house of 1000 stories

Today is my 21st Birthday...am I elated? am I older, wiser, more focused, more content? I don't know. I still feel the same as I did yesterday, kind of. Well, today I'm not on a big psychotic spin out, and I feel kinda level...so maybe hitting 21 really does grow you up some. or it could be that i just finished reading Vernon God Little, and my life seems so less full of shit in comparison. something to thing about at least. but for now, raise a cheer, have a beer, shed a tear...i'm a lady. bye bye gems, girl of the past. hello lady gemma, welcome to the future...

oh, heck. have another. i'm feeling generous.

Short story draft

Animorphic. An-i-mor-phic. Could these stones really have such meaning, such life?


Kate stands with her face resting against the cool grit of the sandstone wall, breathing hard. It’s dark in the tunnel, and no one else can see her. No one knows where she is. She turns her head so the back of her skull makes a dull clunking sound against the tunnel wall; her eyes swivvled so far to the side in her head that should anyone else have been with her they would have only seen the whites.
Kate is watching.
The shaking of Kate’s hand is barely perceivable as she presses a cigarette to her lips and takes a long draw from it. Blue smoke is blown sideways into the night air as Kate keeps her gaze fixed on the inside of the tunnel. She dare not go in too deep; she doesn’t know what lies in there. Junkies, probably. Or monsters. Or both. Either way, all Kate wants to do is meet her match. Meet the guy who’s been on to her for so long. The letters had started back in September: nice enough at first, general ‘I’ve seen you around, can we go out sometime’ letters. It was now November and the epistolary tales had been growing more and more desperate and confused over the months. This guy wasn’t in love. He was in trouble. He told Kate he had no one else, no one in the world to help him fight his demons and solve his problems. Over sixty letters, you get to know a person. Kate hadn’t been replying to the letters, he never asked her to and she never offered. She’d seen him before, from a distance, dropping the letters through her post box. Tall, thin, hooded sweatshirt, hat. He didn’t have claws or scales. No fangs to speak of. He just seemed in need of a friend. Kate was a sucker for the little boy lost act. Her mother had said it would be her downfall. In the cold November air, Kate began to think that her mother might be right.
The tricks that a mind can play when left to it’s own devices are astounding.
Ten minutes dragged by. Fifteen. Thirty. No sign of anyone. It was really dark now, save for the spitting, flickering neon strip at the end of the tunnel. Torn between not wanting to enter the tunnel for fear of what she might find and not wanting to venture onto the street for shame that she might be seen in this squalid, degenerate end of town, Kate crouches in the mouth of the tunnel, eyes never moving from her vigil, skin contracting and dimpling with cold. Kate doesn’t know how long she’s been waiting when she hears the crunch of boots on gravel coming from the other end of the tunnel. The steps advance unevenly, sometimes an ancient, creaking shuffle, sometimes a proud thundering stomp, sometimes a childlike patter. Kate doesn’t dare to breathe, although she can hear her insides pulsing with adrenaline; her blood dancing out a crazed staccato rhythm under her skin.
Is this him? How can I help him? Kate thinks helplessly. She isn’t even sure what he wants from her. His letters say that he knows Kate’s secret. He knows about what she can do. And he needs Kate to use what she knows for him. She doesn’t know why she’s so afraid. Or if what she’s feeling is even fear at all. It was definitely anticipation. The sound of footfall grows louder until Kate is sure that he must be almost on top of her by now. And they stop.
Flicking her eyes about the tunnel, Kate forgets about the silence. She is afraid now. She can hear him breathing, feel him in front of her. But she can’t see him. Scrambling to her feet, Kate whips her head around. Her breathing is rapid, expelling itself in hard, short bursts. She holds aloft the package of letters she has been carrying.
“These are yours.” She cries, her voice wavering on the final word. “I have your letters”
suddenly, the silence around her conveys more fear into her veins than she ever felt from the sound of him being near. Kate knows he hasn’t gone. She can feel him.
“I know you’re here,” Kate ventures. “I can see you…”
The last line is an unconvincing bluff, Kate’s voice echoing off the walls of the tunnel, her head whipping from side to side, her eyes flicking up and down the stone passage. She could run if she wanted to. She could fight too. But neither of these options seem appropriate or even feasible at this moment.
There is a scuffle, and Kate feels him close to her again, although in the half light of the tunnel, she can’t quite make him out. Kate is intrigued. How does he know about her secret? And how could this secret help him?
“I can help you” Kate bluffs again, her voice stronger this time, her energy concentrated on getting through to her visitor. “I can help you get home, if that’s what you want.” The scuffling stops. If Kate can’t hear him say ‘yes’, she feels it just the same. Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Kate nods. She’d suspected this all along, but hadn’t dared to quite conclude the suspicion. Bending down with careful urgency, Kate unclips her small rucksack and takes out what she needs. A bible, some holy water, a candle. Her throat dry, her voice escaping her lips in a barely audible croak, she flicks water about the tunnel, uttering the words necessary for the exorcism. Within seconds, the tunnel is cold. No one else is there. Kate turns her back on the tunnel and steps out into the icy clarity of the night.

sorry, been absent for a while...not like anyone reads this enough to even care, but hey. yeah, so i have the most heinous amount of uni work to do, and i'm trying to write my novel at the moment too...that's a bit of a no brainer right now, i only have about 2000 words. i'm in a creative ditch at the moment, i can't seem to write, no matter how hard i try. and it's my 21st birthday on monday. had a wonderful party last night, felt like a princess. cool. anyway. so you wanna hear a story? i have a couple, but i'll run one past you for now.

It's a small world.

‘It’s a small world.’
That’s a saying you hear again and again. You hear it when old companions meet in the street, when mutual acquaintances realise they share a friend, when you meet someone on holiday who’s from the same town as you. This saying is not only over-employed, it’s also completely untrue. It’s not a small world at all. In fact, it’s a huge world. There are billions of people living in it. What people mean by the phrase ‘it’s a small world’ is actually ‘it’s a huge coincidence.’ Now that’s something a bit more believable, and a bit less of a blatant lie. Okay, it’s only semantics, and one shouldn’t get in such a fluster about linguistics and society in general: it’s fruitless and quite frankly, a waste of time. But being a student of Linguistics and Sociology at Sangford University, it’s more or less what I’m meant to do. I’m not meant to be stood behind a bar, plying pissed up students with cheap and nasty vodka, well, at least not ‘meant to be’ in the destiny or fate sense of the word. It isn’t what I’m meant to be doing, but it’s what I’m paid to be doing.

“Shhame again pleashe, mate” Danny Borrel slurred to the barman behind the well worn counter of Sangford University’s student union Bar. The bartender, barely eighteen years old with a scruffy apron and even scruffier hair begrudgingly poured out two double vodkas and cokes, consoling himself with the fact that this drunken idiot who’d been propping up the bar for the last four hours would have a monster hangover in the morning. Danny chugged his double vodka in one, his eyes crinkling and his mouth twisting in the involuntary spasm that always occurs after consumption of alcoholic spirits. Wobbling his head from side to side, he turned around to offer the other vodka to his friend Sketch, but Sketch was no where in sight, so danny focused his attention on drinking the his friend’s vodka.
“Danny!” At the sound of his name, Danny swung drunkenly around, struggling to focus his eyes on the space where the call had come from. After a good few blinks, he managed to see four girls heading towards him. Four very hot girls. As the group neared him, and his eyes began to slide into focus, he began to realise that there was, in fact, only one girl. ‘Shit, must be more pissed than I thought’ Danny thinks to himself as he tries to fix the girl with what he hopes is a suave, seductive smile.

Sarah Southwell is late, as usual. Hurrying along the cold streets of Sangford, she pulls her black furry coat tighter around her and wills her feet to go faster. Turning a corner, she sees that the brightly lit Student Union bar looks almost festive in the September gloom. BEEP BEEP. Sarah’s mobile phone vibrates against her hip, telling her she has a message. It’s from Callie, the girl she was meant to be meeting in the bar. Sorry chick, I’m running late. Will meet you in half an hour. Callie xxx. Sarah sighs and rolls her blue eyes. She needn’t have rushed, after all. Entering the welcoming warmth of the bar, she looks around to see if there might be anyone she recognises. Although due to the fact that it is Fresher’s week, Sarah knows that the chance that she’s going to bump into anyone is slim. She’d love to have at least one friend in the city from back home – or her ex boyfriend Danny. They’d split up before coming to university, he had intended to go travelling around Asia and they decided the distance would be too hard to bridge. Even though the decision had been mutual, she kind of wished that he was here now to cheer her up. She takes in the sights of the bar, orientates herself a little, then turns to get a drink. Her jaw drops as she stares at the guy in front of her. Almost involuntarily, she cries “Danny!”

Callie McCormack stubbed out her last cigarette and spat heartily onto the pavement. It was starting to rain, and the bus showed no signs of arrival. She knew she was going to be late to meet Sarah, a sugar-sweet eighteen year old who she’d met at the university induction day. Callie dug around in her army surplus rucksack for her mobile phone and tapped out a text message to Sarah, saying she’d be late. Callie tugged absentmindedly at one of her bleached blond dreads and sighed. She hadn’t wanted to disappoint Sarah. To disappoint such a nice girl was somewhat a travesty, in Callie’s eyes. Callie hitched up her combat skirt and made the decision to walk to the student union bar, despite the rain that had begun to fall spitefully onto the pavement, making it treacherous to navigate in the unpractical furry boots that Callie was wearing. She reached the doors about fifteen minutes later, only to be accosted by a drunken fool of a boy toppling into her and knocking her down the few steps that led into the bar. Callie shoved the lanky drunk away and strode into the bar, thinking Fucking Men.

Simon Walker, or sketch to his friends, wishes he hadn’t had that last vodka and coke. In fact, he wishes he hadn’t had the last eight vodka and cokes. He stands in the rain, hands on knees, bent double in a retch. Sick, all over his sneakers. Nice one. What a great way to kick off university. Sketch muses that his sick is yellow, despite having drank brown drinks all night. Struggling to stand, he grabs out for what he thinks is a wall. What he feels is not a wall. It is a girl. A girl who has somehow begun to fall away from him, and he begins to fall with her. They reach the bottom of the steps and stand up, staring at each other. She is glaring at Sketch with contempt. Sketch, however has gone misty eyed as her regards this beauty in front of him. The beauty shoves him away. Sketch turns around and makes his way up the steps, wobbling. He finally gets back to his halls of residence an hour later, after walking for 40 minutes in the wrong direction. He doesn’t care. He’s in love.