Paper Heart - Part 2

Sorry this has been a little late coming. I've been editing among other family things going on. I got a little side-tracked. I also need to do a few book reviews so they'll be appearing over the next week or so. I'm trying to write a little every day so Sam and Lucy don't get lost in the never ends of my brain. They're trying to talk to me though. Just the other day Lucy told me she's a Pisces and her birthday is March 19th. She kinda reminds me of my youngest sister a little :)

Sam

He held the last post-it up against the wall with his left hand, with his right he balanced the tape between his teeth and pulled it, yanking it, snapping it through his teeth.

“That’ll do,” he said to himself, admiring the work around him. He eyed the sky, slightly worried about the weather. It was windier than he’d anticipated so he hoped with all hope that the post-it’s would hold out. If she missed even one, it might mess up the whole trail. He sent a little prayer up to the Gods, hoping the fates were on his side.

But, he knew in his heart of hearts that when the girl of his dreams came around that corner she would see the flowers and the effort. Lots of them, all intertwining over and under the, little-town, gazebo. The flowers were purple; all different shapes, shades and sizes. He didn’t have a clue of their names… gerba somethings and orchids? Maybe? He was only half-listening to the florist when she started spurting names. He nodded to her suggestions. All Sam knew was that he needed purple ones; her favourite colour, the women at the shop could work out the rest. That’s what he paid them £100 for.

He knew it all looked kinda corny, but he hoped she’d see the romantic side. He didn’t care though, she loved over-romantic gestures. He just hoped this was the right way about it. Sam had been planning this whole thing for weeks. He knew she was the only girl for him. She was sweet, kind and sexy; if not a little scary sometimes. She had determined direction and knew what she wanted in life. Sam enjoyed that about her, especially when her goals were so ‘up-in-the-air’ sometimes.

“Morning, Sam!” A voice called from across the street. “So, today’s the big day then?”

Sam blushed. As well as planning this thing for weeks, he’d also been telling everyone in the village for weeks. He looked up and covered his head with his hand, blocking out the morning sun. He smiled, recognising the woman’s sweet, elderly face.

“Hi Claris. Yep, today is the big day. She should be coming over this way from her Aunt’s this morning...” He checked his watch, “…Anytime now I reckon.”

“You nervous?” Claris smiled at him.

He laughed, lightly, at the small but bold little old lady, walking her dog on this far too cold, frosty morning.

“Nar, I’m good. It’s not like this hasn’t been coming for a while. I just needed to get on with it.” He shrugged, desperately trying not to show the little nervousness edging its way into his system. The longer he waited the longer it felt like she wasn’t coming. He ignored the feeling.

Claris saw his confidence falter, “It’ll be fine henny I’m sure.” She walked over the empty street, slowly stepping up the white metal gazebo steps. She looked up into Sam’s young, hopeful eyes.

“Samuel Parker Washington. I’ve known you since you were little boy. I’ve watched you grow-up and become the great incredible man that you are. If she says no then she’s a fool.”

“If only you were 50 years younger Claris. I would’ve asked you to marry me right here right now.” Sam laughs, bending down to pet Claris’ little Bichon.

“Pah Sam. Get away with you.” She patted his shoulder, swiftly brushing off his comment with a smile.

“Thank you though Claris,” he bent a little and squeezed her into a big over-bearing hug then waved her off and rubbed his hands together, adjusting his scarf.

Taking a mental inventory of everything he had sorted for the gazebo, Sam, walked around the gazebo, staring at his feet. Suddenly, wondering if should’ve dressed up a little, tried wearing a suit and tie or at least some smart shoes? She liked it when he dressed up. But he wanted to be relaxed and be himself, so wearing his trusty converse and jeans it was.

Sam stopped pacing. He knew he needed to calm down. She always came this way to his place, all he needed to do was wait. He started pacing again. Looking up, Sam noticed a flower, wilting and browning at the edges. It seemed to mirror his exact feelings right now. In a rushed assault, he ran to the railings and pulled the imperfection from sight, then turned full-circle and admired his handy work. He had to admit, although he didn’t choose the flowers he certainly knew where to place them and how to wind them to make them look engaging. Purple flowers and foliage twisted and turned around the ageing gazebo. It’ll only took him the best part of 4 hours. That alone would impress her since she knew how much he hated mornings.

He’d thought of putting the words “Will you marry me” separately on a post-it each so she had to twirl around the entire gazebo admiring his work before noticing him down on one knee with the ring his mother had given him. But he wanted to say those four important words, hear them come from his own mouth as she replied with a resounding yes.

Thinking of what was about to happen Sam slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the old velveted red box, and sprung it slowly open. The gold band was slim and delicate, shining in the morning sun, perfect for her beautiful fingers. The large mesmerising oval opal sat circled by twelve smaller diamonds. They sparkled and glistened as light from the morning sun bounced off them, bringing small dark spots into his eyes. He loved this ring.

He’d seen his mum wearing it for years and she said his grandma had worn it too. He loved multi-generational objects like this. Items, memorabilia, photographs all with a story behind them. It made him want kids so badly. Not lots, but a few at least. Especially a little boy, one his future wife could give their engagement ring to, when he came to her to tell her how much he loved a girl and wanted to ask her to marry him; just like Sam did with his mum last month. That’s when she’d given him the ring.

Suddenly realising he’d been caught in his own head for a while, he snapped back to the present, and searched the street corner he knew she’d been appearing from.

As he did his phone vibrated in his pocket, he put his hand into his pocket and replaced his phone with the ring box.

‘B @ urs a little l8. Auntie’s had sum emergency wiv her nails. Sigh. Hr @ mst. Luv u X’

           He cringed at her text speak. He hated that she typed like that, especially when she was so intelligent. Her messaging habits made her seem stupid, and like her life was so rushed, that she didn’t even have time to message properly. He sighed, and slumped into the bench on the gazebo, staring into the sky. At least this gave him time to calm down a little.

No Filter

Writing Short 7. Exactly what it says on the tin. Brain flowed and this came out. Apart from the odd fixing of grammar and adding of words here and there to help with flow, I'd say this is pretty much it. No filter. No crossing out or taking anything away. I'm hoping to write a few book reviews over the next few days. I've not really been on top of it all but I'm getting there... Too much reading, not enough reviewing and editing. So many great books out these days.

No Filter

From: http://rebloggy.com/post/photography-animals-trees-green-animal-dark-skull-fall-nature-forest-autumn-dead/68681318796

           The haunted, hated, echoing silence, cries; wallowing endlessly with no reply. She seeks help, something to drag her from her dark, deep, depths of sadness. She’s running, feet moving faster than her legs can carry her, faster than her brain will respond. The twigs creak, snap and crack under the weight of her urgency.

There must be someone to help her; eyes searching desperately for something, anything, to save her from this enveloping, all-encompassing end. The winter-bare branches scratch away at her face as she tries to get away. Her arms flail dramatically in front of her, shielding and protective. It knocks her off balance, her centre of gravity lost. She trips in slow motion, and a loud thud, to the floor. Scurrying, clawing, clambering away at the roots, rotting leaves and mud caked thickly over the floor.

She doesn’t know where she is. Nothing is familiar. No memories are evoked from this place; she just knows she needs to get out of here.

Her jeans are soaked, full of damp, freshly watered mud. The dirt clings to her trainers and her fingernails as she digs her toes and hands into the sludgy mess; trying to gain enough friction to pull herself to standing. Her hands claw at the chaos in front of her, searching desperately for something to aide her in her quest for freedom from this nightmare.

The blackness is following her, desperate to refuse her any sanctuary, and it encircles her; blocking any way out. All she can see is woods, thick branches, twigs, wet rain-sodden leaves, thick shoe-squelching mud; sucking the soles of her shoes from her feet.

Gaining momentum, she lunges herself from the floor; body now in full vertical position. Her head whips around, body following, a graceful ballet twirl; under different circumstances. She can see no-one. She stays stock-still, retrieving her balance and equilibrium, taking down a mental, less-distressed, note of her situation.

Besides the thumping of her heart, pounding in her ears; and her breath, deep and heavy, begging for serenity and calm before her lungs break her ribs, she can hear nothing. No birds, no animals or people chasing away.

She got away? 

No. It’s never been that easy. Yes, she’s outrun it this time, and sometimes the pills help. But, other days, it drags her in; and down, chanting phrases of worthlessness so deafening into her mind that she can’t get rid of them. Sometimes it’s just too exhausting to run from it; even after the pills give her a head-start, and she’s had a good day. There’s just no stopping the big, greying, dark fog taking over her mind. It controls all her senses, debilitates her and freezes her body away from doing anything productive. The sludge in her mind makes it almost impossible to move any of her limbs. They’re so heavily weighed down that even the small motion of eating and keeping herself alive and functional to the world outside her is exhausting.

If she pretends it’s not there, it doesn’t help. It won’t go away. It never does. Always present, laughing at her, mocking her useless defence systems every time it breaks them down. Brick by brick. Chain by chain, until she’s running. Falling. Tripping over the muck and mank in her life.

 There is no release.

                

Helen - Writing Short 6

So, I'm a little nervous about this one. It's my first, first person narrative in a very very long time. I'm talking probably about nearly 10 years. I've had this idea in my head for a while and read a few novels that helped me out with my idea. They were all written in third person though so I hope I've done it justice.

Helen

I’m awake. The sun is shining through my window, making my eyes clench shut from the onslaught of light. I think it’s morning, the birds are singing harmoniously. It’s beautiful. Time to get up, I’ve got work to do, people to see and things that need doing.

Rolling out of bed, I stumble to balance my feet. Dizzy. That’s strange. I don’t remember going out last night, nor do I have the remnants of a hangover, luckily. Those things tend to kill me for the day. Adjusting my eyes, the room doesn’t look familiar.

Where’s Paul?

This room smells strange, medical and stagnant. I can’t place myself here.
What’s going on? Where is Paul?

My eyes search the room, grasping to find the familiar; a soft plump chair, that looks comfortable. The confusion of the space is halting. I need to sit down. My butt firmly in place I run my hands over the soft, brown arms of the chair. I was right, this thing is comfy.

Okay, what was I doing?

Keys, keys… keys.

Where are my keys?

I don’t want to be late for work. Paul must’ve gone ahead, I can’t hear him walking about. I glance over at the bookshelf. I love that photo of us. It’s my favourite, our wedding day. No time to waste, must get to work. Heading for the door, I brace myself mentally for the day.

Pulling the door open I see a long and carpeted hallway. It’s bright from the sunshine gleaming in from the windows at the end. There are doors on my left and to my right; even in front of me.

Wait, this can’t be right. Where am I? What…erm?

My eyes flicker between the faces in the hallway. Who are these people? I don’t recognise any of them. Was I in a car crash, is that why I can’t remember where I am? That must be right. There’s a nurse. She’s smiling. She must know what’s going on.

“Good morning, Helen!” Oh, she’s smiling at me, pearly whites beaming from ear to ear, prompting a response.

“Erm, good morning. Hi. I’m sorry, I’m late. I need to get to work”, I feign a friendly glance her way. I need to get going.

My head is so fuzzy, but it’ll pass. I need to get to work, there are papers that need filing, new clients to talk to then meet Paul for lunch. A nurse passes.

“Morning Helen. How are we doing today?”

“I’m fine thanks.” He was friendly.

Okay, how do I get out of here?

Long corridor, green sign, white man, white arrow. Exit. Perfect.

I walk quickly to the doors, my arms reaching out in front of me to force the weight of the double doors open. But my hands collide with my shoulders as my body slams against the tough metal barrier. I push my weight against it again. Nothing, still locked. I stand back, confused. It must open inwards, what an idiot. Pull not push. I roll my eyes, embarrassed. I look around, but the only people looking my way are two nurses. I shrug at them, with a guilty smile, and pull the door. It’s doesn’t move, again.

What the heck?

I turn to the nurses, “Sorry, excuse me. The door seems to be jammed… locked? I really need to get out”.

One of the nurses walks over, another follows closely behind; the nice gentleman from earlier.

“Helen. Where are you going?” He smiles at me, sympathetically, a sad look on his face.

“I need to get to work”. I plead, weary of the deeper meaning to the look on his face.

Why isn’t he letting me out?

I need to get out. I push on the door again, then pull at the handles with no affect.

“Please. Come sit down Helen. Don’t worry about work for now. Please, come. Take a seat”. His eyes watch me intently.

“But, I need to go?” I go to thumb my keys towards the door. I don’t have them.
Where’ve they gone?

Dizzying pain appears in my head again. The other nurse comes to stand next to the nice man. She’s smiling softly at me too. But their eyes are both full of sadness.

This time, the woman asks me, “Please, Helen. Come sit down.” Her eyes give nothing away but she asks me so softly, I comply. As I walk to a chair with the lady I see both their shoulders drop in relief.

Relief at what?

I see the nice man signal to some other nurses to stand down, a few of them are wearing uniforms I don’t recognise.

The lady places me into a chair. It overlooks a sea of springtime gardens, splashes of colour ignite my senses. I smile, involuntarily, at the scene before me.

“Hmmm, flowers. They’re beautiful. I like this a lot.”

“I know Helen. This is your favourite spot.”

It is?

“Would you like a cup of tea, Helen?”

“Yes please. Thank you, Nurse...?”

“…Mavern. Nurse Mavern, and you’re welcome, Helen.”

I smile at her, pleased with our conversation, then glance to the sea of flowers outside. My mind wanders; roaming over the blades of grass; birds, splashing in the water from the fountain; the leaves moving, floating around in the wind. It’s peaceful. Beautiful.

“Here you are Helen. Your tea.” My mind snaps out of the garden and into the room.

“Oh, tea. Lovely. Thank you.” I take a sip, it’s perfect; especially when I’m such a pain for how I like my tea. Music.

Where’s that coming from?

I turn my head trying to use my ears as antenna to pick up the musical signal.

Where is it coming from?

A small stereo on the table in the corner, by a vase of flowers. It’s nice music. I know this song. My eye-lids drift close, they’re so heavy; I hum to the song, moving my fingers in a little dance to the music. I can’t remember its name though. But it makes me feel happy and warm inside. I like it.

“Helen?” I open my eyes to a tall, older man, standing in front of me. He looks friendly.

“Can I sit?” He gestures to the chair beside me and I nod. I like new people.

“Hi,” I smile at him. “My name’s Helen. What’s your name?” He smiles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They look sad. I wonder why.

“Hi, Helen. My name is Paul.” He says.

Paul…Paul…That’s familiar. Isn’t that? No. Who knows… it’s gone. I look out to the garden, the notice movement beside me. I turn to the chair and see a man sat there.

“Hello.” I say, trying my hardest to be friendly. I don’t like strangers. They’re unknown.

Who is he? What is he doing here?

I can’t breathe, he’s panicking me. I don’t like it. I look at him, eyes wide. He can see my distressed confusion.

“Nurse?!” He shouts someone over. “She’s panicking.”

“She’s not having such a good day Mr Bensham,” she sighs.

My eyes dart between them.

What are they saying?

I’m Helen. Helen Bensham. But, he…he’s not Paul. He’s not my Paul.

“I don’t know who he is! Get him away from me.” My voice is high pitched and screeching. I hope they can hear me. They need to listen to me. “Get him away from me!”

“Helen, please? It’s Paul. It’s me Paul. I’m your husband. Remember me?”

I stop shouting and search his eyes, they’re green like a forest. I stare at his face, his ears, taking everything in. He sounds like Paul. But he… he isn’t him. This isn’t my Paul. He’s holding his palms up towards me, in defence, and I notice Paul’s wedding ring.

“Get him away from me!” I scream.

“Mr Bensham, I think you should leave. Today is not a good day.” The nurse tells him.

Not a good day? What?

I get out of my chair quickly, off-balance, and knock it to the ground.

Why won’t they listen to me?

Suddenly, I’m pulled backwards into a metal chair, nurses surround me, holding me.

“Let me go!”

What's going on?

Through the folds of uniform I see the ‘husband imposter’ talking to a doctor. They’re nodding in agreement over something. Then one of them walks over to me.

“Sharp scratch Helen. Everything is going to be okay.”

Why wouldn’t it be?

The dizzying has stopped, now I’m just tired. Work today must’ve really worn me out. I didn’t see Paul though. He must’ve been busy at lunch-time. He’s always busy these days. My eye-lids are so tired, I need sleep. I’m drifting off. There’s that music again. I like this song. Stars shining bright above me.

‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’.

Paper Heart - Part 1

Just a little something I've been working on. Hopefully it's going to build into something a lot bigger. But we'll see. Lucy is my leading lady though. I want to build on her a bit.

Paper Heart

The door vibrated with a loud bang as she shut it heavily. She turned back to it, making sure it was locked, then high-tailed it down the worn concrete steps of her apartment building. Her heels clicked on the stairs, echoing up and down the empty large stairwell. Almost running, she grabbed the banister for support, smoothing her palm down the wooden ledge, piling warm buttered toast into her mouth.

She rounded the corner to the bottom foyer and mumbled through a mouthful of toast, “Crap, crap, crap”. 
Upon hearing the racket outside her door a short, older lady, sporting a pink fluffy dressing gown, matching slippers, and hair curlers, slipped out her doorway and leaned against the frame, arms folded.

When she saw Lucy, she smiled. “Morning, Lucy,” she called.

Lucy looked up, abruptly stopping her assault on the stairs. “Morning, Mrs Finchel,” she said, through a mouthful of toast. 

“Lovely day isn’t it, deary?” Mrs Finchel smiled, barely containing her laughter at the normalcy of Lucy flying down the stairs, desperate to get to work on time.

“Yes. Yes, it is Mrs Finchel” Lucy’s voice faded as she resumed her attack on the hallway, knowing her neighbour was amused by her tardiness. “Sorry! Can’t stop, I’m going to be late for work,” Lucy said, tapping hurriedly down the stairs. She pushed the main door open with both hands, squinting her eyes at the onslaught of the morning sun.

Her nose tingled and her cheeks froze as a blast of cold winter air blew into her face. It sent shivers down her spine and pimples rising all over her body. She drew her hands up and wrapped her very long self-knitted, blue, purple and white striped scarf around her neck, cocooning it from the bristling air.

She stood, dancing on the spot, adrenaline rushing through her at the prospect of being late, yet knowing she needed to take steps to shield her now shivering body from the harsh cold air. She hated winter. It drove her insane. The constant need to always stay warm, life-threatening if you didn’t. The rise-in-the-dark and go-home-in-the-dark short winter days grated on her self-preservation. She longed for summer and flowers, and warm air kissing her face. Winter seemed so devoid of life, drab and dreary.

Her eyes followed her coat zipper from her thighs to her scarf. She burrowed her face, up to her nose, into its warm woolly barrier, then shoved her hands into her pockets, ready to take on the day. If she didn’t walk quickly then she’d be stuck in rush-hour tube station traffic into the city, and that was never fun.

She rushed past a building window, glancing at her reflection. Her eyes flew wide-open, seeing the mass of hair protruding in fuzziness out of her head. It enveloped her face in a circle of mousy-brown, half-curly, half-brushed tresses.

“Urgh, seriously?” Lucy groaned, out loud. Suddenly aware of the eyes in the shop, staring back at her. She smiled at them embarrassed. The male audience, shook his head and tipped his mug to her in greeting, smiling at her in amused response.

She rushed off, wanting nothing more than to turn around, head home, and hibernate under a pile of duvets, cushions and aromatherapy – in the form of hot chocolate or coffee.

Lucy swung her bag from her side and delved in, desperately trying to find a saviour for her hair. Her stride quickened as her fingers searched frantically into the depths of her black-hole of a bag. No bobble, but an elastic band. Anything was better than nothing. She looped her hair up into a messy bun, tendrils of fuzz and curls fell by her ears, loose hairs too short to fit into the bunch on top of her head. It made her ears cold and she realised she didn’t bring a hat. But it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

She rounded a corner, checking her phone for the time. The stupid useless thing betraying her this morning is what got her into this late mess in the first place. Everything was forgiven when she realised her mad dash out the flat, and quick on-the-move breakfast put her ahead of schedule. She sighed in relief; white cloudy mist permeated the air around her. She looked up to get her bearings, taking in where she was and how long it’d take her to get to the tube station. Just a few more streets.

That’s when she noticed it, a little note, tacked to the lamp post. It couldn’t have been there long, otherwise it would’ve blown off in the wind before now. The post-it sized fluorescent pink paper had a heart drawn in the middle, covering the whole square. She frowned; her brow furrowed in confusion. She stepped closer to inspect the paper, sure she could see something written on it.

Lucy read out loud, ‘Start here. Follow the pink hearts.’ Funnily enough this wasn’t the oddest thing she’d ever seen on a lamppost, namingly her brother, naked, the morning after his stag do. Not an image she liked to recall often. She looked around and couldn’t see anyone. The street wasn’t abnormally quiet for this time in the morning. Sure, other people with jobs lived in the area but she had a slightly later start time than most and the only school kids she’d seen walking around were either late, or skipping school. Her eyes searched up and down the street, focusing on windows and doors, looking to see if anyone was peeking out, watching her fall for their trick.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted it. Half way down the street, on the other side of the road, stuck to a lamppost was another pink square. Lucy smiled, knowing curiosity would get the better of her. She tried defending her nosy interest – the next lamppost was still on her way to work. But, she knew, if there were more that veered her off the monotonous walk to the station, then she was going to follow them. 

Worry - Writing Short 5

I think my mum has forgotten to do hers and I've been busy with editing work so didn't finish mine until today. My mum bought me a new posh writing pad and pen to put all my work in and I'm almost half-way through it. I'll be asking her to send me another one soon! This writing short is based on the feeling - worry. My hubster, Adam, chose the word so because I didn't have any ideas in mind on how to write it, it probably took me a little longer. :) I'll probably put all of these together at some point. Print them out, make them look fancy. That'd be nice.

Worry

from: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/24/13/c0/2413c0823c8128c1c6c6211100fbf13c.jpg

This was such a bad idea.

Freya knocked on the familiar door and sighed with no answer. Marne knew she was coming over so she knocked again. She knew this was insane. Why on earth had she come? Even as she asked herself she knew why. So, did he. Even after ten years had passed since she last saw him she knew as soon as the divorce was finalised she had to see him. He was always there at the end of every relationship she’d been in. And once her divorce had come through she knew this was exactly where she needed to be.

Marne opened the door in a rush, their eyes met and Freya smiled at him, trying to conceal her feelings. He looked as he always did. It warmed her body.

“Hi. Hey. Sorry. You’re early. Come in.” Marne’s hair was tousled and wet from his recent shower. He was dressed but his neck still glistened with beads of water. He must’ve rushed out of the shower to answer the door.

“Hey. Yeah, I know. My train got in on time for once and it didn’t take me long to walk up from the station.” Freya looped her scarf from around her neck and wrapped it over the bannister, hanging her coat over the top. Her eyes scanned around the open plan room, “This place hasn’t changed at all. Which is weird…considering the last time I was here was ages ago”.

Marne smirked in amusement, “Want a drink?”

“Rosé, please.” Freya pulled her boots off and kicked them to the floor. She slid over the laminate in her socks to the sofa, dropping down into the plush leather with a thud. The atmosphere was so awkward the tension could be cut with a knife. It was nauseating and made Freya feel a little sick. Now she was here she was terrified and so, so, nervous. Just like she always was around him. Right from that first kiss years ago, the one Marne planted on her in the soft rain, with one arm holding an umbrella trying to shield them from the March spring-time weather.

He never made her feel bad or awkward. He just made her feel. If he judged her back then or even now, he never said. But she did. Freya judged him, and her, and what they had together. She mostly judged herself. She never felt like she was good enough for him or that she deserved him, so, she pushed him away. That was back then. Years ago, and this is now. Freya, sat watching the fire. She remembered back to all those years ago, when he first got it installed. When he was still in the final stages of renovation on his house. Freya turned to Marne, admiring the way he poured her a glass of wine. The way, he coolly walked over and sat next to her. He handed her the glass and put his arm onto the back of the sofa; one knee folded onto the sofa whilst his other leg was placed, firmly, on the floor; keeping his balance.

Marne smiled at her, “So, how are you?”

Freya sighed, moving her attention down to her glass of wine, swirling it around in the glass as she said, “Things have been interesting…and hard. I know we made the right decision though”. She smiled, weakly, before taking a gulp of wine.

She mirrored the way he sat. Her fingers moments from touching his. The tips could brush his if she was brave enough, and ready for rejection. Why was she so worried about this? Marne didn’t say she shouldn’t come down when she asked to see him. She’d been here so many times before. Yet this time was different, they didn’t know where they ‘stood’ this time. Last time it was an agreement, one in which Freya let go of more than she’d bargained for. But they knew what they were last time. This time nothing was certain. But, at least this time, they were both in the same place, mentally, at the same time.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Marne cocked his head to one side, leaning on his arm that was on the back of the sofa. He stared into her eyes, as though searching for something, “You haven’t changed a bit,” he sighs.

“Ha! I’d like to think I have, a little at least.” Freya boldly moves her hand, to emphasise her point, lacing her fingers through his. She knew she had to be the one to make the first move this time. She couldn’t do this full of alcohol if she wanted him to know she was serious. Alcohol always used to relax her inhibitions enough to help her through her fears of being with him. “You’ve changed.” She stares at Marne. “Not in a bad way though”. God. She was skirting around this whole thing and messing up so badly. Marne meant so much to her. Too much. To Freya he’d always been the ‘one that got away’, her ‘what if’ and ‘if only’. Back then she thought he was too good for her, even though he never gave her that indication, hindsight was so cruel sometimes.

“Really? How?” Marne cut into her thoughts, up until then she hadn’t realised her attention had moved to the canvas above his fireplace. She ignored his question.

“I still can’t believe you really painted that, even if you did use masking tape to keep the lines straight, and then tried to make me believe you painstakingly drew each line really slowly with a tiny brush.” Freya rolled her eyes, looking back to Marne and to their colliding, dancing fingers.

She only just noticed he hadn’t stopped her, or pushed her hand away when she started caressing his fingers. She needed all the positive vibes she could get. It wasn’t that this felt wrong. It just felt so right that it scared her. The quietness in the air electrified her body, making her heart race. She needed to do something about it before it jumped right out of her chest. She wondered if Marne felt the same way but worried about the rejection. Just the thought of him backing down from this was killing her. It stopped her moving forward, back then and now.

Sparks ignited through their fingers; their only point of physical contact. Marne moved to stand up, withdrawing from her touch, crouching to start some music on the PC. Kings of Leon surrounded them and she closed her eyes to the song. It’d been years since she’d heard it. The wine warmed Freya’s throat as she took another long slow sip. She opened her eyes and gazed at Marne’s back as he got up and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the food from the hob. She loved this house. The open plan downstairs was so different to all the other houses in the area. She loved Marne’s personal touches on the house; knowing he’d done most of it himself. Freya looked at him, knowing what she’d always known, she loved him.

She watched as he had his back to her sorting plates and gathering utensils to sort food. She adored his back. Freya used to sit, cross-legged, on the bed in the spare bedroom, as he laid across the bed, on his stomach while they watched a film. She knew Marne liked it when she stroked his back, she liked being able to do that for him. So, whenever she could, she would. He never knew it, but she’d always trace “I love you” onto his back. She was so scared back then, of what being with him might mean, so always pushed it away.

‘Revelry’ played through the speakers whilst Marne served dinner. She stood, reluctantly, feeling the bobbled rug under her feet, she once joked that walking on it felt like tiny bobbled hamsters. It was a gorgeous rug. She went to perch herself on one of his breakfast bar stools as he came around the counter to sit down next to her. Their faces were so close Freya could smell his breath; fruity and alcoholic, his cologne; strong and dizzying. In less than a second she moved forward to kiss him.

His hand came up to cradle her face as he gently kissed her back. Slowly to emphasise everything she was feeling through their interlocked mouths. The kiss wasn’t half-assed as it sometimes had been in the past. She knew Marne, and knew when he was just going through the motions. This wasn’t one of those times. Freya put her arms around his back, pulling him closer. She arched into him, moulding her body to his. Just like they used to.

They pulled back, faces flush and her lips were tingling. She smiled at him. He searched her eyes and kissed her again, his hands on either side of her face. It was everything she’d dreamt of over the years, everything she remembered. They moved apart at the same time.

“Your eyes are still as green as I remembered them.” Marne ran a finger over her lips, her mouth parted slightly.

“Thank you,” Freya smiled, widely. He remembered her eyes? Suddenly, she wasn’t as worried as she used to be. Her fear of him leaving and rejecting what she’d always wanted, was almost gone. It still niggled in her mind but that kind of worry is what she’d lost in her ex. The kind that keeps you on your toes, trying to do everything you can to keep the other person happy. Freya had lost that with her ex because every time she fought to keep him happy he never did the same for her. But, with Marne, she already knew how considerate he was. She’d burnt her hand once at work, and went by his place afterwards to chill-out. He noticed her burn and walked over to the ice-dispenser in his fridge, balled it up in a towel and popped it on her burn. She’d gotten too drunk one night and he nursed her back to sobriety.

The worry of wanting him to be happy was always there but the worry of unreciprocated love wasn’t. She knew he loved her. Marne knew how Freya needed to be loved, shown and not told, and he did that for her. Ten years ago, and now. The words weren’t needed.

Book Review: The Evolution of Kate by Alice B Ryder

The Evolution of Kate by Alice B Ryder

image taken from amazon.com

Type: 

Fiction. No strong language, small references of sexual nature, nothing explicit. 

Themes: 

Courage, Deception, Fear, Freedom, Love, Security. A novel of opposites.

General issues the book addresses: 

Main character has social anxiety and social phobia; with no way of overcoming it she has friends around her who help her to deal with it by accepting her for who she is.

Summary:
Kate is a successful author, selling her novel about a woman with social phobia. She has book signings all over the world, only problem is, she has major social anxiety. It is so bad, that for her to show up to her own signings she has to pretend to be Kate – the PA, to ‘Emma’ – the worldwide best-selling author of a novel about a woman with social phobia. And ‘Emma’ is an actress called Casey, employed by Kate to keep up the charade.

That is until one of Kate’s heroes, and the man she bases the main character of her book on, walks into one of her book signings, hot famous actor Luke Owen. He talks to Kate to praise ‘Emma’ for her work and forms a relationship with ‘Emma’ because of his love for her novel. Kate sees the relationship between Casey and Luke growing and pretends she doesn’t want to be with him, when really, she does.

Kate’s housemate, and agent, Rowen, pushes Kate to try and form a friendship with Luke but Kate’s social anxiety stops her. She doesn’t want to cause a fuss. But when ‘Emma’ aka Casey tries to make a pass at Luke’s brother-in-law, Luke is back on the market. Problem is, Kate can never tell Luke that she is really the writer of the book that he loves so much. As her relationship with him develops she finds it harder to keep pretending. But Luke is a lot more perceptive that Kate realises. He knows she is not good in crowds and finds it strange that ‘Emma’ could be so fine when her novel is based on herself and having social anxiety issues.

In a heated argument, Kate reveals everything and loses Luke. She is too scared to admit her feelings for him and when she finally does accept them her social anxiety pushes him and herself away from maybe the only true happiness she’s ever thought she could have. But now that Luke knows who she is and how he feels about her will he let her social anxiety get in the way of what he knows they both want?

Reactions to Book: 

(For purposes of the review I will only cover the few characters who stood out to me, there were other key characters that helped the plot line flow along but weren’t instrumental in my overall view of the book).

Kate’s character gives the reader a basic understanding of what it means to have social anxiety, showing that even true love can’t always conquer your worst nightmares/fears. But there is a lack of depth in explaining how and why Kate developed these anxieties. I think I would have had more empathy with her if there had been a little insight into her background.

Luke is your normal hot-blooded, good-looking, male who portrays most of the usual stereotypes of an actor – one difference being, instead of pushing to live in the limelight, he chooses to cosy away in a village with his family, where everyone knows him and respects his right to privacy. He has a relaxed and slightly sarcastic sense of humour, bringing quick-wit and small smirks to an enjoyable read.

Rowan, Kate’s agent is a flamboyant gay man. He is hilarious and really tries to bring Kate out of her shell by accepting her social anxiety but not letting her live her life on it. I like that he has a crush on Luke because it makes his time around Luke more amusing. 

The book delves slightly into the mindset of someone with social anxiety but realises that it is isn’t something you can just ‘get over’. Kate goes through all kinds of mental struggles due to her anxiety, battling with her inner self for what she wants, yet having an overwhelming fear of what will happen if she does. As someone who has a form of social anxiety I can see how the writer has tried to convey Kate’s social anxiety by the way she argues with herself in her mind.

Overall Enjoyment: 3.5/5
Besides for the unfortunate formatting of the book, making it hard to read sometimes due to line spaces every two lines of writing, I thoroughly enjoyed most of this book. The characters were believable and relatable. The novel was an ‘easy read’ filled with romance, personal struggle, friendship and enough turmoil to keep you turning the pages.

I only had one issue with the plot/ storyline further on into the book. Luke seemingly gives reference in two different places to knowing about Kate’s identity as the writer of the book he loves, before she tells him the truth. At first I thought it was because Luke was trying to tell Kate that he knew her secret identity. But, he clearly does not know when she eventually tells him and he is outraged by the revelation. Up until this point in the story, I was really enjoying the book but this displacement in the plot really confused me. I had to go back through the story a few times to see if I had missed something. Since the revelation of who she really is, is so monumental in the disagreements in the book it would have been better to either go down the path of Luke secretly knowing who she was or cutting those displacements entirely. That said, I really did enjoy this read. I love nothing more than a good romance story and Alice B Ryder gave us all of that.

I gave it 3.5 out of 5 because of the formatting and plot issue. I felt like it didn't deserve a 4 because of these issues but I loved the story line so felt it needed to be awarded more than 3.

I was provided with a complimentary copy of this book so I could give an honest review. 

About the Author:

Alice B Ryder is a self-published author currently living in Staffordshire, England. She has written other novels which can be found via the links below. One in particular is her sequel to The Evolution of Kate called Losing Captain Wentworth

For more information on Alice B Ryder please visit:
http://alicebryder.blogspot.co.uk/
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Alice-B.-Ryder/e/B00JE6W16M
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8120819.Alice_B_Ryder

https://twitter.com/AliceBRyder1

Apple - Writing Short 4

My Mum likes to taunt me with random words. I chose a nice noun, window. She chose apple. It's taken me a good few days to get my head around this. I couldn't decide on an angle that wasn't romantic. I wanted to try and do something a little different. So, here we go. I hope you like it. Doing these shorts have also prompted me start notes for a novel. It's in very basic mode right now so might take years to sort out. We'll see. 

Apple

  

“I can’t do it,” Casey sighed.

“What? What’s wrong?” Mina was confused.

“Well, look at it! It’s a mess. The lines are all over the place, the colours don’t match, my eyes are blurring from staring at this for too long. It’s such a disaster.” Casey drags her fingers over her eyes, rubbing them in circles to shake her tiredness.

“It’s not a disaster.”

“Easy for you to say, Case.”

“Look…They didn’t say it had to be life-like or perfect, did they? They gave you a subject and told you to be ‘artistic’ with it.”

“Yeah, but an apple? Seriously? I mean really…” said Casey.

“There’s nothing wrong with using the word apple. You’ve got plenty of work done out of it.” Mina turns, spreading her arm wide, showing her friend the expanse of work she’d produced in only a short few months.

The light from the morning sun shone through the floor to ceiling industrial windows of the artistically explosive studio. Paint splashes and clay lay strewn about, thick and dry, pasted on to wooden tables; engrained from years of creative use. Art easels were propped open, holding finished canvases, drying on their stands.

Mina turned back to her friend, “You can’t say all of this isn’t amazing?”

Casey sighed, “Can’t I? I’m the artist. I’m allowed to be self-depreciative. It’s in my artistic genes.”

“Hmm. Sure,” sighed Mina. She looked around at the rows of drawings, sketches, paintings – oil, acrylic, pastel, chalk; papier mache and clay models of apples. All different shapes and sizes and colours. Her view was of a rainbow of greens and reds, some even slightly yellow. Casey’s work was incredible. Mina walked over to her favourite piece of Casey’s work and stared at the delicate details laid out before her. The clay model was of a bowl of apples. Each apple individually shaped and coloured. They almost looked real enough to eat.

“How did you get them to look so real?” She stared closely, eyes only inches from the masterpiece.

Casey shrugged, “Spray paint… with varying nozzle sizes”

“You’re a genius, you know that, right?”

“So, you keep telling me…” Casey says, rolling her eyes. She looks back to the current almost finished piece of work in front of her. She’d had enough of apples to last her life time. If she never saw, ate, or smelt another apple again that would be quite alright with her. This one was red, deep burgundy red, the ‘Snow-White’ kind of, poisonous apple, red. Only it wasn’t just burgundy. In her mind and on her canvas the apple was flecked with black to portray shadows and baby pinks were used to convey the light shining on its glossy surface. She’d painted it, on its own, on a table in the middle. The background was a blank white space. It gave the apple a look of authority, standing out from anything else in the image. As much as she was never really satisfied with her work she was proud of her latest achievements.

Before her lay, fifteen, if not more, pieces of apple artistry. She hated it and loved it, all at the same time. The focus of one subject matter had given her mind free reign to pay attention to details in her work that she would’ve overlooked when pushing more than one subject matter into an art assessment. Even she had to admit, to an untrained eye, her work was exquisite.

She looked at her aptly named ‘Deathly Apple’ and decided adding more to it would ruin it, so she jumped up, grabbed her friend by the shoulder and headed towards the door.

“I seriously need a drink. My tutor is coming in the morning. My work here is done. Let’s go celebrate!”

“I couldn’t agree more. But first, you should probably go get a shower,” Mina laughs, looking at Casey.

“What? Why?”

“Burgundy, black and peach splotches aren’t great colours for contouring make-up these days.”