Possible ideas for the future

• Guest writers to tell their own stories
• More stories based on real life experiences
• One sentence stories
• Add a poll or something so I know what people want to hear more about 
• Change the title of the blog - not all are improvised, not all are totally fictional
• Write a few or a couple of days a week instead of every other day
• Self-publish several stories?

#100 - Noah

Today’s words: Purchase, Classy, Grey, Comfortable

Word count: 1,343

Completion: An hour and a half...ish

Summary: A boy on the autism spectrum decides to withdraw from everyone due to fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, until he reaches his late 20s and concludes that he needs to make a change

--

1 in 100 people have an autism spectrum disorder (which Asperger’s is included in), so if you’d like to find out more about autism or Asperger’s, please do your research.

To write this, I watched a film (‘Adam’, made in 2009, very good), spoke to two people with Asperger’s, and looked at this website: http://www.autism.org.uk/About-autism/Autism-and-Asperger-syndrome-an-introduction/What-is-Asperger-syndrome.aspx, but I am not even close to being a reliable resource for autism.

--

Based on a true story...

“I had a really good time tonight, Noah.”

“I had a good time too. So...I’ll see you on Monday.” Noah turned to leave, putting both hands in his jacket pocket.

Becky raised her eyebrows and held a hand out. “Where are you going?”

He turned back to face her with a smile. “...Home. The night’s over, right?”

“Yeah but, don’t you want to say anything?”

He twisted his mouth and tried to think of something to say. “Like what?”

A few seconds passed before she stuttered: “...Noah, do you like me?”

What a weird question, he thought. “Of course I like you, you’re my friend.”

“Your friend?” Particular emphasis on the word ‘friend’.

“Yeah...”

She looked down and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

“I...I just thought you liked me.”

“I do like you!” He didn’t know what else he could say to get the point across.

“You know what I mean,” she said, storming off and leaving Noah standing outside the cinema.

He didn’t. To Noah, the word ‘like’ only meant one thing – ‘like’. He enjoyed Becky’s company, she was nice, funny, and she didn’t make fun of him: that meant that he liked her, didn’t it? What was he supposed to say? He didn’t know. He never knew what should or shouldn’t be said.

The following week, he realised that what he said had made her feel bad when two of her friends came up to him during lunchtime.

“Hey, Noah!” One of Becky’s friends, Rachel, waltzed up to the bench that he was sitting on, followed by another girl that he thought was called Lorna.

“Hi, Rachel.”

“What have you said to Becky?” Rachel put her hand on the wall behind him and lifted one leg onto the bench, staring at him over the rims of her glasses.

“Nothing, I haven’t seen her today,” Noah said as he continued to eat his sandwich.

“I mean the other night, on your date, what did you say to her?”

“Date?” It was supposed to be a date?

“You said you liked her,” Lorna spoke up before she knocked his lunchbox from his lap.

He stared at the food scattered on the ground and then back up at Lorna. “Lorna, I do like her.”

“Then why did she ring me in tears saying that you turned her down?”

“Turn her down? How? I said I liked her.” It was just like the other night – people didn’t seem to understand the word ‘like’.

“You can’t say that you like a girl and then say that you just want to be friends.” Rachel this time.

Now that really didn’t make sense to Noah. “Friends like each other, right? You girls, you both like each other because you’re friends.”

“Don’t try to be funny with us, Noah.”

“I’m not? Look, maybe there’s a misunderstanding or--”

“You damn right there is.”

Rachel forced him forward by his collar and slammed the back of his head into the brick wall twice whilst Lorna kicked him in the shins and grabbed his hair.

“You don’t play with girls’ feelings like that!”

After a while, a teacher came to break it up.

That wasn’t the first time he’d had miscommunications with people that upset them, nor the first time that he was bullied, whether it was due to those miscommunications or not.

It felt like any time he opened his mouth to speak, he’d end up offending someone or causing an argument or a fight. He came to the conclusion at fifteen that he felt a lot more comfortable keeping his mouth shut altogether, then no-one could have a go at him. Turns out, though, that staying silent when people want you to talk can also cause agitation. He couldn’t win and knowing that he couldn’t win, he got depressed and his once colourful life turned completely grey.

He dropped out of school, never went to college, and went away with no GCSEs or any qualifications that employers would be interested in. It didn’t matter; even if he was qualified for jobs, he was sure that he wouldn’t even make it past the interview stage. How was he supposed to greet them? What was he supposed to talk about? Did he smile? Was that right or too friendly? What was a right balance between classy and casual? How would he get a job if even people from school didn’t accept him for who he was? How would people ever understand that he couldn’t help it, that he had Asperger’s syndrome?

Noah became incredibly isolated from everyone, even his parents, until eventually he didn’t leave the house for three years. Not to see friends, purchase new clothes, buy groceries, nothing. He wouldn’t touch his front door, let alone open it for anyone. He felt like the only one who understood him was right there, so why did he need to leave? Why did he need to open himself up for more abuse, more scrutiny, more misunderstandings? Sure, it would be easy to say try, but he did try, he’d been trying to figure things out his whole life but all it got him was black eyes, broken teeth, and severed friendships.

Never again, he thought, never again would he open himself up to anyone. That’s what he thought – that he would always have himself and no-one else for company, and that’s the way he’d force himself to like it.

He still used his computer but rarely to speak to people, just to do some personal research and watch a few TV shows or movies. One Sunday evening, he came across the TV show The X Files and decided to check it out, being a fan of most things sci-fi. In nine months, he had watched all 202 episodes (nine series) and movies. As the last series drew to a close, he felt something stir within him that he couldn’t identify; something about the characters and the way that they acted moved him.

The credits rolled and when they were done, he opened Word and started typing out a screenplay. He didn’t know what it was about, where it was going, or how to even structure a screenplay but he wrote and wrote for a week until he’d finished 70 pages. Afterwards, he stared at the screen and cried for hours.

When he was done, he felt like a new man.

How could something like a fictional TV show be enough to help him? He didn’t know, but it did. Once his tears were all gone, he phoned his parents to tell them what had happened and decided to restart his life the day after.

It wasn’t easy – he’d been without social interaction for three years and he’d felt depressed longer than he’d been physically isolated. He had lived with Asperger’s since he was a child, but maybe it was easier to get a better grip on being depressed, he thought, since that was partly what made him remove himself from peoples’ company. Yes, he was still depressed, but he felt like a weight had been lifted ever since The X Files was completed.

He was on the road to recovery.

Noah stepped outside for the first time in years. It didn’t feel right, but he kept on walking to the closest corner shop, keeping his head down and making sure not to hang around for too long.

Day one – success.

After day fifty-two, he felt almost like himself again.

The next year, he attempted and passed his driving test, and started an Access course so that he could go to university. He was in his late 20’s but who cared? He was doing something with his life, something that he’d always wanted but was too scared to do before, and it felt great.

He might not always understand what people are thinking, and he is still struggling with being depressed some days, but he’s glad that he managed to climb out of that hole and take control of his life.

100th piece needs to be special

So, since the next piece I write will be my 100th, I've decided to do something different.

I like writing stories that shine a light on misrepresented groups who are rarely heard in the media and if they ARE, they're stereotyped or given very little time. That's my usual angle.

So, I want to stay on this track, but open it out to a specific individual.

Anyone who is going though, has gone through, or knows someone who has/is going through something that a lot of people don't receive accurate info on....I want to write a story about that experience.

Whether it's being bullied due to your sexuality, mental/physical illness, race, gender....or you've been witness to an injustice that's regularly looked over, I want to know, I want to tell your story.

Deadline is the 26th of March.

I'll pick the one that I think I could most get my teeth into.

Get yourself out there, tell me your story!

#99 - Seeing Red

Today’s words: Power, Hands, Sharp, White

Word count: 361

Completion time: 18 minutes

Summary: A man who everyone expects too much of finds other ways to display his aggression

There are references to self-harm, so, yeah.

Note: Despite the last sentence, there ARE other, safer ways to handle issues, and it's best to talk to someone if you're feeling this way. I was just trying to step into the shoes of someone who thought that it was the only option. Stay safe, guys x

--

Society has given him too much power, he thinks. Trust a man with that much power and they have the ability to destroy almost anything; many obstacles will be obliterated just by his existence. But what if his main obstacle, his main challenge, is himself? How does he knock down that barrier? Easy.

He looks down at his hands, grabs a sharp knife and destroys the only solid thing that is supposed to keep him together, the thing that’s supposed to protect him from harm. He realises quickly that it can’t protect him from everything, most of all – himself.

People expect him to get angry, to lash out, to quit being a pussy if someone agitates him and he decides to turn his cheek only to get it slapped.

“You’re a man, aren’t you?”

He was. He was a man, but he was less of a man than the men who weren’t so passive, so weak, so...’girly’.

As a child, he’d wonder why he preferred to hang out with girls, why his facial hair never really developed, why he hated action movies. Boys were supposed to hang with other boys, boys were rugged, boys loved explosions and fight scenes. And if he wasn’t a boy, a man, what was he? The answer wasn’t hidden beneath the skin, in fact, there is only one answer: a boy who isn’t like other boys is a boy. No more or no less than the ones who act ‘like a boy’. Still, he struggles.

He scratches his skin like it’s an eternal itch, like he wants to rid himself of it altogether, like he wants to start again in a new, better body.

He drops the metal implement into the sink, watching as it draws a swift line of red against the white porcelain. This isn’t the right way to live my life, he thinks, and it won’t solve anything, but if I can’t use my hands against others, I’ll use them on myself. It’s safer that way.

There are better ways to handle it, it’s easy for an outsider to say, but what if it felt like the only way to release pent-up aggression?

#98 - The Weeping Man

Today’s words: Nutritious, Alleged, Display, Wax

Word count: 764

Completion time: 47 minutes

Summary: Sometimes you raise your expectations only to be punched in the genitals by the fist of Life, figuratively

--

There is a stone statue that stands outside of Waterloo station.

The alleged amount of time it’s been there is undetermined by most, but people who know of him say that they can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.

A lot of people use it as a landmark, telling friends, family, lovers, colleagues, that they’ll be waiting by the Weeping Man (that isn’t its official name, but the locals have named it so).

People walk by it, amazed by the realism etched in the face, the detail in the eyes, the anguish that seems to capture everyone who regards it; like a wax display at Madame Tussauds. Some say that to look at it carries the curse of a bad love life for at least a year. It’s never been proven, but the rumour continues to spread like a plague in the playground and the office.

This statue wasn’t always made from stone; let me tell you a short tale of how this statue came to be.

A man called Christian got in contact with another man online when he was twenty-two. He was the first person he came out to; not even his mother knew, and she thought she knew everything about him. The guy he met was charming, humorous, and he actually got what Christian was going through, because he too was bisexual.

They talked for months on end until Christian took the plunge and asked to meet up; they both lived in different areas of London, so it was easy to commute and plus, they seemed to be getting along as if they’d known each other since primary school, so what was the harm?

On the 16th of July 2010, after eagerly consuming a nutritious breakfast of avocado on toast, he kissed his mother on the cheek, grabbed his keys, and headed to meet this unnamed man.

It took everything he had not to throw up on the Underground train as he held his stomach and focused on the brown linoleum floor instead. He told himself that everything would be okay: they’d meet up, go to the park, eat a nice meal, and leave eagerly awaiting the next time meet again. They would be together for a few hours, but they would have so much fun that it would feel like five minutes.

He nodded to himself as he wiped a line of wetness from his eyes.

The next stop is Waterloo. Change here for the Jubilee Line, the Northern line, the Bakerloo line, and National Rail services.

His didn’t stand up until the last minute, ordering his legs to move as he stumbled on the platform.

Since the guy was driving there, he told him to meet him outside the station, so that was where he stood.

Fifteen minutes passed and, despite wearing the desired moss-green t-shirt and red skinny jeans, no-one had identified him. He checked his phone to see if he had texted; no luck. Christian cursed himself for forgetting to ask for his number too.

Twenty minutes.

Twenty-five minutes.

Twenty-six.

His phone vibrated.

Grabbing the phone, he opened the text that read: ‘As if, fag. You’ve been stood up xoxo’

Re-reading the message several times, he slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and continued to wait. There was no way that someone that nice could stand him up. It wasn’t possible, he thought. They had built such a strong foundation, shared so many interests, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way about anyone, let alone another man. Someone must have stolen his phone or something.

His jaw tightened and a lump formed in his throat but he refused to cry. Every muscle was ordered to restrain the tears, but no-one can stop a flood with barriers made of paper.

Night time came but Christian stood where he was, looking forwards, keeping his eyes on a kebab shop opposite the road as if cheap, processed meat had the answer.

The next day, he was still there.

And the next.

And the next.

He refused to move.

Maybe there was a family emergency, he thought. Or a death. Maybe he’s too grief-stricken to text or call. I’m right where I said I’d be; he can’t miss me.

The reality of the situation never sunk in, never become his reality, so he stood there for days, weeks, months, and then years, anticipating a meeting that would never happen.

If you’re not scared of the so-called curse and you look into Christian’s eyes, you’ll understand what it means to be broken beyond repair.

#97 - Compa$$ion

Today’s words: Care, Show, Year, Gifted

Word count: 304

Completion time: 17 minutes

Summary: What does it mean to be truly compassionate?

--

I realised not too long after I became an adult that people enjoy doing things to come across as good people, when really, they’re just pretending.

By tricking compassionate people into thinking they give a shit, they can make friends, but most importantly, they can make a profit. How much does faux compassion cost? They ask, picking up the tag between their fingers and turning it over.

“Let me show you,” they grin, “let me show you how much I care about the animals that I raise for slaughter, let me show you how humane it all is. If I show you, you’ll see, you’ll understand, you’ll get it.”

I see sheep running around a field, chickens let out of cages, cows grazing all day. I feel great. I photocopy the man’s smile from the TV and paste it onto my face, leaving it there for the duration of the advert.

But, why isn’t the death shown, too? That’s a part of the process, that’s what it’s all leading up to. Without death, this ‘humane’ treatment would be worthless.

I guess the most important bit doesn’t matter.

Farmer of the year.

You see, these people are gifted. The gift? Being able to pass bullshit off as chocolate that will melt in whoever’s mouth they please. Butter wouldn’t melt, but chocolate will. That’s a great gift.

Shit disguised as truffles, shit disguised as caramel swirls, shit disguised as strawberry crèmes, shit disguised...captivity, death, disguised as humane practice. Dressed to the head in gold ribbon and silver foil.

Everyone will scramble to open this present, this carefully wrapped tasty treat.

Eat

Eat

Eat

But as they do, they’ll close their eyes and pretend that no animals were harmed in the production of this gift.

They offered it to us.

They wanted to die.

And that’s fine.

#96 - Little Piggy

Today’s words: Market, Join, Minimize, Specialize

Word count: 106

Completion time: 5 minutes



--



As kids, the little pigs are always going to market

But we don’t know why

As adults, the pigs are still going to market

This time we know why



We just don’t care



If we could join these pigs on their journey

Be there to bear witness to their shortened lives

Would we still sing nursery rhymes about these dark times?



The little piggy isn’t going to market to buy food

He’s going to market because he is food



We need more people to specialize and end, not minimize, these animals’ pain

So that never again will we be fed at the expense of the dead

#95 - Deer

Today’s words: Deer, Value, Late, Display

Word count: 193

Completion time: 18 minutes

Summary: A child witnesses a car crash, but no-one seems to care about the resulting fatality

--

I saw a crash yesterday

A white car crashed into a deer

On the road that led through the forest

By my house

I was running late

And I knew mum would yell

So I walked slower

Hoping that would make it better

I’d rather be told off a million times

Than have to see what I saw ever again

The people in the car were okay

But once it was hit, the deer didn’t move again

People cared more about the people though, but

They didn’t even need to go to hospital

At breakfast, I asked if deer felt pain

“That bloody deer again? Son, who cares about that?”

“What about those poor people?”

“They were probably so scared; I’ve never even seen a deer up close besides the ones on display at the museum.”

 “Hey, a reindeer’s head would look great above the fireplace.”

“Name it Rudolph, we could decorate it instead of a tree.”

“The antlers would look good covered in lights.”

“Great value for money!”

They laughed as they ate their roast dinner, scraping their knives against the white plates as they cut into the meat

I wasn’t hungry

#94 - Eyesore

Today’s words: Remodel, Unadvised, Education, Delicate

Word count: 295

Completion time: 18 minutes

Summary: It’s possible to change yourself to fit society’s definition of beauty...but they’ll only find something else to make you feel ugly again

--

She leans against the peeling wallpaper that’s covered in roses as she picks and scratches her delicate skin. She wants it all gone, wants to remodel herself from the beginning, make it so that she comes out perfect.

When a drawing comes out wrong, the artist crumples it up, throws it away...if the drawing’s conscious, why can’t it redo itself? If it knew that it was an eyesore...would it be unadvised to tell it to change? Sketches can be erased and redrawn, edited and re-edited as many times as they want and it’s okay, so why not for humans? That’s what she thought.

“I want to be beautiful, skinny, lighter, I want to...”

...Please all of the people who only aim to make you feel worse about yourself.

If you change everything about yourself, they’re only going to throw more insecurity at you. Once you’ve cleaned your pretty white dress, bleached it white and ironed out all the creases, they’re only going to find more barbeque sauce and ketchup to dirty it again.

If you give up on looks and try to get a sound education, they’ll mock you relentlessly because you don’t know as much as them, and you’ll never be as smart because you’re a woman. Not only a woman, but a black woman.

Descended from savages, illiterate fools, closer to animal than human. Monkeys can’t read.

Though, once you realise that you can never please them...you don’t have to care so much.

Instead of pleasing them, please yourself. Be someone that you would be proud to know, someone who other people can look up to.

Get up from the floor and fight conformity, don’t submit to it.

You have the power to beat this, they just don’t want you to realise that

#93 - All Within My Hands

Today’s words: Change, Little, Direct, Desire

Word count: 175

Completion time: 25 mins

Summary: I always blame other people for things that don’t progress in my life, but it’s always my fault

--

I didn’t desire the world, I’d be happy with my own scene to admire through a frame of fingers. But a scene that I wouldn’t forget about, a scene that wouldn’t change into something undistinguishable if I left it for a few months.

Little girls can’t cope with big dreams; they go way over our heads, higher than red balloons caught in a draft, strings waving their farewells. So I’ll settle for this, except it isn’t really settling, it’s something I can hold onto, something that won’t blow away.

And I want to hold onto you, believe me I do, but no-one can predict the weather. You can’t direct nature.

Maybe it’s me. No, I’m sure it’s me.

The weather could be fine all the time, yet I’d still find a way to drop everything and leave. I’d pretend that I was fine with my unmoving scene, ignore the balloons I let go of, and blame it on the weather, man.

I want to hold on, but my fingers are too used to letting go.