Sing Your Sorrows 2

The rest of the day passed relatively uneventfully, more stories, more admiring gazes from people she shouldn’t have been spending her social time with. People younger than her. Not real friends, just a friendly human face to talk to, or rather at.

It wasn’t that Emma didn’t like to tell her webs of fiction; on the contrary. It was just that twinge of a memory it sparked, that night when her mother had told her to write, and never to stop. To spread her stories wherever she could, because she was special. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and reminisced of the long days spent stroking her mothers pale, fragile hand and telling her tale after tale, just to ease the pain.
Not the pain of the chemotherapy, no; that was dealt with by the hospitals drips, but the emotional pain of knowing she would soon be ripped from her daughter. Her life. Anything that had any meaning would be gone. For that purpose, Emma had always been a drug.But at the same time, she knew she had to carry on. Her mother had told her to, with her dying breath, on that scrubbed, antiseptic surface of the hospital. That mortuary slab of a bed. That was where her fate had been decided unintentionally. The fate of forever living in a dream, unable to wake up because you simply couldn’t. Because you were too afraid.But that was aside now, decided Emma. Of no importance at this moment in time. The girl picked up the pencil beside her on the oaken desk, and after contemplatively chewing the end for a moment or two, began to write.

________________________________


It was dawn. The sun rose wearily in the blood red sky, betraying its fatigue. The air was thickening, and the world seemed unbalanced, in a sense. What would have come so naturally before this time of impending darkness was now a strain, an effort. Holding her aching, rheumatic back, the old woman straightened with a stifled grunt and filled the pewter cauldron hanging over the dying embers of the fire, and picked her poker from the tiled floor. A small shuffling distracted her.‘Grandmother…?’
The girl stood, ruffle-haired and bleary eyed, rubbing at her face.
‘Its alright, darling. Go back to bed. We have a long day ahead of us today; you need your rest.’ The woman was deliberately vague. The more her granddaughter knew, the more danger she was in.
‘No,’ said the girl absently, but with a slight air of defiance. ‘I don’t think I need to. It’s early, but I feel more awake than I have in months. I feel as if I need to do something.’
The old woman shifted uneasily.
‘Grandmother…?’
‘Yes, yes, just get yourself ready if you’re going to be up and about. Lord, this back of mine…it’ll b the death of me.’
Turning away, she bit her wrinkled lip and wondered how long she could keep up these pretences for. Looking at the bleeding heavens, she said the same thing she always said when the thought struck her;

“Please come back. Not for me, for her.”

____________________________________

‘Emma! Emma!’ The shrill call awoke the girl from her daze, her literary cocoon. She roused herself and shook her left leg, which had gone to sleep during her latest session of frantic writing. Grabbing her notebook, ever carried with her, she stumbled down the stairs to meet the gaze of her father.
‘I’m going out to town, just to get a few things. As you might have noticed we’ve been living off of Chinese food for the past three months and I’ve finally decided to get my act together.’ He grinned rakishly. ‘Brace yourself, m’darling. I’m going to cook.’
Emma rolled her eyes in mock disgust, secretly brimming with joy. ‘We had better call the ambulance in advance then’ She teased. ‘We’ll surely all be far too stricken with salmonella to even lift the receiver once you’re done with us.’
For a moment, a warm smile was exchanged between the two. It was so normal, so average. Emma’s heart fluttered with joy at one of her everyday miracles coming true. But then the spell was broken and the stony, awkward silence had ensued. ‘Well,’ her father said after a time. ‘I’ll be - back in a bit then.’
She nodded. The door had already swung closed by the time she thought to blurt out ‘I love you!’
Wearily, she ran a hand through her tangled locks and sighed, letting her lips blow a faint raspberry.

Normality? No. Who was she trying to kid?

Sing Your Sorrows

Sing your sorrows.
2 day ago

Sing your sorrows, little one
Sing them to the sky
Let them go, let them fly
Sing them to the sky

The same hauntingly ethereal tune wandered through the night’s air every evening to Isabelle, tucked up tight in her woollen blankets. The snow fell steadily and silently in the blackness, while her grandmother pottered around seeing to the fire. Isabelle watched with her almond shaped, unfathomable eyes until the fatigue became too much and they drooped, sending her to that other, dreaded realm.Looking at the young girls furrowed, damp brow often became too much for her grandmother, so she busied herself at the other end of their meagre hut, peeling potatoes and pickling enough fruits to see them through the winter.

If they got through the winter.

The promise was almost becoming too much for her…if only her mother would come back…her only daughter…her daughter who she hadn’t seen for more than a decade. Looking once again at the distant diamond like pinpricks of light in the heavens, the old woman clasped her hands one final time before uttering her almost ritualistic prayer.

“Please come back. Not for me, for her.”

_______________________________________

‘Rubbish!’
‘Is not, I spent ages coming up with that one!’ The girl scowled, her pretty freckled face becoming contorted with annoyance. The boy laughed.
‘You’re so full of crap, Atkins. Go back to your fairytales and leave the norms alone.’
The brown haired girl scowled again.
‘Oi, leave her alone Jeremy!’ Shouted one ginger, bespectacled girl, who had been temporarily transfixed by the schoolgirls dulcet tones and overly active imagination. ‘Jealous, are we? We all know who’s got to repeat their English test this lunchtime for getting seventeen percent.’
There was a general sniggering and the boy turned redder than a pillar box.
‘Whatever, Darcy. Least I don’t look like a carrot from behind.’
The girl rolled her eyes; it was a remark she’d gotten used to in all her eleven and a half years.

The storyteller was collecting her things up of the autumnally littered floor. ‘Thanks, Darce.’‘No problem.’ The girl smiled. ‘You know what a bigmouth that Jeremy is. He’s never been able to handle you being the smart one.’Emma blushed. She hated being referred to as “The smart one”. It was, however, an fairly accurate label. She had been transferred to the only school in her county willing to guide her through the cripplingly complicated (or so it seemed to the other children) curriculum that was originally designed for people four years her senior. In all honesty, Emma was quite literally a genius of her generation. Shuttled from one school to another, nothing had challenged her somewhat over active imagination and mind, so much to the extent that she had finished every book in one of the ill-fated school’s library within the first term of the school year.

But this school was different. Being the odd one out would always be a hindrance to Emma, but here she was more accepted than she had ever been before. Granted, most of her friends were eleven whereas she was fourteen, but otherwise it wasn’t too much of a hell hole. Almost bearable, save for the intermittent Jeremy’s who made it their mission for the week (or indeed however long their attention span was) to make her life as difficult as she could. On good days their pitiful psychological ploys were but small stepping stones, but today Emma was tired, for some reason, and had neither the energy nor the inclination to fight back, even if it was only a few sharp witted words to send her pre-teen demons packing.
A wide eyed, blond first year with wonky bunches gazed up at Emma. ‘Tell us more,’ she pleaded ‘Tell us more!’Emma sighed, scooped up the little girl and re-began her tale.

_______________________________________

The old woman remembered the night the moon has shone so bright…it had been the seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh year of the century. She could feel it in her bones. Her old bones that felt like they had seen centuries of time had been aching, not just from her rheumatism and creaking joints, but something else too. Something different. It had been the night her daughter had left too. Three successive nights of labour had gifted her with a child just a day previously, a beautiful, pale girl who was yet to be named. But as she stared with the deepest love one can find, a mothers love, she realised. She saw the white blond hair, and the large, translucently sapphire eyes, and she knew. She knew that her daughter, her only daughter, was a moon child.And she knew shat she had to do.

_______________________________________

‘Ah.’ Said the smallest girl in her high-pitched, all knowing voice. ‘But what is a moon child?’
‘Well,’ began Emma hesitantly. ‘A moon child, is, I suppose, a child who was born at exactly the right moment, in exactly the right place, and was therefore a gift from the moon.’
‘Ah.’ said the same girl. ‘Ah. But what do they do?’
Emma frowned. It had been a good three or four dozen books since she had read about the fabled lunar children. It had been several days since she had run over the facts in her head while constructing the frame for this story to cling to as it flourished. ‘Well,’ she said at long last, ‘ A moon child is just a normal girl or boy, until their first full moon, when -’ \She was interrupted by her dear friends Jeremy.
‘Werewolves? Moon children, aren’t they werewolves? And here was me thinking you were clever enough to believe in them stories.’ He sneered, his top lip curling in a feral grin.
‘Shut up.’ Chorused several people at once. Everyone was clearly weary of Jeremy’s constant interference.
‘No, never tell anyone to shut up, even if it is Jeremy.’ Reprimanded Emma. ‘He’s got the right to his opinion. And no, Jeremy, believing in fairy stories does not make you stupid, or any less intelligent than you really are. It just means…’
She bit her lip and trailed off.
‘It just means what?’ Queried a curious seven year old.
‘Nothing.’ Said Emma quickly, keen to avoid the subject. ‘Now, where was I…?’
The children merely saw an impatient storyteller eager to restart her tale, but inside, Emma knew it was quite different. No, she didn’t really let herself be taken in by the tales of princesses and curses, fairies, ghouls and beasts, but she longed to go back to the times when those stories were her world, the time when she was protected in a kind of womblike bubble from all the unpleasant realities of the world, longed to retain some of that long lost innocence of hers that vanished as fast as anything ever could the day the ECG machines electronic pulses faded into a black screen. She bit her lip and blinked, still raw from that memory even after eight whole years had passed. That day…so much like any other when it began…

The day her mother had died.

An unfortunate incident

An ordinary scene. Unsuspecting people frolicking with their children in a colourfully painted yet slowly rusting playground. Yellow, gaudy paint peels off the supporting poles on the swings, and the merry-go-round creaks cheerfully as it spins the children into dizzy euphoria.A woman clutches at the wire fencing enclosing the scene, rattling the fence with all her might. 'Get out!' She screams, already knowing it's far too late. 'Get OUT!'Some parents look suspiciously on at this apparently raving cilvillian. They mutter amongst themselves ominously, wondering whether to say anything, but her desperate cries are barely audible above the screeches of the birds and happy children's laughter.Suddenly a white light fills the darkening sky. Cries of pain fill the thickly resonating air as the once cheery people writhe in agony, their eyes destroyed by the impossibly bright flash. A fiery shockwave forces its way through the city; the people burst into flame in the unbearable heat. They scream and curl into the foetal position and the most intense pain imaginable ripples through their frail bodies. A little girl stares at her mother's melting face and whimpers, otherwise in silence. Elsewhere in the centre of the city, buildings crumble with the force of the flame peppered waves that are destroying this once mighty city. Skyscrapers fall as if they were no more than dust in the wind.Back at the playground, all who once lived are ashes. The bones of the woman at the fence's fingers are clearly visible through her charred emains, and what is left of her disperses in the slight breeze. Nothing is meft.In the deathly silence, all that can be heard are the ghosts of tormented screams in the majestic half-light. Shadows are burned into walls. Cars are but twisted molten wreckage. The only proof of life is the dead; all is still.The aftermath of the Hiroshima atomic bomb was unfathomable. Countless people were killed instantly in the most horrific war action of all the century, if not all time. the few that did survive often died withing a few months from their horrific burns or radiation poisoning. Even to this day, these mighty civilisations lay empty, the remains of loved ones lost to the ages.So the question remains, what was the point of any of this? Was it truly necessary to destroy so much and kill so many? Some would argue yes, that the bombs dropped on an unsuspecting japan were required to halt the war, otherwise peace might never have been restored to our planet. It seems unfeasible to say the least, but perhaps Earth would become a dead and uninhabited planet, desptroyed by the very race that sought to save it in their bids for power.However, if these nuclear weapons hadnnot been used, would the outcome have still been the same? Indeed, Japan had over five million soldiers willing to die for the cause; they were virtually unstoppable. Some say they would never have surrendered, even when their impending defeat was ascertained. Protesters claimed after the event that shaped the lives of a nation that the bombs were unnecessary; an experiment by the US government that was both murderous and callously evil. It all depends which side of the moral fence you sit on.The moral fence divides the world like an iron curtain, simultaeneously dividing and uniting the planet. But how to choose what side to reside on? That is the common man's decision.Peacekeepers might choose the point of view that catered for their anti-war beliefs and reservations when it came to violence, but it must also be taken into account that sometimes violence is a much needed ingredient to end a conflict. Sometimes that final blow is all it takes to blow a war apart.Budding politicians, however, would likely argue that is was a necessary precaution to avoid further death of civilians and soldiers. In number form, the total of casualties from the atomic bombs was much lower than those from the bombings of London, but could they have been avoided too?I don't by any means hold the answers to this moral riddle. All I can say, however, is that no matter how we side now, it's far too late to go back and pull out that final nail that the president nailed into Japan's coffin.

An extract von my epic novel

An Extract

Hello, I'm Laura. You probably knew that. If not, why the HELL are you reading this? Click the back button please. Anyway, Here's a bit of an extract from the novel I'm writing, just to draw the customers in. Don't forget, I love you all lots and lots, so don't forget to leave complimenting comments at the end of it. MuchThankies. xx

‘Arthur!’ I called, watching his face light up at the thought of a visitor ‘Arthur!’ I fell down next to him after running the last stretch of the hill. ‘Hello, it’s been a while’‘Sure as apples are apples it has,’ he replied smiling. ‘I’ve long since finished the last of my Jane Austen’s, and I’m well into Dickens now.’I often think that Arthur’s main goal in this life is to read every single classic book out there. I don’t understand half of the titles, let alone the plots. ‘Well done, I’d never have the stamina to finish one of those.’Arthur smiled quietly at the spine of the book he was reading. ‘Well, I love it, so it’s no great sacrifice. I’m thinking of asking for War and Peace for my birthday; I’ll be eighteen in a few months. Seems an appropriate title, don’t you think?’ The smile vanished slowly from my face. ‘Yes,’ I said eventually, trying to keep my voice steady with all of my might. ‘Very.’Arthur dropped the book he was holding, which was unusual enough to distract me from my near-tear crisis. He lectures me endlessly about looking after the spines and bindings of books. ‘Wait - Elsie, what on earth is wrong?’I let the whole miserable story tumble out, along with a few tears, even the part about looking after Ma and Lily now Pa was gone. Arthur shifted uncomfortable, and after a while, passed me his handkerchief. It was only when I began to calm down a little that I noticed his arm was around me. I blushed deeply, wondering what Ma would say. ‘Well, gosh. Well, forgive me for saying it again, but that’s not the best thing to happen, is it?’ I shook my head in a mixture of despair and embarrassment ‘But maybe the war won’t be a long one. Maybe it’ll be a flash-conflict.’Arthur has the most vexing habit of using terms that only a specialist in that field could even begin to comprehend.‘A flash what?’ I asked, a familiar grin starting to creep across my face.‘Oh, a flash-conflict,’ He began enthusiastically. ‘A flash conflict is where neither sides have enough troops or supplies to sustain a long, drawn out war, and…’ He trailed off, having seen me looking away, my shoulders shaking. ‘Oh, Elsie, I’m so sorry…I…’I turned around, giggling. ‘Oh, you are one Arthur,’ I laughed, wiping away tears of laughter this time. ‘Fancy discussing army tactics with me of all people!’ Arthur laughed too this time.‘Oh, yes, I suppose you aren’t the most appropriate. My father would…’ He trailed off again. I sat up a little straighter, knowing that whatever had made Arthur stop hadn’t been good. ‘Your father would what?’ I asked tentatively, nervously twisting a strand of hair between two fingers.‘My father.’ Began Arthur slowly, ‘my father would be more of the person to talk about armies with, because…well…’ He bit his lip. ‘My father wants me to enlist.’ He blurted out.My heart skipped a beat for the second time in a little while.‘He wants you to enlist? Why on earth?’‘Because he doesn’t think I’m tough enough. He wants me to be one of those thugs in the army or navy that go out to get themselves killed.’ Arthur picked up a buttercup with his free hand and twirled it between his finger and thumb. The flower was dying; its petals were hanging off. One fluttered to the ground. We sat in silence for a while. Eventually I plucked up the courage to say something.‘I don’t want you to be one of those thugs, Arthur. I think you’re marvellous.’My cheeks went as red as the bloody sky above. I glanced up for a second to see if he was looking at me. His cheeks were as red as mine. He didn’t say anything, just held me a little closer. I rested my head against his shoulder, and knew I’d never been so happy.Btw, I'm fully aware that this is a particulary lovey-dovey bit. I PROMISE to get some gory or drama stuff on here at a later date, primarily when I've wriiten it.

Androgyns

Androgyns
Upon picking up four pints of semi-skimmed Cravendale milk today in our local tescos, I bumped into a lady and sent her trolley flying about two feet. Mumbling a hasty “Sorry Ma’am,” I picked up the offending milk and started to make my way away from the crash scene, when the ’woman’ turned to face me, and I realised with a large flush of colour to my cheeks that she was indeed a he. “Quite alright madam.” He said gruffly and waltzed away, leaving me mortified in the dairy section. This incident has gotten me thinking. About those beautiful beings we like to call ‘androgyns’ , or more commonly a ‘he-she’. To be perfectly honest, these odd collaborations of genders can quite easily be one of two things. One; incredibly, wonderfully captivating and lovely people that you can’t help but stare at in wonder, or two; really very weird people that make you cringe at the sight of them and cross the street to avoid their heavily and distastefully mascara clad gazes.Perfect examples of this would be Bill Kaulitz and Jefree Star. Bill, for instance, is one of the positively androgynous people that bless this Earth that we find easy to love and appreciate. He’s feminine, but not too much so. Sensitive and fragile, yet still manly and very, very sexy. Well, in my opinion anyway. I know a lot of people at my school disagree with me, but hey ho. If you’ve never seen him, (unlucky soul) here’s a link.

http://www.fanzona.tv/uploads/posts/....Then there’s Jefree. Ugh, sorry for the audible gag, but he really is sickening. With hair that looks like he crashed into the back of a Barbie paint delivery truck and equally hot-pink tattooed eyebrows, he’s the monster from under my bed that only eats one sock. it’s truly cringeful how he dresses - Hello Kitty tiaras teamed with tight halter tops and low-rise jeans, plus a load of hooker-esque make-up. Wait, no. His maquillage makes a prostitute look tasteful and conserved. Just take a look at this.

http://www.savingadvice.com/images/b...How nauseous do you feel now? That warm, fuzzy feeling you get seeing a picture of someone like Bill has long gone now, hasn’t it? It’s been replaced with the urge to vomit, hasn’t it? Well, maybe not, but you have to admit that Jefree Star is a very bad example of this genre of person, and Bill is a very appealing example. Boys, don’t you just have the urge to mess around with eyeliner now? And girls; I’d bet most of my possessions that if you had a face like Bill’s you’d be pretty happy, what with his feline features and gracefully sharp cheekbones. Makes you jealous that a boy’s prettier than you, doesn’t it? Haha.Which is why I wrote this. I for one am very thankful for people like this, even the occasional Jefree. Otherwise, the world would be so dull it wouldn’t be worth living. These people spice things up a bit, so don’t ,make fun of them and call them ‘pouffes’ or whatever you wish to call them. They have their own style and enough confidence to carry it off, so don’t chastise them for being their own person, even if they are as repellant as Jefree.