A Journey Around My Room

For this exercise, I chose to write about my room in my home in Essex. It’s the room that holds the most memories, and while the ones that stick out are largely negative or make me feel quite sad about the things I have lost, they are embedded in every part of the room where I have slept for longer than I have slept anywhere else.

A Journey Around my Room

Through the bright, white door, the generic cream carpet, with black paint stains from years of angry creations, is surrounded by blood red walls. The occasional white patch where the paint has cracked dots the room. Hanging from the white ceiling, a dusty orange shade covers the eco-lightbulb. Not far from that, in the corner over the head of the bed, two dozen pieces of greyed tack, from glow-in-the-dark smiley faces long gone, sticks fast. Nine years of dirt covers the outside of the glass the window cleaners can’t get to, what with the conservatory below. The inside is spattered with bluish-grey candle wax from blowing too hard. The window is framed by a dusty windowsill and the bright yellow curtains that on bright summer mornings bathe the room in a warm orange glow.

On the right hand side of the window sits an old computer desk made from fake Ikea-pine. The broken rollers on the keyboard tray prevent it being used for its intended purpose. Instead, it houses books, stuffed toys, games, and shoeboxes containing years of old letters and memories. On the top there is an old table-lamp, photo frames with pictures of old friends, and a large collection of wooden African wildlife. Elephants stand side by side with lions and giraffes and antelopes. On top of the largest elephant – black and shiny, with real ivory tusks – sits a small, white teddy bear. On the inner walls is an assortment of glued-on-and-ripped-off post-it notes with faded quotes from books and songs, and an old postcard from a school trip to the Tate Modern in year ten. Between the desk and the wall, a rolled-up bundle of posters sits secured by an elastic band, a snippet of lyrics from Stairway to Heaven barely visible. There are still faint dust marks on the red paint from where they used to be, before they were taken down for a redecoration that still hasn’t happened.

Opposite the desk, a pine wardrobe sits side by side with a matching chest of drawers, both filled with old clothes, never to be worn again, but kept, just in case. Down one side of the wardrobe, irremovable scrawls in gold and black permanent marker speak of part time “loves”, eight years past, crossed out and rewritten half a dozen times. Blu-tack stains from posters of famous teenage crushes – Michael Owen the favourite, eventually replaced with the flavour of the week time and time again. On top of the wardrobe, in the dark, cobwebbed corner, more shoeboxes, bags of stuffed toys and books, along with a ream of A3 paper that will never get used.

The chest of drawers, two small, two long, is covered with make-up stains and pen-marks. An old TV that you can’t watch sits on top of a not-quite-so-old DVD player that doesn’t work either. A couple of dusty mugs filled with never-worn jewellery sit against the wall and a pot of 50 pencils marked “WHSmith £2″ will never get used. The two top drawers are filled with perfume and old make-up that’s lost favour, and Christmas junk that’s never been opened. An old, square mirror hangs above, dirty and streaked. Between the drawers and the wall is a red beach spade from a college trip to Norfolk.

The bed, along the opposite wall, is no longer covered with the owner’s bedsheets, or even their pillows and duvet. The white flowery sheets for guest visits don’t match the rest of the room. Over the bottom duvet lies another one, covered in black and brown cat hair. The cats had moved in since the girl had moved out. The wooden frame is covered in black paint and pen, the secret hiding place between the mattress and the frame still conceals a yellow plastic lighter – a lasting remnant of teary nights and deliberate pain. Beneath the bed, plastic boxes filled with books and old crap, dozens of pairs of shoes that still fit but will never see feet again. More books are piled against the boxes, in full view. Gatsby and Jane and Fiver, all lying together.

On the floor next to the bed, several CD racks hold tunes by Dylan, Hendrix, Cohen and Led Zeppelin, along with more recent trends, in what was once an alphabetical arrangement. Against the opposite wall, lying against the radiator that fills the gap between the wardrobe and the desk, sits a mahogany and black leather dining chair, a giant stuffed bear bought for a charity case takes the seat.

As you close the white door inside the blood-red room, a brazen black and pink poster dares you to care. The slogan – “Whatever”. Make of that what you will.

A Journey You Have Taken

Written about my experience on a plane back from a college trip to Peru. Again, unfinished, and again I’m not sure where to go from the point where I stopped, since my memory of this journey isn’t amazing anyway.

A Journey You Have Taken

I slouched back in my seat, my long legs stretched into the aisle next to me. I was grateful that I had, at least, landed the aisle seat for a change. Every so often, someone on their way to the loo would trip over my feet and glare at me while I pretended to be asleep. I would never actually sleep, of course. I never can when I’m moving. Even three weeks earlier, sitting on a fourteen hour flight after being awake for what ended up as being close to 48 hours, my body would only allow me an hour or so of broken slumber. This journey was going to end up with me getting none at all. While I did have the luxury of an aisle seat (the only luxury you can get being six feet tall in the economy section), the Gods had also sat me next to a small, wriggling Peruvian boy playing Pokemon on his Game Boy.

I counted my blessings that he wasn’t behind me. I can just about cope with the people who recline their seat all the way back (as if I’m not having enough problems, thanks), but if you combine it with small children kicking the back of my seat while their oblivious mother shoves more and more e-numbers down their throats. The state of exhaustion that will arise from this is 100% guaranteed to have made me crazy by the end of the flight.

Because I know I am not going to get to sleep, I am somewhat prepared for it. But, just because I’m not going to sleep doesn’t mean I don’t need to rest a bit, in fact, it’s even more important. That rest is what stops me dropping dead from lack of sleep. And, if I do get an hour or so of just-about-sleep, that’s an added bonus in my eyes.

Like I said, though, that was in no way going to happen here. The person in front of me had their seat so far back that there was no possible position in which I could be even remotely comfortable. I considered butting my knees up against their seat, but not only did I know that that wouldn’t even begin to solve my comfort problem, it would more than likely piss off the person in said seat as well. And if you know me, you know I’m not all that good with confrontation. So instead I stuck with the feet-in-the-aisle approach, which, while guaranteed to piss more people off, was easier for avoiding confrontation. Nobody will ever try and wake you up if they think you’re sleeping, even if you’re not. Besides, I highly doubted any of them were having my issues.

Long Distance

This was written on a train. Again, it fizzled out and thinking about it, I’m not sure how I could really finish it off, but I still like the idea so I might carry on with it at some point.

Long Distance

Henry wiped away the condensation that had formed on the window of the bus with the back of his hand. He watched as the endless fields sped past him, the blank green expanse only broken by the occasional hedge, tree, or lonely old house. Every so often, the coach passed by an old and abandoned Little Chef, the red roof faded and the walls cracked and peeling.

Henry had already been on the coach for over three hours, including his quick change in London. He still had several more hours to go, finished all of the magazines he’d blearily picked off the shelves at the offy at 6am. He was at the point of boredom by now where playing Count the Tree with himself seemed like a good way to pass the time. He glanced over at his stack of magazines, the last one still sitting open at the crossword pages. He began to wish he’d bought a bloody pen. The problem with looking forward to being somewhere, thought Henry, is that you usually forget how you’re getting there. He slumped back in his seat, resting his knees against the empty seat in front of him, and started counting trees through the window.

At about ten-forty-five, when Henry had counted three hundred and twenty four trees (and and seventy two bushes that weren’t really trees, but at least made the game a bit more mentally challenging), he felt his mobile phone buzz in the pocket of his jeans. “Hey babe,” the text message read, “cnt w8 2 cu l8r, hope ur havin a gd tym on da bus. luv u xoxo”. Henry cringed at the spelling, but couldn’t deny himself the small, satisfied smile that was pushing itself onto his lips.

Despite Judy’s blatant and unapologetic abuse of the language Henry loved so much, she had managed to capture his curiosity, then, over time, his heart. Which was why he had got up at 5:30 this morning, and was willing to spend hours on a bus to Edinburgh to see her for the first time.

Untitled #2

This piece was done after wandering around town on a grey winter day. It is very sensual and I kind of fizzled out at the end, but I liked some bits of it and it was just a splurge.

Untitled #2

Cold air, nose running rivers. Puddles soak through jeans. Wind whips round red ears, cheeks burn. The not-quite rain settles as a film on freshly-washed hair. One freezing drop hits bare neck – the consequence of standing under doorways. People walk, umbrellas held high, barriers to the misery of the deep grey sky. Every so often, snippets of inane conversation – drunken weekends and broken hearts. Misery reigns while misery rains. Bright colours dulled by the grey gloom of rain. Faces grimace against the bleak drizzle, eyes squint, heads bend forwards. Feet splashing through puddles in an attempt to find a dry place. Blue jeans black. Children hide behind masks of condensation, mothers smothered in fur-lined hoods over poker-straight hair. Black benches sit lonely under solitary trees. There will be nobody sitting down today. Old ladies cover their perfect perms with raincaps, Hush Puppies steadily shuffle along slippery streets. Warm yellow light breaks the grey, welcoming you through double doors into corporate comfort. Whipped cream and ground beans. Sugar rushes and caffiene highs, just the way you like it. Well-lit windows show discount garbage. Fast-food queues deep with regulars in need of their Big Mac fix. Screaming children throwing chips at inattentive parents. Flustered workers half-listen to ranting customers.

The River – poem

I don’t write poems often, but I had a spark of inspiration. As with the last post, if you are in any way disturbed or triggered by implications of self-injury, please do not read further.

The River

Run, river, run.
Red lines through
blank canvases.
Waterfalls over pink hills.

Nowhere to run
to, river. Yet you
keep on running,
tracing blood lines
across snow-white softness.

Run, river, run.
Run, river, run.

Random splurge…

So, I’ve kinda neglected this, huh? Well, I’ve been writing quite a bit so I’m going to post it all in one go, but in separate posts. The one I’m starting with is currently untitled, which is why I’m putting it in this post. This piece isn’t finished, and I am wanting to edit it a little, chop and change it a bit, and change it into first-person.

WARNING! This post contains references and descriptions of self-injury. If such content in any way disturbs or triggers you, please do not read any further.

Untitled #1

The flame flickered in front of her eyes as Maddie held down her thumb on the battered plastic lighter. Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she kept her thumb pressed down, watching the dancing flame until the metal burned her skin. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted her t-shirt, exposing her tummy. She gingerly checked the heat with her thumb and hesitated for a moment, before plunging the lighter into her stomach, taking a sharp intake of breath as the white hot metal hit her skin. Releasing her breath, Maddie held the lighter against her belly for a few more seconds before slowly drawing it away and putting it back in it’s hiding place – the small gap between the mattress and the edge of the wooden bedframe. Looking down, she inspected her handiwork – the latest addition to the patchwork of scars around her belly button.

It had blistered instantly, as she had known it would, just as she knew how the pattern would go from now on. Tomorrow she would pop the blister and wouldn’t clean it – she never did – and then it would get infected, which would make her ill. To try and convince herself that she was trying to help herself, she would then go to the doctor, who would give her the same cream she had five tubes of in her drawer. She would use it once, then it would be shut away with the rest of them, because the truth, though she would never admit it, was that she liked it when they got infected, because it always left a bigger scar. And she liked the scars. The ring of silver lighter-shapes around her belly button was a reminder to her that no matter what happened, she was still in control of her body, and nobody could take that away from her.

Pulling her t-shirt back down, Maddie winced in pain as it caught on her now bright red stomach. Her tears had stopped.

It had been three years since Maddie had first harmed herself. At fourteen, starting small, she had been so afraid one day (she couldn’t exactly remember what of, but she got the idea that it had something to do with her fear of phones) that, in an attempt to calm herself, she had clawed furiously at the back of her hand, leaving large, patchy scabs that inevitably scarred, though now they were mostly faded. Back then, she hadn’t understood what she had been doing, but now, plunging scalding lighters into her stomach more and more frequently, she knew exactly what it was.

After that first time, it had all gone downhill a bit. At the beginning, her parents had been supportive, taking about why she had done what she had, even though she had no answer.

Review #1 – ‘Walking Ollie’

For my first book review, I will be talking about the book Walking Ollie by Stephen Foster (link to his blog is in my sidebar).

Having picked up the ’sequel’ to this book, Along Came Dylan, after its release around October/November, which I loved, and reading a thread on the Greyhound Walks Forum which linked to this post about Ollie’s death, I grabbed this book for below RRP from Amazon, along with a Jodie Picoult book that I’ve forgotten the name of.

Now, with my mother dearest having such a keen interest in greyhounds and lurchers (greyhound x something), and the invention of Greyhound Walks, it was only natural that I caught on to this buzz. When we got our second greyhound, George, a year and a bit ago, he was (and still is) nervous, jumpy and a bit lot of a ‘fraidy cat. In reading Foster’s book about his experiences with the neurotic lurcher (who was greyhound x saluki – which is like chalk mixed with cheese in all but general appearance) I found myself drawing comparisons to our own experiences with George. Foster explains how Ollie warmed to his partner, Trezza, but was afraid of him and would not go near him. This almost exactly mirrors George’s absolute devotion to my mum, but his utter terror of her husband, Dave. As he recalled Ollie’s behaviour I began to fall for him myself, and I felt a great deal of sympathy for Foster as he tried in vain to both train and befriend the poor dog.

Foster made the story of his journey with Ollie very readable and by the end, the feeling that you had got to know both Ollie and his owner was unmistakable. Reading about Ollie’s battle with bone cancer and the decision Foster made to have him put to sleep to relieve his suffering brought genuine tears to my eyes. I would thoroughly recommend this book to anyone – dog lover or otherwise. It is funny, genuine and absolutely brilliant. Absolutely deserving of its bestseller status, and if you read and enjoy Walking Ollie as much as I did, make sure you pick up Along Came Dylan when you’re done, for the second part of the Ollie saga – his new pure-bred saluki brother.

Thanks for reading,

F x

Well, isn’t this exciting…

So, this here is my writing and reviews blog. I suppose the first thing I should do, really, is introduce myself to the world.

My name is Franki. I am 20 years old, 21 on August 23rd. My home is in Essex, my uni is in Canterbury, and the place I spend most of my time is in NW London, which is where my wonderful fiance lives. I am currently in my second year of an English and Creative Writing degree at the University of Kent, after transferring from the University of Northumbria at Newcastle.

I am shy, reserved and I like to spend a lot of time on my own. Until you get to know me, that is. Then I turn into a strange mix of a bit too talkative, not-quite-confident and far too defensive for my own good. I love dogs and at home we have three. Mine is the hard-nut, full-of-beans collie-cross named Millie, and my mum has two gorgeous greyhounds, one 13 year old OAP (Old Age Princess) named Chelsea, and the nervous wreck that is 3 year old George.

I love writing, but I’m not so good at finishing things. I have a lot of ideas which tend to fizzle after a page or so. My goal for this year is to FINISH SOMETHING for a change. I also love books. Lots and lots of lovely books. I have a to-read list about ten miles long. My favourite favourite author is Stephen King, and one of my big sore points in life is books-that-were-ruined-by-Hollywood. The two biggest being The Shining, which wins the ‘Nothing Like the Book It’s Named After’ award, and IT, which, while starring the AMAZING Tim Curry, just plain sucks.

My guilty pleasures are World of Warcraft, The Sims (how gutted am I that they’ve pushed back the release of Sims 3 til June?!), The Internet and junk food. I love crime-shows (Midsomer Murders, CSI (Vegas only, please), Without a Trace….), as well as House, Primeval, Smallville, Doctor Who and Torchwood. David Attenborough should be King of the World, with Tim Curry as his right-hand-man. The best movie I’ve ever seen is The Rocky Horror Picture Show, for it’s unashamed flamboyancy and pure strangeness (not to mention the songs win at life).

YouthNet and Greyhound Walks (run by my very own mummy) are the best charities ever.

And now I think I’ve written quite enough! Later on I will do my first book review, on Stephen Foster’s Walking Ollie. For now I think this will do.

Toodle-pip!

F x