Complicated

If my childhood could be bottled and brewed, leather and lace would be the leaves in my tea, and the malt in my beer. If my childhood could be worn, lace and leather would be the fragrance of my finest eau de toilette. Leather and lace have the incredible ability to turn the hands of time, squeeze life’s oranges to a pulp and concentrate youth’s best bits into a glass or two of juice. Every sip is a capsule from the past - do you remember slipping on sun dried socks on washed feet, or sniffing cherry blossom shoe polish on shiny leather shoes. The taste of burnt sugar and banana flavoured medicine. I certainly do. As the years roll by, time starts to become the mind’s worst enemy. Memories burn away slowly from around the edges, until all that’s left is a camera without film; a photograph without a negative. Here I sit, writing by lamplight, as the Orient Express journeys through day and night and sunshine and showers. My journey from limbo to enlightenment will be a much harder feat than the one I am battling to overcome right now. Travel sickness and insomnia all have cures. Heartbreak doesn’t. Once the china pot is broken, no glue can fully mend the cracks from the fall. The pieces can, of course, be stuck together, but beauty is a state of the irreversible. Once it is lost, it will never return. It makes you wonder about the mercies you are spared every once in a while are really mercies at all. One day, age will bless you with a new – born wisdom, and you will realise that their reason for existing is only to inflict pain you would never have suffered if life hadn’t been so generous.

Our carriage window is open; the evening air is infused with meadowsweet and the bitter notes of burning coal. The smell is strangely therapeutic and every sharp intake of breath quells the nausea burrowing deep down in my stomach. I walk to the open window and poke my head out just enough to let the wind caress my face. Its slender fingers massage my cheeks and iron out the stress lines too many sleepless nights had scrawled underneath my eyes and forehead. Minutes are eaten away, yet the sand in the hourglass has surpassed the pull of gravity. Another of life’s short – lived mercies. A chain of pictures run past my eyes, not one identical to the other. Each one whispers a thousand different words to me. The sky is less complicated, and has only one question to ask. I however demand many answers to which the sky is forever silenced to expose. I just stand, watch and wonder, while I let the inevitable play out in front of me. I would consider this to be one of my greatest achievements if it was anyone other than Mother Nature drawing the curtains for the night. The splashes of orange in the sky begin to fade. A sea of black engulfs them. Midnight is arriving. I hail its welcome by slipping on a cardigan over my silk nightdress. Despite this extra layer, the raw winds cause a surge of goose bumps to blossom on my arms and neck. I slowly pull down the window, trying hard not to make a noise that could wake Benjamin. It would be against my last wishes to die in the presence of the living. I stare at his eyes. I can’t see his soul, but I can read his mind. Benjamin hasn’t yet said his first word. Words are worth little. His eyelids are glued together, almost as if he is making a wish. Some might call me selfish as I smother his face with my pillow. I would call it entitling my baby to what he deserves – and that is freedom. Mothers are meant to protect their children. One sip of liqueur from the goblet will only kindle a dislike towards the plentiful jug of innocence. I open the carriage door, pick my dead son up and hold him in my arms. Together. That is how we belong. Heaven. That is where.

Leather and lace. They were never meant to be this complicated.

Night

Night

Evening danced the last smears of sunlight away into morning. And the stars were no longer shied behind the sky’s ebony finish. I, however, was veiled in darkness, my habit and the firm embrace of guilt. The fruit of my sins had fallen asleep to Mother Nature’s howling symphony. Frost dust cracked open the bare flesh on my lips, until each “I love you” became an effort defeated.

A swallow wasn’t enough to rid my mouth of its sour aftertaste. Water’s fingertips carried the basket away.

My baby was born to a woman not born to be a mother.

Unfaithful Glass

I look at you. You return my hostile glance with more than a mutual stare. You wind deep into my mental lesions, sparing your pain for the flesh so far celibate from your evil. Scars don't give you enough satisfaction - they're used, soiled. I have the leading role in the film you play right in front of me. I watch myself cry; collapse to the floor. You witness it. Then you disappear. I have always been the victim. When you flee, I become my own assailant. You remain innocent. Still my silent killer.
Just look at yourself.
I am looking.

Waiting for Something

(A man is sitting alone at a table. He occasionally glances over at the wall to his left, muttering incoherently under his breath. Every few minutes or so, he drunkenly reaches for the whiskey bottle and ensures his glass is filled to the rim, but pays less attention to the golden brown droplets of spirit accumulating what looks like a “ring of fire” on the table. After emptying his glass, he staggers over to the corner of the room and removes the vinyl record of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” from the gramophone. He then sways back to his vacant chair, singing light – heartedly the hook of the song which he had just listened to. Silence. Brandishing the cross on the rosary beads hanging from his neck, he begins making the sign of the cross as he is praying.)

Noel: (In a drunken slur.) The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Answer me. (Turns to the painting of Jesus hanging on the bare white walls and points an accusing finger.) Reasons. It’s all I want. (Pause) And you call yourself Jesus . . . It looks like the Power of God, the Root of David is lacking answers. You know what, I’ve always wondered why, why people, ordinary people, have flocked to these places you call churches for hundreds of years? They’re not talking to God. No one has done and no one ever will.
(Juliet walks in on stage right and grabs a chair facing Noel at the far end of the table. She is holding a small wooden crucifix in her right hand. Noel ignores her and carries on talking.)

So what? I blaspheme. But only when I have a drink in my hand. (Waves the glass around enough to topple a little more whiskey onto the table.) Only when the demons in the whiskey take over my conscience. (Taps his head with his index finger.) I’m patient. I’ll wait. Or am I not worthy of your wisdom, Jesus? Am I too much of a heathen to be given the answers I’ve searched for my whole life? I must be a sinner. I must be. In the eyes of you, Jesus. But, in my eyes, I have done what any father would have done for their wife and child. You’re just too ignorant to see it. Ignorant. Ignorant. (He begins crying with his head in his hands. Juliet remains in her seat, surveying Noel.)

Juliet: I admire you.

Noel: (Recovers) That’s the best compliment you’ve ever paid me. (Smiles solemnly.) Even during our marriage, you never said why you stuck by me. You were just there. Never faltering. Healing my sores and relieving my pain. Making every day more bearable. I don’t think I ever said how much I appreciated your persistence. Your compassion. I suppose that’s what made you do it. That’s what made you end it all. Because I couldn’t buck up my ideas and be a man for once in my pathetic little life.

Juliet: What an understatement, Noel. What you went through doesn’t require you “bucking up your ideas”. It takes time and whole lot of strength. And you’re the living proof of that time. That strength. I didn’t make it. And the only very few times I felt strongest was when I was drugged up to the eyeballs with anti – depressants. The legitimate drug that’s just as bad as whatever drugs you get nowadays. That’s not strength. It’s the complete opposite. Weakness. But, against all the odds. You didn’t give up. You kept on going. And I’ve never met a man who can talk so much sense with a whole bottle of whiskey down them. (Laughs)

Noel: You call this “keeping on going?" I will do absolutely anything for a drop of this stuff. (Points to the whiskey bottle.) I am dependent. I am an alcoholic. Some nights, I get cold turkey. The agony is close to breaking – point.

Juliet: But, you haven’t “broken” yet, have you? You haven’t yet claimed the right to have your remains turned into ash, or your identity demoted to a few words on a gravestone. Like I have. You have been granted that second chance in life.

Noel: What if I don’t want that second chance?

Juliet: It’s your decision. Come with me. Or keep on fighting. I know which one I would choose.

Noel: Then why didn’t you choose it? Why aren’t I the one in that seat now?

Juliet: We both know why. I failed you before you failed me.

Noel: Yet, I still ended up failing you. I put too much on you. I made your problems worse. But you made mine better. I feel it’s now my time to repay you.

Juliet: If you loved me that much; if you loved Jesus that much - (Clasps the wooden crucifix in her hand.) you wouldn’t do this.

Noel: I love you too much. I love Jesus too little. The reason why I want to do it.

Photo 10 - A Buried Whisper

A Buried Whisper

Shayla shivered and smiled, fully appreciating the warmth her mackintosh secured within her under zip and hood. Pellets of hungry rain tore at the bare flesh on her legs, mass murdering the sparse amount of body heat she had circulating inside her. Legs that had only yesterday soaked in Moroccan sunshine were now being bathed in lashings of heavy “British” downpour. She breathed a heavy sigh and watched the flock of daily commuters struggling through ticket barriers; migrating back home to a dish of caviar and cava.

It’s almost like a religion. These people are all pilgrims, struggling to and from work every day. If once they cannot complete the pilgrimage, they know they have lost out on the sacred prize - that extra money bonus their work colleagues will brag about to them over lunch. So it isn’t just the economic meltdown that tips businessmen and women off the edge, it’s the lack of mental stimulation.

Shayla watched every detail, her mind consumed in something everyone else was either too busy or too tired to pay attention to: the anonymity of suits and ties; the din of leather shoes and high heels on white tiles. Each and every city slicker insatiable with their champagne larders and £40,000 end – of – year salaries. You could just see it in their faces, in their eyes that they were all cursing the credit crunch, but had too much self – respect to admit it.

A continental waft of French patisseries and Italian coffeehouses diffused through the air from Euston Tube Station, reminding Shayla of her surmounting hunger. Oh, how she desperately longed to savour a few helpings of Mama’s own Zucre Coco – a real childhood nostalgia. Instead, as if to find them magically appear, she looked up inside her umbrella, where only blue waterproof material skies shone, not the fairy godmother she had given up on many years ago. It canopied her mascara smudged eyes, the closed curtain to a window no one would ever want to step into.

All juggling the credit crunch with their expensive tastes, crowds were being drawn into the nearest café by the romance of comfy red leather sofas and frothing cappuccino cups. Only then did Daniel recognise the awkward silence that hung between them.
“Don’t think about it, please. We did it, and my conscience is still clear. I don’t regret anything. Look, I’m not trying to say we are angels, because we are far from that. But we did what had to be done, Jo. Why can’t you just understand that?”
“Don’t call me that! I’m not Jo anymore, alright. What I want to understand is why you can’t accept it. She’s gone from my life – Shayla is the new me. Shayla Sommer. There’s no turning back. It doesn’t change who I am in here,” she pointed to her chest, where somewhere a heart beat a rhythm she hadn’t yet become familiar with. She continued: “But just out here, the person I’m pretending to be. I want the world to stop asking questions I’ve forgotten answers to. Because those questions will cause me trouble and I don’t need trouble anymore. I’ve had enough of it! I -”
“Just calm down, come on. We both need to look at the logic of all this. You can't get dragged down by the tricks your mind wants to play on you. It'll drive you crazy. For one, we’re in the clear. And two, the police aren’t watching our every move. Meaning that we are free. We can live our lives like ordinary people.” Daniel tightened his grip around her shoulders and planted a kiss on her nose. Shayla laughed at that sudden gesture of affection. Affection she had almost forgotten all about.
“I love you, do you know that?” she replied as she stepped into his open arms.

It must be true what they say. Love is priceless. Yet love and unfaithfulness don’t always go hand in hand. Lies are said to break relationships, but I feel they can make a bond between two lovers stronger. No one needs to know about Tari. Except Theo.

I have Morocco to thank for the valuable lesson it taught me. I call it my mantra because it helps me to concentrate; it clears my mind to know I have a goal in life that I can work towards and achieve someday. It's the one living thing I took home with me to a safer place. I’ve never doubted Kareena, and I’ll never doubt what she told me. "If a man once fall, all will tread on him."

It’s what he deserves – and it’s what he is going to get.

Slavery and Freedom

Slavery
I woke amidst a silence infantile,
The ennui suffered froze time – aeonic
Disease held my mind in its casket. Bile
And blood that brewed a spirit: platonic
Love liquor conjures beneath despising
The cherished nemesis; he poisoned, drugged
With hate the addiction I do now cling.
The emotional opium thieved, mugged
The inner being of its purity
I depend on a substance which induced
The bruising of my own security.
That infringed protection I am reduced
To. Memories I’ll take to my near grave
From my life as an African child slave. . .

Freedom

I listened carefully amidst reposed
Calm. Admiring her façade, weak and strong –
Both rivals battling for turf. Exposed
As lovers in affairs they should belong.
She conquered mental wounds an unaided
Eye would be blind to see. A soul of man,
A mind of woman. Tears had evaded
Her long ago. A medicine began
To guard her spirit from the ocean’s cries,
Far away in a heaven not yet heard
Of. Strength: the healer. Hope and faith baptised
A woman made of velvet steel. Her words
Echoed, resounded back to my sewn heart –
Sojourner’s words I cannot be apart . . .

Task 39

Excerpt 4 – “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak
I would like to begin my analysis by praising Mr. Zusak for his marvellously beautiful piece on the tabooed topic of death. There is something magical about his writing; is it the intimate way he converses with the reader (When I started reading, Markus painted a picture in my mind of two men lounging outside a café, drinking coffee and casually discussing death as if it were politics; I personally think it is rare to have such an abstract scene conjured where there aren’t obvious protagonists) or is it the pleasant mixture of philosophy and wit, with a distinct dash of humour? He hasn’t added too much absent - mindedness, which I’m sure would dilute the intended seriousness of his work. This would therefore result in a downgrade to its excellence. Another amazing factor of his writing is the amount we find out about this persona he is portraying: God may be all – powerful, but he almost looks down at us humans with little appraise and has hints of pompousness and vanity that dominate his character. It isn’t too perceivable that the protagonist is God, yet when you understand the essence of Markus' thinking, you appreciate the fact that you were told with the subtleness it deserves. Overall, I feel it is an exceptional extract with such an unpredictable plot you are left craving more of Zusak’s originality and charm!

The End: A Lily Who Once Lived
“Go and sit down, Millie, Oliver. And be quiet. The service is about to start.”
“Mummy, can we have a snowball fight outside?”
“Later. When we get home.”
Alicia turned around; called by the infancy and innocence in their voices and the maternal happiness of a young mother. Alicia watched as a scene shoved into the very back of her mind came alive again; replayed right in front of her eyes. The woman, pushing a pram, ushered her two children over to where Alicia was sitting in her pew.
“Take your coats off, darlings.” Her smile said it all. Elation sealed into every minuscule line on her lips.
Mothers take these precious moments for granted. The future is something we never think about. It’s the present that matters. You don’t think about how many more winters you will live to see with your loved one. Or how many more photos of you together will be treasured in the family photo album. It’s only until the days expire, it’s only until the clock strikes that very second, it’s only until life’s last links clasp hand – in - hand that the future for you and your family is your sole concern. Thinking back sixteen years ago, when she was only four, I wonder if my eyes glowed with pride when she found her first ladybird in the garden. I wonder if I laughed when she anatomised that slice of Mr. Kipling’s Battenberg cake. Of course I did. I remember she carefully took off the thick layer of marzipan, separated the pink and yellow dyed sponge cuboids and excavated the thin coating of apricot jam; licking her fingers contentedly as a result. I then walked into the kitchen. She stared; looking mischievous, yet coaxing me to believe that she wasn’t the perpetrator of the crime. The big tell - tale sign was the snowfall of sugar sprinkled on her arms. We both ended up chuckling together in unison. She was an angel from up above: an angel called early to the seraphic infinity of the heavens.
I also wonder if Grace, my beautiful, irreplaceable Grace, giggled at the sight of her very own snow angel. And did she sneeze as a snowball melted into her French rose mittens? Of course she did. She was like any four – year old. Audacious and cheeky. Years had rolled by and she had blossomed into a young adult. Like a lily. Grace used to love lilies. Right up until that the day she disappeared. She didn’t want to go missing. She didn’t have a choice. She was murdered. That’s why I am here today. To pray that Grace and our family are given justice. He still roams free, living. While we are imprisoned in a limbo of unanswered questions. While my daughter’s body is no where to be found. All I want to do is lay flowers on her grave, but how can I when I have no idea where her grave is? She didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Like an animal.
Alicia looked up from her current position of staring down at her hands. She gazed at the church hall: holly and tinsel and mistletoe. Blinding slashes of gold and red and green; all concocting a feeling of festive spirit. Families were preparing for the church service and choirs were assembling themselves in an orderly fashion; a small group of children were briefly rehearsing their hymns and prayers. A young woman walked past Alicia, dressed in the customary church attire: a long black skirt and a lilac blouse. Her chestnut brown hair was squashed in a tight bun. Alicia intuitively shot up out of her pew, stumbling over the mother’s pram. Her heart was galloping; legs lifeless but able to run that one step closer.
It’s her. She’s not –
Alicia clamped her hand down on the woman’s shoulder. She turned around; bewildered.
“Oh, I’m, um, really sorry. I thought you were someone else, I -”
“Are you alright?”
Alicia broke down crying. A year’s worth of torment came spilling out of her eyes. Almost like a milk bottle left out in the cold for days on end. When milk solidifies, its capacity expands and it yearns to be liberated. One day or another, it will explode; its contents as easy to read as an open book.
“What’s wrong?” She gently put her arm around Alicia.
“Nothing. I’m fine!” she shouted. She pushed her out of her way and ran out of the chapel, away from the gossiping of the church - goers, their ears eagerly attentive to get the inside story; away from the stiff upper - lipped woman who resent people "airing their dirty laundry" in public. Once outside, Alicia fell onto the blanket of snow, hands hiding her face, knees saturated with melted ice.
She knew Grace was gone. She knew the truth. She laid on the cold snow, succumbing to the desperate need to cry.
It's time to let go. I will never again have her in my arms. But it isn't over yet. I'm going to put that Satan in prison if it is the last thing I do. I'm going to give Grace what she deserves: justice. Whatever it takes, blood, sweat or tears - I'm doing this for my daughter. Grace - the lily who once lived. . .

Task 38

Excerpt 3 – “End in Tears” by Ruth Rendell
Ruth Rendell takes a very different approach to crime fiction – blood and gore, witty detectives searching for the killer and no matter what the hindrances, always conclude the story with a “Who Dunnit?”, elegantly portrayed in an archetypal Poirot fashion; these all come to mind when I think of the swarms of books lined on the shelves of libraries or bookstores or even in my English teacher’s bedroom! I therefore completely agree with Mr. Savage when he says that the crime fiction genre has been repeated in many different ways, but all with a streak of distinct similarity. I think it’s time for a change and I believe Miss Rendell had done just that. I would like to start with the way she allows us as readers to psychologically understand the mentality of the killer. He appears to me to be an amateur in the crime game due to his uncertainty and lack of confidence in finding the right person to murder. On the contrary, the whole basis of the killing isn’t typical; I doubt a lump of concrete is the ideal murder weapon you would choose if writing an excerpt for this genre! Moving away from poison, guns and knives, it may seem ludicrous to pick concrete over ammunition, for example, yet this is what makes it original and eye – catching. You hear about it on the news; teenagers on bridges throwing bricks at passing vehicles – it’s just not eponymous to the usual way we depict murder as being a “glamorous act of the affluent”. Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie’s Poirot, Miss Marple and Partners in Crime all echo this statement. Lastly, I would like to point out that the synopsis may be an effete cliché in real life, yet it is something I have never strolled across in my experience of reading!

Sins & Skeletons
“Murder. Isn’t it a terrible thing? A thing used by cowards to run away from the truth. Tell me. When you found out your daughter was pregnant, how did you feel? Being a lawyer, you’ve got an image to uphold. Good old Richard - always comes out smelling of roses. But not this time, oh no! Surely news like this would be unspeakable to talk about over a spiffing Friday luncheon? But gossip travels, Mr. Sandford. And you couldn’t bear the thought of the disapproving sniffs on the staircase; the pointing in the common room. Does it remind you of your childhood? The only boy in the whole year who got into St. Andrew’s with a scholarship! Now that is something! Even today, you told your colleagues you had to look after a sick aunt! Is this what you thrive on? Not only are you a murderer; a murderer who kills his own flesh and blood, but you’re a pathological liar, as well!”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Oh, and he speaks! It’s a shame that’s been repeated at least four times this past half hour!”
Silence gave Lorna the opportunity to appraise Richard for what he really was, behind the thick grey hair and lightly tanned skin. He was much more modest than David Dickinson and with his chiselled features and laurel – green eyes, he was rather attractive for a man suffering from a “midlife – crisis”. However, stress had begun to take its toll – bags hung like curtains underneath his eyes and deep – set wrinkles ran paths around his face; telling a thousand tales of hardship, despair and pain.
“I know you suffered from schizophrenia and clinical depression. Wouldn’t it be so easy to just lose it? To asphyxiate your daughter and regret it afterwards. Or, was it done out of malice? Pure malice. We can only find your DNA on Jennifer. You are the main suspect.”
Richard narrowly averted his eyes. Was this a sign of guilt? Losing his wife to lung cancer a year before his fourteen – year old son committed suicide must have made him weaker; made him disintegrate; made him prone to insanity.

Suddenly, a stabbing pain sliced through her temple; she quickly gulped down a much needed glass of warm water, obtained from her cluttered desk. It was all the stress of not getting any significant leads in this investigation. Tired and irritable, all Lorna wanted to do was to soak in her bath or sleep to the lullaby of opera on BBC Radio 3. You could call her a female Inspector Morse – a Mark 2 Jaguar sleeps in her garage and she hasn’t had her fair share of successful relationships over the years. The only startling difference was the sleek and straight waist – length red hair that she sported simply in a high ponytail.
A whole hour had passed and she had achieved nothing: something in life which she detested. She decided to call it a day.
“The interrogation with Mr. Richard Sandford ended at 19:02,” and she pressed the stop button on the recorder. The security guard led Richard out of the interview room and back into his cell. While Lorna rustled her papers, she couldn't help but wonder what it feels like to not know how long you have left in police custody - if you'll ever breathe freedom again. She spent the next three minutes placing empty and replete plastic sheets into her floral monochrome paper file; and after completing this errand, she walked out, locking the door behind her. Once out of the police station, she pulled her pink cashmere cardigan closer to her body, as she quickly paced towards the car park; it may have been summer but a brisk wind hung in the shadows, making her hair flutter in the wind.
As she neared her Jaguar, she immediately realised that her car had been somewhat damaged. She hurried towards it, her white ballerina pumps silent on the ground. Her eyes weren’t deceiving her. The car was vandalised, not just by a group of mindless thugs who put Banksy to shame, but a manipulative fiend set out to intimidate Lorna. She’d had harmless death threats in the past; it was her job – controversial and notorious in the media. But this was different. This had meaning. A prominent claw – mark had been scratched onto the bonnet and six words etched in beautiful calligraphic writing were sat next to it: “I’ve got her. Now pay me.”
“A ransom. He’s back . . .”

Task 37

Excerpt 4 - "The Road to McCarthy" by Pete McCarthy

Once I had heard our next Word Voodoo task was travel literature, the first thought that swam in my mind was if I was unsuccessfully going to choose a desirable excerpt that I would honestly enjoy reading! Travel literature isn’t my forté, so I sincerely gave up hope producing a satisfactory piece of work. However, once I had read Pete McCarthy’s extract from“The Road to McCarthy” my doubts just vanished! His diction purely astounded me – the unmistakeable way he describes the simple things in life really puts me to shame! I also idolised the way he encapsulated Ireland in a few paragraphs; (Something which I struggle to do!) he narrated its beauty as well as discussing the idiocy behind horse – racing, both of which Ireland are renowned for. He almost looks at the whole picture and not just what we see behind a film of false happiness. I would like to stress how important I find this in a novel; some people want to pick up a book to get away from real life, but I feel I find out more about the world if the text is blunt and outspoken. To finish, he ends on quite a philosophical note and rhetorically it makes you think. No matter who the reader is, we all have different interpretations on this last quote: “You can’t plan these moments. You just have to know them when fate sends them your way, and accept them for what they are.” It can conjure up all sorts of thoughts about life in your mind!

Life's Many Pots of Gold
It’s rather ironic, isn’t it? How the wealthy preach about the world’s demising ecosystem, yet they feel purchasing the latest Land Rover is the way to outfox their competitive friends. Do they feel a sense of power being hypocrites, or is it just their instinctive ability to always “keep up appearances?” But, to be frank, you can’t blame them – the Land Rover is a beautiful car and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of power as I elegantly strolled out of its comfortable interior and slammed its doors shut. It reminded me of a faithful dog; always at your service and blissfully unable to judge what horrible emerald dress or metallic gold killer heels you may be sporting: unlike your real friends. However, as much of a grateful person I am, I did feel the bothersome sensation in my stomach that I have to sustain every time that emotion named “jealousy” creeps up on me; because neither this car or the closest thing to heaven, in other words, Finchingfield was mine! Still, why be envious of what I can possess some day in the future? When one day, I could wake up to the tranquil melody of birds composing the closest thing they can exert to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4 in B- flat major, or relaxing in my three acre garden surrounded by honeysuckle and lavender and red roses! What a dreamer I am! A dreamer that tries to make sure my aspirations become a reality, not just a figment of hope that harbours uselessly in my mind. There is nothing worse than gloating to the world that you will do something today, yet you are still wallowing in your reverie the same time tomorrow . . .
Away from the Burberry adorned Wags’ that have pink bathrooms and gyms in their Chigwell manors, (Why are people so stereotypical? The tabloids always claim that Essex is all about clubbing and binge drinking! When in reality, it's not all bad!) I surveyed everything my bespectacled eyes could consume – traditional antique shops bordered with white gates and achromatic canopies; quaint tea rooms and whitewashed shopping emporiums that sold vintage glamour and objet d’art. Ice cream parlours, pâtisseries and gourmet cafés (Please take note of the diacritic on top of the “e”. Cafés in Finchingfield are far from greasy spoons!) dotted their charm around us. It was like a picture postcard. Everything seemed to be perfect: apart from one small problem – hairy bikers spawned the entire town! Finchingfield is very spacious and has many winding roads, which is the obvious reason why they choose to ride in the vicinity – I suppose that’s how they get their thrills. (Like I get my thrills from scoffing crème brûlée ice cream!)
Making our way to Duck End Mill; the 18th Century windmill that dominated Finchingfield, I happily allowed the ice cream (Made from Devon clotted cream, of course!) dribble down my fingers in the late August heat. It was a hot day; temperatures reached 26○C and I recall wearing what used to be my favourite chocolate brown jumper around my waist. For an unforeseen circumstance, I was unaware of the humid weather that would follow later that day, therefore my clothes did look rather autumnal. Even with the amount of my Uncle's sun tan lotion I had applied, it didn’t prevent what looked like specks of brown sugar from dusting my nose! Unfortunately, we discovered that the mill is only open once a month on a Sunday in the summer, (August the 28th, 2007 was a Tuesday!) so we irascibly had to walk back to the town square to search for somewhere else to roam. After an exhausting five minutes of precious time wasted, me and my mum both found ourselves naturally walking into the threshold of an antique shop. (My uncle and grandmother had gone their separate ways). The walls were coated with floral Edwardian wallpaper and every imaginable clock ornamented the room. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, carriage clocks – their hands almost clapped in appreciation as I gratefully listened to their ticking harmonies. Being so aware of the time, I stood wondering in disbelief at how momentous the hours had drifted away into a beclouding night.

Stepping outside accompanied with the small treasures I had bought from a grocers earlier on: Victoria plums, Little Scarlet strawberries, a pot of clover honey and not to forget, an overgrown courgette that looked like a marrow, I knew it was time to start our journey home. I climbed into the Land Rover, in exactly the same fashion as I had done when I arrived, yet something was different – I didn't feel my hope bubble into a vaporous and irreplaceable morsel of matter; I didn’t wish that I could have a few more hours lounging in the sun. I moved on without looking back: as I knew that some day, I would certainly be here again . . .

Task 36

Excerpt 3 - "Harry Potter & the Order of The Phoenix" by J.K. Rowling
Personally, I find originality an essential part of literature and without it a novel would lack any means of interesting me as a reader. However, excerpt 3 did not only have the scarce and appreciated ability to grab my attention as I began reading, it also achieved something far more important that other romantic tales fail to interpret; the act of presenting love as a believable and natural emotion, instead of exerting it as a perfect, unbelievable scenario. I resent it when romance has a “fairy – tale” structure because as readers we are all lost in a world of saintliness, while we all mutter exasperatedly under our breaths that life isn’t always a happy fantasy. On the other hand, “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” isn’t a romantic narrative, yet J.K. Rowling could have written the chapter as a clichéd epitome of “teenage love", but she used her imagination (not others!) to make this excerpt an enjoyable and pleasurable taster of what is to come next in the novel! Spellbindingly brilliant!

Flying With A Broken Wing
Francesca grasped the warm mug of cocoa in her hands, feeling the undulating water vapour embrace her tanned Italian skin. She placed the glass down onto the oak coffee table and picked up her best friend – her pocket mirror. She gazed at herself and saw a woman with an unblemished complexion: gracefully altering into her early forties. Sinuous lines of ageing spun their irreversible webs around her delicate under – eyes; a change not even her faithful Nivea Q10 Plus could amend. She rummaged into her Louis Vuitton handbag, thinking: So, this is what being an anatomical pathologist gives you; the finest handbags, the finest food - but not the one thing my life unconsciously skims over, not the one thing that gives a person a sense of living. Love. It’s being too close to the dead. It has murdered my primal instinct.
The thought reverberated in her mind, like the soul of a loved one echoing inside its bed for eternity. Its coffin.
A loved one. Death can be a lonely world, but a lonely existence can be far worse. A bit like walking a dead man’s road. No crossroads, no dead ends, just a tiring hike on the journey to a destination the living can’t answer. Heaven, hell – or just an unknown entity. Who knows?
Francesca looked up as Russell walked into the living room, precariously holding two plates of tortellini. He sported a grim expression whilst he carefully laid the dishes on the table.
“Thanks”.
Francesca smiled. She knew that there was nothing else that needed to be said. No idle chit – chat, no false laughter. Just silence. Nothing could be more honest than that. Francesca appreciatively allowed its reminiscent scent to float up her nostrils.
Is this the closest I am going to get to love? A famous Italian dish? It brings back so many childhood memories from Vercelli: Grandmother cordially smiling at me as I finished all my supper, me and Mia picking apricots and peaches in the blazing August heat; blood splattered over our kitchen wall, Mia’s lifeless body laying supine on the linoleum, her heartbeats losing their rhythmic pulse, while mine raced, beating a melody of disgust, anger and remorse –
“Francesca, are you eating that? Francesca?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m not really with it. I don’t feel too well.”
“I understand. Anybody would feel the same after what you have just gone through. Actually, I think you have coped with it pretty well.”
“You think so? I can’t help but feel pessimistic about her condition. I’ve lost too many people in my life. My sister, my mother, my father. Sandra is really close to me. If I lost her, I don’t think I could cope.
A disconsolate pause infused the atmosphere with an unbearable tension. She will survive, won’t she?” Russell looked straight into Francesca’s coffee coloured eyes and put his arm around her shoulder. She could feel his warmth radiating off him: his embrace was honest; comforting. It had felt like an eternity since someone had made her feel this way. She allowed his warm breath to brush against her skin – like a summer breeze gently swaying tulips in a deserted field. His skin was smooth, apart from the small shoots of stubble that had recently erupted from his skin.
“Of course she will. Sandra is in a stable condition. The medics said her survival chances are very high.”
“Thanks. I mean, everything you’ve done tonight. I am grateful.”
“Don’t worry about it. That’s what friends are for.”
Ah, friends. That’s all we’ll ever be.
Francesca tilted her head and moved closer. She couldn’t let this opportunity pass by. Her heart and stomach were fluttering simultaneously; nerves and excitement letting her inhibitions drip away. To Francesca’s surprise, Russell didn’t resist her first move. His pallid lips were so close, every second encapsulated an intensity Francesca had never felt before.
And the clock’s pendulum was the only thing that sang the truth . . .

Task 35

Excerpt 2 - "The Rats" by James Herbert

A novel that begins with a superfluous amount of self – exposure is purely what I look for in a book. “The Rats” by James Herbert accentuated the problem of vagrancy in the London suburbs and justified how lives were wasted from excessive alcohol consumption and unemployment; none of the details of this problem were obscured by the hindrance of upsetting or shocking the reader. The opening was insecurely remorseless – in my opinion, exactly what a horror genre book should be like. However, not too much was revealed and you had to work your way round the information you had been given to decipher the message the author was trying to give out to his audience. It appears to me that James Herbert was historically discussing the neglect of the lower – class in presumably the Victorian or Edwardian times, whilst mixing this with the horror genre, which is very popular at present. Moreover, I find having a book that you have to read a few times to absorb the real picture is the most intellectually effective.

Death's Cobweb

Reassurance knitted a safe place to tread in the depths of Alice’s heart. For a night without the shadow of terror violating her peace, she was overwhelmed with the fact that these next twelve hours were a respite from the dark world that quietly closed in on the brick and mortar she lay so near to.
All that matters now is you and me, thought Alice, as she placed her hand protectively on the erupting mount that bulged out of her dilapidating chestnut robes. Alice’s body shivered in the dim light that sympathetically emitted a useless amount of decent visibility. She had suddenly realised that she hadn’t eaten all day after spending the entire evening searching for a hospitable place to rest.

Not exactly a luxury, but I suppose it will do for the night, Alice thought, as tears pierced her florid cheeks. She felt a sudden jolt within the depths of her stomach.

Ah, the baby. My baby. Don’t worry. We’ll get through this. We both will. Life may seem horrible now, but it will get better. Things always do. When you feel the world is against you, hold your head high and - Alice broke down in tears, unable to hold back what was eating her up inside.

Pull yourself together, Alice. It's time I realised that nobody cares for me anymore. No - one. Fending for yourself is the only way to survive now.

Alice reached over and grasped an egg that lay on the thin blanket of straw. She cracked its shell on the icy ground, tilted her head back and uneasily allowed the gelatinous contents to slip down her throat. The raw egg immediately invaded her sensitive stomach, causing her to heave and yelp with disgust and revulsion. She stood up, feeling even more nauseous and peered out of the window. Night was drawing its vicious curtains around her and the spell of midnight was making Alice’s eyes flutter in a tiring manner. Slowly, the day’s labour began to take its toll on poor Alice and she fell into a uncontrollably deep sleep; liberated from the pain she would wake up to the next morning. . .

Alice awakened startled – oblivious of the time, yet aware of the scorching heat that stifled her quickening breaths. Something wasn’t right. The farmhouse was very hot, yet her breaths emitted opaque clouds of cold air. Alice glanced down at her limbs. Her ghostly white skin was peeling; burning; eaten by the invisible inferno she was trapped in amongst. Alice screamed, expecting to hear the echo of her terror. Nothing. Nothing. But then - Alice’s hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. Whispering. Cold, penetrating whispers inaudibly congested the farmhouse. Alice grabbled the straw underneath her, endeavouring to heave herself upwards and flee from the abnormalities of the farm. But the pain was weakening the remaining strength she had left. The whispering now deathly screams that stabbed her insides. The cadaverous spirit looming towards her; sucking the sad life out of her dead soul. She was gone. So was the only thing that had truly loved her. Alice Shelton: no longer a woman in full bloom, but a lifeless corpse dead for all the wrong reasons . . .

Task 34

Opening 1
In my opinion, Opening 1 was explicitly very appealing to me. It opened the novel with enough honesty and frankness to keep me, the reader hanging onto every word that was written, which I find to be a brilliant literal technique. Witty, humorous and its pain – staking ability to beautifully describe such simple things in life, Saleem’s opening oozes originality and uniqueness. I also adore the way he is almost conversing with the reader; everything that is written appears to be improvised and it all flows naturally. Moreover, his ending makes you think rhetorically without him actually announcing a question; what does Saleem long to achieve in the brief amount of time he has left on earth?

Utopia Of The Sinner
Dear Lavinia,

My silence has been strangled; almost suffocated. Yet, this “literal drowning” I have suffered from over the years has transformed into a keen ability to tell you the truth. It’s what you deserve. My disappearance has caused you distress, pain, agony, anguish – all the feelings I have felt over the past few years .All the distressing words you will find in Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth; my heart has convulsed and sang Shakespeare’s entire etymology. Being alone, away from the crowds that manipulate your thoughts, I have discovered that there is more to life that the eye can usually predict. I have learnt that our pasts can ultimately write out our future. I have learnt that I was destined to discover the real truth about our parents. All the facts fit beautifully like a puzzle. I feel that you have to know the puzzle’s answers to your beseeching questions. However, nobody likes the truth – some people are even scared of it. Betrayal, hate, even murder: the whole story is interlaced with these violations. Violations they took with them to their graves. I hope we will also inherit their decisions not to tell a soul. This secret will be buried within the hearts of the family. Unless, you feel the need to live not knowing about our parents tumultuous lifestyles – the infallible reason why we were abandoned at such a young age. But, they did it for us. You must understand that they were people who shared the same aspirations in life. They were people who were also torn apart by the indulgence of wealth. Greed and jealousy were the real murderers of their relationship, nonetheless.
If you desire to find out more, please contact me. My address is written on the other side of this letter. I might not have been there when you most needed me, but I’m here for you now. I promise. I promise my awakened love for you will immortally embrace you through the difficult times life has to offer. It is the least I can do . . .

Lucinda.
xx

Task 33 - Bird Of The Heavens (Beginner)

Time that flies like a desperate bird, recklessly;
Carelessly; hence aiming to find her essential
Prey. Since she wants it. She needs it. Her life is it.
And that jigsaw of success is her potential.

Eyes drowned; lost in the telescope of her own fate,
But not seeing the right painting she wants painted,
Drives her to ultimately re- route paths life hold.
A portrait her soul desires is untainted.

The enchanting orb – a mirror of distorted
Lies. Manipulating the mind: a delusion
For the weak: a mirage for distinct failure.
That fool’s paradise is a world of confusion.

Her bed of roses, now in bloom, lies in the dark,
While they wait for their sombre sky of grey to clear.
Once the sunlight has taken off its coat of cold,
They know that their time to fully flourish is near.

A symphony of irregular heartbeats pound
On her soul.Is this the key to open that door?
It’s sublimely vandalised with gold elation,
And responds to your wishes in which you implore . . .

Broken

Streams of grief filter out of her forlorn
Eyes; piercing her sore, melancholy face.
Disintegrating her heart: cut and torn,
Whilst it weeps and bleeds her words of disgrace.
She's a captive - bruised, beaten and hated;
Silenced in her suicidal cocoon.
Her soul smuggled:now so desecrated
With depression which she is so immune,
While she yearns to love; embrace forever
That hallucination. Her conscience knows
Happiness she will never find; never.
Unless her demon-self falters and goes.
A dependence on harm, distress and pain,
Will only make a life slowly refrain...

Holistic Stardust

Enchanted glitter tattooed on the star -
Strewn midnight sky; soaring above freely
In a kaleidoscopic rainbow of
Light. Enduring a momentary life,
Whilst spreading her magic: overflowing
With psychedelic zest, elation and
Joy. Her existence is very short-lived,
However she holds more memories than
Each of our lives compiled together.
Her mystery; her enigma; her charm;
Her allure. Pervading our ice-bitten
Souls to unite everyone together.
Until her cry of death reverberates,
She captures all our lives in her beauty...