#15 - Don't Cry

Today’s words: Reduce, Elytroid, Design, Foxtail

Word count: 374

Summary: 'If she didn’t cry, there was no admitting that anything bad had happened.'

This one wrote itself as I typed. Was originally going to be a poem.

Mayumi Terada 'Rocking Chair and Window'

She sits in a rocking chair by the window, one leg hung over the arm, the other foot gently pushing the chair back and forth. She rocks so that she’s barely moving; the faster she moves, the more she’ll realise that that she’s trying to comfort herself. Her mother would hug tighter when something bad happened; she hated that – those hugs made her cry. What her mother thought would reduce the pain only heightened it.

All is silent, aside from the sound of the rockers rolling against the wooden floor and the odd bird outside heading to its nest to for the evening. She loves this – quiet. The atmosphere surrounds her peacefully and she closes her eyes to drown out sight. She didn’t need to see anything, not any of the furniture, the ornaments, the worn-out rug, no, there was no point in staring at them because if she looked at them in a certain way, she wouldn’t be able to stop crying. Her heart was cased like a gold beetle’s elytroid and the slightest flutter would reveal a fragile set of wings, wings that didn’t want to be exposed because they were so fragile, so easy to rip off.

This was her design: if she didn’t cry, there was no admitting that anything bad had happened. All she had to do was hold it together.

After a while, something breaks the silence. Her eyes open and she looks down at where the sound came from.

She looked at the gold charm bracelet that had knocked against the chair’s arm. It was the tiniest of knocks, but it made her throat close up and her eyes sting. The charm facing her was a small foxtail made out of solid gold. She’d always said that she didn’t like rings, so he had gotten her this – part of her favourite animal to carry around with her on the only bracelet that she always wore.

“A vixen needs a beautiful tail.”

She hurriedly unclasped the bracelet with jittery fingers and threw it across the room, flinching as it hit the floor.

Bringing both feet onto the seat of the chair, she hid her face in her knees, ignoring the fact that they had begun to get wet.

#14 - A-cup

Today’s words: Silver, Join, Cheeseboard, Pumped

Word count: 937

Summary: A young girl’s best friend proves that chest size doesn’t matter when it comes to a beautiful prom dress, or anything for that matter.

Note: This is the longest story so far, but I couldn’t limit myself when this message is relevant for so many people.

Martin stood up from the chair and looked at the navy dress they had chosen. It was silk, halter neck, with a thin silver belt under the bust, and the rest of the dress wrapped snugly around her waist before flowing onto the floor.

“You look...”

“Dumb?” Siobhan offered, putting both hands on her hips as she looked in the mirror, turning to the side. “I don’t have the boobs for a dress like this.” She focused on the v-cut, imagining that she was two cup sizes bigger. “I’ll try the last one on and we can go look somewhere else, okay?”

She began to draw the curtain before Martin yanked it open again. “What are you talking about?” he asked, appalled. Raising Siobhan’s hand above her head, he motioned for her to spin around. “This dress looks amazing on you,” she spun once, tentatively, “it fits you perfectly! I’m sure the cutlery and what-have-you from Beauty and the Beast  would have had a fit if Belle didn’t like the yellow dress!” His eyes were fixed on the dress, struggling to take in every inch. “I’m not kidding when I say I’ve never seen you look so elegant, so radiant, so...”

“Alright, alright,” she giggled, shooing him away with her hands. “I’ll get the dress.” Martin pursed his lips, trying to conceal his glee. “I have a back-up at home anyway, so I can take this back and change my mind any time, you know.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright, I got it!”

~

“Why did I listen to you?” Siobhan sighed as Martin held her hand and walked ahead of her towards the hotel that the prom was being held at.

White limousines and chattering teenagers decorated the entrance in front of the golden revolving doors; Siobhan held her head down.

“I look like a child playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes,” she scrutinized her chest. “What's up, A-cup? They look like rose-buds that forgot to bloom. All the other girls--”

“A lot of the other girls also like Taylor Swift, that doesn’t make it right.”

~

It was an hour into the night and Siobhan had had nothing but kind words about how great her hair looked, how well Martin matched her with his white suit and navy tie, and most importantly, how ‘grown-up’, how ‘beautiful’, how ‘stylish’ the dress made her look. At school, she was always in a uniform that hung rather than clung, so she caught a lot of people's attention that night.

“You’re like a butterfly,” one of her classmates, Tilly, said. “I had no idea you were so pretty.”

“Nor did I...?” Siobhan replied, glancing at Martin who winked and mouthed, ‘told you so.’

“Nor did I,” came a voice from behind her. Turning around, she was met with Shannon: big-breasted, big-haired girl in a dress that Siobhan was sure was...

“Is that a wedding dress ?” Siobhan whispered to herself, looking at everyone to check their faces for any mutual shock.

“Where’s this ‘pretty’ girl?” she looked everywhere but at Siobhan. “Is this why you’ve never worn nice clothes?” she focused on Siobhan's breasts. “Because you’re as flat as a cheeseboard?”

“A...a what? A cheeseboard ?” Siobhan replied, testing the word out on her tongue. “Is that supposed to be a...posh insult?”

“Cheeseboard, ha!” Davey, quipped, putting a hand around Shannon’s waist. “You’re not wrong, there’s nothing there.”

Siobhan felt her face getting hotter as she clenched her fists. “This wannabe bride dares to....”

“Hey, whoa now,” Martin said, “let me join in on this one.” He puffed his chest out and walked up to the bullies until barely a few inches separated their feet. “My chest isn’t exactly like a pumped up pair of balloons either, man.”

“You’re a guy?” Davey said as if Martin were incapable of realizing. “You’re supposed to have a flat chest.”

“Oh alright, and a ‘girl’ is 'supposed' to be, what?” he stole a look at Shannon. “Big-chested? Skinny-waisted? A passive creature that exists to look good on your arm? Please,” he pulled Siobhan closer to him, “this lovely lady is better than both of you put together, and some.”

Davey rearranged his feet and stared at Martin; Shannon just looked at Siobhan, refusing to acknowledge anything ‘better’ about her.

Martin continued. “Something as minor as how she looks should be none of your concern.”

“Whatever, you’re so gay,” Davey laughed.

“If caring about my female friend makes me ‘gay’, then...” Martin seized Davey by his lapels, got on his tip-toes and kissed him. “...I guess I’m gay,” he wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

Tilly clapped and screamed, “Someone got told !”

“What the fuck ?” Davey pushed him away and wiped his lips so furiously that part of the dry skin got rubbed onto his hand. “Fuck...fucking dick!” he stuttered.

“Save the dirty talk for later, yeah?” Martin winked.

Siobhan couldn’t contain it any longer, she burst out laughing, which made Shannon speak up: “Oh grow up, you freaks!” Grabbing Davey by the arm, they headed to the main hall, Shannon nearly tripping over her dress as she went.

“I can’t believe you,” Siobhan continued to laugh, hitting Martin on the arm with the back of her hand. “But thanks.”

“You’re my best fucking friend, dude, like I’m gonna let anyone speak to you like that without making a scene.”

“Come on,” she held her hand out, “let’s show them what a real dance looks like.”

“Thriller ?”

She smiled and raised her eyebrows.

He bowed his head before looking at her and squeezing her hand. “Let’s tear that dance floor up , girl!”

#13 - Skinny

Today's words: Reflective, Broaden, Invisible, Sold

Word count: 490

Summary: Not all slim people are happy about their size (this isn't just for the girls either; I got your back, fellas).

The last time it happened was at the weekend, in Camden.

After spending ages looking at a dress in one of the shop windows, figuring out what I could wear with it and how good it might look on me, I was sold. The shop specialised in things like floral print, lace bows, and ‘Peter Pan’ collars, so walking in made me feel great...really feminine, you know?

All was going well, but as the lady behind the counter handed me my new dress in a black plastic bag, she went:

“This dress will look perfect on you, you’re so skinny!”

I wasn’t expecting it that time, so I flinched.

The s-word propelled itself from her mouth, piercing my flesh like a crudely-cut piece of glass.

I wished harder than I ever had that I had been invisible. People were behind me in the queue, they had obviously heard her say it. I imagined everyone in the small space looking at the bits of me that stuck out, judging the arms that looked like they could be snapped like twigs, staring like inquisitive toddlers at the shoulder bones that refused to stay hidden no matter how much I altered my posture.

I did what I always did: returned her smile, made sure to squint my eyes for authenticity, said ‘thank you’, and left.

On the long bus-ride home I held it together, avoiding eye-contact with everyone and curling my fingers tighter around the bag’s handles. As soon as I closed my front door, the calm expression that I had carefully stitched together with all of my will-power started to fray at the edges before completely falling apart. Walking up the stairs to get to my room had never been so arduous; I’d take a couple of steps before wailing like a child and falling to my knees, hand gripping the banister for comfort.

I’ve had people tell me that I should be grateful to be the size that I am, that I’m a shit for complaining about a body that all of the girls try so hard to fit into.

A lot of girls my size strike a pose in front of reflective surfaces, whereas I stare daggers at my knobbly bits and imagine that it’s someone different staring back at me.

People think it’s okay to put their thumb and forefinger around my wrist, marveling at the fact that they can get them all the way around. My best friend once picked me up to prove to everyone that I was as light as I looked. Heck, I even had someone I barely knew try to put both hands around my waist last year.

I want to gather all of the “skinny”s, the “thin”s, the “bony”s and set them on fire so that they can’t hurt me anymore.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, broaden your mind, okay? Some people my size are happy, but others are not.

#12 - Something Beautiful

Today’s words: Plenty, Singer, Atmosphere, Tribe

Word count: 454

Summary: When you love someone, every detail of them gets magnified

Author’s notes: I tried not to base this on Anthony Kiedis, but RHCP are my favourite band....

 

My thumb carefully traced the shy wrinkles at the corner of his left eye, brushing past a few of his dark eyelashes that would always flutter in that cute way whenever he was surprised or confused. Touching his face like that within the silent atmosphere of the room made me feel like I was falling for him all over again. My heart rippled and my skin burst into cool flames: love’s physical form. His eyes would reflect everything that I loved about him: his uncanny ability to turn anything serious into a joke; how he would always insist that I had the last bite of food, even if it was that fudge cake that reminded him of his mum; the pleasure that he took in staring at me and crossing his eyes just to make me laugh.

His face and all that it encapsulated was great, but it was his hands that I loved the most. They were the shell to my oyster, the ribcage to my lungs... Never before had I seen such power manifest itself in one place. If I ever cried, one gentle touch on my cheek was enough to calm the harsh sea that erupted out of me like an active volcano. Any time that he performed onstage, my focus was on his hands gripping the microphone as if it would disintegrate if he let it go. He would always sing into his hands as he held the head of the mic, it was like he was kissing me the entire time, eyes closed in delight. He’d always wanted to be a singer.

A sharp pull on my hand snapped me out of my hand-induced daydream as he rushed towards the tube station with me. Over ten years in the industry and he was still late for band rehearsals nine times out of ten. All I could see as we ducked and weaved through the crowd was the tattoo on his upper arm, something to do with a tribe he visited on his travels in the Far East. He had a few more, but that one was my favourite. Anytime I held onto his arm, I’d stroke it lightly with my index finger; the centre of the tattoo was the bold outline of a heart, so sometimes I housed my invisible initials inside of it.

He was a bit of a dork at times, hogged the covers, and he was usually late for dates, but there was nothing about him I’d change.

“Hey, what you thinkin’ about?” he asked, panting heavily once we’d gotten on a train at Piccadilly Circus.

I smiled as I looked at him: his dark hairline, prominent collarbones, the veins under his tanned skin... “Something beautiful.”

#11 - Welcome to the Horror Society

Today’s words: Ken, Showing, Bucket, Graduate

Word count: 469

Summary: A university’s ‘horror’ society have an unorthodox way of accepting a young girl’s application.

Before I graduated, I was a member of the ‘horror’ society. We came up with horror stories, went on trips to haunted locations, and had a movie showing every Wednesday in the old campus building. No-one really came near the building, even in the daytime, so it was like our spooky little hideout: high ceilings, old stone walls, and wooden flooring that would creak loudly any time someone stepped on it.

The leader of the society was Seth Teesdale; as Seth was our leader, he decided who was allowed to join the club. Any time that somebody signed up to the society, he’d test them – If they passed, they were permitted to join, if not, he’d give them dirty looks, pull pranks on them, and ‘forget’ to invite them to social gatherings. Many left, but some stuck it out in spite of Seth’s neglectful behaviour.

Seth’s initiation trials were usually pretty predictable – walk through the woods behind the science building unaided, watch A Serbian Film (uncensored) without flinching, tell a scary story that can unsettle him, that sort of thing. That was, until Kenna filled out her application form. Maybe it was because Ken was the first girl to apply in three months, or because Seth had a soft spot for her, but she was the only one who he paid ‘special attention’ to.

Ever seen Jack Ketchum’s Girl Next Door ? I think he got the idea from that. He tied Ken up half-naked in the basement of the campus building for three days – if she stayed there without complaining, she’d be allowed to join. Everyone thought it a little harsh, but we didn’t say anything to Seth. A steel bucket was placed on the floor by her feet, and Seth brought her food and water, but that was it. Not once did she beg to be let go or cry, until the third day when Seth got his pocket knife out.

“I don’t want to mark your pretty face, Kenny, so...”

As soon as he started tracing her side with the blade, I left. He wouldn’t actually cut her, I thought, that’d be too messed up.

When I got round to seeing her the next day, my hand involuntarily shot to my mouth and my eyes widened. What I saw before me didn’t seem real, I told myself that it was Halloween make-up; I think I knew deep down that it wasn’t. Her body was completely limp, feet all dirty, skin peeling away at the hells, and she had knife wounds all over her body. I tried to shout, or cry, but all I could do was take a few steps back, eyes glued to all of her scars that could never, would never heal.

You know what he said to justify himself?

“Fake blood gets old.”

#10 - The Game

Today's words: Sufferer, Midday, Gentleman, Animal 

Word Count: 480

Summary: A young man has his life disrupted forever due to something that happened when he was a kid.

Trigger warning: hints of abuse

 Every Saturday at midday, Michael dies.

Holding onto the closest available object, he clutches it in desperation until his knuckles turn paper-white. His whole body feels like it’s rejecting his soul, like someone’s trying to exorcise something evil out of him. Eventually he collapses into a trembling heap on the floor, struggling to collect as much oxygen as he can whilst his brain repeats for what feels like hours that he’s going to be okay.

Saturday afternoons with his dad would be something to look forward to every week. He’d prepare his clothes, comic books, and homework days in advance, alerting his friends at school whenever it was nearly the weekend. With his elbows on the windowsill overlooking the front garden, he’d press his forehead against the cold glass and wait until he could see the white registration plate that had his initials at the end (if you changed the ‘5’ for an ‘S’), and the friendly one, two, and three flash of the headlights. Scrambling from the window, he’d grab his backpack, kiss his mother, and run out of the door like an over-enthusiastic puppy, scared that its owner had left forever.

One Saturday, Michael’s dad invented a game.

“Are you ready, Mikey?”

“What do I have to do, again?”

“When you see the all of the hands of the clock move to twelve, you have to close your eyes. Then, I have to try and make you open them. If I can make you open your eyes in five minutes or less, I win; if not, you win, and I’ll give you a bag of sweets.”

“Butter fudge from Thornton’s??”

“The very same.”

“What if I lose?”

“If you lose...I have to dare you to do something, and you can’t say no.”

“Like what? Something scary...?”

“All you have to do is win, Mikey.”

The first time that Michael played the game, he lost after a few seconds.

“Hey! No fair – you know I’m really ticklish, dad!”

“Haha okay, I’ll try something different.”

A person is most vulnerable in two situations: when they can’t see, and when they’re naked.

“Dad, this feels weird.”

“You want this fudge, right?”

“Well, yeah, but--”

“Then keep your eyes closed.”

“Dad, this is starting to hurt, can we stop?”

“We’ve still got two minutes left. You want to win the game, don’t you?”

“Daddy...”

Every Saturday at midday, Michael’s dad shrugged off his regular skin; like a werewolf at the sight of a full moon, he turned into an animal.

And he used to be such a nice gentleman...

--

Michael’s nearly thirty now; he has a job that he loves, a steady girlfriend, and a cosy house in California that he paid for with his own money.

Michael is also a long-term sufferer of weekly panic attacks that tend to last for five minutes or less. He can’t remember why.

Switching things up

Okay so....I said I'd start writing stories again after a little break last year and I just stoppd altogether. I know why now.

I hated writing outside of genres that I wasn't comfortable with. I felt demotivated if I had to write within a genre that I disliked, which in turn probably made the story (and my writing) worse.

What I've decided is to continue this blog, but with random genres taken away. Random words stay.

This isn't to say that I'll JUST be writing one genre, I think it's great to experiment with different genres but only ones that I feel comfortable enough with.

What can you expect to see from me, then? I like romance, horror, thriller, comedy, and tragedy, mainly, but some other things may be thrown in there, too. That's varied enough, see?

I'll be able to start very soon and will continue to write every other day like I was doing before I stopped.

Sorry for the prolonged absense. *bows*