Chill - Snippet from a longer narrative

A short descriptive piece which will become part of a longer narrative in the future. (Hopefully) 

Biting cold, the bitter chill of early February. A time usually reserved for happy faces faces among parents with Valentine's day just around the corner and the recovery from Christmas expenditure, and weight gain, on it's way out. On our way from thirteen May Avenue. I never believed in superstition, but I was starting to think there nigh be something to it. The 'new' car my Mum had just bought for her new job. There was meant to be a heating system but coats were still needed inside even on warmer days. Despite the cold, were you to look towards the skies you might be fooled into thinking that a coat was not a necessity. You would be wrong, mislead and fought by the cold. Finding yourself among the unfortunate many that fall ill in these conditions. We pulled in, still yet to park, never an easy task for Mum but under the conditions she was finding it more difficult that usual. She crept slowly, both of us awaiting in silence to get this done and find out the results. Silence struck. The radio, which had been a great distraction to myself apparently was not having the same effect on my Mum. Stepping out of the car it felt warmer outside than in the car. That thought was removed by the wind which bludgeoned into my face forcing me backwards. Shutting my eyes to make sure they weren't forced into my head. I was then warmed by the arm across my shoulders, I looked up smiling. She was doing the same and probably for the same reason. Not because we were happy but because we both knew that the other needed the reassurance that everything would be okay.

The doors slid open and just as the biting cold removed it's teeth from my neck I was hit. The smell of death, a mix of chicken that has been left for too long and sewage. As soon as I entered I felt weak and ill. My eyes fluttered and began to role up into my head, I almost fell onto the man who entered next to me. Regaining my balance I stood swaying in the entrance, the smell had left and I was enjoying the warmth. A warmth that didn't help the smell which had now returned on my in breath. I almost fell again; blood festering in hidden corners and the mask of overused cleaning product. The more detail of this smell I got only made it worse. I felt more ill entering than I ever did leaving, a horrific irony upon entering a hospital. I held my breath, I never wanted to smell anything again. I couldn't hold it longer, I inhaled, this time through my mouth and now I could taste the putrid odour.

I can't remember much after that, the next thing I knew I was in a wheel chair being taken up in a lift. I don't remember the rest of the journey in the lift, I never did do well in enclosed spaces.

When I finally came round properly, I was entering his private room. The first thing I saw was his arm. I was eleven at the time and beginning to learn more about the world. Fractions, tectonic plates and the rise and fall of Rome. The hardest lesson I learnt that year was that, my Dad wasn't the pillar of strength I saw him as. He wasn't invincible.

Tubes we stuck under his flesh and the beeping from the machines pierced my now alert ears. He had markings all over his arms, the doctor a Dr Shaw, told us that this was so they could see how the swelling on his arm was reacting to the treatment. I checked again. The bright red mass was protruding well over the markings, surely not a good sign. We walked into the room. As the door clicked into place behind use his body shifted. Eyes flickering and his body being jolted into consciousness. Hairs began to stand on end as the cold, blew past his now aware body and the pain again became apparent to him. Mum rushed straight to his side placing a hand on his forehead and looking into his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted and it wasn't easy for him to do so. I was now stood as the nurse that helped me to the room didn't think it was needed any longer as I was feeling much better, or so I said. I knew I wouldn't be right until I left, it was the same with any medical place.

I stood watching the two heroes of my reduced to tears, I didn't know what to do I just stood and watched. What could I do now? I'm not sure asking Mum and Dad would help in this situation.

Hope you enjoyed let me know what you think 

The Outsider

Short Story based upon an outsider seen somewhere in life.

The Outsider

Staring blankly into what's presented in front of him. This dark figure, stares in the middle of the wall, resolute. He has been doing this for some time, when he began there were people close to him, but now. No-one. “Nacimiento del Gótico” was the name of the painting he was now lost in. Created in 1386 by the Spanish great Alvaro Ramos. Now alone in the centre of one of the greatest art collections in the modern world. He was entranced. How was he allowed to be here at such a time? This thought began to sweep across his mind. Had the staff forgotten him, just as the world had? Well it is easy to forget someone if they never make an impression on you.

His creased whit shirt in much contrast to his cleanly pressed black trousers. This was his uniform, for what job no one was quite sure. The common public assumption was security but no-one ventured to ask, because quite frankly no-one cared. People saw him each day, sitting on the first seat of the bus staring into the distance, a distance which wasn't there.

His hands shook involuntarily as his dark eyes wandered between the frames, searching for reason, not just within the painting but he always found himself searching for some meaning behind what he was doing. As his hand continued to shake he plunged it into his pocket, allowing his fingers to roll over what was inside. A handful of coins, different sizes, shapes and currency, yet all fitting together between his fingers. It interested him how such a global consistency could vary so much across the globe. Within his other pocket he touched the top of a cash bundle, he himself didn't know how much was inside, he knew there were ten notes so it could have been anything between fifty pounds to 500, he knew the man who slipped it to him was British so he had made the assumption of it being pounds, but with the amount of mystery shrouding the suited man who handed him the paper, suit case and cash clip. He followed the instructions written on the now crumpled paper squashed in his breast pocket. Now he was waiting. For what he didn't know.

Footsteps came from the other end of the marbled floor. The sound of the soles echoed through the halls, resonating into the figure's ears and shaking the image before his eyes. Of course not to the naked eye but, to the man who's eyes hadn't moved from it for hours each vibration shuddered the flicks of paint. He was lost, lost in the world of the painting. Showing the creation of the Catedral de la Santa Cruz y Santa Eulalia, the beating heart in the centre of the emerging Catolan nation. It spoke to him, a sole figure un-noticed within a society which was moving faster than the masons could cut the stone.

The lights went out and he was left in the pitch black. Now he was alone, left without the painting and without his newly found guiding light. A scream broke the silence and awoke his eyes, this was a chance for him to be able to stand out and do something. He turned on his heel. Almost slipping, while his shoes were, on the outside shined and polished as if new, but they hid a sole which had lost any sense of grip leading him to almost fall each time he made a turn.

This was the moment he had been waiting for, or at least he thought it was. Prowling the now darkened corridor, he blew into his hands, warming them. The museum grew ever colder and as his breathing became heavier, as the anxiety did upon his back, his breath created clouds of fog infront of his eyes. A flickering exit light around the corner was the only source of light in the pitch black. All the paintings had gone it was him and the dark searching for a scream and a meaning.

He slowed as he arrived at the point where he thought the scream had come from. Of course he couldn't be sure but something told him this was the right place. A murmer from the corner and a squelch from beneath his foot, this must be the place. “Hello?” his weak voice barely made it to the edge of the fog that came with it. A smell broke through the darkness, it was heavy and biological. It smelt to him like the smell a compost bin gets when you don't empty it. “Mr Davis? It's Mark, Mark Claridge?” there was no answer. “I think this is where I'm meant to meet you, I think this is where the man told me to come. I want to help, he said I could help”

The room exploded with light. He was overwhelmed by the sight presented to him, a blood trail from his shoe, still shiney but now claret. It lead to what he assumed to be the source of the scream, she lying dead upon the cold floor. Her face white, as the rest of the room except coming from the back of her skull, what was left of it and not scattered across the floor, blood splattered about half way up the wall accompanied by lumps of grey flesh.

In the corner a man was stood, drips of heavy liquid fell from his finger tips as he emerged from the corner of the now wretching man's eye. “Yes, this is where you are meant to be” his voice was calming yet cold and organised, as if each word came from a script. He continued, “Don't worry Mr Claridge, this is exactly where we want you to be”...

Hope you enjoyed, and let me know what you thought 

'Chasm' - Crisis Short Story

A short story based upon a crisis. Nothing special, let me know what you think guys!

After he lent on it, the cracks began to emerge, at first just allowing a handful of pebbles to break loose. But as he walked away deeper into the chasm the cracks began to emerge. Getting deeper and the rock began to creak as the opening began to get wider. He was still oblivious as to what was going to happen within a few moments. Unlike with a bullet, he would hear the crack of the rock that would kill him.

He bound down the valley, where he was going not even he knew. This was his year out, a time for adventure so he decided to discover the vast caves of Western America. This was the the fourth chasm he had delved into, he felt free there. The heat began to beat down, it was less imposing within the hole he found himself in, yet within moments the sun would become a distant memory and certainly the least of his troubles. The cracks began to emerge and the creaking seeped into his ears, he turned. This was the first sound he had heard for two hours and the sound of creaking rock was surely not a positive one. He turned back into the valley, had he gone to inspect then he would have been safe but he stepped further towards the cave mouth. An area the size of the rock he had just, without him knowing, set free.

It began to tumble. He heard it now, It broke free and began to bounce slowly towards him, by this time he had realised that the cave he was walking towards was non existent, and he found himself at a dead end, in all senses of the phrase. He began a frenzy searching for any way to escape his imminent death, he looked up to the sun with a look of despair etched onto his face. A face of a life that was about to end. A ledge was within reach he leaped to reach it and brushed it with his fingers. Hurling himself towards freedom his fingers gripped the edge of the rock shelf. He wasn't strong but his fear added weight to his muscle, allowing him to cling to the ledge with his feet dangling in the path of the rock. A tear fell.

Marcus Campbell - Character Development

The task was given to look at a selection of portraits and choose one. Then start to list some questions as if you were interviewing them, followed by the answers from the character's point of view. Then take what you have and create 800-1000 words of narrative either short story or a snippet of a longer narrative.
A note on these introductory tasks, they do appear mundane and a little silly almost, and I was cynical about them to begin with. But through these different tasks you get to know ways of beginning a narrative such as this one in which a portrait has literally painted a thousand (ish) words. So here we go, this is a snippet from a longer narrative of me just playing with character development hence the title is just the guys name....

Standing in front of the mirror, my hands are moving slower than they have before. I wouldn't mind if I was at home because there would be nothing to get to, but while I'm here I notice how slowly I'm going. The pain is there, its there now and it's always there.  I've always had pain in my life but the pain before came with success, I can see the scars as I shave the white whiskers away from my face, the ones I missed yesterday in the tired haze from stepping off the plane. The reminder of the pain brings me joy, but this new pain is too much.
Travelling through this country you get to places so much faster, it's all so much closer, I understand why she chose to come here and I'd be surprised if she didn't know everyone already. I do like it, sitting on the bus putting the odd shaped change, it's like proper money but feels so much more archaic.
They're all different, it isn't like being back home. It isn't a bad different but certainly not a good different. They smile different here, its strange, and they all smile the same. I don't have to say where I want to go when I get on the bus, I just put my money in and sit down. Flanked by a sea of smiles. False smiles, ones that don't quite belong. What are they hiding from me? I'm not sure being here is the right place to be. but that's what she wanted she wanted me here so I could see her moment in the spot light. I wonder if she was proud of me? She never saw me in my prime. Not when I was top class, I am proud. I am proud. She is graduating as a doctor. I'm just not sure why she chose England to do it though. There's a shaking in my leg, my phone is vibrating. Its that damned alarm again, they thought I was too stupid to be able to remember when to take my meds myself. I can barely even afford them it isn't like I'm going to miss out on them, its just a waste of money and i'm not stupid enough to throw all that away, not again, I've already lost enough.
I'm shuffling down the bus, the driver turns, there's no smile this time he just looks annoyed, I've seen annoyance, of course I have, but not  for something as trivial as walking down the bus. I used to get looks like that all the time, for making the coffee too strong or leaving the bacon on too long. I did try for her, I still do but it didn't help though, I just need to hope that something does work because I don't think I can cope with what's happening to me, the thing I hid from her so long. I don't think I can live with it without living with her.
I'm finally home, it feels good to be home and seeing this place in a new light. It's brighter and clearer. It isn't the only thing that is clearer, the rest of my life has been planned out in front of me. I was listening to the talk the dean gave at Laura's graduation ceremony, he said to always know what lies ahead of you and to make sure you know the next step you want to take. So that's what I've done, after I slept on the plane, well after I was woken up. By the large gentleman, as would be the political correct way to describe the monolith hurling peanuts down his neck chased by whiskey and chocolate. Which of course was drooled down my jacket.
I listed what I wanted to do before I die. As simple as that, so I have 50 things to do. They're written on the back of the photo I have of my daughter and me, she looks so beautiful, and I look so proud. Ill and proud. At least I manged to show how proud I was, because I was proud and it changed my life. The first thing on my list is to get Judy back, because without her then none of this is worth it at all. 
Tying my shoe laces, on the first day of the rest of my life I notice I'm doing something that I haven't done since I retired, I'm getting excited as I put on my shoes. It was when I felt the tension and now I felt it again, and I enjoyed it. I just need to start now. But where have I put my keys? Where did I turn out my pockets last night? This damn thing in my head blanks out moments of my life, that's why I want to do as much as I can, so I at least have something to be happy about when there's nothing left to cross off.

I know where the two most important things are, the first lock of my first daughter's hair, sealed in plastic in my wallet. Hair that has grown out, grown up and moved to somewhere better, somewhere that none of like to be reminded of. And the ring hanging from my neck that reminds me of what I have left behind.

So there we go hope you enjoyed please feel free to leave some comments below ANY criticism is awesome, Thanks guys

A Haiku

The rain comes down

            The wind then changes

A new start

Creative Writing Task - Article Prompt - 'Heist'

A bit of a different style to my last short story but using the same idea, looking at a headline and seeing where it took my pen. In the case of this article 'Woman dressed as Ninja Turtle robs motel' I decided, a decision made after the first few lines, that I was going to try to fit as many references to film (and some TV) as I could, whilst still maintaining a consistent narrative so here we go. See how many references you can notice, at last count there are 25+ things mentioned. 

Heist

Kawabunga!" That was Donatello's reaction to the ingenious plan which Master Splinter. (who was so wise, like a miniature Buddha covered in hair). Had hatched to take down Krang and his henchmen 'The Foot Clan'.
He had worked out that we needed to catch them while they slept in the local motel. No one had ever seen a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than stayed at the 'SLeEp-eAZY MOTEL'.
We would sneak in during the night evading the various nemesis' that frequented this joint. And certainly the guy that kept doing the same thing over and over again, with his Polaroid photos and writing all over his arms. Once there work out which of these rooms Krang and his gang were staying in. It was room '237' registered to a Mr Torrance, no doubt some ingenious pseudonym. April O'Neil wanted in, as always. We certainly didn't want her there so we tried to deter her by telling her she would have to dress as if she were one of us. It didn't work, she was eager as ever. We would have to think of something more embarrassing next time, like having to beat a ninja and big foot in a table tennis match. Or send her off to build a shrimp fishing empire. But you know "Shit happens" as they say.
The plan was already scuppered as we got there, some crazy guy with a air pressure gun, silently flipping a coin looking for a guy that hunted aliens with someone called the 'Fresh Prince'.
We began to meander our way around the motel halls, looking for this god forsaken room, to stop Krang in his master plan. We just didn't know what it was.
Splicing the door open, we confronted Krang and his men. In their shock and slumber they were no match for us. Krang a little harder to tame but April came in handy surprising him from behind and taking him in a Vulcan death grip. He stayed very much alive whimpering "Cleaver girl" the bastard knew he was trapped now.
We still had to work out what his plan was. Interrogation tactics began. We tried lasers expecting him to die in the process, but it didn't work. The ancient tactic of 'Ni' didn't work either. We questioned until we could question no longer but he just replied, "You can't handle the truth".
Eventually once we began reciting Vogon poetry, he finally succumbed. His plan was ingenious, stealing 0.01 denominations from every bank account around the world.
Before we had chance to react Master Splinter's voice cut in "That'll do Krang, that'll do"
The sound of sirens broke our concentration, and with the bad reputation we had recently acquired since the anti-mutant up rising we had to get out of there, fast.
But April tripped on her way out over a snake following a tall hooded figure into the night. The police caught up to her as they took her way, accusing her of Krang's plot, who had got away in an escape pod that the police couldn't track as he didn't appear to be a human life-form, apparently they paid by the bullet.
"I don't know how to quit you Michelangelo!" She screamed as she ducked into the police car.
I heard this through the bushes, risking my freedom, I shouted back "I know".

We ran into the night, finding our vehicle, disguised as a dog, promoting a dog grooming company.

Hope you enjoyed this, I will keep posting as much as I can. Not only with little bits of fiction but also articles on news stories, and personal posts about my first year at University.

Thanks, please feel free to comment either on here or the Reddit post all feed back good or bad is awesome!

Creative Writing Task - Article Prompt - 'Innocence'

So then first task of what is looking like a busy first year. The task was we had to find an article title that grabbed our attention then write a 300-600 word piece of fiction about it. And we weren't aloud to look at the actual article itself until we had finished our piece. 

I started looking for articles on Reddit and eventually found two that looked fun. The first prompted me to write what's below. 

'Woman shoots stalker after he kicks in her door, “I stood up for myself”" 

'Innocence'

"I stood up for myself". 

"I didn't want to kill him but I needed to protect myself".

She was wailing now. This was the forth time they had heard her side of the story and yet what no one could ever know. Was the story of the man laying face down in her hallway surrounded by his own blood. Blood which was beginning to pool around him, still trickling out of the door, onto the front step. And dripdrop, dripdrop. Sounding in the ear of those trying to work out what his side of the story was. 

He, the he in question. Lying filled with the heated metal from a .22. Was a known ex-lover of the woman screaming her innocence. 
"I think the lady doth protest too much"

A snide remark from a passing detective. Snide yet all too reasonable given the circumstances and the lack of knowledge she seemed to have on this supposed now stalker. 

"I don't know how long he's been following me but he was here tonight and I've seen him 
looking at me before"

"That's enough isn't it?" 

Her story goes as such: Ex boyfriend is upset with break up. Gets angry and begins to follow her around after said break up. Despite calling the police (no such calls are in the log of complaints) and the man understanding thus, he persists. So, logically, she arms herself. Takes her Father's pistol. He knocks on the door, she goes to answer. But, fear suddenly reverberating within her at the sound of his faulty engine still running outside. Checks who it is, "Leave me alone!". 

He knocks again.

Then again this time with his foot. Breaking each hinge of the door, she backs up down the hallway, getting the .22 from the phone table. Shooting him, once in the stomach and then the chest.  

This was a very fair story and one that was quite believable; the case was left to the side, all the evidence collected. It was an open and shut case, no? 

There were just a few issues that the detectives had.

"I'm innocent, I've already told you all you need to know" 

"Why are you still questioning me about this? I'm the victim here"

And as the judge clapped the gabble down, stating a guilty verdict and life imprisonment.
With fear building in her eyes. 

He explained "This sob story is all very well, but you failed. The man was shot in the back. He bled from 5 bullet wounds in his back all from close range. The door was not kicked open at all, your finger prints were on the key still hanging in the door."


She got scared it was the last time he would leave the door, so she made sure he never left it alive again. 

So there's the first post, let me know what you think.