// Monday, January 6
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10:52 PM |
So everyone around me is getting engaged... and i'm just sitting here watching silly sci-fi tv shows.
I wish I was a writer. I wish I could write.
I have all these stories in my head, wonderful detailed stories. But as much as I try I struggle to write them down on paper. Maybe I should get rid of the distractions, turn the tv off. Maybe I should allocate and hour of time to writing like its study or something. Maybe I should pick a small part of the big story and write about that... something simple.
After spending the last two weeks walking and camping I think it might be time to have a roof over my head.
They came for me on a Thursday. I know it was a Thursday because I had just finished my weekly walk round the paddock checking the fences. One of the posts in the far corner was a bit wobbly for my liking so I had spent half an hour with a shovel digging the hole deeper and re-planting it. I was always careful with the fence because a few years ago some wild horses managed to knock down a whole section and trample all the tomatoes. Boy was I in trouble when Martha and Donald found out. Now I do a lap of the fencing every Thursday when I'm finished with my other chores. I learn from my mistakes and there is no way I am letting that happen again.
By the time I was finished it was an hour past sundown and I only had the moonlight to lead my way back to the homestead. It was a green moon that night. Every few months the moon rises green and stays that way for a few days. Nobody really knows why but they think it was something that started happening after the blackout. At least they haven't found a 'green moon' mentioned in any of the books from before the blackout. It doesn't really matter to me why it happens. I think it's absolutely beautiful.
I didn't notice anything particularly strange until I reached the barn. The barn is set around the back of the homestead, hidden from view of the main road. I sleep up in the loft but Martha had promised me dinner tonight so after putting away my tools I headed straight up the path that would take me to the main house. I had forgotten how hungry I was until I could smell the stew fumes wafting out the back door. Strange though. The back door to the house was never left open. The house had a terrible cross-draft. If you left the back door open and there was even the slightest wind the front door would fly open and smash against the brickwork. Same goes the other way around. One door had already been ruined by this process so Donald's one house rule was to keep both doors shut at all times, unless you were walking in or out of one of them. Maybe someone had seen me on my way and opened it for me. I was evaluating the unlikeliness of that explanation when I heard the scream.
You need to understand that most villages operate like large symbiotic families. Everyone had a job and worked for the good of the community. Sure goods were traded from growers, like us, to other families in exchange for what they could contribute. But no one family really made a profit above the others. If farming was plentiful one year it would be exchanged at a lower price to the rest of the community and everyone would receive the benefits. This system evolved to stop violence. If everyone is working towards community prosperity and reaping the benefits there is really no need for theft and deceit. This is why a woman's scream on a Thursday night was so strange.
I didn't have any weapons on my person, there was never really any need for any. I did, however, still have my belt knife which I mainly use in the garden but did use enough to carry around with me everywhere. I ran to the back door and crept my way inside. I had always been good at distinguishing noises and the scream sounded like it had come from the front of the house. The uncontrollable sobbing I could hear once I entered the hallway confirmed that the source was standing in the front yard. It was Martha.
By the time I made it down the hallway and to the front room I knew there was no point in subtlety. It had been too long since the scream and whatever was happening had already started. The front door was wide open so I barged through the doorway and took in the strange scene in front of me.
Martha was on her knees in the grass with her back to me. Her arms were outstretched and she was pleading and sobbing, "don't take my son". Donald knelt next to her with his arms enveloping her. It looked as if he had been holding her back before she had sunk to the ground. In front of them was a wagon and two men dressed in soldiers' uniform. They hadn't noticed me because they were too busy shoving Evan into the cabin compartment of the wagon. I drew my belt knife from its sheath and strode forward past Martha and Donald. I still didn't know what to make of the situation but Evan was almost my brother and if he was being taken somewhere against his will I needed to do whatever I could to stop it. The soldier on Evan's right must've noticed my movement because he turned towards me just before I barreled into him. My left shoulder took the brunt of the impact, making me wince but the soldier must've felt a lot worse hearing the scream he let out. He was side on against the wagon so when I smashed into him his head went back and smashed into the wood with a crack. His grip loosened from Evan's arm and went straight to his own face as he started sliding to the ground.
Since Evan had been facing the wagon he hadn't seen me coming. He eyes were now following the soldier to the ground and somehow he still hadn't seen me. I was screaming at him to run but his eyes were glazed over, like what he was seeing wasn't quite getting to his brain. I tried to swing my body around to have a go at the other soldier but by then he had figured out what was going on. He had seen his buddy go down and didn't want that to happen to him. I did a 180 degree swing around to my right, raising my right hand in an attempt to smash him in the face but he was too quick for me. He met my arm with two of his own, grabbing it tightly and pulling it down. Boy was he strong. The top half of my body was pulled down towards my arm and up came his knee, smashing me in the face.
Why does blood have such a horrible taste? It was everywhere. I'd had my share of injuries working on a farm my whole life but none of them had resulted in me bleeding from the nose before. I quickly decided it was horrible. Oh and the pain was pretty bad too.
In the few seconds it took me to figure out what had happened the first soldier had managed to pick himself up off the ground. Apart from a bit of a bump on the head I don't think I had actually managed to do much damage. It was mainly the shock that had taken him down. The first soldier grabbed Evan and finished shoving him into the back of the covered wagon. The entire time Evan hadn't managed a glance at me, it was as if he had no idea what was going on. The second soldier was still hanging onto my arm, so tight that I was sure I was going to get bruises. It was almost nice though because the pain in my arm distracted me from the pain in my face. The second soldier yanked me backwards a few steps from the wagon. I thought he was either going to snap my neck or throw me in the dirt and leave but instead he glanced around the side of the wagon at another figure. That's when I noticed the Shadow.
I've only seen Shadows twice before. One night when I was about 10 years old I was in town making deliveries. I'd just stepped out of the bakery when I noticed a small cart drive up and stop outside the pub. We didn't get many people passing through our town as it wasn't on route to any of the bigger cities and I didn't recognise the cart so I was curious. I crept a bit closer and saw two people jump out of the cart and walk into the pub. A few minutes later they reemerged half-carrying a boy. He looked about 15 and later I found out his name was Jeremy, and his father owned the pub. There was no screaming by his parents when he was taken. Turns out he was a bit of a bad seed and his father had four other children to worry about so he wasn't missed. Even though nobody from town ever saw him again.
The other time Donald and I had gone on a trip to Riverdale. It was the closest city to where we lived and Donald needed to do some big city errands. I don't think I even asked why we had to go, I was so excited to go to a city for the first time. I was probably 8 years old. There was a shadow standing at the gate to the master's house.
We were in that wagon for two days before we reached our new home.
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// Sunday, January 5
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5:28 PM |
Wow.
Blogging has changed since my day. When I was young it was a lot more basic. Now I am typing into what looks almost like a Microsoft Word document and can change the font with the touch of a button. I miss writing my own tags to do that stuff.
Hadley is my main character. Her parents died when she was six in a fire that burned down their house. She escaped and was sent to another village to live with a family who needed help on their farm.
Jackson is the bad guy. The youngest of five brothers all taken to the compound by the shadows. He's good at fixing mechanical equipment and has a knack for electronics. He also has a strong belief in sacrificing one for the greater good and is not afraid to do what he has to for what he believes in.
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Inspiration // Monday, July 18
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8:40 PM |
It's hard to write anything when my fingers are this cold. It's supposed to be the coldest winter in 10 years so i'm half-lying half-sitting in my bed under the covers with the laptop keeping my legs warm. It doesnt help my fingers though. I tried putting my gloves on but that reduces my spelling skills to that of a well-trained shitsu walking across the keyboard. Oh well, I will just have to make do for as long as inspiration has struck me. Inspiration. It's always such a let-down. It's this bolt of lightning that hits you smack-bang in the middle of the brain and suddenly the world around you feels like it has taken a step towards you. It's like you've held down the control key and scrolled upwards with the mouse. There's this rush of blood to your head and along with it a sudden and infallible belief that you can do anything you set your mind to achieve. You are absolutely amazing. So then you pick that thing that you want to achieve, that thing that would be the most wonderfullest, amazingest thing in the whole world if it were just to happen. That thing that would give you the most wonderous and complete life that could be lived. A stepping-stone to a greater world even. So you pick up that pen and start to plan, or you go out and buy that instrument, or you finally go into that garage, and it's all happening. You can feel the inspiration dripping off you, or is that perspiration because what you've set out to achieve it actually more difficult than you thought it would be a few hours ago. But you are still determined, the world is still shining out in size 16 arial font. So close and easy to understand. You keep going because all good things take a little effort and although you've been staring at the blank page for three hours now, or gotten calluses on your thumb and still don't know how to tune the guitar, or are still sitting in the middle of the garage, the one now-organised box sitting at your feet, the 30 disorganised boxes laying around you, the inspiration is still there. But you can feel its presence waning. What was once a think wollen coat wrapped around you keeping you centered and warm is now a silk shawl doing little to keep out the cold and dark feeling that you have been tricked. The bait and switch was pulled right under your nose and you didn't see it behind the boxes of junk around you. So now you're rocking backwards and forwards on your heels, your arms wrapped around your body. The silk shawl is lying on the ground in the garage next to your guitar and a pile of scrunched up paper. The well of inspiration has dried up and besides feeling exactly how you did before you felt the calling, you now feel useless, pathetic and stuck. Good thing you didn't tell anyone of your big plans or you would also feel ashamed. You've realised that you are not, nor will you ever be good enough to change your life in a dramatic meaningful way. Those people you see on the television are yes indeed, fictional people, and with your advantage of being 3-dimensional comes the disadvantage that you will live a meaningless mediocre existence. Man, inspiration bites. |
// Monday, July 11
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1:36 PM |
I have a lopsided smile |
// Sunday, September 30
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10:29 PM |
So we're going to write a story. And it's going to be about something interesting. But i'm not sure what? |
// Friday, September 21
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2:14 PM |
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Colour Codes // Monday, July 10
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6:21 PM |
Okay so I've been messing with the colours because I know you wanted it to be funky cool looking. Have a look at this link and tell me the colour that you like the best. COLOUR CODES |
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