Waiting in the Rain (Flash Fiction)

Hello, friends!

It’s been a long time. I promised a piece of writing and here it is. I should (*coughs*) be using this more in the coming months (HINT: pack your bags for a trip to Devon).

It isn’t going into a university portfolio or entered into a competition because, quite frankly, it isn't good enough. It’s just a bit of fun. I started it in a seminar the other day and, with a bit of editing, I have managed to make a presentable piece out of it. It’s only a short one but I'm happy with it like that.

It’s not written in my usual tone or style but I wanted to try something different…

Waiting in the Rain

A country lane. It’s always on a country lane, always dark and always raining. This is where the stories start. A woman, it’s usually a woman and I don’t know why, is sitting in her clapped out car. Waiting. Waiting for a midnight rendezvous or something. Then, from out of the woods, a mad axe man or a mental farmer with a shot gun comes along and turns her into soup. And she screams. Oh boy does she scream. Maybe that’s why it’s a woman. Well, I am not a woman. I am a man. And cannibals don’t like men. At least, not according to ITV.

It’s been half an hour since I phoned. The lights keep flashing past. Each time I hope and each time I get let down.  I should go out again but I’ve already ruined the shoes and I don’t want to ruin the trousers. I’ll just wait, sit here and wait. And ignore the imaginary man who keeps peeking out of the bushes.

Tea

Tea

i made a cup of tea
and forgot about it

it was still warm
when i returned


Commentary
This poem, I feel, needs a commentary. So let me talk you through my process when writing this poem:

Imagine making a cup of tea. A simple thing. You build it up from nothing. You add the milk, the sugar, the tea and the water to your favourite mug; you make it your own. It's perfect for you and only you. No one else would get the same satisfaction as you would from that wonderful cup of tea.

And then you forget it.

You leave it by the kettle to answer the door to a salesman, to change the radio station because the Harlem Shake came on, to pop to the loo because the sound of the trickling water has made you want to go. Your tea stands there; it's useless. But it holds out for you.

And then you remember it.

You return to it and you hold the mug and you realise it is still warm.

It held out for you.
Sweet, loyal tea.

Sometimes, you find yourself being the tea. Sometimes, you want someone else to be the tea.
But sometimes, the tea goes cold.

50 Reasons

this isn't one of the three just a spot of fun!


50 reasons for my love of Doctor Who

Escapism.
The shade of blue the TARDIS is.
Bow ties. They are cool, after all.
Matt Smith's hair.
The Fourth Doctor's Scarf.
Clara/Oswin
The Daleks.
Every one is important.
Captain Jack Harkness.
Professor River Song.
Every day can be extraordinary.
 'One day, I shall come back, yes I shall come back...'
 Every star has a million stories.
Never be afraid to be afraid.
 'Everybody knows that everybody dies. And no one knows it like the Doctor.'
The music. Doomsday? Clara's theme?
The 2012 - present TARDIS console room
David Tennant
Elizabeth Sladen
'Affirmative'
'Run you clever boy and remember'
You don't need to be heroic to be a hero. Just a man with a plan.
The most feared man is the one with nothing to lose.
oooooeeeeeooooooooo
Things aren't exactly as they appear.
Always double take a phone box.
Epic coats are epic
Never be afraid to dream. One day they might come true.
Run.
Twitter is the root of all evil. Probably.
Moffat.
Douglas Adams.
Always take a banana to a party. Bananas are good.
This is a fake.
'Hello, sweetie'
'I take the words, I scatter them, across time and space.'
Impossible is just another way of saying 'it will take me two minutes'.
London landmarks are a target for alien invasions.
'There's one thing you never put in a trap'
A love story can last two thousand years
Don't lie to make people feel better
42 minutes can change the world... or 22.
Screwdrivers are the most useful tool in the universe.
Everyone's brilliant.
Bravery and idiocy are never to be confused.
Hope
Fun isn't fun without danger.
Robot dogs can get throat infections.
The face may change but the man never does.
Never be afraid to be yourself.

Demons' Realm

Another original piece. It's not really based on anything in particular this time. I just looked out of my window one night and heard a howl of a wolf coming from the park guarded by the bare trees and the first stanza walked up and tapped me on the shoulder. The rest, as they say, is history.

               If everything you knew turned out to be a lie,

                                        would you believe the truth? 

Demons' Realm

 This is the land

where the queens are king:

where the skeleton trees have lost their leaves

and angels fear to tread.

The demons hunt in the demons’ realm.

The borders are never clear,

between hope and love

and hate and fear,

as a lonely boy fights away,

dreaming of a distant world.

A single star hangs in the sky:

burning through the night’s day

they claw, they scowl, they pray

and with one last look

and one last shout the

final light goes out.

Explanation and Plans

Sorry for the neglect. I won't do it in future.

Hey!
This is the first "This is what I have been up to" blog I've done so I hope it works. If it doesn't, it probably won't even get published but I finally (FINALLY) feel as if I am able to write about myself from my own point of view after a bumpy month of not being able to write anything at all - bar a couple of lines that I quite liked.

Anyway, the reason for today's blog is because I have finished the first draft of a piece *insert triumphant trumpet music here*. It is the first time I have seriously written anything other than prose so it was a bit different but there are several characters that I am quite fond of. Now, I can't explain the characters until I explain the setting. It's like society crammed down into a tatty old circus. In my mind's eye, I see it as the "baby brother" to Stanley Kubrick's Clockwork orange (Minus the "ultraviolence", drugs and giant ceramic penises.)

It's a wonderful love story between a boy and his dreams. The main protagonist is the Stagehand, who is far below where he should be. The circus is full of washed-up old tarts and this boys has a glistening potential. There is a small main-cast. They are the Ringmaster, a character who speaks entirely in verse, Madame Velo (Vee-lo), a drag queen with a penchant for boys in uniform, the Tart, speaks for herself, and the Fortune Teller, a mysterious woman who is the estranged daughter of a billionaire.

So yeah, they're the characters. It feels like I know them and I hear their voices, so there must be something working with it.

Hopefully, it won't be shelved like my last few pieces *cough* Untitled... *cough*

Doctor Who: An Average Morning (Fan-Fic Short Story)

Of course. I'm a Whovian. This features the Eleventh Doctor and his companion Adam, a character I have created. I've had this idea for a long time that the Doctor has a son and they share adventures together. I don't know why, it just seems right. I know how I would introduce him and I'm currently writing that now (Possible upload in the future) at the moment, I'm just testing out the character. This is an early version of him. He has more emotional depth now. I hope you enjoy this because I sure as hell enjoyed writing it. :)

Ps- there are a loads of references to earlier Doctor Who episodes... Please excuse my lack of originality with some quotes and locations.

*

An Average Morning

I awoke to the gentle, soothing hum of the TARDIS. Groggily, I made my way to the console room. The corridors seemed to go on forever. Until finally, at last, I was there, at the heart of the ship. The Doctor was flamboyantly dancing around the console as he piloted her to our next distant destination across the stars. He looked me in the eye and gave his most wild, broad grin. It was like he hadn’t slept; to think of it, I had never known him to sleep. I walked down the stairs and leaned against the console

‘Where are we off to, then?’ I said, wiping the sleep out of my eye.

‘Further than we have ever gone before!’ He declared triumphantly . He threw a lever and the machine roared into life. The moans and groans of the ancient engines made me feel strangely at home. Every way to describe the TARDIS makes her sound violent. Maybe roaring is the wrong word. She sang. She sang as we flew into the vortex.

I had been on the TARDIS for so long, yet it all seemed like a bizarre dream. Or nightmare. The planets and the stars, the aliens and the monsters; I couldn’t imagine any other sort of life now. I was in love with the travelling, in love with the TARDIS and held the Doctor so very dear. He was so often preoccupied with his past, and his future, that he would often forget about me. His own son. But that didn’t matter; I knew I would always come second to her. Nothing could ever come in between them. She was magnificent; she could do anything. There was something special about the Doctor, though, and just by being with him, made me feel more special. Well, before I even stepped foot on the TARDIS. I thought there was something unique between us. Then he showed me the funny little police box which was to become my home. At once I knew I was not magnificent.

 ‘Barcelona!’ He said, straightening his red bow-tie and throwing on his tweed jacket. ‘A planet, not too far from Earth, with huge oceans! We can visit the Horseshoe Island and go to the home of the dogs with no noses!’

It seemed impossible to believe a thousand year old man could run with such a gleeful air, especially over something he does every day. He darted towards the door.

Undoing the lock, he looked back to me and waved.

‘One problem, Dad…’ I said, ‘I’m still in my pyjamas.’

He remained oblivious and unfazed by this.

I darted back to my room, rummaged through my wardrobe and found out an outfit suitable for a beach planet. At least, I assumed it was a beach planet. Oceans and islands Let’s hope it’s not like Space Florida, I thought. That was a let-down.

I walked through the same corridors as before. They felt distinctly shorter… The TARDIS has a nasty habit of switching rooms. I half-expected to walk into the swimming pool, rather than the console room.

Thankfully, that hadn’t happened.

Yet.

I was there again. The sheer scale of the room never ceased to startle me.

And there he was. My father. He was sonicing a clump of hardware with his ever-so-trusty screwdriver. Noticing me, he dropped what he was holding and ran to the door. He threw open the door, presenting me with the world outside. Nothing is constant here, I thought as I walked out onto a new front garden.

‘See you later, sexy,’ the Doctor said, winking to his machine as he closed the door behind him.

Journey's Beginning

"You look into the broken hearts and find the words you find."

Sometimes, it's more difficult to look into your own broken heart because its so much more personal and, no matter how hard you try, there is always a void between how you feel and what you write. Part of this journey of self discover we are all on is to be able to come to terms with this, to be able to comprehend, process and express this. Journeys progress with time and as time progresses I will become more skilled in forming this link between my emotions and my pieces Like in chemistry, fusing to separate substances to become one, my heart and my pen will soon bond and form something that, as of yet, I am unable to describe. This is because I'm just setting out. No one knows who they want to be at nineteen years. No one knows where they will end up either, which is vital in making the journey all the more interesting. Yes, there are worries about the future and insecurities but if there weren't we wouldn't be human and not be the person we are. I feel, as I grow older and grow in confidence, I am able to express and harness insecurities and reassure others (I am more skilled in the latter, it seems). On the other hand, I have the ability to be a great actor -cough- and can at least pretend to deal with these emotions when, in fact, all I wish to do is run away and hide from them.

While I wouldn't describe most of my fictional writing as auto-biographical, I would say there is a lot of myself in my pieces. My thoughts, my feelings, my perspectives. Some may see this as a negative personality trait, whereas I see it as a good thing. I share a connection with my pieces and character that is clear to an audience. Hopefully, my audience shares a connection with my writing