Posted in Poetry

Someday (Poem)

Ahh… happy memories. Does anyone remember those?

Someday I shall be better.

I’ll be a person who can speak their mind

Without the constant fear of what others think.

I’ll choose my own passage,

My own words,

And I’ll read aloud from the holy book of me.

Because I can’t do that now.

Someday I will be braver.

I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet

And not lean against the wall that’s doing nothing

But keeping me away from the people

I could be friends with

If only I gave myself the chance to speak my head’s voice and not my mouth’s.

Because I can’t do that now.

Someday you’ll understand me.

I’ll be someone you can like and not just this constant

Worry that one day she could disappear

And nobody would notice she was gone.

I’ll be a voice that’s heard and a voice

You’ll want to hear.

I won’t just be this niggling, condescending twat in your ear.

Because that’s what I am right now.

Someday these words won’t mean anything anymore.

They’ll be a past you can hardly recognize

Because the girl beside you will be optimistic.

She’ll be able to speak to you any time she wants

And not twenty minutes later when

You’ve already gone.

Yes, someday I’ll be one of you. Someday I’ll be as brave as you.

But for now I’ll just be here for you

And I’ll keep trying.   

Posted in Uncategorized

Why It Takes Me So Long To Edit

Editing. The word I love to say and love to do… as long as it’s for other people. Yes, I’m one of the sad people who actually will sit there helping to proofread or edit other people’s work. Have I ever been paid for it? No. Although I think I’m competent at it, I feel uncomfortable taking money for something that up until now I’ve always offered to do for free. Part of me knows that’s stupid. After all, I’m currently sat in a house with my parents with no income coming in. Money would certainly help me a lot, but my stubborn brain refuses to accept it for something like editing.

            Now, I count myself as very good at editing. Ever since University, when I read an entire book about spelling and grammar (it repeated a lot and was very dull) I’ve been pretty good at utilising it. I also understand flow, syntax, how to write descriptions, how to build characters and when you should ‘tell, rather than show’. I also make sure when helping friends/other writers with editing that I find some positives to tell them so they’re not completely defeated by negatives. I’ve helped edited for University friends (including one who this year, despite having been locked in and isolating since March, has now officially gained her Masters. Woo!); I was in charge of a group of editors who helped edit fanfiction a few years ago and my old computer is riddled with all the stories…

            But then it comes to editing my own work. I hate it. I love editing, hate editing my own stories. But why? If I like to edit others work? I’m the sort of person that will say, when editing others work, that there’s good in everything. If you work on the bad things it will only make the good things even better. But, despite this positivity towards others, I look at my own work and I can only groan. These are characters that I love, people I’ve spent my life with. Some of these characters have been inside my head since I was a child. They’re as much my family as my actual family, and closer to me than a lot of them as well.

            The thing is, because of this, I want the work to be perfect. I want it to be perfect for these people that I love and that makes me brutal when editing. I will tear into my own stories like a hungry wolf, separated from its pack. By the end there’ll only be a few scraps for the vultures to peck at. It sucks. There’s no formal term for it, it just sucks.

            At one point I was so bad that I would delete whole stories from my laptop and throw the paper in the bin, never to see again. Now, I look back at this and curse myself. Even if the writing wasn’t up to standard it was a look into my brain: a brain that has a few good ideas. I could have taken the idea and improved them. Luckily, the majority of my characters remain in my head, but the words disappear.

            My Mother monitors my editing these days. She reads it before and she reads it after, knowing full well my tendency to pounce on any perceived mistake. In the past stories that she’s loved have been destroyed in my attempt to perfect them. I assure her that I only do it because I want the words to match the care I have for these plots and characters but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s right. I destroy my works and leave my initial effort pointless.

            Now, you could ask whether I edit these pieces before posting them on my blog? Well, you’re reading it, what do you think? No, the answer (at least usually, not always) is no. The truth is, this being myself speaking, makes me even less likely to edit. I have no confidence in myself and I hate to speak about myself in the first person (sometimes even breaking into third, accidentally, in real life as well). I read these posts, occasionally, to my parents to make sure it sounds okay. Then I spend a few days on a picture (yes, it takes me that long) and post it.

                        I don’t, however, do that with stories or poetry. They have to hit that perfect mark that my voice never will. You can see one of my story collections on this blog: ‘The Street Crawlers’. Now, you may have believed that I’m currently writing them and that’s why it’s been a long time since I posted another one. Nope. I wrote these stories over a course of a few years (starting at 16/17 years old) and finished them about four years ago. I’ve been editing them ever since. Yes, I have all of the stories to post all ready to go on my laptop. I’m just waiting until I’m happy with them and I never am. It took all my courage to put the ones out I have. I still have plans to put out the rest as, at least in my eyes, the best ones are yet to come but editing… it takes me a long time.

 Editing for me isn’t just a job to do. It’s a battle with myself, with my emotions and a fight to keep sane. It’s a battle ground where my anger and perfection keep charging at my optimism and determination, knocking them down with hit after hit until they fall to the ground and I walk away. It’s tiring but it’s how it is.

I’m not aware of anybody else feeling this way, but I could be wrong. I know nearly all writers struggle with editing their own work. My friend, who I edit often, comes to me because she reaches a limit on being able to do it herself. But as far as I can tell, the problem she has is that she loves her pieces so much that it’s hard to see the bad in all of the love she has for the piece. I’m the opposite. I see all the bad and none of the good. It puts me in a very negative head space.

            So, is anyone else like this? Does anyone else find themselves hating their own work so much that they struggle to edit without seeing red? Or is everyone, like my friend, so in love that they can only see the good? I’d love a sprinkling of your optimism. It would certainly makes things a lot easier (in writing and in life).

Thank you for reading my ranting. This was mostly to serve as an explanation as to why it takes me longer to upload a new post than perhaps I would like. I do plan to upload more Street Crawlers stories, including some of the really good ones (in my personal opinion—actually, that’s a lie, I’m mainly talking about my Mum’s favourite). I have plans for the Books Into Dishes, but again I need time to be able to make them work. Unfortunately, I’m seriously lacking in funds (i.e. I have no funds) which makes it harder to work on dishes that I need money for. I hope that you’re having a good 2021 so far, despite all the misery it seems to be trying to push. Keep writing, keep trying to edit and let’s make 2021 a good year for everyone (characters and real people).

Bonsoir, les ecrivains.

The Literary Onion

Posted in Uncategorized

So Can This Be ‘2020: Take Two’ Then?

An excerpt from ‘Comet’s Quiet Christmas’ by… well… me 😛

It’s another year. 2021. After all we’ve been through in 2020 it’s hard to be optimistic about the future. I could count the numbers of bad things that have happened to me personally on more than two hands, but hey, I’m still here. I’m alive which means I still have the potential for good things or, at the very least, a few more stories to tell. So, instead of counting the bad things I want to use my new year to think of all the good things that happened in the past year (no matter how small the list could do). I could joke around, as I usually would and end the list right here but, you know what? I’m not going to do my usual and hide behind jokes. I’m going to be honest with myself. Positivity let’s go:

  1. I successfully opened a business on the 13th March 2020. I did this in a different language, in a different country and I’ve kept on top of looking after the website etc. even after the disheartening lockdown that happened (and continue to happen) since the 17th March.
  2. In the first lockdown of many, I successfully finished a short novel from initial idea to editing. I may have done this for a competition that I then went on to not win but I actually did write again. More importantly for me, I finished it, which is rare on a normal year.
  3. I created a picture book in a month about a Christmas day under Covid regulations (a Christmas Lockdown) and I put myself out there on Amazon. Again, it was unsuccessful as it didn’t sell any copies (I’ll admit I’m still not good at marketing) but I actually did something towards gaining a career as a writer. And, unlike my usual negativity towards my work, I’m actually very proud of the drawing and the writing. It may have cost me a thumb for a month as I got a massive cramp from working so hard on it but it was 100 percent worth it.
  4. I started working on cookbooks and other picture books. Although they won’t be ready/up to my own self-prescribed standards for a couple of years I have started to compile a selection of my own creations. As anyone who saw my limited creations on this site (or it’s predecessor Literary Onion, which I disbanded because of money issues) I have a high amount of creativity and I throw them into my cooking. Hopefully I will be putting more recipes up on this blog this year, but I’m not holding myself to it because… well, hopefully new year, new me will mean something to me this year.
  5. I got through my depression. I’m not a-okay by any means but the fact remains that I don’t feel like staying in bed and staring at the floor anymore, which is a major win. As anyone who follows my Twitter may know (all two of you), I lost my dog a couple months ago. This is a big deal for me. We got her when I was fourteen. I wanted a dog, not just because I loved them, but because I had a fear of them. Kimi helped me to get over that fear and because of her I got myself another dog after I graduated university. On top of how much Kimi had helped me, it also came as a major shock when we lost her. She was well. She wasn’t young but she wasn’t old (according to the vet). She was bleeding, so we took her to get checked out. We gave her medicine and a week later we took her back, as she seemed to get worse. They gave her more meds and again we waited to see if anything would happen. Again, she didn’t get better. She started to become a rag doll, not able to lift her head to drink. We went into another lockdown, shutting down everything but managed to get through to the vet and agree to an emergency appointment. She went in again. The vet drained her and gave us more meds. It turned out we never had to use them. By the next morning, Kimi was gone… And I’m crying as I type that. So that’s fun. What followed was utter misery and, unfortunately, I’m still unable to sleep properly, but I’m starting to accept that she’s no longer here. I’m slowly starting to be able to remember all the good things that happened with her. All I want to tell her, and I am as I let loose in this blog, is thanks, Kimi. Thanks for helping me get over that fear. Thanks for being a good friend and loving me, despite all my faults. You were the best.
  6. Okay, on to more positivity. I started to design the gardens. You’re most likely going to see more of this in the future as it very much suits the theme of my blog. Our new house, which we moved into just before the first lockdown and is the basis for our business has a lot of land. We have woodland we’re slowly climbing our way through and three fields to work on. My plan is to turn each of these fields, slowly, into book-themed gardens. Unfortunately, it won’t be very fast at this rate as we’re lacking majorly in the money department but we’ve started our first two at least (Merlin and Beatrix Potter). I’ve also helped my sister to design her garden in England so, all in all, I’ve got to start doing something I truly love and haven’t been able to do in years (this time on a grander scale so… yay).
  7. I taught my first class on Creative Writing and I actually managed to help a fellow writer. When you’re a person as low on confidence as me all the time, it’s hard to think of yourself as anything but an idiot who doesn’t know what you’re talking about (even if you know you do) so it’s nice to have someone to talk to who does think you understand the things you love. It turns out I’m a smart person. Weird, huh? All joking aside, I’m glad to be able to be of use for someone and to help them. I’ve only managed one class so far, as we went into another lockdown straight after, but hopefully I’ll be teaching a lot more in the future (is this the point I shamelessly plug my courses on my website: www.lestylonoirretreat.com ?).
  8. I successfully helped somebody I loved through a panic attack. As someone who has them a lot it hurt majorly hearing someone I care about experiencing the same but I managed to help them out of their panic and taught them a bit about how to manage it next time. I guess there are benefits to having so many problems with anxiety? Who knew?
  9. Although we lost one dog, we did gain two new troublemakers into the household. Two little rescue kittens called Clio and Trixie (Beatrix for long). They are both little terrors and cuddle buddies. Pepper (our other dog) absolutely adores them and will rush to see them whenever she can. So far they’ve climbed everything they can see, got stuck underneath the stairs (which is blocked off), chosen Dad as their lord and saviour (the man who didn’t want them in the first place) and successfully infiltrated every place they shouldn’t be going. But they did it all with a cute face and purring so we forgave them.
  10. I didn’t want to leave it at nine, so here’s a tenth. I started writing and preparing a project for YouTube. Basically for me this was the year of Percy Jackson. It was the year I decided to read the books and then buy the next series and then buy a shirt and then think obsessively about a Percy Jackson themed plate of food. So, with that in mind (with many things on my mind), I decided to write a Percy Jackson-based audio series and record all of it with my own voice. It will explore a previous generation of Camp Half-Blood campers, before any children of the big three, came around in Percy Jackson. In other Percy Jackson related news, we found a natural archway in our woodland that we have now declared to be the entrance to Camp Half-Blood (picture below). This is the first and only time you’ll probably see a picture of me so… well… enjoy, I guess.
I seriously hiss at any pic of me like a vampire in the sunlight…

Overall, 2020 has been a horrendous year. It’s a year where I feel like I shouldn’t complain because I am still alive, and everyone I care about (bar one, none-Covid related) is alive too, but I still feel like screaming. I opened a business in an industry that was set to self-destruct four days later. Every other industry I have any skills in is crumbling as well and all I can do is watch because, well, I’m in it too. I don’t have any money to help them. I’m barely able to get up in the morning and I can’t sleep at night.

            It’s a year in which everyone, ironically, got a glimpse into how I think on a normal day. A year where everyone had to experience anxiety, misery, low confidence and over-thinking in a way that I wish they never had to. I wouldn’t recommend living like me as a lifestyle choice, just for your own sanity. But I’m glad I could find some positives. It’s highly unusual for me.

            I hope you’re all doing okay. If you actually made it to this sentence then thank you. Thank you for reading my rambles. I can’t promise anything for the future of this blog, especially as money continues to be an issue (it costs to be a blogger, unfortunately, especially one with food etc.) but I really do hope I can get up the courage and the motivation to write again because when I do I’m at my happiest.

            Have a great 2021. Let’s find more positives, shall we?

Dedicated to one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Kimi/Kimbo/Kimboo-a/Dig-Dog
Posted in Uncategorized

Poem: Tell Me What You Write!

What do you write?

Don’t skirt around the issue.

Horror? Romance? Fantasy?

What do you write?

Do you write tales of

Daring doo? Where the good

Defeats the bad? Do you write

Of orks and elves and dwarves?

What do you write?

Do you create courtly romances

Or a boundless journey to the east?

Do you marry princes to dames

And damsels or kill them all

Bloodily?

What do you write?

Do you create suspense with kidnapped

Kids or drop anvils and blood

From heights? Do you write of

Villages, of gossip and drama

Or give us insight into our past?

What do you write?

Why not tell us what you write?

What do you have to hide?

What’s your genre, where do you lay

Your metaphorical hat? What is

Your speciality? Your favourite?

Why not tell us what you write?

Do you not write a genre? Do you

Write plays or poetry? Are you

A Wordsmith, Worth all your Words,

Or can you Kubla Kha-not.

Do you place a body in front of us,

Or steal some hidden jewels. Shaken not

Stirred, or a sleuthing saviour?

Tell us what you write.

I write all, don’t you see,

I’ve tried my hands in all. I write

Of villains, heroes, of normalcy,

I write mysteries and poetry.

I show deep horrors in the human

Mind, and run around with joyous

Vigour.

I have princes, royalty, sure and

Damsels and Dans in danger.

I write of stars, and science and

Nature. I teach as I write and I hold

The key to many saviours.

But you ask me what is my favourite one?

I cannot answer to that, because all of

These I bring together and hang

In my metaphorical hat. I do not

Write a genre, per se, for I write for age,

Not for specifics.

I hold the key to apocalypses that don’t

Weigh down so heavily.

You want to know what I write? Well,

I write everything, applicable for

Everyone.

I’m a children’s writer, you see,

And children’s writers have all the fun!

Posted in Uncategorized

Why You Should Write FanFiction

Do you know which FanFiction line is for what show/book?

Fanfiction. You may have heard of it, you may have even partaken in it, or (just as likely) you have no idea what it is. Fanfiction is exactly as it sounds—it’s you as a fan of something, writing a fiction about it. You can write Fanfiction about anything: do you love a TV show so much that you can see new storylines in your own head? Do you appreciate a book’s characters so much you want to see what they’d be like in a different setting? Do you want to play in somebody else’s lands but copyright stops you along the way? Fanfiction. That’s the answer.

            I wrote fanfiction when I was seventeen, through to about twenty. Many of my friends write fanfiction, even now, as it keeps them sharp and engaged with other writers. Incidentally, the most famous fanfiction is ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ which started out life as a Twilight Fanfiction and then was tweaked to make it what it is (holding off on my opinions of the actual text, as I’ve only read snippets of lines). If you think back though, there’s been many cases of fanfiction writing being published. If you continue a deceased author’s work, you’re writing fanfiction. If you’re re-writing a classic story, you’re writing a fanfiction. ‘Four Children and It’ by Jacqueline Wilson, ‘Austen Land’ by Shannon Hale, any Enid Blyton book written post Enid Blyton. All of these are merely fanfictions that someone has been allowed to defeat the copyright (given special permission).

            Now, of all my ramblings, why am I so adamantly telling you this? Because, my dear readers, I believe we should all start out by writing fanfictions. Why? Because it will ultimately make us better writers. When we start out we can appreciate what makes a good character, we can even create the basics of one, but to truly understand how to write characters we have to know them inside and out. The best way to do that is by characters we’ve seen and read multiple times, who we already know inside and out because of another writer’s successes.

            During my time writing fanfiction I got to know the process of developing characters. Because it was in a fantasy world, I got to learn the process of developing worlds that people love and wish to escape to. I became an editor, helping many people on the platform I was on help reach their story’s potential. I became involved in the writing world, and got to know many people across many different countries and continents who all shared the same passions as me: the show/book and writing.

            Fanfiction is also useful for another reason. As well as growing you as an author, it connects you to an audience. You learn to take criticism, you learn to pick yourself up, you learn to accept praise. If you become a popular enough fanfiction writer, you can then more easily sell your own original stories to them. You’ve gathered yourself an audience. Yes, admittedly, an audience that’s there because they want to read stories based on the shared book/story you love, but one that you can persuade to love your writing style; to love your work.

            When writing fanfiction, you can go with any genre. You’re not stuck writing romance, if it’s a romance (remember somebody took ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and made ‘Pride and Prejudice and Zombies’, if that’s not fanfiction in a nutshell, I don’t know what is). You can do anything with fanfiction. If you want to change the plot of the original story, or change one of the characters, or the details of any of the characters—write an Alternate Universe (AU) story. If you want to take an episode of  ‘Friends’ and make it into a thriller, then do it.

            Do you know what’s so amazing then? If you spend your time developing your skills, using the building blocks somebody has already laid out for you, you can then start creating your own building blocks. You can understand the effort it takes to create all the different elements that make up a book. You can take your fanfictions, later on, look through them, pick out all the elements you like and write an original piece mixing the two pairs of building blocks together. If you’re very, very lucky you could be able to write fanfiction professionally (again, if the copyright police deems it so).

            Does it feel slightly dirty, like your cheating by not coming up with your own original ideas? Sometimes, yes, but most of the time, no. It’s an easy way to teach yourself how to write, and for me (mostly to do with the website I did it on) I learned by reading other people’s work and editing some others. There’s plenty of websites you can use, some better than others. I know some people who do it through fanfiction.com, some who do it through writer’s apps, some who write on their own blog (hey there!), some who do it on specific shows fanfiction sites (fimfiction.net, being the main one I know), even some who do it through social media. My friend, the main one who continues to write fanfiction, does all of hers through Tumblr and she often collaborates with other writers through the site.

            And on the fanfiction sites, you can often find even more. Due to my (very small) success on my site, I had people offering me artwork for front covers of my stories. All of these artists where better than I was, and the relief at not having to spend hours labouring over my own covers was amazing (unfortunately, I do all of the artwork on my blog though, hence why certain posts take so long to come out).

            I even met poets, like myself, who loved to write poetry about the shows/books we loved (incidentally, poetry is the easiest way to get through copyright, I think). You can choose anything, even real people (though I often think that’s a tad creepy, especially if they’re alive) and have fun with it. Because that’s the word of the day with fanfiction: Fun. Have fun, mess around a bit and see what you come up with. You’ll be surprised how much better a writer you’ll be by the end of it.

Posted in Uncategorized

Re-Reading Your Old Favourites

We’ve been out of lockdown a certain amount of time. We’re constantly watching the news, constantly thinking about how to react to it and constantly worrying about what’s going to happen next. This is we as a country, we as a people, we as the world. Each day we, humankind, get flooded with information. We start to become desensitized to some of the bad and then boom, another thing hits bringing in a new type of bad. At the beginning of the year, there were constant jokes about having 20-20 vision and yet now we’re as blind about what’s going to happen as a badger-mole that’s lost its earth-bending (yes, I have been re-watching Avatar: The Last Airbender. It’s an amazing show).

            On a personal level I opened a business in the hospitality and tourism industry at a time when nobody wants to travel. I’ve tried multiple other ways to bring money into my household, so that I can keep myself (and my sanity) afloat. I’ve attempted to give people peace of mind, I’ve attempted offering teaching classes to locals, I’ve attempted writing and entering competitions and each time that I’ve failed I’ve felt a little bit more of myself breaking off. And the worst part is, I know there are other people in worse positions. I feel guilty for my stress. I feel like I should punish myself for feeling the way I feel. But everyone has a right to that. Even me.

            So, what do we do when all these worries wash over us? What do we do when the world seems so uncertain and stress-inducing? Do we start a new project, one with a fulfilling end? Do we begin to watch a new show, to enter into an exciting new chapter? Well, from what I’ve been seeing over the internet and in my own household, I’d have to argue no. What we do is we return to something familiar. Something that, unlike the year of 2020, we know the end to. We re-watch Avatar: The Last Airbender. We re-read our favourite books. And then we realise what we hadn’t noticed in those things ever before.

            Beyond remembering how amazing of a show or book something is, we also start to see new things. Last night I started to re-read one of my favourite books from when I was a teenager: ‘House at the Corner’ by Enid Blyton. It’s not a book you may have heard of. Enid Blyton, maybe, yes. She’s an extremely famous author. One of the only authors allowed to continue being published during World War 2, in fact. But when you think of Enid Blyton, you tend to think of The Famous Five, The Secret Seven, Malory Towers, Noddy etc. These are all big household names (speaking as a Brit. I’m not entirely sure how well known she is in America etc.). I love all of these books, don’t get me wrong. Despite the fact I didn’t know until University that Lacrosse was a sport still played today, despite the fact that many of the views and language are outdated, even despite the fact that the main characters in reality would never have even probably had the time of day for me, I love them (bar Julian from ‘The Famous Five’, who for some reason annoys me no end).

            But ‘House at the Corner’, one of her more obscure works is my favourite. It relaxes me, and even as an adult I give a round of applause to how well the characters are portrayed. I still love it. I still will re-read it and re-read it again, but I could not stop laughing at certain things that happened on this journey into it.

            Okay, to quickly summarise. The story is about the Farrell family. Pam, the oldest: eighteen, too smart, too beautiful, big ego. Tony: fourteen, again too smart, doted on by mother, fairly strong, joker, big ego. Delia and David: ten year old twins, the most sensible members of the children, very serious, very kind, very honest, love them completely, always get ignored by their family. And then there’s Lizzie: sixteen years old, plain looking, wears glasses, wears braces, dotes on her family, drops anything in a heartbeat to help them, shy and quiet. Most importantly for this discussion, she’s a writer.

            Now, maybe there’s a particular reason I’ve always liked Lizzie (or sorry, Elizabeth, as she prefers). Maybe it is that she represents a successful writer at sixteen (let that age wash over for you for a while. Does it sting, just a little?). Basically, Lizzie gets persuaded to write stories because her Great Aunt says she’s good at writing letters. We’ll let that one slide for now. Although a woman I talked to recently mentioned that her friends believed the same of her because she was good at writing letters, and she found she was not very good at stories. Hey hum, moving on.

            So Lizzie writes a successful story, with little to no editing. As you do. Her Great Aunt loves it. Amazing. She sends in to a newspaper aiming to be published. Gets rejected and her Great Aunt persuades her to try again. Great. That’s amazing advice, from a writer to a writer (thank you, Enid Blyton). She sends off to another paper and they accept her. They agree to publish her across six of their papers in children’s corner and agree as well to publish one of her stories in each edition for a paid sum. She starts at £3 a story and then moves to £5 a story. A substantial sum at the time.

            Tony comments at the end: Would they have published her if they’d known her age? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, they were publishing her knowing nothing about her. She could have been under the age for working for all they knew (which, as far as I’m aware, though lower, did still exist at the time). She could have been anyone.

            I think what irked me about this is, not that she’s successful at a young age and I’m still sat here desperately trying to find the confidence to put down words, but that she gets to be completely anonymous. I know that’s not what she wanted. She wanted her name in print. But I want that, please. I’d love to publish things without a name, just get paid and then get on with writing again. That’d be great. Please. Can I do that, instead of making my books all about selling me? I’m not nearly as interesting as what I write. Believe me. I have to live with myself.

            Why, you ask, am I sat in my garden writing a rant about this one point. Well, to be honest, it’s been a while since I’ve written on my blog and it was about time. If Lizzie can be anonymous, getting published and being paid for it, then maybe there’s hope for the world yet. It turns out even in the 1940’s (or around about when Blyton was writing) writers still had a fantasy of being a writer. It’s okay to dream about it. It’s okay to want to earn a living from it. At sixteen. Anonymous even to your publishers. You do you. And have fun with it.

            For real though, how was she so productive? One story each edition? Edited? And she claimed she wrote children’s stories because she wasn’t up to the standard of writing adults fiction? Come on, children’s fiction is hard work. They’re very harsh critics. Although, ironic that a children’s author should have been the one to write that line.

            I would highly recommend reading ‘House at the Corner’, especially if you’ve got any aspiring young novelists in your household. I hope you’re all having a good time escaping into your own fantasy worlds.

A Bientot, les ecrivians,

The Literary Onion

Posted in How to Write

The Impossibility of ‘How To Write’

Writing blogs or articles on writing, teaching classes on the subject, even attending said classes is one of the hardest things you can/will ever do. I can stand and tell you the basics of my experiences, or of my fellow writer-friends’ experiences and I can do my best to encourage and support you – but I’ll never be right. If I wrote a book to show you ‘how to write’ and it was read by 100 people I’d be very lucky if I was 25 percent correct.

            There are basics every writer should learn. We should all know our grammar, our spelling, how stories form and how characters are created (most of which I’ve been taught and could teach) but after the basics are ingrained in your mind you’re let loose. You can do whatever you want. If you want to break these early rules, do it. Experimental literature exists for a reason.

            It’s the great thing about any form of art, be it words or painting or even food. It’s all an imperfect jumble of subjective passion. It can be whatever you want it to be; whatever you need it to be at that moment. It grows with us, constantly sliding back and forth through all the stages of life—from first conception to rebellious teen to self-critical adult and then back round again (and not entirely in a linear fashion).

            I do believe in learning the fundamentals/the basics of writing, just as I took professional cookery training so I could have the abilities and knowledge needed for experimentation. ‘Go on a course, get a degree, join a writer’s group’ – as a person who’s done all of these and more I can attest to how helpful they can be. They can be a helpful hand or a step towards confidence (and a great place to meet new like-minded people or inspirations for future stories).

            But don’t forget that you’ll continue learning throughout your writing career. As your writing flops back and forth through the stages of life so will you. You’ll be confident, miserable, shy, brave and the rules will change as every person in the creative industry changes around you. Everybody needs help with the basics, over and over again, but your words will always be yours.

            As I said, previously, I can tell you my experience and I can teach you the basics (the FUN-dementals, excusing the pun) but I can’t control your mind, your imagination. You will always pick out the bits of the self-help book that you want to hear, that you may already partly believe in. Just look at the #WritingCommunity on Twitter, each writer as different as the other but able to communicate and celebrate those differences.

            Continue to do this, continue to write. This isn’t something I’ve found easy recently but it is something that I believe in. Books change all the time. So do you. Accept that and you’ll hopefully find the words to say how your experience can help someone else.

            And don’t assume there’s a fix-all for writer’s block. I’m learning the hard way that there isn’t.

            The simple answer for ‘how to write’, beyond all the guff and ‘experience of others’ is to keep writing, keep reading and keep caring. With this as your mantra and as your guide to writing then you should be just fine, degree or no degree.

Small Note: I know. This is a short post. I’ve been struggling with finding words recently, due to being close to the opening of my own writer’s retreat and stress increasing because of it (a great discourager from writing). Soon, it’ll be open and I’ll hopefully get to meet some of you amazing writers in person.

And a quick announcement: due to lack of money I will be merging all past and future posts on literaryonions.com into literaryscribbles.com. Nothing will change for you on this site, other than some amazing food creations and book reviews coming your way.

Posted in Poetry

South to North: The Life of Little Miss. Hale

A poem inspired by Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘North and South’

South to North

Edith buttoned up her dress,

And sat upon her silly mess,

Calling out to ‘Dear Ma Mere’;

The fanciful call of a love-not-shared.

And my dear Aunt did answer the call.

My cousin following in her lovely shawl.

Plain at sight was dear Miss Hale,

But how prettily, yet averagely, she came.

She was not like them, oh, not at all.

She was herself, and she answered the call

Not from sympathy, as did her Aunt,

But from worry, fear and slight contempt.

Some day she would leave, this dear cousin of mine,

Leave the South: the Lord’s great shine.

She’d go to the North, where Milton men

Shall go to her, this open cousin.

And I shall remain down South with Edith and Aunt,

Waiting in boredom: attending the plants,

And cleaning the dress that Edith has worn,

And mending the rug which Edith has torn.

Miss Hale shall be free, my dear hearted friend,

And I shall be here to mend and to mend.

To sort out the growing family from Lennox line,

Waiting for the day my freedom shall be mine.

And then I shall stand in the steam and the smog,

Knowing that once it was her that had turned all the cogs

Of the new life they led here, in peace and in kind.

And on that day, I know, I shall have dear Margaret on mind.

South-West to North-West

One day I shall leave and partake in some games,

Of a Northern kind, and all of their ways

Will seem strange at the start, but oh so much fun.

Strangeness in identity is identity in some.

And there I shall meet someone dear to my heart,

Who, once I had met, my eyes could not tear apart.

And on her arm would be the most strapping of men.

A man of bliss, this Master Thornton.

Next to him would stand his sister and mother,

Ready to meet Miss Hale’s long departed cousin.

They will happily greet me, and exclaim and shall praise

All of my newly sought little northern ways.

My accent shall sing into all of their astounded ears.

T’life’s not so hard here once hoo’ve learned t’phrase.

And how proud she will be to announce that I have known her long.

How proud she will be to discover that I have learned Northern songs.

These songs might be peculiar to my little Southern mouth,

But if I’m in the North, I’m not to be down South.

South-East to North-East

Aye, by gum, I shall sit ‘pon Yorkshire dales

Watching and squandering in my happiest days.

I shall watch all of the sun; I shall watch all of the rain.

And she will be sat with me, my dear cousin, Miss Hale.

We will stare at the skylarks, and all of the little swallows

Will dive in-between our little cultural hollow.

We shall sip tea, and sup on the nicest of dishes.

We shall hold one another’s hand and make all of our wishes.

We’d wish to be reunited, and then, with a laugh,

We’d remember that that wish had been for the past.

Together we’d sit, away from our little northern houses,

And watch as the sheep did heckle the cows, and

We’d sit until the moon did pass over the sun,

And then we’d sup and tea some more. It wasn’t yet done.

A few handsome men would pass by our way,

And bow their heads at us, as they did during the day.

But we wouldn’t care, not whilst our family was near,

Because family was what mattered to I and my cousin, dear.

It is then that he’d come, that dear Mr. Nicholas,

And wish us merry tidings on our family adventures.

He’d ask us to arise now, and come with him to Milton:

Our home town was awaiting us. It was we who they’d depend on.

Miss Hale would smile at him, and she’d look to me instead

To decide on our actions, and I’d nod my head.

It would only be with my opinion, the one for which she cared,

Would we follow Higgins back from Yorkshire to the great city, Manchester.

North to South

One day he would come, the greatest of Southern men;

He’d come up to Milton to see Miss Hale again.

In the background I’d be stood, whilst they talked over papers,

Before Miss Hale turned to me to ask what I made of

All of the declorations that Mr. Lennox was proposing;

And I’d smile and sagely nod, whilst holding back my blushing.

He’d see my dainty glances, my poise and Northern grace.

He’d wonder and he’d wonder why he’d recognized that face.

Two days would go by and then he’d run up to the door,

Asking Miss Hale if he was entirely sure who he’d saw.

And my dear cousin would nod profusely and say quite clearly,

That indeed it was her little cousin, the little baby Hilary.

She’d announce I had grown, and was now wise beyond my years.

No longer was I working for my Aunt and Edith’s little cares.

Instead, I was now a Northern lass, a bonny-eyed eighteen.

No, I was not looking for a groom. How silly would that seem?

He’d beg and plead that he could come cross and glance at my face,

But my cousin would not let him, if he was to know his place.

It is with a kind heart I’d beseech to him to come with us and dine,

In the tall broad house, which, of course, was partly mine.

Thornton, my dear cousin’s groom, would cheerfully announce

That Henry Lennox had arrived. I’d beg him not to shout.

But Mr. Lennox would not care for the rudeness of his call.

He’d be stuck trying to understand how I, little Hilary, had grown so tall.

I’d smile and jovially tell him, ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I have done?

It’s not like I haven’t twice been allowed to play out in the sun.’

We’d laugh and he’d come closer, to stare onto the beauty that was mine.

Miss Hale would watch with those frosty, cold and piercing eyes.

But he’d continue to be a gentleman; he’d bend down on one knee.

Inside of his pocket he would pull out the greatest diamond on a ring.

My mouth would fall down all ‘cross my jaw. I would be amiss.

Miss Hale would stay far away from her little cousin, dearest.

I’d gratefully tell the man that, though he had been most kind,

Marrying wasn’t for me yet. I had more things on mind.

He’d sigh and he’d smoulder; two proposals to Miss Hale and I,

And it seemed both to be failures. The failure that was mine.

For years I would stay annoyed at my own decision’s choice.

Master Thornton would go first and then I would lose my lovely cousin’s voice.

She’d tell me, in her old ripe age, that all was to go to me.

I’d weep into her dressing gown, and on her dressing sleeve.

And Mr. Henry Lennox? He never would arrive.

The funeral would be quite empty, my small company aside.

I should move down to the South, but they would hate my Northern ways.

They’d hate my Northern songs, Northern accents and my phrase.

I’d lose everything that once was, until a rose in bloom,

Would fall onto my cheeks. I’d live from then on in Helstone.

Author’s Note: I had to complete an essay exam on ‘North and South’ and a method of memory I used back at University was to create a story or poem based on the text or theory. This was the conclusion of my memorising and is one of the poems I am proudest of (though many ‘North and South’ references are made, so apologies for that).

Posted in How to Write

Writing and Why Mistakes Can Be A Good Thing

I know. It seems like a weird choice for a topic. How could a mistake be a good thing? We spend hours, days, months (years, in my case) editing or writing. We fix the spelling, wording, syntax. We re-write whole sections of work to show our writing at its very best.

            But, hear me out. Imagine if we didn’t do that. Imagine, if you could just write a piece and it was perfect. Imagine how stale it would be and how complacent we would become. We’d have nothing to strive for, no reason to write anything or read anybody else’s work. As it is, whilst editing we’re learning. We’re growing into a good writer (emphasis on not stretching to greatness or perfection, which is impossible to reach in such a subjective artform).

            So that’s one reason right there to love mistakes. Now, after all your editing is done and you’ve published your story or poem, surely any mistakes left in by this point are a bad thing? Well, actually, for the most part, I would argue otherwise. I’m not saying put in a mistake on purpose. I’m not saying you should have thousands of grammar or spelling mistakes. I’m talking about a rare, simple mistake (specifically focusing on wording).

            I started reading Chris Colfer’s ‘Land of Stories: An Author’s Odyssey’ the other day. It’s an extremely engaging story with extremely realistic and lovable characters. So far in my read I have found three mistakes and only one of these I would count as being a negative one (just a personal negative writing choice which I see often in children’s book and disagree with).

            The positive ones however were just a matter of wording and it had to do with names. Alex and Bree are two separate characters with clearly defined characteristics but all of a sudden, during a scene with Bree and her cousins, Bree’s name is accidentally written as Alex. It was jarring. It stopped me reading, made me question myself. And then I started laughing. It was clear that Colfer had been so used by this point to writing ‘Alex and Conner’ that as soon as he was supposed to write ‘Bree and Cornelia’ his hand wrote for his brain. ‘Co… nner… Co…rnelia’, the beginnings were the same, so Bree became Alex.

            I’m sure Colfer must know about this mistake by now, and it may be fixed in future publishing, but I loved it. It showed me how absorbed in the book I was and just how much I cared for the characters. It made me think about the work with logic and it made me realise just how much I actually cared.

            The same thing happened when I was younger when reading ‘Candyfloss’ by Jacqueline Wilson. After they finished baking a cake (Floss and her father) they ‘cooked’ it. Of course, it was supposed to be ‘cooled’ and child me thought it was hilarious and somewhat gratifying. Jacqueline Wilson made mistakes. Maybe it was okay for me to make them too. I haven’t read ‘Candyfloss’ in years but the small mistake is something ingrained in my memory and I love the book all the more for it.

            Not even a book series can escape making mistakes. In Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’ series, the first book states that the Fisherman’s son who looked after Timmy was ‘James’ and by book five or six he’d become ‘Alf’. She’d forgotten his name but I hadn’t and I never held that against her because it was a testament to how great a writer she was that I had noticed. I cared about the most minor of characters and that takes true skill.

            I’m not saying you should try to make mistakes and I’m not saying you shouldn’t edit your work (editors need to make a living too, you know?) but I’m just trying to show you a new perspective. If you make and publish a small mistake, well oopsy daisy, but it’s not the end of the world. If you’ve done your job right and your work sucks your readers in, and they care for your characters deeply then maybe a small mistake will give them the same reaction I had. Maybe you’ve given them a good laugh. Maybe you’ve given them the courage to know that they don’t have to be perfect.

            And, regardless, before editing focus all your energy on your story and characters (or poem, for all you poets out there). If those parts are great then being merely a ‘good’ editor could be enough.

            Thank you for reading and (gosh, it’s been a while since I said this)… A Bientot, les ecrivians.

Posted in The Street Crawlers

The Street Crawlers: The Soldiers of Hell

Daisy was running down the corridors. They were practically empty, though before they’d been full of screaming, panicking agents. She was panting hard as she ran. She wasn’t the most athletic of the soldiers and ever since she had joined the artillery division she hadn’t needed to train as much. Right now she regretted avoiding the gym as much as she had.

            There was a shadow behind her, following her every step. It was because of this that she was running. It was because of this that all of her colleagues had disappeared. The shadow was a prisoner, a prisoner that had escaped from their jail cells. In fact, no, Daisy thought, it was worse than a prisoner—it was a Street Crawler.

            It was because of the Street Crawlers that Daisy had joined the Soldiers’ Academy in the first place. She thought back to it now, still running. She could remember the smell of the office where her interview had taken place. The interviewer, who Daisy now knew as Danny, was a very young man, barely any older than herself, but he’d been raised in the soldiers’ base so there was nothing he didn’t know about it. He’d asked Daisy why she’d wanted to be a soldier. What did she think she could do for the world?

            The Street Crawlers had been her answer. She’d wanted to save the ordinaries from the beasts that were the Crawlers. And as to what she could do for the world, well, she was hoping that they could teach her; mould her into somebody who could do something. That’s why she wanted to come to the Academy in the first place, and she felt it was a silly question to ask. Who would come to learn what they already knew?

            At that point she thought she’d failed miserably. She’d always been far too honest for her own good. But obviously Danny saw something in her that could be of use because she was accepted almost immediately. Daisy still couldn’t believe her luck.

            But was it lucky now? She was being chased by the very thing that she wanted to save others from. She could hear its footsteps all around her, on the floor below her, on the walls surrounding, on the ceiling. How could it have got onto the ceiling?

            She hadn’t meant to be put into this situation. When she’d walked out of her flat with her friends and flatmates, Ant and Sammy, this morning she’d been just as surprised as them to see the panic spreading through the station. Instantly they’d stopped their silly shenanigans and run to their sectors, though Daisy thought she’d seen Sammy run to the main hub which wasn’t where she was supposed to go. Sammy worked with the team that sorted out travel for the agents (so that the operatives could get to all of the people around the world that needed help). It wasn’t a very helpful sector to be in at this time though so Daisy could understand it if Sammy didn’t go there.

            Daisy had reached the artillery sector and greeted her four co-workers. They were checking through the weaponry, making a note of anything missing and locking up the vaults as quickly as they possibly could. If the escapee managed to get their claws on any of these weapons nobody would be safe. Daisy had joined in and began pulling crates of guns and stun-blasters out from glass cases and into the piles ready to be taken to the vaults. The lights had been tampered with and security cameras were switching off one by one. Everybody in the division looked terrified. They could only do their job.

            That’s when Daisy had noticed that there was a crate missing. She’d remembered that Danny had borrowed the electric-rods for testing the day before and shouted to her commander to inform her that she was going to go and get them back. Cr. Berkeley had nodded in agreement and Daisy had run out of the room. She’d run to the hub and realised that the hallways had become scarily quiet. She didn’t think of it at the time. She’d assumed that everybody had managed to get their sectors and had stayed there. She hadn’t thought for one minute that they might not have had a choice.

            She reached the hub, where she assumed Danny would be helping his father (who was the commander of the entire station) but the door was locked. She tried swiping her hand over the lock. It should have recognized her hand print but it looked like the hub was on lockdown. She’d shrugged it off. The hub needed more protection than anywhere else. If it fell, the entire station would fall.

            She went to the computer labs next, Danny’s actual sector. If he’d been testing the rods anywhere it would be in there, but that too was locked. She’d shrugged it off again. She’d figured that if any place had to be protected after the hub it would be here. All of their records were on files in the computer lab.

            Slightly ashamed that she had failed in her task she’d ran back to her sector, hoping that Cr. Berkeley would understand why the rods weren’t with her. At least, she’d thought, they were safe in the locked rooms. Nobody would be able to get to them in there.

            She’d made it back to the artillery division only to find it locked as well. If her hand print hadn’t worked at the hub it should definitely have worked here. This was her sector. But the door wouldn’t budge. The alarms were silent and the back-up generator could only provide a dim light. Daisy had suddenly begun to feel nervous. Beforehand she’d been too focused on her task to realise the danger that was facing her, but now she knew.

            She knew even more now, as she was being followed by the shadow. She could feel her heart racing in her chest, her breath becoming shallow, and her legs were aching all over. There was an unbelievably painful stitch in her left side. But she couldn’t give up yet. The shadow hadn’t given up on trying to catch up with her.

            She ran into the only open door she could find. It was a blessing to discover that there was one. She’d thought she’d be running forever. She swiped her hand over the pad and the doors shut behind her with a crash. They weren’t the quietest doors in the world and she jumped, though she’d known it was coming. She collapsed onto the floor, out of breath.

            “Hey, do you mind, this is our hiding place,” said a high-pitched voice in the middle of the room. Daisy sat up, shakily. There were trucks parked in rows everywhere. It had been the garage door that had been left open.

            “Who’s there?” she asked, slowly crawling back to her feet. She could still feel her thighs and side burning.

            “It doesn’t matter who’s there, just get out.” The voice seemed annoyed. It wasn’t the only voice here with Daisy.

            “Be nice, Bobby,” a second, even higher-pitched voice said.

Daisy looked on in surprise as a girl’s head peeped over the top of one of the trucks. She’d never seen her before. In fact, she’d never seen anybody that looked so much like a Barbie doll. “Who’re you?” Daisy said.

            The girl didn’t smile but beckoned her over to the truck, disappearing again as soon as she had. Daisy went and looked down into the front seat. The blonde girl was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking cheerily at a miserable looking boy sitting in the passenger’s seat. The boy had brown hair, a square jaw and the brightest blue eyes Daisy had ever seen.

            She slid open the door of the truck and slipped into a seat behind theirs, closing the door after her. They’d had the right idea, she thought, there was nowhere safer to hide than an armoured vehicle in a quiet, heavily fortified garage.

            “Hi there,” the girl said, finally smiling. “It’s Daisy, right? Daisy Kennington?”

            Daisy nodded, shocked. She didn’t even want to question how she’d known that. Knowing Daisy’s luck they’d already met before and Daisy, with her absent-mindedness, had completely forgotten. She knew that, if anything, the Academy hadn’t accepted her for her memory. Her memory was strictly reserved for things that seemed important at the time.

            “I’m Gwen.” The girl pointed to herself. “And that bowl of joy over there is Bobby.”

            Bobby mock-waved and grimaced.

            “I keep telling him he should be happy. We could’ve been locked in a safe-room, but we’re free to run around in here instead.” Gwen was leaning on the wheel. Daisy was watching in fear. If Gwen leaned just a little bit further into the middle then the alarm would go off. She wasn’t entirely sure if the Crawler had figured out she was in here yet. For all they knew she might have ran into another corridor.

            “Yeah, but it’s not right is it,” Bobby grumbled. “Here we are waiting for Gray to show up, and she takes his place instead.” He pointed at her and Daisy pulled a face. What right had this boy to think she didn’t deserve to be here? She had as much right as him.

            “Gray’s not coming, Bobby, just get over it. They’ve probably got him locked up in the safe room by now.”

            Bobby sighed and leaned on the dashboard. “It just doesn’t feel right without him. We’re always in a three—buds forever, mates together, remember?”

            Gwen nodded and sighed too.

Daisy looked at them both. “I’m guessing this Gray’s a friend of yours?” she said.

            Bobby rolled his eyes and grinned. He had a really nice grin. “How’d you guess? The fact I said we were buds?”

            Daisy grinned back. “Something like that.” She took a proper look at the two children (or where they teenagers? She couldn’t tell) and realised they reminded her of someone. “I think I know how you feel,” she said. “I miss Ant and Sammy, too. They’re my best friends.”

            “The best one’s come in threes,” Bobby said, with a laugh. Gwen had started to grin as well.

            “It’s weird to think, but it was only about an hour ago that we were dancing around our flat together,” Daisy said. “I’d love it if they were with me now. I don’t even know if they’re okay.”

            “They probably will be.” Gwen was now leaning on the door instead of the wheel. “As far as we know nobody’s been hurt. And Sammy will probably be in one of the safe-rooms. All under twenties are in them.”

            “Nearly all,” Bobby objected. “We never got that far.” He turned to face Daisy and looked at her proudly. “A couple of agents were taking us when they got called back to the cells to help, so we ran off and hid in here instead.”

            “You ignored orders?” Daisy was appalled. She’d never have had the nerve to do that.

            “What orders? We don’t work for the soldiers, we just live here.” Bobby laughed. “They actually thought we’d go, too. You’d think they’d know better by now.”

            Gwen giggled and Daisy laughed too. There was something about these two children, she thought. Their happiness was contagious and so was their laughter. Ant had the same effect on her.

            “So what are you planning on doing? Just camping out in here until it’s over?” Daisy asked, her laughing finished.

            “Why, was that your plan?” Bobby looked at her, seriously.

Daisy shook her head, nodded and then shrugged. She didn’t know what her plan had been. “I just knew I needed to run,” she said. She looked down at her feet, ashamed, and sighed. “I should’ve stayed and done something.”

            “Why?” Gwen asked.

            “Because that’s what agents do—what soldiers do.”

            “Yes, and they die doing so.”

Bobby agreed with Gwen on this. “My mum always said that the best agents protected people, but how can you protect people if you’re already dead? It’s better to watch your enemy, learn from them and then act when it’s the right time.”

“And when is it the right time?” Daisy was quite enjoying their strange wisdoms.

“That’s up to you really, isn’t it?” Bobby stretched his arms out and yawned. “Me, personally? I’m not sure it’ll ever be time.”

“That’s just because you stayed up all last night watching stuff on the internet,” Gwen said, poking him. He jumped and poked her back. Soon a large poking war was going on and both of them were giggling hysterically.

There was a crash and the hood of the car flew open and then shut again. All three of its occupants flew into the air and down onto the floor.

Bobby rubbed his head and groaned. “I knew we should have put on seatbelts,” he grumbled.

Daisy got up onto the seat first and leaned closer to the window, trying to see outside. There was a large dint in the front right-hand side of the truck. Daisy looked up at the vent system on the roof. There was a hole in one of the pipes—about small person size.

Her eyes grew wider and she quickly pressed the button that activated the truck’s locks and shield. “Guys,” she said, “I think it might be time.”

Bobby and Gwen scrambled to their feet and looked out at the front of the truck. There was a body slowly climbing up off the floor. She was wearing a black prison uniform and rubbing her body all over as she stood up. It had been quite a big height to fall from and it had hurt.

“What do we do? What do we do?” Bobby panicked. He looked at Gwen and then at Daisy but neither of them seemed to be moving. They were barely breathing.

The Crawler turned around and saw them. Their blood ran cold. Her eyes were as silver as a fog. Nothing could be seen in them: not happiness, not pain, not anything. She was blank.

She moved closer to the window and, instinctively Bobby (who was the closet to her) shuffled over onto Gwen’s seat, almost crushing her in the process. Gwen was too scared to notice.

“Soldiers!” The Copper Fox stared at them through the glass and hit the window with her fist. Daisy jumped and moved over to Gwen as well.

“No, no. There’s no soldiers here,” Bobby mumbled. “We’re—erm—we’re clowns. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the circus around here, have you?”

The Copper Fox sneered and it sent a shiver down Bobby’s spine. “Clowns? What, that’s the best you can come up with?”

“Well, it was either that or plumbers and I didn’t think that’d be very believable.” Bobby shrugged awkwardly. Gwen came back to her senses and poked him in his side. Her leg was starting to fall asleep.

The Copper Fox laughed. To Daisy’s surprise it wasn’t a horrible laugh, it sounded just the same as a normal little girl’s would. It sounded like an even sweeter version of Gwen’s laugh in fact, but Daisy wasn’t going to let this fool her. She knew that Crawler’s were killers, no matter what their laugh was like.

The Fox moved even closer to the window and Bobby clambered further onto Gwen’s lap, much to her dismay. She punched him but no amount of punching would make him move. Daisy looked down at the panic on their faces and remembered what she had said at her interview for the Academy. Though the interview had been a couple of years ago now (she’d left the Academy last year, after all) she still believed what she’d said. She had to protect people from Crawlers like this one. She prepared her nerve and was just about to step forward and open the door when the Copper Fox stepped back.

“Where’s the way out?” she asked.

Bobby and Gwen both pointed left, where a large garage door was waiting to be opened. The Fox nodded and ran away. The three occupants of the truck let out a sigh of relief as the sound of grating metal came through the room. The Fox had managed to open the door and had run off back to the streets.

Daisy slid open the door of the truck and looked out. The two kids looked out after her. They all clambered out into the garage as the lights of the station came back on. All around them, rooms that had been locked were slowly opening. The crowds had begun to fill the corridors again.

Daisy looked at Bobby and Gwen and they looked at her.

“How about we agree not to say anything about this?” Daisy said. She couldn’t bear to admit anymore failures on her part today.

“So, just an ordinary day then? Cool.” Bobby nudged Gwen in the side. “Come on, let’s go find Gray.”

Gwen nodded with a smile and they both ran out of the garage. Daisy watched them for a moment and then thought about the Copper Fox again. A Street Crawler had let them go? That couldn’t be right, could it?

Daisy was running down the corridors. They were practically empty, though before they’d been full of screaming, panicking agents. She was panting hard as she ran. She wasn’t the most athletic of the soldiers and ever since she had joined the artillery division she hadn’t needed to train as much. Right now she regretted avoiding the gym as much as she had.

            There was a shadow behind her, following her every step. It was because of this that she was running. It was because of this that all of her colleagues had disappeared. The shadow was a prisoner, a prisoner that had escaped from their jail cells. In fact, no, Daisy thought, it was worse than a prisoner—it was a Street Crawler.

            It was because of the Street Crawlers that Daisy had joined the Soldiers’ Academy in the first place. She thought back to it now, still running. She could remember the smell of the office where her interview had taken place. The interviewer, who Daisy now knew as Danny, was a very young man, barely any older than herself, but he’d been raised in the soldiers’ base so there was nothing he didn’t know about it. He’d asked Daisy why she’d wanted to be a soldier. What did she think she could do for the world?

            The Street Crawlers had been her answer. She’d wanted to save the ordinaries from the beasts that were the Crawlers. And as to what she could do for the world, well, she was hoping that they could teach her; mould her into somebody who could do something. That’s why she wanted to come to the Academy in the first place, and she felt it was a silly question to ask. Who would come to learn what they already knew?

            At that point she thought she’d failed miserably. She’d always been far too honest for her own good. But obviously Danny saw something in her that could be of use because she was accepted almost immediately. Daisy still couldn’t believe her luck.

            But was it lucky now? She was being chased by the very thing that she wanted to save others from. She could hear its footsteps all around her, on the floor below her, on the walls surrounding, on the ceiling. How could it have got onto the ceiling?

            She hadn’t meant to be put into this situation. When she’d walked out of her flat with her friends and flatmates, Ant and Sammy, this morning she’d been just as surprised as them to see the panic spreading through the station. Instantly they’d stopped their silly shenanigans and run to their sectors, though Daisy thought she’d seen Sammy run to the main hub which wasn’t where she was supposed to go. Sammy worked with the team that sorted out travel for the agents (so that the operatives could get to all of the people around the world that needed help). It wasn’t a very helpful sector to be in at this time though so Daisy could understand it if Sammy didn’t go there.

            Daisy had reached the artillery sector and greeted her four co-workers. They were checking through the weaponry, making a note of anything missing and locking up the vaults as quickly as they possibly could. If the escapee managed to get their claws on any of these weapons nobody would be safe. Daisy had joined in and began pulling crates of guns and stun-blasters out from glass cases and into the piles ready to be taken to the vaults. The lights had been tampered with and security cameras were switching off one by one. Everybody in the division looked terrified. They could only do their job.

            That’s when Daisy had noticed that there was a crate missing. She’d remembered that Danny had borrowed the electric-rods for testing the day before and shouted to her commander to inform her that she was going to go and get them back. Cr. Berkeley had nodded in agreement and Daisy had run out of the room. She’d run to the hub and realised that the hallways had become scarily quiet. She didn’t think of it at the time. She’d assumed that everybody had managed to get their sectors and had stayed there. She hadn’t thought for one minute that they might not have had a choice.

            She reached the hub, where she assumed Danny would be helping his father (who was the commander of the entire station) but the door was locked. She tried swiping her hand over the lock. It should have recognized her hand print but it looked like the hub was on lockdown. She’d shrugged it off. The hub needed more protection than anywhere else. If it fell, the entire station would fall.

            She went to the computer labs next, Danny’s actual sector. If he’d been testing the rods anywhere it would be in there, but that too was locked. She’d shrugged it off again. She’d figured that if any place had to be protected after the hub it would be here. All of their records were on files in the computer lab.

            Slightly ashamed that she had failed in her task she’d ran back to her sector, hoping that Cr. Berkeley would understand why the rods weren’t with her. At least, she’d thought, they were safe in the locked rooms. Nobody would be able to get to them in there.

            She’d made it back to the artillery division only to find it locked as well. If her hand print hadn’t worked at the hub it should definitely have worked here. This was her sector. But the door wouldn’t budge. The alarms were silent and the back-up generator could only provide a dim light. Daisy had suddenly begun to feel nervous. Beforehand she’d been too focused on her task to realise the danger that was facing her, but now she knew.

            She knew even more now, as she was being followed by the shadow. She could feel her heart racing in her chest, her breath becoming shallow, and her legs were aching all over. There was an unbelievably painful stitch in her left side. But she couldn’t give up yet. The shadow hadn’t given up on trying to catch up with her.

            She ran into the only open door she could find. It was a blessing to discover that there was one. She’d thought she’d be running forever. She swiped her hand over the pad and the doors shut behind her with a crash. They weren’t the quietest doors in the world and she jumped, though she’d known it was coming. She collapsed onto the floor, out of breath.

            “Hey, do you mind, this is our hiding place,” said a high-pitched voice in the middle of the room. Daisy sat up, shakily. There were trucks parked in rows everywhere. It had been the garage door that had been left open.

            “Who’s there?” she asked, slowly crawling back to her feet. She could still feel her thighs and side burning.

            “It doesn’t matter who’s there, just get out.” The voice seemed annoyed. It wasn’t the only voice here with Daisy.

            “Be nice, Bobby,” a second, even higher-pitched voice said.

Daisy looked on in surprise as a girl’s head peeped over the top of one of the trucks. She’d never seen her before. In fact, she’d never seen anybody that looked so much like a Barbie doll. “Who’re you?” Daisy said.

            The girl didn’t smile but beckoned her over to the truck, disappearing again as soon as she had. Daisy went and looked down into the front seat. The blonde girl was sitting in the driver’s seat, looking cheerily at a miserable looking boy sitting in the passenger’s seat. The boy had brown hair, a square jaw and the brightest blue eyes Daisy had ever seen.

            She slid open the door of the truck and slipped into a seat behind theirs, closing the door after her. They’d had the right idea, she thought, there was nowhere safer to hide than an armoured vehicle in a quiet, heavily fortified garage.

            “Hi there,” the girl said, finally smiling. “It’s Daisy, right? Daisy Kennington?”

            Daisy nodded, shocked. She didn’t even want to question how she’d known that. Knowing Daisy’s luck they’d already met before and Daisy, with her absent-mindedness, had completely forgotten. She knew that, if anything, the Academy hadn’t accepted her for her memory. Her memory was strictly reserved for things that seemed important at the time.

            “I’m Gwen.” The girl pointed to herself. “And that bowl of joy over there is Bobby.”

            Bobby mock-waved and grimaced.

            “I keep telling him he should be happy. We could’ve been locked in a safe-room, but we’re free to run around in here instead.” Gwen was leaning on the wheel. Daisy was watching in fear. If Gwen leaned just a little bit further into the middle then the alarm would go off. She wasn’t entirely sure if the Crawler had figured out she was in here yet. For all they knew she might have ran into another corridor.

            “Yeah, but it’s not right is it,” Bobby grumbled. “Here we are waiting for Gray to show up, and she takes his place instead.” He pointed at her and Daisy pulled a face. What right had this boy to think she didn’t deserve to be here? She had as much right as him.

            “Gray’s not coming, Bobby, just get over it. They’ve probably got him locked up in the safe room by now.”

            Bobby sighed and leaned on the dashboard. “It just doesn’t feel right without him. We’re always in a three—buds forever, mates together, remember?”

            Gwen nodded and sighed too.

Daisy looked at them both. “I’m guessing this Gray’s a friend of yours?” she said.

            Bobby rolled his eyes and grinned. He had a really nice grin. “How’d you guess? The fact I said we were buds?”

            Daisy grinned back. “Something like that.” She took a proper look at the two children (or where they teenagers? She couldn’t tell) and realised they reminded her of someone. “I think I know how you feel,” she said. “I miss Ant and Sammy, too. They’re my best friends.”

            “The best one’s come in threes,” Bobby said, with a laugh. Gwen had started to grin as well.

            “It’s weird to think, but it was only about an hour ago that we were dancing around our flat together,” Daisy said. “I’d love it if they were with me now. I don’t even know if they’re okay.”

            “They probably will be.” Gwen was now leaning on the door instead of the wheel. “As far as we know nobody’s been hurt. And Sammy will probably be in one of the safe-rooms. All under twenties are in them.”

            “Nearly all,” Bobby objected. “We never got that far.” He turned to face Daisy and looked at her proudly. “A couple of agents were taking us when they got called back to the cells to help, so we ran off and hid in here instead.”

            “You ignored orders?” Daisy was appalled. She’d never have had the nerve to do that.

            “What orders? We don’t work for the soldiers, we just live here.” Bobby laughed. “They actually thought we’d go, too. You’d think they’d know better by now.”

            Gwen giggled and Daisy laughed too. There was something about these two children, she thought. Their happiness was contagious and so was their laughter. Ant had the same effect on her.

            “So what are you planning on doing? Just camping out in here until it’s over?” Daisy asked, her laughing finished.

            “Why, was that your plan?” Bobby looked at her, seriously.

Daisy shook her head, nodded and then shrugged. She didn’t know what her plan had been. “I just knew I needed to run,” she said. She looked down at her feet, ashamed, and sighed. “I should’ve stayed and done something.”

            “Why?” Gwen asked.

            “Because that’s what agents do—what soldiers do.”

            “Yes, and they die doing so.”

Bobby agreed with Gwen on this. “My mum always said that the best agents protected people, but how can you protect people if you’re already dead? It’s better to watch your enemy, learn from them and then act when it’s the right time.”

“And when is it the right time?” Daisy was quite enjoying their strange wisdoms.

“That’s up to you really, isn’t it?” Bobby stretched his arms out and yawned. “Me, personally? I’m not sure it’ll ever be time.”

“That’s just because you stayed up all last night watching stuff on the internet,” Gwen said, poking him. He jumped and poked her back. Soon a large poking war was going on and both of them were giggling hysterically.

There was a crash and the hood of the car flew open and then shut again. All three of its occupants flew into the air and down onto the floor.

Bobby rubbed his head and groaned. “I knew we should have put on seatbelts,” he grumbled.

Daisy got up onto the seat first and leaned closer to the window, trying to see outside. There was a large dint in the front right-hand side of the truck. Daisy looked up at the vent system on the roof. There was a hole in one of the pipes—about small person size.

Her eyes grew wider and she quickly pressed the button that activated the truck’s locks and shield. “Guys,” she said, “I think it might be time.”

Bobby and Gwen scrambled to their feet and looked out at the front of the truck. There was a body slowly climbing up off the floor. She was wearing a black prison uniform and rubbing her body all over as she stood up. It had been quite a big height to fall from and it had hurt.

“What do we do? What do we do?” Bobby panicked. He looked at Gwen and then at Daisy but neither of them seemed to be moving. They were barely breathing.

The Crawler turned around and saw them. Their blood ran cold. Her eyes were as silver as a fog. Nothing could be seen in them: not happiness, not pain, not anything. She was blank.

She moved closer to the window and, instinctively Bobby (who was the closet to her) shuffled over onto Gwen’s seat, almost crushing her in the process. Gwen was too scared to notice.

“Soldiers!” The Copper Fox stared at them through the glass and hit the window with her fist. Daisy jumped and moved over to Gwen as well.

“No, no. There’s no soldiers here,” Bobby mumbled. “We’re—erm—we’re clowns. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the circus around here, have you?”

The Copper Fox sneered and it sent a shiver down Bobby’s spine. “Clowns? What, that’s the best you can come up with?”

“Well, it was either that or plumbers and I didn’t think that’d be very believable.” Bobby shrugged awkwardly. Gwen came back to her senses and poked him in his side. Her leg was starting to fall asleep.

The Copper Fox laughed. To Daisy’s surprise it wasn’t a horrible laugh, it sounded just the same as a normal little girl’s would. It sounded like an even sweeter version of Gwen’s laugh in fact, but Daisy wasn’t going to let this fool her. She knew that Crawler’s were killers, no matter what their laugh was like.

The Fox moved even closer to the window and Bobby clambered further onto Gwen’s lap, much to her dismay. She punched him but no amount of punching would make him move. Daisy looked down at the panic on their faces and remembered what she had said at her interview for the Academy. Though the interview had been a couple of years ago now (she’d left the Academy last year, after all) she still believed what she’d said. She had to protect people from Crawlers like this one. She prepared her nerve and was just about to step forward and open the door when the Copper Fox stepped back.

“Where’s the way out?” she asked.

Bobby and Gwen both pointed left, where a large garage door was waiting to be opened. The Fox nodded and ran away. The three occupants of the truck let out a sigh of relief as the sound of grating metal came through the room. The Fox had managed to open the door and had run off back to the streets.

Daisy slid open the door of the truck and looked out. The two kids looked out after her. They all clambered out into the garage as the lights of the station came back on. All around them, rooms that had been locked were slowly opening. The crowds had begun to fill the corridors again.

Daisy looked at Bobby and Gwen and they looked at her.

“How about we agree not to say anything about this?” Daisy said. She couldn’t bear to admit anymore failures on her part today.

“So, just an ordinary day then? Cool.” Bobby nudged Gwen in the side. “Come on, let’s go find Gray.”

Gwen nodded with a smile and they both ran out of the garage. Daisy watched them for a moment and then thought about the Copper Fox again. A Street Crawler had let them go? That couldn’t be right, could it?

She shrugged it off, as was her way. No, of course she hadn’t. No doubt the Crawler just had other motives for not hurting them. But, no matter what she did, from this moment on Daisy would never be able to look at Crawlers the same way—especially the girl she soon knew as The Copper Fox. But that’s another story now, isn’t it? 

And the Beast Doth Howl

Do you hear it? Do you hear it?

Do you hear its painful howl?

Do you hear it? Do you hear it?

Do you hear its horrid growl?

Did you see its gnashing teeth

As it dragged you into hell?

Did you see the fumes escaping

As you were locked inside its cell?

Did the soldiers grab you fiercely,

Tear you limb from limb?

Did they leave you for the beast

So that it could have the kill?

The Beast doth howls

Hollering and hovering.

It crawls over roads and roadways

Hunting for its kill.

It howls inside the boxes.

It hollers on the steps.

It groans and groans and squeals,

The Crawlers’ sign of death.

Do you hear it? Do you hear it?

Did you hear its cheerful crunch?

Did you see the jagged teeth

As it ate you up for lunch?

Did the soldiers come in armour

And drag you to its doors?

Did you smell the fumes escaping

As it crunched you in its jaws?

Did it crash and crack and burn you

As you settled in its belly?

Did it play with you and tug on you,

Its own personal, delicious deli?

The Beast doth howls

Hollering and hovering.

It crawls over roads and roadways

Hunting for its kill.

It howls inside the boxes.

It hollers on the steps.

It groans and groans and squeals,

The Crawlers’ sign of death.

Do you fear it? Do you fear it?

Did you fear its satisfaction?

Did you realise the suffering brought

On every interaction?

Do you remember? Do you remember

The sounds of screams, of desperation

As it tore away your family

Who had no means for segregation?

Did you run or try to hide

Whilst they suffered in its shell?

Did you do what the bravest have tried

And the fools have yet to tell?

The Beast doth howls

Hollering and hovering.

It crawls over roads and roadways

Looking for its kill.

Its master sits behind him,

Soldiers swarming over steps.

He pulls the siren as a warning,The Crawlers’ sign of death.