Lost in the Forest- Part 6

I growled. I snarled. He held onto me. He bound me with ropes. He slapped my skin and shouted words I couldn't understand. I couldn't see Daniel. Something was wrapped around my face. I howled but no reply came. I was dizzy. I was sick. Everything was wrong. Everything stank of another life. The putrid smell of humans pierced my nose. I writhed against the bonds but they were tight and ungiving. I screamed, tearing my throat. I felt a hand against my mouth to quieten me. I laughed inwardly at their blind mistake. I sank my teeth in and heard him shriek in pain. I didn't let go. I bit down and felt blood on my tongue. I licked the wound, a rusty taste flooding my mouth. I felt his flesh in my mouth; between my teeth. He pulled against me but I wouldn't relent. Then something struck my head, and everything went black...

Aware (Japanese)

One of many un-google-translatable words.
A beautiful poster, and currently hanging on my bedroom wall.

Sand Timer- Part 6 (Zoe)

I was driving twenty miles over the speed limit and didn't even realise till it was too late.

After storming out of the rehab centre in Yorkshire, I'd immediately gotten a train, not even bothering to check its destination. As it happened, this train was headed to Heverage, a large city I hadn't visited since college. Quickly taking out a pocket map, I permanently kept in my bag, I checked the surroundings of Heverage to see if there were any hotspots or available flats. All in all it looked fairly boring and quiet, I couldn't find any clubs, bars, sports places or anything, even after checking on the internet on my phone. 

I sighed and decided Heverage wasn't for me, but something caught my eye on the map, a small city almost directly beside it, Brunsden. It had bars, nightclubs, a concert stage with regular band tours, everything I needed. I googled it and soon found an available flat for cheap rent.
"Perfect," I marvelled to myself, already planning how to get there.

As soon as the train came to a juttering stop outside the station, I leapt off and speedily walked towards the car park where I waved down a taxi and got in.
"Brunsden, ta," I told the driver and he nodded and set the car in motion.
It had only taken about ten minutes to arrive there, I'd timed it, and now the driver dropped me off in the city centre, a small high street with a market further down. Checking the map, I located where the flat I needed was and headed that way.

Anger flooded through my veins. The landlord had rejected me without even hearing me out. I'd sat down in his office and immediately he'd said, 'Sorry, I'm not currently looking for any more tenants now thank you,' and waved me away as if he were dismissing a servant. I'd just come from the car shop, after having taken a particularly nice one out for a spin. I didn't intend to buy it; driving just calmed me down. It had turned dark and the city road I drove down was illuminated an ugly orange, as the weathered tarmac whizzed under the glossy, black Land Rover- I favoured big cars. But as I tore down the road, shooting past pedestrians and other cars, I only grew more stressed. Flexing my stiff knuckles on the leather steering wheel, I breathed out through a clenched jaw. My teeth grated together, my face muscles twitched, my biceps tensed. Then without warning I brushed past another car about to turn out of a junction and he beeped his horn loudly at me making me scream at him, "Learn how to give fucking way, you blind twat!"
I turned my head backwards to watch him scowl at me and returned it, but just while I was turning back to face the road, I suddenly noticed a figure directly in front of the car. Their face was briefly lit up by the bright head lights, just before I stamped on the breaks, and swerved the car onto the other lane, feeling it buckle against the crossing's traffic lights...

Death in Autumn- Part 7

Maggie Saundler crawled down the street, pulling herself along by her hands, scratching her stiff knees against the gravelly concrete. Tears streamed down her paralysed face, her glasses had fallen off when she'd tumbled off her wheelchair after her family- her father, step-mother and two brothers- had run home because a growling noise from the forest had stirred their panic. Her disability wore her down physically but her determination never wavered. But after ten minutes of desperation, she collapsed, her arms sprawled out in front of her. Her vision was blurred and her speech remained silent. Her legs were paralysed and stationery, unlike her heart and her breathing which became fast and erratic as she heard footsteps behind her. She tried to speak but only a slurred moan came out, "Mwuh!"
She was answered by a growl and felt the immense heat coming off something huge behind her. It sniffed at her clothes and she felt it taste her skin before it pinned her down with two muscled paws and snarled.
Then she heard a faint laugh from somewhere in the forest, she twisted her head to try and make it out but they had already gone, as if they'd ever been there in the first place.
The huge thing above her snarled again and then lunged at her flesh with its powerful, toothed jaws, when it was suddenly stopped by gleaming bright lights. They powered through the creature and it leapt off her, with a reluctant growl, and away into the forest, becoming hidden within the mess of trees. Maggie's eyes softly closed, uncontrollably, as she briefly saw a figure standing above her. 

A Dream of a Dance

An Ash Dickinson inspired poem, check him out, he's a great rapper/poet! 

The girl liked space- it's infiniteness

The way it transported dreams

She liked the way it waited for her

As she fell asleep

She took the left hand of Saturn

He placed his other on her waist

He twirled her round and round and round

Past the orchestra of stars

And Neptune smiled as he took hold of

The blanket of midnight

He wrapped it around the young girl's figure

And she gasped at the beautiful gown

Venus braided her hair

Entwined it with the stars

Merged all the gorgeous colours

And it flowed down her back

Earth took care of the music

Its satellites became speakers

They decided on some classical

And Earth didn't disappoint

The patter of rain: percussion

The bird songs were the flutes

The cheers of a football stadium

Were amplified and became trumpets; TOOT!

Jupiter was charge of lighting 

Politely asked the sun to dim down

Moved a magenta galaxy in front of the stars

Making the atmosphere romantic and quite pretty really...

And in joined the Aurora Borealis 

Shone waves of colours across space

Illuminating the black sky

Glowing the young girl's face

She smiled and laughed

At the ballroom around her

The planet, Saturn, before her

And reality below her

Then down trickled a tear

As the young girl sighed

Swallowed a little

But still cried

But Saturn held her closer

And whispered soothingly

We'll always be here for you

And you've always got me

The Dream Collector

This is a fan fiction type poem of the original 'The Sound Collector' by Roger McGough.

A stranger came at midnight
Dressed all in black and grey
Put every dream into a bag
And carried them away

The unicorn inside the zoo
The lottery that I won
The meadow that I danced
The bright and shining sun

The starry sea I swam in
The pet lion that I owned
The fame I earned for painting
And all those ice-cream cones

The galaxies I leapt across across
The books that I wrote
The feathered wings upon my back
My rainbow-coloured boat

The one where I was falling
The one where I could fly
The one I was invisible
To all I said goodbye

A stranger came at midnight
He didn't leave his name
Left us only darkness
I'll never sleep again

Lost in the forest- Part 5

He retracted quickly and immediately regretted it. Looking around he scanned the woods, surrounding us, checking they didn't hide any unwelcome visitors. He couldn't see any wolves but that didn't necessarily mean there weren't any...

Swallowing, he turned back to her and looked into her eyes sheepishly. She was frowning in confusion.

"Daniel?" she mumbled, staring back into his eyes, trying to puzzle out what he'd done and what it meant.

"I-I'm sorry," Daniel stammered, meeting her gaze and smiling slightly, apologetically. "Erm, maybe I should go-?"

He was interrupted by a loud piercing noise, repetitive gasps of wind as it was sliced through the air by something. He squinted upwards to see what it was and saw a huge blue painted helicopter, hovering in the air directly above us. 

Beside him, Shimone was growling and snarling and pawing at the ground as the giant steel beast threatened her from above. Daniel's mouth hung open as he watched it land several metres in front of us, a monster from another world. His old world. 

The metal door slid open and a smartly dressed man with brown, neatly combed hair, stepped out. He wore a royal blue suit, ironed exquisitely and clearly expensively tailored. A slight moustache grew from his top lip but was shaved tightly and there was no question of a stubble around his chin. He cleared his throat as he looked around and started when he spotted us.

"Fergus!" he called to another man somewhere in the helicopter.

The fore mentioned Fergus appeared around the side and came to stand next to the man in the blue suit.

"Yes, Mr Lioms," he bowed, not having noticed us.

He was visibly of lower dominance to the man in the blue, he shrank back as the higher class man spoke to him, "Fergus, don't you see them?"

Fergus turned to see us and gasped in shock, his body becoming rigid and his eyes wide.

Mr Lioms smiled maliciously, "Well, if it isn't the famous Miss Catherine Shimone."

Rose Manor- Part 8 (Final)

Victoria swallowed as she reached for the dagger she had secretly stolen from Charles, she gripped it with both of her hands as she positioned it, resting it on her now bare skin- where her heart beat underneath. She took in a deep breath and closed her eyes, and as she breathed steadily out, she plunged the blade through her flesh.

“My heart will always lie with Anne and Albert Rose!” were the last words screamed from her mouth, and as she felt herself slip away to death, she knew he had heard her.

The long neglected and abandoned secret of the manor did not stay secret after Emilia was rescued from it by her mother and several policemen. For she told everyone who would listen- and forced those who wouldn’t. And eventually she, her mother, her Auntie and her two cousins, rebuilt the whole mansion, with the help of the whole town. And some years later after they finally finished, travellers and tourists began to come back to Grenwich, it was no longer known for its gruesome tales and nightmarish stories. It may also interest the reader to know that Emilia was able to track down Albert Rose, whom was, and still is, buried beside his loving wife in a cemetery of the church in a small village, in Dublin, called Starford. And then, all of a sudden, the cherry blossoms began to come back too, their baby pink becoming a welcomed presence among the town, and slowly but surely, Grenwich became free of the fear and prejudice that had once claimed it. And Victoria’s true tale became known, and Charles Black’s did too as his history was shunned and spat upon.

But then, as if out of nowhere, Rose Manor was once again, a name to be heard in all of Yorkshire.

Rose Manor- Part 7 (cont 2)

23.01.1907- Diary, Charles Black is a criminal, a killer! He has lied his way closer to me and now I lie in bed while I hear him calling to me through the locked door to my room! He has murdered the forty-three people who were staying here over Christmas, and has now come for me, I have tried multiple times to escape but to no achieve. Oh please God, my Lord, help me please! He has come for my blood, he will leave me for dead as he did the others: he stabbed them first and then slashed the left corner of their mouth, slit their nostrils and gouged out their right eye! Has he no humanity, what is he, how could such human appeal become such beastly monster?! He is calling to me now telling me that he wants me, he’s wanted me all along. Oh please Dear God! Please, my Lord, help me. If not to prevent my death, make it quick, not the slow awful pain the others have gone through, please let it be quick. Please don’t let me die! I think he’s going to break the door down, oh God, please, I write to you now diary for the hope that whomever would be to read the events that occurred this night, would bring this monster to merciless justice.

Mother, Father, please let it be quick. Please don’t let me die, please help me

            V. Rose

            16.11.1907- Tatters is what I see my life torn in, death is all I see before me. Charles Black has kept me locked in the same room he claimed me in. He blackmailed me with my own life, to willingly give my hand unto him, in marriage. My shame is all that dwells upon my mind, all I allow to dwell upon my mind. Since that fateful night, he has forced me to conceive two children, the first was a miscarriage almost a month following the attack but the second I am seven months pregnant with. I beg each night upon the first star I see revealed in the sky outside my barred window, that if not my life, my child’s life will be saved.

            V. Black

02.01.1908- To Whom It May Concern, this may be one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, abandon my only baby daughter to the mercy of the residents of Grenwich. Care for her, is my desperate plea to you, and never let her know of her true origin- which was of Victoria Rose Black. My babe can no longer hold her faith and hope upon me, for I can no longer bestow such luxury upon her. So please accept her and protect where I no longer could. Her name is Anne-Rose Black.

Yours, V. Black

13.07.1908- Charles Black still relentlessly kills innocent people frequently for no reason I can see, I pray to you, my Lord, protect his victims and their families and help them through as you did me. Please, I don’t think I can suffer much more like this.

V. Black

23.12.1919- Eleven years have passed and I feel my heart is already ancient, for I have experienced such trauma, hated, fear and loss. Today my husband sold my 6 month old son, Albert, to a factory in Ireland and I resent myself for the opportunity I couldn’t even grab to save him. Lord, I have always prayed and worshipped unto you, but such high love could surely not watch upon me as I burn and fall and slowly drown. I want to die, I wish to die, I have wanted to die since I discovered the pool of blood surrounding the Christmas tree that night years ago, when I discovered who Charles Black, really was. I have heard the police around the manor, never daring to actually enter, I have read the stories about how I murdered all those people. And I know why he’s making them believe it’s me, why he wanted to marry me in the first place, because he has managed to leech out all the money I ever inherited since my father died and I know now that he is soon to leave because it is almost gone and I am of no further use to him. I have worked all this out, yet I still fail to see his reasoning behind his intentions of murder of those innocent people, but mother once told me as a child, “Monsters need no reason.” I miss you Mother, and Father and I hope I see you again soon.

V. Black

18.06.1920- Goodbye

The book tumbled to the ground, echoing loudly around the silent mansion, followed by a small splash, as a single tear hit the ground.

And suddenly the déjà vu that had sat dormant for almost eight years, erupted around Emilia, and she was 13 again. Standing alone in the house, paranoia creating sounds of muted shuffles and footsteps behind her. Darting figures beside her. Glowing eyes before her.

All those years ago when she had been bullied into entering the house alone one night, she had been left there, abandoned, terrified, until hallucinations and delusions drove her out one night, unaware of the time that had passed unaware of the cause, just to get out. And she had never moved passed that single moment of terror when she had ran for her life through the infinitely long maze of hallways and corridors, her heart pounding, her blood racing.

But now, the only sounds she heard were shouts, shouts from outside, but she was paralysed in fear, her eyes locked ahead of her.

Until she heard that one voice she had never expected to come to her rescue, not ever…

“Emilia!”

It was her mother’s.

Rose Manor- Part 7 (cont.)

She didn’t even pause at the steps, slanted unevenly with age and neglect, leading towards the front door, not even at the huge wooden door that already greeted her into the darkness beyond it. She just kept striding down the hall until she reached the heart of the huge mansion, on the ground floor by the huge ornate mahogany staircase that slowly wound around the wall, leading up towards all four floors. There, she stopped. There, she looked around.

She saw its fallen rafters, its dust, its darkness, she saw its misery and loss. She saw its death.

And then she saw a large wooden desk which must’ve been the reception desk, and laid upon it, perched precariously on a stack of papers, was a leather bound book, its cover piled with dust. She walked towards it, dust billowing around her, disturbed, and as she picked it up and shook its grey parasites from on top of it, the sound of her one action echoed enormously, making obvious the mansion’s vast size. For a second she believed she could hear faint footsteps coming from upstairs but desperately tried to ignore it, swallowing hard and wishing she had never entered at all. But she opened the book, unlacing the tie on the front, the first page was a sepia photograph, one of a young woman of perhaps Emilia’s age, with shoulder-length auburn hair, a navy dress delicately flowed down beyond her knees, a man beside her had his arm around her small shoulders, they were both surrounded by two organised lines of beautiful cherry blossoms and behind them was… it was the house. It was Black Manor. But in the corner of the photograph, the words it read were not Black Manor, but: Rose Manor, 18.06.1905, Father and I in front of the House. The elegant writing was small and in ink, as was the writing throughout the book as Emilia read on:

            18.06.1905- Dear Diary, today Father took me out to show me what was soon to become mine, Rose Manor! How can I possibly wait! Having already planned how it would be run as an inn, oh a poor girl’s dreams of her soon inheritance of a 500 acre manor and four-story mansion!

            Victoria Rose

            23.04.1906- Dear Diary, it has been almost a year since I last wrote in you, positively scalding, oh well! The house is amazing! Hundreds of people have visited the inn now! Rose Manor is a name known all around Yorkshire! Father would be so proud, God rest his soul, for he died not eight months ago… But having prayed to my Lord, he hath given me strength enough to continue on and look at me now! I love what Father has left me with, and now he has been left to see Mother again, God rest both of them.

            Victoria Rose

           

            06.07.1906- Dear Diary, never have I been in such joy in my life, for I have a wonderful job, a beauteous Manor, a splendid home and so many friends throughout the town. The cherry blossoms have been out again since May! They’re so beautiful I wish they would stay through the winter also, that would be such a cherish! But I’ve heard that people are beginning to talk about my absence of husband, but I don’t want to be wed, I don’t wish for such tradition. Mother and Father understood, yet I fear others do not…

Besides such stress, I wish upon every first star I see each night for the rest of my life that life does not have to change past this.

            Victoria Rose

            14.11.1906- Dear Diary, there is a man I have housed for some months now, Charles Black, rumours have approached me that he has taken a fancy to not just the manor… I don’t quite know what to do, for he, however handsome and wealthy, appeals none to me. Such debate, about whether to refuse him or continue oblivious, has troubled my sleep many nights now. But what could I do, the rumours that burn my ears may even just be trouble stirring lies. I wish you could help me,

            Victoria Rose

Rose Manor- Part 7

Emilia clutched at the rolled up family tree and the letter, as she screamed, “What the bloody hell is this?!”

Her mother turned lazily around, but when she saw the letter and the family tree, her body went erect, “Where did you find that?” her voice was hollow and grave.

“What’s going on in there?” her Auntie’s voice came from the living room, echoing through the arch either end of the modern kitchen, one to double French windows- that led to a small lawn- and then towards the hall, and the other to the corridor towards the bedrooms and the living room.

Emilia was stood to her full height, several inches taller than her mother’s as she stood face to face with her, her eyes burning. She had found her in the kitchen, unpacking the dishwasher, stacking china crockery and fake silver cutlery on the white marble counter while she tidied them away into the beech wood cupboards above and below. The stone tiles in the middle of the room were covered with a thick green rug, and that was what she planted her feet on as she waved the family tree and the letter inches away from her mother’s face.

“What. The hell. Is this?” Emilia repeated more quietly but with no less aggression or anger, through clenched teeth.

“Emilia?” her Aunt Maeve appeared at the arch towards the corridor and the living room, behind Emilia. “What’s going on?”

“That is exactly what I would like to know,” Emilia answered steadily, in a more controlled voice, turning around so she faced her mother still but also her Auntie.

“Where did you find-” Maeve started, her voice suddenly gravelly as she repeated her sister.

“In the attic, that doesn’t matter,” Emilia growled. “What the hell does it mean, why didn’t you tell me, when were you going to tell me, were you ever going to tell me?!”

“Now Emilia, please calm down baby,” Michelle comforted, but to no progress as Emilia dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “We were going to tell you-”

“No!” Emilia interrupted sharply. “No, you weren’t! Because I know you and I know that you were only ever going to send it to the back of your mind and try to never think of it, to forget it, as if it never happened! Just like Dad!” she was shouting again now. “But it did! Like hell it did! It’s here in black and white!”

They all stopped abruptly as they heard the front door slam shut, sounding the boys’ arrival home from school.

“Mummy! Auntie!” they warbled, adding after a pause. “Emily!”

Michelle composed her face as well as she could and began to head towards the hall via the archway that led to the French windows, “Hiya, boys! I’ll just go see them in,” she excused herself.

“Mum!” Emilia snapped, stopping her mother in her step. “You are not getting yourself out of this one! Maeve is perfectly capable of sorting them out herself.”

Maeve visibly relaxed in the relief of her dismissal, and jogged off to the hall.

“Emilia,” her mother whined. “Not now, ok? Just drop it.”

“No, I’m not going to ‘just drop it’ mother, ok?” Emilia snarled. “We’re going to talk about this now!”

“Ok! Ok, fine,” her mother relented, reluctantly. “The baby that was left on the street, was your great grandmother, my grandmother.”

She already knew this but just hearing it out loud made it more real and Emilia had to sit down on the silver stool by the island in the middle of the kitchen.

“Ok…” she breathed. “Go on then.”

“And so, Victoria Black, is also… your great-great grandmother.”

She’d thought she could handle it, could control her long suppressed emotions but it was just too much. Shaking her head, in a failing attempt to clear her thoughts, she slipped off the stool, strided quickly through the archway past the windows, through the front door and down the driveway. She didn’t stop at her car, instead she continued down the street, past the last several identical bungalows, down the gravelly country lane. Towards the huge house. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t even pause, because if she did, then reality would catch up with her, and she was afraid it would overpower her.

Inspiration

I've been asked many a time, where I get inspiration from to write books and short stories. Well the belief of a god-like lightning strike hitting you with a billion-pound idea while you're poised over your keyboard ready to type at top speed with strobe lights and smoke and everything- is a myth. Inspiration can be hard to find sometimes, and you can't wait for an idea to suddenly hit you, sometimes you have to chase it yourself. And while you're doing so, here are a few ideas to keep in mind:

• Shopping list- Try thinking of what you would ideally like to read in your fantasy of a perfect book, perhaps have a go at writing a shopping list of everything you would love to read about and work from there. 

E.g.   Lizzie's Book Shopping List

1. Super powers
2. Love triangle
3. Impossible romance
4. Demons
5. Etc.

• Find your 'special place'- Find somewhere that you feel at home and relaxed, whether it be your bed, the beach, the woods, its completely personal to you and no one else has to know about it. Mine personally is a rapeseed field because I can lay back and write in my book and hide from the world for a few hours.
• Get a journal- Find a diary or journal that you like the look of, and designate it as your new journal. This is completely your's now and you can write anything in there: snippets of story that suddenly come to you; ideas of characters; drawings you like; another book, play or film that inspired you; whatever. You'll find it easier to remember small ideas you have and if you're already writing a book you can list all the details you might forget about characters, places and plot.
• Make some time- Find some time in your schedule to write or plot ideas, try to aim for a decent amount of time a week. At least an hour every other day, preferably while you're alone so as not to be disturbed but if you have no problem with that then go for it. 
• Have patience- While some authors can write over six books a year, most still find it hard to manage one a year so have patience if you are one of the larger average and feel your story is taking a while. 
• Your first inspiration- Find the thing that first inspired you to write, whether it were a beloved childhood fairytale; an incredible film; one of your first books; a public figure whom you admired; etc. For me it will always be the film, Peter Pan (the 1953 cartoon and the modern one with Jeremy Sumpter). I adored the film when I was little and still do now, and it always inspired me to write my own story with my own Peter Pan- whom I was in love with then and and still am! And this photo of him and Wendy still pushes me to write the romance of my own Peter and Wendy:
  

I hope some of this helped if you're trying to find inspiration for a story line and I wish you the best of luck :)

The Woods

This is just a short passage of descriptive writing I thought I'd like to throw in, it's about a small forest in my home village that I love to go to for inspiration and relaxation, yet I've always seen another side to it...

The woods: a place so breath-takingly angelic, yet so blood-curdlingly terrifying. Soft rainfall harmonises with the endless songs of a hauntingly beautiful, feathered orchestra, as the leaves submit as a percussion piece. The sinister music envelops the woods in a tight grasp, preventing the world outside to contaminate the eerie beauty of nature within. Droplets of liquid emerald slip off silky leaves, to crash onto the dusty ground below; almost velvety brown branches sweep along in the wind, offering a wooden hand as I climb steadily up the one tree I return to always. The emptiness of the night, atop a leafed guardian in the frozen heart of the frozen woods. Rustling leaves shiver and shake, chained until autumn, denied both sleep and to hide in their terror, whenever night falls; slowly consumed by the darkness, corrupted by the evil that stalks silently within the trees- an invisible demon. Silver stars pierce the midnight quilt above the trees, a ghostly presence; a flickering glow of vacant eyes. Cold, empty air trickles down my throat, gripping my lungs with icy fingers, tearing me apart from the inside. The unnerving sensation of being watched- both alarming and suspicious- compels my every shuddering footstep into a labyrinth of an infinitive song’s wary slumber, twirling into frosty oblivion. A terrifying emptiness filled with hidden monsters, cursed each night to turn as evil as the white moon, that glares upon the woods. A home; a prison; a grave. The woods.

Rose Manor- Part 6

“Please could you give us more detail, Mr Ferver,” the policeman asked again, exasperated.

Mr H. Ferver had been admitted into hospital a day and a half ago and had been immediately rushed into urgent care, his status described as critical.

He had received multiple stab wounds and his right arm completely hacked off from the elbow down. But it was his split lip which was also slashed at the left corner as was his nostril and his right eye completely gouged out that related the attack to the one gruesome culprit that could be linked with such retching trademarks- Victoria Black.

Signalling to his assistant to continue writing down the conversation, Officer Jacques stated, “So, the attack occurred on the 18th of August 1907, in Grenwich, Yorkshire, England. In the Black Manor of Grenwich. The victim, Mr H. Ferver of Kirkby, Yorkshire, England, was issued into critical care of Grenwich Hospital 49 minutes following the attack and was rescued by police officers, 27 yards from the scene of the crime. Police officers failed to arrest suspects of the Manor due to, erm, the, err, private property, umm,” Jacques sighed and shook his head, adding after a few moments, “private property refusal of entry.”

Disappointment and shame swelled through his body as he admitted that they hadn’t caught Victoria Black, or even tried to, out of fear.

“Could the victim describe the attacker and the attack please,” he continued, addressing the bandaged, bruised man in the bed.

A groan escaped his stitched mouth, “It wasn’t, Vic-” he gasped desperately. “Him, it was him, the whole time.”

Jacques sighed in annoyance, frustration and exhaustion at the man’s inability to cooperate, “You mean she…?” he prompted, his eyes drooping.

“No!” the man argued as strongly as he could manage, but only surprising Officer Jacques a little, for he had been earlier informed that the victim was quite probably in shock. “Sir, man, husband!” he stumbled around the words, trying to get them out of his mouth quickly enough for the last two to leave, “Charles Black!”

Sand Timer- Part 5 (Charlie)

Climbing up the stairs, the boxes I carried wobbled precariously. Reaching the final step, I breathed a loud sigh of relief.

"Oh hiya Charlie!" Debbie's sudden voice startled me and I had to dance around my feet to avoid dropping the cardboard boxes, holding my possessions from the hospital in them.

"Debbie, hi," I replied, smiling politely. 

Debbie was my neighbour, she lived across the narrow corridor from me. Her upbeat personality was adorable and sweet but did annoy me. She had her short blond hair tied up in two ponytails and was wearing a pastel-yellow tracksuit jacket that cut off at her belly button and pink-pastel joggers and trainers.

"Ooh! You're getting your things in then I see!" she exclaimed, pulling the boxes downwards to see their contents. 

Snatching them off her quickly, I nodded, "Err, yeah. Thought I'd probably put it off for long enough."

"Haha, fair enough!" she giggled, adding, "I'm having a party tonight, some friends from uni, you wanna come?"

My brain screamed at me to run into my flat and lock the door at even the mention of a party but my desperation to fulfil my bucket list and do something wild goaded me toward it.

"Umm, ok," I mumbled, amazed I had even gotten the words out my mouth.

"Great!" Debbie grinned. "See you about half ten then!"

"Yeah, see you," I smiled, opening my door by its rusted handle and shoving my way through.

But as I closed the door behind me I slid to the floor, what the hell had I been thinking? 

Death in Autumn- Part 6

"It wasn't even full moon last night!"

"Because it was never the monster!"

"But it would fit the old legend!"

"It's just some guys having a laugh and taking it way too far!"

"No, it's a conspiracy!"

"Or an escaped wild animal!"

Debates flew between people who had once been friends, family or colleagues; tearing emotional bonds apart. But Cain and Alice only grew closer, slowly puzzling out the mystery of the killer.

Newspaper clippings were pinned up all over the walls; photos, drawings and accounts joined them. But they had hit a brick wall.

"Well now it can't possibly be the monster from the legend," Cain grumbled. "But what about all the other evidence?!"

"Well think about the likelihood that it could have ever been a mythical creature," Alice tried, adding, "Look, maybe the old legend has been changed?"

"Wait, what?" Cain turned around, registering his sister's words.

"Maybe the old legend has been changed, maybe the connection with the full moon is false, maybe it was never true," she explained.

"Oh my god, it was right there the whole time!" Cain exclaimed, hugging his sister hard. "You're a genius!"

He spun around and eyed up the evidence on the wall before him, then took random pieces down and replaced them with each other, swapping them around. Until, he was finally left with one big picture, one final conclusion.

"The legend is true," he whispered. "We're all in danger."

"That, you are," a voice snarled from behind them.

Lost in the Forest- Part 4

His nails were sore, his muscles were sore, his throat was sore, everything hurt. Charlie had been in the woods with Shimone for almost two weeks now and was steadily teaching her basic English. 

"Charlie Westwood," she copied his name slowly, checking his reaction to see if she'd got it right.

He nodded and smiled, careful to not display any teeth. As she'd grown to know him, he'd also grown to know her. He knew when she sensed something irregular; when she was uneasy; when she needed some time alone. He was growing to know her more and more, and he wasn't sure what position that put him in. 

She smiled too, awkwardly stretching her lips wide but trying to keep them together at the same time. 

"Shimone...?" she frowned, obviously curious as to why she didn't have a second name.

"Shimone of Iceland," he suggested.

She smiled again and repeated it, "Shimone of Iceland." Then, "Book!" She pointed to Charlie's small leather bag.

He obediently took out his book from home, a journal he drew in, and gave it to her to look at. She enjoyed flicking through the pages to look at different pictures of people from the real world. 

He noticed she'd stopped at a new one he'd drawn just the other night, it was of a couple dancing under a blanket of lights. The woman had dark flowing hair with streaks of red, pinned up in a bun, and she was dressed in a dark blue dress that tightened to her delicate curves. Her partner was dressed in a fine suit, holding her tightly and was leaning in to kiss her. 

Shimone glanced up towards Charlie, puzzled about the picture's meaning.

Then he suddenly leant towards her, almost uncontrollably, and brushed his lips against her's.

Rose Manor- Part 5

Emilia’s aunt’s house was not much to behold, she thought. But after having endured a miserable breakfast where the boys were quickly bustled out the door for school, much to their own distaste, Emilia had wandered around the house searching for any interest to occupy her. She had grown up in this house and it had always seemed just as boring and awful as it was now. Sighing, she slumped against the wall in the corridor leading to the bedrooms. She could vaguely remember something happening in this spot when she was little, but not for the life of her could she remember what. Urgh, I hate this town! She grumbled to herself. Her hatred had much to do with the infamous Victoria Black, and the old manor on the country lane, her traumatic memories would always dwell in the rotted timber of that house. She shuddered and pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind, filling them instead with her mother’s face when Emilia had told her that she had no intention of ever marrying or having children. The only guilt she had ever felt towards her mother, had been when she’d told her that.

A rogue tear had managed to force its way out and now trickled down Emilia’s warm cheek. She sighed again and her head rolled backwards to prop against her shoulders, in exhaustion, and her eyes caught sight on a small, square trap door on the ceiling.

She frowned, but her expression cleared as she slowly realised that this was what she had been subconsciously aiming to find.

Grumbling in protest at her measly jumps in attempt to reach the small length of cord rope that pulled down the door, she finally managed to grab hold of the end and tugged down hard.

Quickly, she got the door out the way in order to strain her arms to keep the heavy metal ladder from crushing her to the wood tiled floor, and carefully edged it toward the floor, propping it precariously against the edge of the trapdoor.

A deep breath and she clasped her hand around the first rung, continuing to climb to the top after taking several more deep breaths. When she did reach the top, she fumbled around the timbers above her head for the light switch and flicked it on. Everything suddenly flooded in light, and Emilia took a proper look at the attic and its contents. Rotting teddies, their stomachs spilling the cottony filling, lay crushed in damp cardboard boxes and split black bags; cracked dolls began to warble droningly at Emilia’s arrival; ancient books, their stained pages crisp and torn, stacked in boxes; carrier bags stuffed with rotten, holey clothes. All around her lay ancient, broken objects subject of cherish and sentiment- and others lay forgotten and dead to the rest of the house.

Side-stepping past cobwebs and random nails jutting out of the wooden planks, she spotted some blackened timber in the front right of the attic. Narrowing her eyes, she walked across to investigate, taking large un-rhythmic steps on her tip toes around heaps of bags and boxes and pyramids of other non-important objects. Reaching the blackened wood, she ran her hand down the rough splinters, it had left a charcoal mark across her palm. A frown on her puzzled face, she obliviously tucked her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ringed ear and delicately rubbed her thumb across the charred wood. It had been burnt. She had no idea how long ago or when, but she knew decisively that this part of the house if not more had, at one point been on fire and rebuilt. Stretching across to see the other side of the thigh-thick rafter, she accidentally knocked down another cardboard box, cello taped unevenly as if in a rush. At first she paid no attention to it, but then curiosity began to dwell on her and she looked down on it. One corner was torn but provided no clue as to its contents, the cello tape covered the battered sides, ensuring it wouldn’t split. She bent down and peeled off the weathered parcel tape, revealing… a basket. A small wicker basket, mould growing on the cotton sheets tucked inside it. A large brown envelope was inside too, she picked it up, a frown still on her face, and tore it open. Removing four certificates, another smaller envelope, a hand-written family tree in fountain pen and five sepia photographs, she studied them carefully in interest. The first certificate was the birth certificate of John Richard Hugh Jr.- 14.04.1900, 08.09PM, the second was the birth certificate of Peter James Hugh- 24.10.1903, 03.45AM, the third was the legal adoption certificate that stated that Anne-Rose Black was the legal daughter of John and Wendy Hugh and the fourth was a death certificate of Peter James Hugh- 17.02.1908, died of fatal puncture wounds to the heart and lungs following manslaughter from stabbing of window glass after being smashed by attackers. The first photograph showed a young man proposing to an equally young woman in a luscious lawn of green grass and wildflowers and cherry blossoms, the second: a woman laid in a hospital bed with a newly born baby in her arms, a beautiful smile of pride illuminating her face, the third was of two young boys on separate swings in a park, being pushed by a grinning man and woman, the fourth was of an older boy holding the hands of a year or so old girl, as she took cautious steps and the last was of the man and woman- both considerably older- sat on a park bench beneath a browning willow with a teenage boy and a girl at least five years younger with auburn, shoulder-length hair under a pink lace bonnet. Emilia had never heard of or seen these people before, yet their faces were still hidden in her mother and aunt’s attic. She took out the folded letter in the smaller envelope and slowly read through the ink, now crusted with age:

           

To Whom It May Concern, this may be one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, abandon my only baby daughter to the mercy of the residents of Grenwich. Care for her, is my desperate plea to you, and never let her know of her true origin- which was of Victoria Rose Black. My babe can no longer hold her faith and hope upon me, for I can no longer bestow such luxury upon her. So please accept her and protect where I no longer could. Her name is Anne-Rose Black.

Yours, V. Black

Emilia’s heart skipped a beat.

And then began to race until it pounded in her ears, hammering the message she didn’t want to decipher into her brain.

She shook her head, because it couldn’t be true, it wasn’t true.

But as she unrolled the family tree, the delicate calligraphy mocked her disbelief as it proved it.

 “I- I can’t believe it,” she stuttered, the roll of crisp, browned paper falling from her hands and onto the floor. “No,” she denied. “No!”

She had put two and two together too late, and now its sudden appearance had almost winded her.

She was the direct descendant of the baby left on the street to die over one hundred years ago.

She was the direct descendant of the cruel, insane serial killer.

She was the direct descendant of Victoria Black.

Sand Timer- Part 4 (Zoe)

"Zoe, you realise you've only made the court more suspicious that you're not well enough to leave yet," Perry explained, soothingly.

I was sat in the gallery, surrounded by paintings. It was a regular place I visited in the rehab centre, to gaze at beautiful paintings and to be smothered by that amazing smell of paint and old paper.

Nodding, I leaned further into his arm, which was wrapped around my shoulder, holding me. It was nice, warm. But I was used to Perry, he was my mentor or whatever, late-twenties with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. He was one person I'd allowed myself to get close to, even if I was going to leave him soon if I could convince the court I was fine.

"They might even decide it's in your best interests to spend a few months in Carther's," he went on, his soft voice calming me until he mentioned Carther's.

I sat upright and looked at him, "That's not something to joke about. I'm not mad."

Carther's was a mental hospital down the road from the rehab centre, it was originally debated to send me there for my anxiety and panic attacks, and sudden bursts of violent anger but it was ruled out and instead, I spent my time here.

"I'm sorry, but I wasn't joking Zoe. Your addiction has improved but your anxiety and anger haven't," Perry eased me, settling me down back into his shoulder and softly stroking my hair- dyed a deep auburn.

"I know," I mumbled, turning my face into his shoulder and bundling my arms into his chest. "But I don't want to go to some mad house."

He chuckled slightly, without humour, rocking his chest.

We were sat on a small red couch which was placed in front of a drawing of a corn field, one of my favourites. My legs were tucked under me and my body pressed against Perry's, his strong hands were holding me and his chest was warm. I sighed, content.

"You could do it, you know," he murmured through my hair.

"Do what?" I asked, my eyes closed.

"Fight your panic attacks, and stop your anger."

"Hmm," I sighed. "How do you know?"

"Because you're stronger than you realise," he whispered. Then after a moment, he added, "And more beautiful."

I opened my eyes and sat up to look at him properly. He looked right back at me, his ocean blue eyes gazing into my green ones. 

"What-?" I started, when he leant forwards and brushed his lips against mine, holding my face in his firm, tough hands.

Puzzled, I pulled away and studied his face. His eyes, deep pools of midnight, whispered silently to me until interrupted by his own voice, "I'm sorry, that was very unprofessional of me, please forgive-"

I cut him off by suddenly kissing him back, his rough lips moving together with mine, but I felt nothing, only a dirty feeling of guilt that sickened me because I'd let down my guard and let him get close to me. Gently removing his hand from my cheek, I laid it back on to the cheap fabric of the sofa and stood up.

And then, turned back to say to him, "I don't get close to people Perry, I don't love, I don't care. I travel to never grow close to anyone, but these past two years I let myself get close to you and that was a mistake."

"Zoe, you need to let people in," he tried desperately, because he knew once I'd made up my mind to move, I wouldn't change it.

"No, I hate feeling a connection to someone because then I'm attached to them and they're just more baggage to carry around. I can barely handle living with myself, I don't want to add to that," I snapped, severing the emotional ties between us as I did and he knew it, he knew I was leaving him and I wasn't going to allow any emotional attachment drag me back here.

"Bye," I muttered, spinning round to walk quickly out of the room and out of the rehab centre, already planning my next location to move to.

Rose Manor- Part 4

Wendy’s head was hung in shame and embarrassment as she made her way through the small town, acutely aware of the ever growing whispers and murmurs around her. That’s the only communication the Hugh’s had encountered since Mrs Spritt had announced to the whole town that the baby of the mad woman, who had been the bearer of the knife that had massacred all those people, lived among them and in the Hugh’s house. Wendy had returned home as fast as she could after having endured her grocery shopping laced with venomous looks from all her neighbours and close friends, not to mention the grocer’s hateful attitude and sloppiness over weighing out her food and deliberately retrieving it as slow as he could manage from the shelves. She couldn’t help but let the corners of her mouth slip in sadness at their accusations of betrayal and at their whispers of her supposed alliance with Victoria Black in her merciless and gruesome murders.

As she reached the terraced street that led toward her semi-detached bungalow, she began to speed up, her fast pace becoming an almost jog, her blond ringlets bounced under her white and red bonnet, and her heels pinching at her toes. The full paper bags aching her arms under the matching white coat with red rims and buttons, her burgundy skirt covered her knees and now limited her step. But she didn’t care, she just wanted to get home and collapse. John, her husband, had at first resented her decision and the baby too, but now supported her against the discriminative town, after having read the threatening letters his wife had been burdened with, and after having received his own last Tuesday. He would hold her, she thought, he would hold her and make it okay. But as she neared the end of the street she heard someone shouting at her from an upstairs window, “We don’t want you here! Go and die with that witch in that beastly house!”

Tears began to breech her carefully stacked boundaries and she soon felt them welling beyond her control, and still she ran, faster and faster. Ignoring the blisters on her toes and the aches in her arms, she just wanted to get home and stay home and never have to leave again.

And that was when she saw the small mob outside her home.

Her heart stopped.

Her blood ran cold.

And the only things that went through her head were: Is John in there? Are my sons in there? Is the baby in there?

And dropping her now unimportant brown bags containing their food, she raced along the pavement, removing her heels only to throw them to the side and carry on running in bare feet as she got closer and closer to the house.

“John!” she screamed as she stopped outside the house, bustling through the rioters to get to the smashed windows. “John! Peter!”

The roar of the crowd was immense, as they stormed against the house, tearing down its tiles, smashing its windows, destroying from the outside for they didn’t dare to enter with a Black baby inside.

Wendy crawled through the smashed window, slicing through her coat and cutting her cheek, all the time shrieking until her throat was raw, “John! John and Peter!”

Salty tears burnt her nose and throat, as she ran through the house, the smoke from the fires outside began to snake its way through the windows, cutting her throat with gravelly fingers.

“John! Peter! Joh-!” she was immediately stopped, as if a brick wall had slammed into her stomach, the wind was knocked out of her.

Her youngest son, Peter lay curled on the floor, his head resting on his brother’s lap, a pool of blood surrounding him.

His eyes were closed.

Wendy vaguely heard voices and felt herself being herded toward the kitchen where she was then shoved out the back door, but all she could see was her four year-old son, lying broken on the floor, drowning in his own blood.

Then suddenly, her husband’s face was centimetres from hers.

“Wendy, you’re ok. Tell me you’re ok. Wendy speak, please!” he begged.

“Mama, say something, please! What’s wrong with Peter, he won’t wake up!” her son, John pleaded.

“Anne,” she whispered.

“She’s here, she’s alright, she won’t be hurt,” her husband answered, lifting the baby up to prove so, and then handed her to Wendy, who cradled the baby in her arms, wrapping the blanket around her fragile body, tighter.

“Peter,” she whimpered, her knees crumpling below her, she gazed at her son.

Her son.

A corpse before her.

Dead.

Killed.

Gone.

Her husband’s hand instinctively found its way softly rubbing her neck, before he crumbled too, joining her on her knees, weeping. John edged his way over to join his parents too, nudging his way into their warmth.

The mob went on to burn down the front room of the house. Until, out of fear, retreated back and afterwards left the Hugh family, who had both gained and lost a member within one month, alone. Although, they were still neglected communication and socialization throughout the town. However the Hugh’s eventually rebuilt the house, didn’t even ask for outside help for it would not be given, but few blackened timbers in the roof remained. Despite the fear of the town, prejudice still continued to drown the last remaining sympathy from the small, untrusting town of Grenwich.