The colours are important

So… This is a story I have written. It’s based around a kinda creepy house from my paper round, that kinda looks like it could be haunted.

My friends have said this is disturbing so… Um… Sorry?

[[MORE]]

Vaguely near where you love is a building. It’s not big or small, not pretty or ugly, but it is old. Not so old that it has been left to fall into disrepair, left to the mercy of the elements. But old enough that it does seem to need renovation.

Oh, you recognise it?

You have never seen anyone go inside and you’re never seen anyone come out, either. Yet every morning you still deliver papers there. Every morning you walk down that overgrown, dark, damp walkway, trying not to look like you were as terrified as it was hard not to be. You approach the door and attempt to not stare at the lace curtain that shielded the windows.

Yes. Lace.

The thing that scares you the most, however, is opening the letterbox. You need two hands to open it, because it is so stiff, and you realise that, if something from the depths of hell were to attack you, you wouldn’t be able to fight it off, because your hands were stuck inside the goddamn letterbox.

The building is surrounded by regular houses, each almost identical to its unusual neighbour. But, where they have cut grass and rose bushes, this one has thorns and ivy.
You wonder if anybody lives there, if it’s humanly possible for anyone to live there. You don’t think so. After a time, you accept that you probably won’t get snatched by whatever orders the papers for that house. You let the house remain forgotten to the rest of the world.

A couple of years later, when delivering papers had become a horrendous chore, you try to brighten things up by listening to a podcast. And, in this podcast, the ‘house that seems like it exists,’ but doesn’t, reminds you so much of this house, of the one on your paper round, that your curiosity is spiked once again.

Then, one day, the door opened.
Nothing else had changed; it was still 7:30 am, still raining, the letterbox was still stiff and the blue can was still outside the building. But, as you turn away from the door, you feel a gust of warm, dry, old air as, soundlessly, the door opened. There was no clichéd ghost story tell that this was going to lead to your death.

What do you do? Hell yeah you were curious! But, if the door opened, didn’t that mean there was somebody on the inside? Which meant that this building definitely belonged to somebody, which meant that going inside was trespassing.

On the other hand… There is a pile of newspapers at the front door. Reaching down, you recognise some of the front covers on the topmost one from recently. Further down though… The bottom most one was from… 2 years ago. You realise with a start that this we just a few weeks after you started your paper round. You’re not sure why this is relevant, but it sends shivers down your spine.

You go inside the house. Not just inside the doorway, but properly inside. You leave the door open.
There is no one around. You try not to make a sound; you are not going to start calling out “hello,” in a strangers house. That was what got children in horror films killed!

Creeping softly, you head towards the stairs. Underneath the cobwebs, stretching like guitar strings across the opening, the are 2 staircases. One goes up, the other heads down.

One a staircase to Heaven, the other, to Hell.

Before you can decide which one to take, a gust of air, cold this time, and moist, the complete opposite of the air that lead you inside the house, washed over you. It comes from the ‘staircase to Hell’. Well, that maxed the depiction much easier; your sense of curiosity had never been stronger.
A you descend, you notice the walls becoming less plast and more… Organic in texture. Almost like somebody had simply dug under the house and forgotten to cover it over.

Almost like a grave.

You count the steps as you continue beneath the earth. Inside your head of course; apparently, you’re stupid enough to enter the creepy house but you’re not stupid enough to alert anything to your presence any further.
Blindly, you grope for the handrail, before stumbling as you realise there are no more stairs.
You had counted 34.

In the ‘basement tomb,’ as you have crudely dubbed it, there is a single lamp lighting up most of the room. What isn’t lit up seems more frightening than what is. The walls are made of some sort of clay or mud, but it isn’t the right colour – they are a deep purple, almost black colour.

In not-quite-the-centre-of-the-room is a table. Well, not-quite-a-table. It seems to be mad out of driftwood almost, nailed roughly to a few sticks that have been hammered into the soft floor. It seems big enough to lie down on.
Again, you’re not sure why this is relevant.

Instinctively, you feel someone’s presence behind you, before you hear the manic crackle of laughter.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you,” the man, of whom said crackling laugh belongs to, says.

You say nothing, but start backing slowly towards the stairs. You must have misjudged your direction at some point, because your back hits something warm, and sharp, and slimy.

The man’s face splits into a horrendous, soul tearing grin as you turn around, screaming at the sight that lies before you.

A face, with 2 green eyes, a nose covered in freckles and a mass of straight, purple hair stares back at you. It is on a spike. You think it is on a spike. You look on in horror as the warm, sharp and slimy metallic body belonging to the face starts to move towards you, the jagged edge of the knifed hand inching towards your left eye.

“I didn’t realise you we so eager to begin,” the man says, chuckling as you scream again.

You’re scream is harsh and sharp, almost a high e in pitch, but it is expected. The man would be disappointed if you don’t scream. The sound thrills him, making all the messy, oozy bits worth it.

This is the scream he came here for.

The hand that was inching towards your left eye has stopped, practically roughing your pupil. It is so close, so close it has turned blurry. So blurry now that it no longer has a point.

Obviously, the majority of you brain has turned to mush at the prospect of what could potentially happen to you. Yet a part of you still wonders.
You wonder about who will find your body. You wonder whether he will clean up your blood, of he’ll just let is rot, let you lie in it till you are discovered. You wonder about his next victim, whether he’ll have a next victim, or if this is just a one time thing.

This wondering must show in your eyes because it hides the fear there. The man does not like this.

“End it.” The words from the man’s lips, soaked in venom, are the final blow.

You see darkness and then black, which is different from the dark. The worst pain you have ever felt, ever imagined, ever read about in one of your books, seems from the left hand side of your face. You are dimly aware of your knees buckling as you fall to the ground, clutching your head, voice screaming, throat gurgling, eye socket pulsing the wet, hot gush of blood. Unconsciousness takes you, before Death stole you from him.

The man stands over you, yelling out his victory to the nothing that heard him. He clutches he prize as the brown iris stared back, lost, alone and eternal.

The man places his trophy into a jar and carefully replaces the lid.

Now he has one in each colour.

He turns back to your body and lifts you onto the ‘table,’ before adding your ‘parts’ to his collection.

Shannon.

The Marauder’s fanfic (with no name yet) chpt 1

So guys. This is the first chapter of ourcollective Harry Potter fanfiction.

Please, either comment your ideas or email me a chapter at shannonbrownie@icloud.com
It’s gonna get pretty boring pretty soon without your guys’ help!!
(If you can come up with a name too, that would be great!) This chapter just kind of sets a scene…
It’s my first go at Harry Potter. Odd, I know, as it was the first fanfic I read…

***

Nobody noticed the tall, thin young man, standing in a shadow on the platform. They were all too busy saying goodbye to families, or hello to friends. Nobody had the time to take an interest.

Severus Snape was used to that.

He rubbed his arm carefully, cold but trying not to brush the mottled, patchwork bruises. Or the tacky, messy slashes on his lower arm.
That was one good thing about going back to Hogwarts, Severus supposed. No one would beat him there. Everyone was too scared of the ‘Death Eater’; the story of his… Repellant behaviour towards his only friend had spread like fiendfyre . And, if someone called their best and only friend the worst insult of them all – ‘Mudblood’- then people naturally feared what he would do to someone who attacked them.

The last whistle of the guard pulled him harshly from his reminiscing. Seeing no one around who would either talk to him or pester him, he strode over to the train door, ignoring the shouts from further down the platform. He looked for anyone watching, a polite, if distant, adolescence.
No one noticed the inner turmoil or hatred at going back to Hogwarts, because nobody noticed him.

***

“Remus! Long time, no see! How’re you doing?” James exclaimed, embracing 1/4 of his best friends.

“Hey James, I’ve been… Better… Great to see you though! Both of you,” he added as Sirius hugged him from behind.

“You too, Moony! Good holiday?” The grinning, black haired boy asked his friend. The sooner these pleasantries were over, the sooner he could pretend this holiday never happened.

Remus grimaced, not wanting to recall his, either. “It’s bloody awful being at home.. I mean, I know they all care and stuff, but all the fussing and “you shouldn’t be doing much, Remmy, just lie down for a bit dear, and rest.” And that was before the full moon!” He told them, lowering his voice at the last bit. “Anyway, what’s all this about Padfoot moving out…?”

Over the holidays, Sirius had finally left that torture chamber known as 13 Grimmauld place. He was actually almost certain there was a torture chamber beneath it, but hadn’t really wanted to look. Knowing his psychotic family, it would have been filled with bones, vials of blood and other such ‘black magic’ ingredients. Sirius didn’t really want to scar himself that badly, thank you very much.

“Uh… Well…” Sirius tried to figure out how to answer without getting a rep remind from Moony. Deciding just to rip off the plaster, he said “MyparentsdecidedtofinallykickmeoutwellIranawayandI’mlivingwithJamespleasedon’tyellatmeMoony!”

Remus blinked.
“Why would I yell? It’s about bloody time! But you could have sent me an owl,” he turned to James as well, “eitherof you.”
Spotting Peter, Moony waved him over before turning back to the other two. “You know he’s going to be completely pissed that you guys didn’t tell him.”

“Shh. W’ll break it to him gently on the train. It’ll be harder to hear the shouting and he’s such a drama queen, it would draw so much attention here,” replied James with a flourish of his hand.

The fourth part of the quartet quickly joined them, though not with his usual high-pitched squeal of delight.

“Alright, guys? Good summers?” He asked them, seemingly more laid back than usual. It looked as if Peter had tried to mature over the summer, but with the same childish attitude 10 year olds have when trying to become teenagers. The few hairs he had on his face re roughly shorn off; the was definitely something half-assed about the attempt. For whatever reason, Wormtail had let his hair grow out long, the mousy, curling mop reaching his shoulders. However, it just made them look narrower and, if possible, shorter than normal.

The guys responded to his halfhearted questions with the usual answers, expected of them.
Walking towards the train, Moony tripped on the lace of his trainer and he pushed into a tall, muscular blonde girl. He vaguely me breed she was in Hufflepuff and in his biology class, before she shoved him aside and had him pinned up against the side of the train.

“Next time,” she snarled, “you’ll watch where you’re-”

“Hey! Leave him alone, bitch! It isn’t his fault he’s clumsy,” Sirius’ voice came from somewhere behind Moony.
When did the others get on the train? an idle part of Remus’ mind wondered. Shut up! said the part that was getting pummelled, bigger things to worry about!

“What ya gonna do about it, Black? Charm my socks to fly off?” Fliss Deleware taunted, hoping to goad him into a fight.

Sirius looked around for James, who was down the corridor flirting with Evans. Being a prefect now, James wouldn’t be able to help Padfoot if he got into a fight and Peter was useless, bless him.

Sirius shrugged. “You’re just upset that James wouldn’t go out with you last year. Probably jealous that Remus here gets to spend more time with him than you do! Though, you must have known you had no chance with him, he doesn’t date women that can throw him through a Quidditch ring!” Dammit Black, he thought, you’ve really put your foot in your mouth now!

For some reason, Deleware let go of Remus hwo fell to the ground and started massaging his shoulders. This took Padfoot completely by surprise, so when Deleware made a grab for his throat, he was caught completely unaware.
Also, he was caught by his throat. She threw him on the ground-

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” James was screaming at them from his window, telling her to get off him, to let go of his throat and so help him, he was going to throw her in detention for the entire year.
“We haven’t even got on the train yet, and I’m sure Professor Sprout will be thrilled to hear of your new record,” James dead-panned. He leaned casually out of his window, but the steel glint behind his glasses made Deleware lower her head and, with one last look of loathing at Padfoot, headed on the train.

“You okay, Moony? Nothing bruised?” Sirius asked as his friend picked him up off of the floor.

“I should be the one asking you that,” Moony smiled, “yeah, course I’m okay! Thanks, mate.”

Padfoot smiled back and they collected their trunks, finally making their way to the familiar seats. The smell of the faded cushions and sound of the chatter around them calmed each of their nerves; for while arguments were common on the platform, none of the Marauder’s had been targeted before… And a Hufflepuff? That was just weird, right?
***
End
***

That chapter is longer than I remember it being!
So the next scene I imagine, would be them on the train,p and something happening, or Dumbledor’s speech. Something around that time.
Seriously guys, I’d love a hand in writing this!
Lemme know what you think!
Shannon.

Update: New Years Resolution

My New Years resolution is going well: I’ve written something every night before bed!

On the nights where I’ve posted blog entries, I haven’t done anything else, because, believe it or not, I have started thinking about what I post on here.
But I’ve written… A poem, a Red vs Blue song parody which I may post either the lyrics here, or on my SoundCloud… I’ve done one fanfiction for Red vs Blue, am planning another, and am almost finished with my Marauders fanfic.
That will be up in the next week, I promise.

Then there’s a couple of journal-ish entries, where I’m just writing the thoughts as they pop up in my head.
It’s a new form of talking to myself and its actually really helpful!

(This doesn’t count as something I’m writing for my resolution, this is just an update on how it’s going).

Shannon.

I wrote a play-like-thing that people kind of enjoyed…

Once upon a time, I wrote a play.

When I was at guides, it was someone’s bright idea to have a theatrical night.
It wasn’t my idea. I honestly can’t stand the idea of acting, mainly because I can’t act. Acting is like lying, and as I can’t convince anyone when I try, there is no point in me doing it.

Anyway, we would have one week to decide on a play and start practising, and would perform it the following Friday.

Well, the first meeting didn’t exactly go to plan… There’s a blank spot in my memory from that night, where either it was too painful to remember, or I just lost interest.
To be honest, it was probably the latter one. It gets to the point where I just give up on trying to make anyone care and I start day dreaming. I think this one was about Supernatural or Lord of the Rings…

When the end of the ‘meeting’ came about, and we had very few good ideas for a play (AKA – none at all) and, obviously, I was really annoyed.
My ideas revolved around my fandoms, which I knew was a bad idea to play on, so I didn’t mention them. Then there was something to do with a singer… That was the idea that everyone wanted to run with, but only 2 people out of 5 or 6 wanted to act.
It’s in everyone’s best interest if I don’t get annoyed, including mine; I usually end up doing something stupid, like starting an argument between two guys, or going up to a ‘popular’ and telling her to “leave me and _____ alone,” because she dumped him, so it’s her fault in the first place.
(Long story. I might tell you in the future.) Anyway, I normally do something really embarrassing.
I’d long since given up on getting them to come up with an actual idea, so I said to my patrol,
“If you guys can’t think of an idea, I’ll just write something in the next week for us to do. It definitely won’t be that good, but we’ll have something.” I may be paraphrasing here, but it was along those lines.

They didn’t think of an idea.

So I spent the weekend trying to think of something that would be a simple plot line, nothing too complex and, because my patrol was fairly young, I had a limit to what inspiration I could use.

For some reason, I remember a movie night at a friends house, and a film called Sucker Punch.
(Side note, if you haven’t seen it, it’s really good, very different and… Odd. In a good way. Perhaps a little confusing…)
I might have drawn a little inspiration from that to write it.

It was about 5(ish) girls who are completely badass and freakishly awesome, in either a futuristic earth or alien world, I forget which. They have to collect these 5 items and give the, to this evil guy so he won’t destroy the rest of society. That’s the back story of the play, not the film.
The particular part of the play was about retrieving the first item, which was like a cup or something.

Give me a break, it was a long time ago and I’ve had exams since then!

Anyway, we did the play and people actually liked it! I’m still surprised to this day that they liked the storyline and asked me questions about what was going to happen next!

I wrote something people enjoyed.

So… If I somehow turned this into an actual story and post it here, would you guys read it?

*SOMETHING UNRELATED BUT VERY COOL
I’m working on the Marauder’s fanfiction, the first chapter is nearly done and I’ll post it here soon. Remember, when it’s on here, you guys have an input into what happens next!

Shannon.

Telling stories.

I don’t like saying “I’m going to write a book.” Because, first off, it’s very unlikely that I’ll ever get it published. Also, continuing with a book idea is difficult. Not difficult to the point that I want to stop, but still difficult.

I would much rather say “I’m going to tell a story.” Because that’s more true.

Writing a book is hard.
But telling stories aren’t. We tell them all the time; telling our friends and family of what happened during the day, catching up with old friends or making new ones. We’re constantly telling each other stories, to entertain or pass the time. To make ourselves seem more important.

The problem is, people don’t take you seriously if you say you’re going to tell a story. They just nod, and say how nice it is. Ask if you’re volunteering with children; of course the automatically assume its a children’s story. Because adult books aren’t called stories. They’re books.

Stories are magic. Books contain the words, stories contain the emotion. “The Lord of the Rings”, is a difficult book to read, but a wonderful story to be told.

Stories aren’t just in books, they’re everywhere. In the trees in the forest. The lonely girl in the park. The prison inmate, lying in his cell.

No, I’m not going to write a book.
I’m going to tell a story.
Shannon.

Day 1 of the “write something daily” Resolution…

So I’ve just finished watching Sherlock series 3 episode 1: The Empty Hearse.
I’ve got a few things to say about it… But no spoilers on here guys! So I’ll just do a crappy poem instead.

In your absence, the nightmares returned.
Afghanistan, war, violence murder
When he was with you, he slept soundly.
Now it’s just worse.

Now he dreams of killing, shooting a man for you.
Of fear, of watching time tick by until the bomb goes off.
Of the look in your eye as believed him to be Moriarty.
Now it’s killing him.

He fears sleep because he watches you fall
Over and over again, just flying towards the ground.
He fears himself, knowing that he can’t save you.
Now he’s dead inside.

Then you show up, not a sign or warning.
He tries to hurt you, to show you the pain you caused him.
He thinks he doesn’t want to walk with you again.
Now he knows he’s wrong.

And he’s alive again.

Happy 2014.
Happy Sherlock Returns.
Shannon.

Pfft. The darkness isn’t scary…

The dark was everywhere, bleeding into my thoughts and morphing my imagination into something dark. There was no outline even as I -hopefully- waved my hand in front of my face. I saw nothing.
My hearing and sense of touch were both heightened though, and I could hear it as Aidan padded up behind me, following me into the abyss. I wasn’t frightened; why would I be? Aidan was about as intimidating as a marshmallow.
But only in the dark, because I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. In the light he did intimidate me just a bit – he was mysterious and didn’t say much, leaving one with the feeling of being judged.
I knew him better though.

Just my luck. In the blackness, my foot caught on something (I can only hope it was a rock) and I skidded across the cool floor. With my extra sensitive nerves, I actually felt the few lays of skin peel away from my flesh, leaving either a burn or a graze on my elbows and knees. I yelped in pain.
“Oh, great.” I muttered. I would also be covered in bruises for the next week; the ground was hard and covered in pebbles.

I heard Aidan run behind me, him having heard my fall.
“Sarah, are you alright?” He asked me.
“Ha! Don’t worry, I’m fine. Look, I’m laughing and everything.” It was true, but it was more hysterical than anything else. I think it was out of shock more than pain, because of the adrenalin caused by both the dark and the fall.
I rolled my eyes though he couldn’t see me. I felt his disbelieving look.
“Aidan, I’m serious. Just a few scrapes.”

Aidan somehow found my hand and pulled me up, being careful not to brush against me as he did. He couldn’t tell where my body parts were, so it was probably best not to take chances.

I still hadn’t got myself completely back together from my fall, so I nearly screamed the roof in when I felt something brush my arm.

“Calm down! It’s just me!” He said soothingly. The lovely, kind boy that he was, he was trying not to laugh.

I found myself a bit closer to him than normal.

Still neither of us could see.
He was still holding my hand.

I trailed my fingers up him arm to find Aidan’s shoulder.
“Are you scared?” I whispered. I felt him grow tense, stiffen at the contact,
“Yes,” he murmured back, hesitantly. As if he found the word difficult to put together.

I smiled into the darkness.
“Me too,” I told him.

Now, because of the dark, I can’t tell who leaned in first, only that the first try resulted in tooth to chin contact.
It was my tooth by the way.

The second time Aidan managed to play off as a kiss on the cheek, but I knew it wasn’t supposed to be that. It was far too near to my hairline to be a kiss on the cheek

Third time lucky? Well, it was slightly closer to the mouth this time… ie. nose.

Finally, on the forth go, an actual kiss occurred. Okay, it had taken for goes, because of the dark.but it still happened.
The dark wasn’t so frightening…

**********

This is a COMPLETE WORK OF FICTION TO HUMOUR THE ANNOYING PART OF MY BRAIN.
None of this is true at all.
Calm down, Dad. This did not happen. Just a story.

It’s late and, while I would really love to run through all of my reasons for writing this, I think you all know I’m not going to.

Goodnight (or good morning!)
Shannon

Multi Person Interactive Harry Potter Fanfiction

Harry Potter. I have never been prouder than when I say I am part of the Harry Potter generation.
My earliest memories of loving reading and books, were of my Mum reading them all to be and my sister, from when we were 6 onwards. Harry Potter is in a league with the Greats, the Original Ideas. Nothing will match it, in terms of films or books or idea.
Not for a hindered years.

But, and this is a common thought, what about the Marauders? The majority of the fandom are insanely curious about James, Sirius, Lupin and Pettigrew’s time at Hogwarts!
I mean, there are literally thousands of fanfictions on the topic!!!

So, here is what I propose.

We should all write a fan fiction on the Marauder’s time at Hogwarts. Come up with a plot line, post it in the comments and see what people think! Share ideas, talk to others about using their ideas.
If this seems popular, I could run a competition? Maybe chose 7 or 8 chapters? And the ones who came up with them get to write them and I’ll share them up here? It doesn’t have to happen, I just thought it would be a really cool idea!
I’ll be writing a Marauder’s fanfic over before January. I’ll post it in stages and, hopefully, it may be good?

Personally, I think they should have a story; it can’t only have been exciting at Hogwarts when Harry was at school? There must have been other adventures, other mysteries and adventures?

Anyway, share this around! The more people coming up with ideas, the better! Don’t be afraid to comment either. I look forward to all your ideas!
(If this doesn’t work, I’m going to look like a very sad, lonely person indeed…)
Shannon.

The little miracle.

Last night, when I was lying in bed, I had a very deep thought about my friends.
It was meaningful and original and made me quite proud of myself that an thought of it.

However, it was half 11 at night and I didn’t really want to write it down, because I should have been asleep hours ago.

WORST MISTAKE EVER.
Now I can’t remember it.

So, instead, I’m going to tell you a story I came up with in Citizenship today.
Don’t worry, my friend was muttering all the way through, so I couldn’t hear if I had tried.

The best stories begin with a word or a phrase that draws you in, making you want to know more.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.

One of the best opening lines I’ve ever read.
And I read a lot.

Yet, despite all of those incredible authors seducing you with their magical words, reeling you in to follow their tale, I’m not going to you this device.
You’re all still reading because I’m talking as I would if I were speaking to you. And you’re curious as to what this story is really about, and why I haven’t started it yet.
It’s because I can’t.

It’s not that the story is too powerful or emotional or difficult or secretive for me to write.
It’s that I physically can’t.
There are literal restraints on me, arms drawn to my chest, fingers taped together.
The bark hugging the tree behind me offers no comfort.
Just pain. And an itch on the centre-left hand side of my back.

****
A if it almost sensed my longing to put pen to page, I was freed and picked up my forgotten notebook. There was no use me trying to run.
They weren’t going to let me get away.
****

Nothing was unusual about my Spot when I left behind the dullness of Maths to sit here.
No matter how much I tried to let the numbers sink into my, lets face not overly large, head, they just wouldn’t stick. Not the way words do. Numbers are always the same, always constant. They are the dull, never changing constant of life, forced upon all of us. However, words can be moved, changed and created anew. They are fluid, waterfalling down into our souls. But the mist that sprays back at us is the new words, new orders of old words.

Yeah, I hated maths.

I am not to proud to say that I…”bunked off,” as it were.

I had slipped away quietly, treading gently on the dead leaves that lay, sacrificed and bloodless on the dirty gravel. Cans of Coke, fruit juice and even beer littered the edges of the path. I barely noticed; my Spot was fast approaching.
I always got excited whenever I plucked up enough courage to ditch class and spend my time, more pleasantly, in my Spot. It wasn’t much, but it was more home than any of those classrooms would be.

Having spotted my “entrance”, I ran the rest of the way, almost forgetting to leap over the log that lay in the way.

And there it was.

At the end of a long row of holly bushes, there was a dry clearing, nestled softly against what used to be the old History department. I think; it was left to die and the trees claimed it as their place of rest. Now it was mine to share.
There was no pathway leading to it, or anything cliched like that. It was an arduous climb to reach my Spot, through brambles and over cobwebs (I really hated spiders). Then there were the patches of earth so soft, one might use it as a bed. The trees glimmered with a sort of unearthly mist; the whole place had an unearthly quality to it.
I hadn’t told anyone because they would make fun of me. I mean, they already did, but I could only ever tell a trusted friend about this place.

I sat down, hand slipping into my bad to draw out my Notebook. If this Spot was my palace, then the Notebook was my crown, for in it, I lorded over all of my characters and settings.
I was halfway through my semi-complete story (having already finished yet another cliched poem about this place’s beauty) when I felt something grip my legs too tightly.

Obviously, I tried to stand. Bad idea. 1/5 starts and would not recommend.
The Ivy, for that was what it was, had formed a tourniquet around my knees. Struggling only made it ten times worse! So I decided that, instead of doing a ‘Ron’ and struggling so much it would suffocate me – because clearly what I found myself in was Devil’s Snare – I should take Hermione’s advice and SIT STILL.

I didn’t write. I didn’t scratch at the itch on the centre-left hand side of my back. I didn’t flinch when a fly landed on my nose. I just… Relaxed.
****
And that’s where I began my story.

If I could not avoid a moral, I do believe that this is it; tell a friend if you’re going to bunk a lesson, because when you don’t answer Facebook messages, they’ll look for you.
Or, have friends I think would be the better one.

That experience hasn’t stopped me going there.
I just keep a violently sharp pair of Plant Cutters there too. Along with a bottle of water; who knows how long I could have been stuck there!
****
End.
****

At first I wanted to go in a different direction with this story. With the ‘talking to the audience’ thing. I might try that in the future.
But I stuck to the plot.
YEAH BABY WOOO!
I’ve never really been one for original stories. They didn’t seem to be my forte.
Except I like this one!!
Thanks for reading!
Shannon.

Shannon’s doing poetry?

The world keeps me awake at night.
The A38 whirring past my window,
There aren’t even any cars.
Its the wind rushing up and down; it can’t make up its
Mind. Does it return to Cornwall, or travel
To destinations
Unknown?
I do not know.

My clock keeps me awake at night.
Ticking in time with my broken heart,
It reminds me that time is passing.
I am still awake but the clock doesn’t care and it
Won’t stop ticking for me. Do I take
Out the battery?
I don’t think so.

My thoughts keep me awake at night.
Wishful thinking is a curse for any girl,
Dreaming about life.
Pondering the meaning of her existence, I don’t think I
Am ready for what the world. Should I stay
And hope some more?
It’s time to go.

To sleep.

(Shannon Brown, 16)

I thought I’d have a go at writing poetry. I’m not sure how good this is, but meh.
Two names at the moment:
‘Insomniac’
Or
‘I wish the world was silent’.

Either work.

Shannon.