels lately and I shared the first page of one of my current novels, Beneath the Surface on here a little while ago. Anyway, recently, I finished writing it and editing it and I wanted to send it to a publisher as a manuscript.

Being 17, I thought I should ask my parents about what they thought about it. It really is my decision whether I do send it in as it is my own work. But, still, I thought it was right thing I should do.

So, I asked my mum first.

She didn't like the idea. She said I was rushing into it. And I think its because I'm only 17 and I'm not that experienced to be honest. But what aspiring author is? Then I talked to my dad and he said he was fine with it but suggested I talk to some local authors and see what they think I should do. He also suggested that I sign up to QWC (Queensland Writers Centre). And now after a lot of suggestions also from other authors to do the same, I think I will.

I wanted to talk about publishing at a young age. Obviously, I have no experience. I haven't been published and I held off sending in my own as I do understand what my mum refers to but still...

So, young writers tend to not have much experience and not a very mature writing style, according to my mum at least. I know that. I have been writing the sequel to my manuscript all holidays and along the way, I have picked up on some habits that I commonly do. These include using the same words over and over again... Now I know, and now I'm going back over my manuscript and fixing that. Although I would consider that all part of the process of finding your experience and maturing your voice. I'm learning along the way, just like any writer.

Currently, my manuscript is 102 pages and when downsized to book size, should weight in over 200 pages, so not the biggest book. But still, its not too shabby either, right? Many publishing companies have these days where people who don't have agents or haven't been published before can send in their manuscripts. Harper Collins is an example where they have Manuscript Wednesday. This makes it seriously tempting to send in a book and makes it sound so easy.

But I don't think it matters whether you don't have any experience with writing or a very mature writing style. Who cares if you're only 17? You have to begin somewhere. And what better place than sending your book into a publishing company? And maybe the reason for sending in that manuscript isn't because you're necessarily aiming to get published (not that I'm saying its a bad thing, its a pretty damn good thing), but it could be more for the advice, to see whether you're heading in the right direction.

I don't know about you, but I don't want to wait 20 odd years to send in my manuscript, only to find out that what I'm writing isn't good enough. I could have spent that 20 years in a better place, developing my manuscript so it is good enough.

And look at somebody like Christopher Paolini, the author of the best selling Inheritance Cycle series. He was only 15 when he started writing Eragon and then he spent a year fleshing it out etc. And then his parents were getting the book self-published. I don't think it was long after that that he was actually published with a legitimate publishing company. And now, look at it, the book is a huge best seller and has been made into a movie (a movie which I've heard sucks, but nonetheless).

And somebody like J.K. Rowling, who despite being a fair bit older than 17, had to have started from somewhere.

I'm sure when people get published, they don't consider how much experience they have or anything. They just write and then send it to a publisher.

And that's exactly what I want to do. So I'll spend some more time on it, I'll wait until September for Writers Festival and talk to some people, and I'll spend some more time just editing and maybe adding some more background. But after that, I'm not going to wait for the red light to turn green anymore. I'll just turn it green myself.

~PasoMaddie xx

Home

My last assignment for my university course was a short story consisting of up to 2,000 words. I struggled for ideas for a while and came up with many that I could have done but then became unsure of how to develop it past 500 words or how to keep it beneath the word limit. I had a tough time but in the end, I did what I do best - which is to just write and see what comes out on the other side. I had several ideas in my head - stars exploding, a reverse Beauty and the Beast, and in the end I think all of them in a way sort of mashed together to create my final copy.

This is my latest short story, titled: Home.

“Look, Papa, look at the sky.” Harriet said as she raced up the hill and pointed to the sky with excitement. Behind her, her father, old and slow, limped. Above, the sky was just beginning to turn to twilight and small, glittering balls of light began to dot the darkening sky. “It’s Orion. Do you see it? Do you see it?” The small girl was jumping up and down with excitement while her chin was tipped back to peer at the large expanse of sky with wonder.

Harriet’s father finally caught up and she glanced up at him, eager to lap up any praise. He reached down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Yep. There’s the belt right there.” He traced the line of Orion’s Belt from where he stood on the ground. “And his sword.”

She twirled around in a circle with her arms spread out to mimic a bird’s, the skirt of her dress billowed out around her to act as a parachute and keep her on the ground. If she could make a single wish, and if her wish on the first star she saw that night came true, she would wish very hard to be able to fly, just so she could maybe be able to touch the stars with her small, bare hands. “I wish Orion could be my hero” She told her father and giggled as she fell against him and he was encouraged to hold her up. “And not a hero for those Pleiades who continuously run away from him.”

“That’s because he’s not a hero, Harriet. They fear him.”

“But what if he has just been misunderstood for years? What if his story has just been slowly changed and he has ended up as a bad person? What if he is actually good?”

Her father laughed at her silliness. “I suppose it’s possible, Harriet. You can believe anything you want to. You could also believe that you don’t need a hero. Not a brave girl like you, huh?”

The brave girl looked up at her father and grinned. “Am I as brave as a lion?”

“Braver.”

“As brave as a warrior?”

“Even braver.”

Harriet’s grin widened. They stood together in silence for a while, the father’s arms wrapped around his only daughter’s waist. “Okay.” Is all she said after a while, then took her own weight back and skipped down the hill and into the warmth of the house. The light which flooded from the doorway engulfed her whole. Her father stood back and watched her go silently.

A year later, Harriet’s father died in his sleep. It was unknown what caused his death but one night, his heart just stopped. Harriet went to her father’s funeral and every person which also went, walked past her and squeezed her shoulder with sympathy. After the funeral, she ran home and up the hill, and sat beneath the stars to cry and cry. The sky was a black sea of nothingness and she sat beneath that sea until the sun broke the darkness and the stars were forced to retreat back to their trenches.

By the time the sun was half way risen, Harriet was ready to return back to the house and slip beneath the warm covers of her bed. But she couldn’t. In the driveway, an unrecognisable car was parked, and by the front door, stood a woman with a severe haircut.

“Hello.” The woman said and shaped her red painted lips into a stiff smile. “Harriet, is it?” The woman extended a hand.

Harriet shrunk away from the woman’s touch. The woman was scary. “Who are you?”

The woman didn’t answer straight away. “I am very sorry for your loss. It must be very hard for you.”

“Yes,” Harriet’s voice wavered with the attempt to hold back tearful sobs. “I miss my father very much.”

“I’m sure you do.” The woman stared at the young girl for a moment, lips pursed as her eyes roamed hungrily over her. Harriet was still dressed in her funeral dress, and her hair, which had been braided back by her aunt, was still neat. “But now you have to come along with me. Go pack your things and I’ll meet you back here shortly.”

Young Harriet raced through the door and gathered her teddy bear, her favourite party dress, and her ribbons; her shoes, her tooth brush, and last but not least, her father’s watch. She almost did everything that she was told to do. Normally Harriet was a very good girl, but today she couldn’t be. She didn’t want to be taken away from the beloved home she had grown up in, where all the memories of her father hung like a ghost trapped within the walls.

“Harriet, dear?” She heard the woman’s voice from the front of the house. “Just about ready?”

“Just about.” She lied and instead of heading towards the front door like she was supposed to do, she sprinted for the back window, suitcase in hand, and hefted herself out, falling awkwardly to the ground outside.

“Harriet?” The woman asked again but this time received no reply. This made the woman very suspicious. From outside the house, Harriet heard the front door squeal on its hinges as it was pushed open further and the heavy fall of the woman’s high heel shoes as she wandered into the house. “Harriet, where are you? Now is really not the time for a game of hide and seek. We really must be going. There are things to do, people to see, you know?” Her footsteps continued further into the house. Then they froze. The woman swore and the girl was forced to cover her ears. Her father always told her to never listen to grown-ups when they cursed. He said it would make her ears bleed.

Harriet ran. In her hand, the suitcase was heavy, full to the brim with her most precious valuables, and as she ran, it lumped on loudly after her. Moments later, Harriet heard a scuffle behind her and then the woman was chasing her, screaming for her to stop, and still cursing. When Harriet glanced back over her shoulder, she instantly regretted it and wished upon the first and brightest star she would see that night that she hadn’t. The woman’s face was contorted into something which belonged on a wild tigress that was chasing after her next meal. Her hair which was curly, red and short was flying in all directions and her eyes which were narrowed in on Harriet were as sharp as a hawk’s.

Harriet began to cry. She cried for her father and questioned why he had left her alone to defend for herself, she cried for herself and how she was about to be taken away from the only place she knew to call home, and she cried for the woman who seemed to think her entire life depended on her catching poor and innocent children and taking them to live somewhere else. Her tears were streaming down her face and while she ran, her chest not only heaved from the strained exhaustion one feels when they are running, but her chest also heaved with great big sobs.

Harriet ran and ran and ran until her legs began to ache from exhaustion. When she thought she had run far enough, she dropped down on top of her suitcase and buried her face in her hands. When she glanced around herself, she could no longer see a scary woman chasing after her… She also could not see the house.

This was all a dream… wasn’t it? Just a horribly bad dream, a nightmare… Daddy always told her to pinch herself if she was having a bad dream. He had always said that was the way to wake one’s self. So that was what Harriet did and with a small yelp of pain, she squeezed her eyes shut and pinched herself. Then she counted to three and hoped that when she opened her eyes once more, she would be back in her house, curled up in front of a raging fire while her father read her favourite storybook to her.

But that was not the case for Harriet when she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. Harriet discovered things were much worse than before. Now the woman was back and staring at her with an angry and hungry expression. The tigress was in an easy position, watching her prey with eyes that practically screamed her hunger. She was ready to pounce, ready to take her food down, and ready to rip the heart out.

As the woman lunged, Harriet screamed and threw her arms up over her head. For a while, Harriet put up a fight—she kicked her legs around and tossed her arms and her head. The woman clutched the girl’s forearm and held on until the struggle began to ease.

After running for such an extended period of time, Harriet was very tired. After just moments of fighting, Harriet gave in, too tired to fight anymore. The woman pulled the girl to her feet, reached down and collected Harriet’s suitcase and started back towards the house and the car.

Without Harriet and her father in the house, it looked rather old and lonely. As Harriet wandered back to her old home, she couldn’t help but notice all of the old signs of wear which affected the house’s beauty. But then she thought the signs of wear made the house look like home to her, because it showed her the amount of love which had been felt inside those orange coated walls. This made Harriet very happy, but also sad at the same time, knowing that she could no longer contribute to that love or the memories.

Harriet followed the woman to her car and sat in the backseat quietly, while the woman occupied the driver’s seat and cranked up the radio until Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper was blasting through the speakers. With the old radio playing in the background, they drove for what felt like hours to little Harriet, stopping only once for petrol.

The house they pulled into was nothing like Harriet’s old home. The plain, old, red bricks lacked personality and love. Looking at the house, Harriet suddenly didn’t want to get out of the car. She would have much preferred to remain in the safety of the seatbelt. But she had no choice. The woman came around to her side and opened the door, waiting for Harriet to step out with her suitcase in hand.

Silently, they walked up to the front door, the woman knocked on the hard wood, and they waited for somebody to answer. A man came to the door and instantly his eyes were on little Harriet.

“Do we have ourselves another one?” The man said.

“Yes,” said the woman and propelled the girl inside. Harriet was marched past the man and through the house. They entered a room with beige lounge chairs and a group of children sat playing on the carpet. There were about ten of them and as soon as they saw Harriet arrive, they all swarmed around her like she was the honey to their bees.

“Do you have a daddy?” A little boy, who was about her age asked after he had tugged on her sleeve.

“No.”

“Neither do I. What about a mummy?” Harriet shook her head and the little boy nodded in understanding. “Neither do I. Neither do any of us. That’s why we’re here, you see? But that’s okay. We don’t need a mummy or a daddy when we have each other. You’ll see. We’ll become great friends in no time.”

Over the time that Harriet spent in her new home, several of her friends, including the little boy who had first talked to her, disappeared to places she did not know and never returned. When she asked the woman and the man where they had gone, they told her they had found a new mummy and daddy and soon she would too.

One day when Harriet was reading a book with another orphan, a couple came knocking on the door and asked if they could take a child home. The couple’s eyes scanned the many children who sat before a roaring fire, playing with model trains and paints. Their eyes landed on a small girl who sat in the corner with a worn book in her hands. They began whispering to each other, both of them nodding in agreement.

The couple wandered over to the woman who had brought Harriet to this house and after a small conversation, the woman beckoned Harriet over to them. Harriet placed the book down on the ground and walked up to the strangers. They smiled at her.

~PasoMaddie xx

Silent Roads Home

This week for my university course I had to write a poem. And let me tell you, I found it sort of difficult. I'm not a poetry person, I don't normally enjoy reading poetry and I especially don't normally like writing poetry. The most difficult part was coming up with a topic that was emotionally gripping while also writing it in a way that I liked. This took some time. But in the end, the ANZACS inspired me (it had been ANZAC day the weekend before) and I wrote about the end of the first world war.

I titled it: Silent Roads Home

Dust stills along the road
Boots fall into silent tandem
Silence spreads to those that showed
More fell than one could imagine

Young men of varying ages
With faces that are not yet worn
Their names lost in thousands of pages
Destined to never hear the end of the horn

Fathers and brothers and sons
Walk with boots a-gone
Hands empty of polished guns
Loved ones faces now forlorn

At the going down of the sun
Tanks come to a rolling stop
Machine guns idle one by one
Smoke settling the sky now taupe

At last peace, but at what cost?
Mental and physical wounds galore
Thousands of lives have been lost
Such are the atrocities of war

With lowered heads
And guns at ease
We will remember them



~PasoMaddie xx

The Ebb and Flow of Tears

Once again, for my university course I had to write another short. But this time, we had to write an experimental piece. It was difficult. But I also feel like its one of the better shorts that I've written. I experimented by taking all commas and semi-colons out. My sentences only include full stops. I also have included a tense change from past tense to present tense. Also, I'm not normally one to use dialogue in my shorts, but I decided to have a go.
So here, is my latest short, titled The Flow and Ebb of Tears

THE FLOW AND EBB OF TEARS


You were just a few years old. Five or six at the most. Outside a dramatic storm rolled across the sky. Dark clouds as black as coal. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. You woke up startled as another clap of thunder echoed just above the house. You were terrified. Storms had always been your greatest fear. You stumbled out of bed. Seeking comfort from your parents.

You sat on the stairs and peered through the bars of the railing. Your parents were in the living room. They hadn’t been in their bedroom when you had been searching for them.Instead they had been standing apart from each other.Together but alone in the dark. You had wanted to go to them when you had found them. But you were scared. More scared than you were of the storm.

They were arguing. Your mother was standing in front of your father. Her arms were being thrown up in the air in frustration.Her spine was rod stiff. The corners of her mouth were being pulled down sharply. Your father was in a completely different stance to your mother. He stood with his legs spread apart at shoulder length. His arms crossed over his chest defensively. The only mar in his face was a crease between his eyebrows.

Your mother was mostly the one speaking. Yelling actually.Your father didn't say much. Just a single word every now and then.

“What were you thinking?” She yelled. You were tempted to cover your ears. You hated hearing your parents like that. You were terrified your life would never be the same. She turned away. Put a hand up against her face. Her chest heaved with staggered breaths. He reached out. Placed a hand on her shoulder. She snapped. “Don’t!” Threw him off. Went to stand on the other side of the room. “I just don’t understand. Why would you do such a thing? Are you no longer happy? Is there something wrong with us?”

“What do you want from me?” He said.

“The truth!” She exclaimed. “The truth! That’s all I want!”

He stared at her a moment. At her back which was still turned against him. “I already have. I've already given you the truth. Now it is completely up to you. It is completely up to you whether you decide to believe it or not.”

Another crack of thunder raced across the sky. The giants above were getting just as angry as your mother.

“We both know that is not true Brian.” Finally she turned to face him once more. Tears were etching a path down her weary looking face. The ebb and flow of her tears were like salty waves. Crashing onto the shore and eroding more of her carefully guarded expression as it went out. It happened the more she tried to hold back her tears. “The real truth would be nice.”

You heard your father sigh. A big weary sigh. His hand came up to scrub at his face. “Debra…”

But your mother walks out of the room. And you run towards her. Your arms outstretched. You want to be able to stop the argument from becoming something of the present. You want it to only remain in the past. You continue to run towards her. Wondering where she could possibly be going. You reach for her hand. But just miss. Fingers grasp thin air. Now your tears are ebbing and flowing. But you’re not crying because your mother is leaving. You are crying because that is what your mum is doing. And as a child that is what you do best. Copy your parents. Copy what they do.




~PasoMaddie xx

Beneath the Surface

For about six months to a year now, I have been writing a novel. And yes, a full on novel--probably, actually definitely not, as big as the ones George R.R. Martin writes. But nevertheless, a novel. It is a fantasy and I would love to tell you more but the thing is, its a secret. As far as I know, no one has done my idea before. And I am honestly quite proud of myself for writing something original. I can however tell you that it includes the depths of water.
Anyways, I thought today I would share the first page with you. I am in my final stages of editing and hope to send it to one of the many wonderful publishing companies as a pitch to see what they think. Hopefully that will happen by the end of this year or by next. Due to it being grade 12 this year, who knows what will happen. I guess that is what holidays are for. :) (Supposably)

The first page of my current W.I.P.: Beneath The Surface. Enjoy :)

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was known for having a slightly bad temper… and he, was me. The thing was, it wasn’t just a bad temper; the fact was, when it came, it was an ugly dragon’s head, ready to plough into me. It didn’t just effect my emotions, it affected my whole entire body, shutting down my brain and overriding my limbs until it wasn’t me who was controlling my actions or my thoughts, it was the anger itself. Not so much of a happy fairy tale, huh?

So, let’s begin again…

My name was Regan Bloom and I was a seventeen year old who was currently struggling to finish his last year of high school. I honestly didn’t really care much for school, my mother didn’t pressure me into trying my hardest and she didn’t even bother to ask me how school was. So, I guess I fell into a rocky cavern where I was constantly getting into trouble, falling asleep during class and just not paying attention whenever I was awake. I also didn’t have many friends or many people that liked me, and that probably didn’t help my motivation for doing my best either.

In fact, my life was pretty dull and un-extraordinary in the first place. Most of the time, I sat alone—in classes, at lunch, on the bus, at home. However, the more I came to think about it, I didn’t really mind. I was one of those people who preferred the silent, solitude moments. I never was one that was up for crazy nights, drinking alcohol, singing Disney melodies from the top of their lungs… Unlike most teenagers my age, I preferred being at home, my thumbs twiddling with the remote to my very old, quintuplet-hand XBOX. Although, most of the time, I just got frustrated with it because it was so slow and jumpy most of the time. I blame all of my character deaths on the faultiness of my remote.

My mother was practically non-existent. From a very young age, I had learnt to care for myself—cook, clean, buy groceries for myself. The only times my mother did make an appearance for more than a few minutes was on my birthday. However, I will explain the reason a little bit later on. 

Why Me?

So for my university course last week, we had to take the short story that we had written the week before (in my case, my previous blog post: The Hunt) and change the genre. I wasn't entirely sure what my previous short story had been but I decided to turn it into a horror/crime.
I titled it, 'Why Me?'

Why Me?

It happens the moment my eyes open in the morning. It happens the moment my gaze wanders around for the first time—noticing the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains; surveying the way the sunlight reflects off the fronds of the plant that sits on the windowsill; observing, through still bleary eyes, blood.

The sounds of everyday life filter into the bedroom, completely oblivious to the blood that is everywhere in my bedroom—the carpet, the walls, my hands; completely oblivious to the sight and smell which overtakes anything else. The moment I roll out of bed and place my feet against the floor, the blood seems to beckon me closer for inspection.

The blood stares up at me with sad eyes, with an expression that seems to read, ‘Why me?’ I crouch down beside it and myhand hovers over it; hesitant. A single touch though is all it takes for me to ache for more.

Then the second touch is a completely different story. The second touch begins a whole new frenzy which causes for my own blood to chill, tasting the spilt blood that lies on my skin.You think, maybe a second time won’t hurt. Maybe it won’t be as bad. Maybe it will be easier.

Then just as I am beginning to focus—ping! I have a new Facebook message.

“Hey! How are you? What are you doing” I reply and then, “Oh, you know, planning my future.”

After a half-hearted five minute conversation, mostly one sided, I plan once more. The pen and paper come out and I’m scribbling. Stroke after stroke, word after word, plan after plan. Another ping! And my friend is sending me all of thoseemojis with the tears gushing down their faces while complaining about some relationship that has just ended.Bingo. My friend has just become a part of my plan.

Suddenly my pen is scribbling across the paper at a million miles per hour. The tip cutting into the paper as if it is as sharp as a butcher’s knife. The ink flowing out, the colour of blood.All over my hands, all over my face and all over the sheets of paper.

Blood is everywhere. There is now a body sprawled across my bed and it stares up at me with blank eyes. Eyes that once used to gaze at me with warmth and not the cold they are now filled with. Just like the previous puddle of spilt blood, theirs seems to ask, ‘Why me?’ But I cannot answer that. Nor could I answer it for the last body. It just is and just was. Not a question of why or how, but a matter of it is done and cannot be undone.

The frenzy that had been singing in my blood is satisfied… for now. The sight of orange jumpsuits and bars that imprison your freedom vaguely comes to mind. A large amount of evidence is stacked up, enough for the image to become a reality. But that is not a problem for me. My problem is my next who or when.

If only my friend knew what I did to help her.

The Hunt

While I am still in high school and completing my final year, I am also in university. How does that work? Well I have chosen a university course as one of my electives. And no surprise here, I'm studying creative writing. *cue fake gasp* Shocker!
Anyways, for my assessment I have to put together a port folio and this week I had to write a VERY short story. Yes, you read that right. Not just a short story, a very short story, which meant I had to write between 400 and 500 words. It was an extremely difficult task. I struggle to write short stories as it is, I write novels.
As any good procrastinator, I thought I had more time to work on it but when I go and check in the discussion board where we are supposed to have put them, I see everyone else has already submitted theirs. And then the realisation hit me like a slap in the face. My short story was due that night before midnight and it was already 7pm. But nevertheless, I managed to make something up and I thought I would share it with you.
So without further ado, here is my very short story (can't forget the very), titled 'The Hunt.'

It happens the moment your eyes open in the morning. It happens the moment your gaze wanders around for the first time—noticing the rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains; surveying the way the sunlight reflects off the fronds of the plant that sits on the windowsill; observing, through still bleary eyes, the life that carries on outside the door. The search for inspiration.

The sounds of everyday life filter into the bedroom. The moment I roll out of the bed and place my feet against the floor, my life as a writer begins.

The blank page stares up at me with empty eyes, with a closed expression that lacks emotion. My pen hovers over it; stationary. A single stroke though is all it takes before whole characters are coming to life right before your eyes. A single stroke of ink—blue, black, red or green is all it takes for something to take place.

Then the second stroke is a completely different story. The second stroke begins a whole new journey and you think, maybe you could be onto something good, onto something big. You think, maybe you could be the next J.K. Rowling, the next Terry Prachett, the next Bryce Courtenay.

Then just as I am beginning to get back into the swing of writing, ping! I have a new Facebook message.

“Hey, how are you? What are you doing?” I reply, and then, “Oh, you know, just writing a book.”

After a five minute conversation, I drag my attention back to my most recent project and continue writing. Stroke after stroke, word after word, sentence after sentence. Another ping! And when I check my messages, I find my friend sharing her apparently horrible life story with those emojis that have tears gushing down their cheeks after every sentence.

“It’s okay,” I tell them, but as I am trying, and failing, to bring those tears to a standstill, a light bulb goes off somewhere in my head and helping my friend becomes the least of my worries. My pen, that was once stationary, is now like a bullet out of a gun, the tip flying across the lined paper at a million miles per hour. Suddenly my friend’s life has become my latest inspiration.

In the background I can still hear my phone reminding me that I have new messages, no doubt my friend still going on and on but I ignore it, completely captured in the world that involves the smell of white out, the sound of my pen scratching against the paper, the feel of my teeth gnawing at my bottom lip as I write.

If only she could read what I have just written… she would despise me.

Hope you enjoyed it. :)

~PasoMaddie xx

When Depression Kicks You In The Backside

As a teenager, we deal with a lot of pressuring issues that eventually, whether we want it to or not, catches up to us and asks for a rather big price. School is one where we stress day in and day out about whether we have completed an assignment that needs to be handed in the next day or whether something stupid you did the day before will be remembered by your fellow class mates. Stressful, right?
Another issue is your outside social life which at times can be very suffocating. When things go wrong in your friend group--an argument or something else--it can be hard to know what to do and sometimes when this happens it can feel like the world is crumbling and falling apart, as if the earth beneath your feet has suddenly gone very unstable. It's terrifying because you stress and wonder whether your friendship is going to last through this hardship. Just recently--and by recently, I mean literally 20 minutes before I decided to write this--that was how I felt. My birthday is coming up in a week and I decided to do some pre-birthday fun and that was all good until somebody decided to cancel because they hadn't realised they had made plans prior to this. Anyhow, it literally blew up. There was a lot of arguing from both sides and before my very eyes, it seemed like the world was crumbling down around me.
A few years ago, I had a similar situation in which my friend was beginning to change. To me these changes were not favourable on my part and through another one of my friends, she found out that we weren't exactly liking it. So she picked a fight with me and once again, everything blew up. It's safe to say, we never fully recovered and after certain events afterwards, we are no longer friends. It is saddening to say the least.
When this sort of stuff happens, it is terrifying. After my previous experience, I'm scared that this is it, that the invisible tether of rope that has held us together as friends for so long has now snapped. And unfortunately, I am terrified that it won't be able to be joined back together.
I really hope that is not the case. I really hope that our friendship is stronger than that, that we can come back to our friends no matter what.
Anyway, it's not just the friendship and the schooling, although those are large proportions of it, it is everything else in between too. Extra-curriculum activities, and because this is a blog that I intended to be for my writing journey, writing can also be a stressful issue. I really wanted to have finished editing my novel before school began but unfortunately that didn't happen and now I am two weeks into my final year of high school and am having to do only small bits of editing in whichever small bits of free time I can find.
It's all of this stress that is building up on our shoulders that is gradually beginning to get heavier and heavier until things are feeling a little bit darker than usual. It's all good while you're at school, surrounded by friends and laughing with them. But it's the coming home part that is depressing, where there is no friends to laugh with. I'm not quite sure how to explain it, but this is what it feels like for me. And particularly tonight after a depressing and tearful night, things for me are feeling a little bit blue.
I guess I am going to just have to try and beat it because it affects not only me but my friends and family too, and it also affects what I do and how well I perform. Just for a bit more stress, right?

~PasoMaddie