Brush Away A Smile

"Uncle T," he smiled a grim smile as the girl raced up the hall to meet him, embracing him in a hug. He picked her up and spun her around, smiling for real when she laughed, her silky hazelnut hair spinning with her. "Uncle T," she said again, "Can you brush my hair? Mummy's taking me out to night."

"Is she now?" he asked, curious and putting her down, "And where might she be taking you?"

The girl was home schooled and as far as he knew, she had no friends her age, too busy hanging out with her evil mother and her coworkers. Of course, Chloe didn't realise this she just went along happily with them all. If only they could appreciate her love and happiness as he did... Gosh, he treasured her. Sometimes he wondered if it was too much, but he always tossed ti aside. It's not like she had anyone else.

[155 words]

World of Imagination

They said to be your characters. That was one of their tips of advice, truly. Although I don't know if I can' go quite to that extent (yet), I can get very emotionally attached to them, as most writers do. You can pretend to picture yourself in certain scenarios, put yourself in their shoes, smile with them and cry for them. They're not even real, and yet they are more than just words on a paper or screen. They are living, breathing things, and it's amazing to watch them come to life. Which is why I enjoy to write The Story Of Isha for a change on some days - because it tells of how someone's character truly does, quite literally, come to life. Our imaginations can get a little out of hand some days. Movies play on a repeating reel in our heads. But I wouldn't trade it for the world.

[152 words]

Writing Sequence

It was brilliant when you got that spark of imagination, that unstoppable writing splurge where you just wrote and wrote and wrote, for once without the hesitations and writers blocks and you just wrote stuff that actually sounded good, too. The words would flow one after the other in almost perfect sequence, until the time when you would have to stop. To eat, to sleep. Then there was always that worry the spark wouldn't return again for days or weeks or months, but it was a risk you had to take, unfortunately. Hopefully it would come again tomorrow, and the day after. But there were never any promises, even to yourself.

[111 words]

She's Dreaming

She would stand around and greet people with welcome, almost clear of nerves and worries. She would talk with them about their interests, and introduce them to the book. She would sit at a table with posters and things surrounding her, piles of books being passed through, pen in hand, each copy being signed with a loopy signature that was her own. She would smile and laugh and ask how to spell their name, then make lots of fans and friends and sales. The day would go well and make her happy, and things would be great as she worked on the sequels... Ah, to dream.

[106 words]

Scheme

I watched her from afar as she ran up to her mother and embraced her in a mother daughter hug. I cringed away. I was making a big assumption to say that this mother cared nothing of her child, but deep down, I truly believed it. It was wrong on so many levels. Such a precious girl, so beautiful... to have that taken away, to have those eyes filled with tears for a love that may or may not be there... I almost hoped to be wrong, but then... if I was wrong, then this mother was deliberately putting her child at risk... which just bought the circle back again. If only I could take her away from all this. Even if I could, would she follow my lead? Leave her mother for some kid she met two weeks ago? Damn, why didn't she notice the scheme her mother was involved in? And more importantly, why was I the central part to that scheme?

[164 words]

Wiffle Waffle

The frustration of knowing there's something there but not being able to write is quite... frustrating, to be honest. It doesn't help when you have people at your ear saying they've written more than you, that you should be writing, that if you wrote more, you wouldn't have a problem... but that didn't solve the fact that she had to write one now, before sleep, before uni the next day, before a long weekend... and the inspiration wasn't really there at all. But the words still tumbled out. What if she were to write, like that exercise they had to do last week, without stopping? Just whatever nonsense came to your head? What a boring few dailies that would be. She still didn't know what to write, and yet she could see a paragraph fully formed above. It was strange, that. A yawn escaped her, and the music drummed, and there was a blue flashing on the screen. She would have to leave this window... this site... and return again tomorrow. Pointless load of waffle.

[171 words]

Rush for Reassurance

Melissa sat on the couch, cup of coffee in hand, leaning forward. Her eyes were glued to the news report, her heart thumping uncomfortably. There has just been a two car smash at the intersection on Brower Road, South Hillview. She cupped her hands tighter around the mug, watching the news reader with something of fear. The words jumped out at her. One hundred and twenty kilometers an hour, skid and flip, shots fired, thirty minutes, serious head injuries. And worse - Cameron Henderson remains prime suspect. They showed a snippet of film, someone on a gurney being put into the ambulance, policemen. Her heart leaped to her throat as she recognised the back of her brother-in-law's head. She hastened to put the mug down before she dropped it, and made a grab for the phone.

She dialed her sister's memorized home number, praying on each ring. It couldn't be Damien. No way. Just because he also had a white car... the phone rang out in her ear as some advertisement now blared out through the screen. She hit the mute button, phone pressed to ear. She was overreacting. Just because Cameron wanted him dead, didn't mean...

"This is the Lewis Household. We're currently out at the moment-"

She let out a cry of frustration as she tried her sister twice on the mobile. The second time it picked up.

"Hi Mel," came the voice of her nephew, neither cheery nor sad. Her heart relaxed a little. Clearly, he was safe.

"Hi Eric," she exclaimed, and before she could cut in, he was responding to her unasked question.

"We've just got home now. Dad told us to leave."

"Leave?" she questioned in puzzlement, "Leave what?"

"Him. Leave him to do his job."

She was about to cry out a 'tell me what happened, tell me he's okay', when she heard noise on the other end of the line and in the next second, Chelsea was on the phone.

"I just heard the news report," Melissa explained, "They didn't say... they said Cameron... the car crash..."

"We witnessed it," she could almost hear the tears in her sister's voice, "We were the car behind. Eric had recognised the car seconds before. Then it was just... screech of tyres, headlights..."

"How? The safe house?"

"Safe house was attacked. A police officer was killed. Damien left, they followed. And Ryan. Ryan! Oh Mel, they took him. He would've died if it wasn't for, for..."

"Where is he now?"

"Gone to the hospital. Damien was revived at the scene and rushed off. He's in surgery now. They don't think he'll make it."

And that was when her heart really dropped, and she had to sit down again from her pacing, and hold in her own cries.

[462 words]

The Kill

Cameron shoved her easily against the wall, slapping his hand across her mouth and silencing her screams. She was looking wide eyed at the person in front of her. That person being me. I cringed, looking away and around the apartment. Clean white tiles and cabinets in the kitchen. They'd be a bloody mess by the time we left, I was sure. I turned back to the pair of them. Damn it, we had to leave! I wasn't going to kill this woman. Not with those happy snaps taped to the refrigerator, the frames along the wall.

"Cameron," I insisted, "let's just go."

He gave me a look and I turned to address the scared little woman. She was fighting all her strength against him, but she was wasting her time and energy. Cameron was too strong. Always was.

"Listen, you were a witness to the Henderson case 16 years ago. We're here to remind you not to get involved. You don't remember those days very well, your word hasn't changed in the years gone by. You can be of no help to any recent investigations. You won't tell anyone about this visit, and life we carry on as normal. Got it? You can stay quiet, can't you?"

Cameron let go of her, shoving her back into the wall again as he turned on me.

"Get your gun out now."

I gave in, taking it out to please him.

"Now, kill her."

"No," I repeated.

He took the woman by the hair and dragged her over towards the kitchen, taking a knife from the top draw. She whimpered, over and over. I won't tell. I won't tell.

"Kill her painlessly with a single bullet. Do that and she won't suffer for hours, waiting for the blood loss to spill from her helpless body..."

He bought the knife up to her chest, making a slice through the material on her top. The tears were streaming down her face. I looked her in the eye, then had to divert them to my gun. Fuck it. Fuck Cameron. The knife was bearing on the tips of her shoulder blades. I'd seen the photos of those kids. Seen them squirm in pain for hours...

I bought the gun up level and felt the tears mirroring hers in my eyes. I fired.

[387 words]

Before the Kill

"You know, we don't have to do this," I insisted as Cameron found a parking spot, completely at ease with what we were about to do, "I mean, it was almost two decades ago, she won't be of any help to the investigation. She'll stay quiet if we ask her to."

He didn't appear to be listening. He was loading his gun.

"Cameron-"

He interrupted, "How many movies have you watched where someone says 'don't go to the police'? They always go to the police."

He shoved the gun against my chest, and I caught it before it fell, "What are you giving it to me for?" He looked at me as if I were stupid, "No. No way. I ain't killing her."

He was already getting out of the car and I shoved the gun hastily away into my jacket. I couldn't believe this. I jumped out and followed him towards the elevator. "You're a bastard, Cameron. I didn't travel borders to come and do your bidding."

"You were destined to do my bidding the instant we met!" he growled, shoving me forwards as the doors opened. I held my tongue as we traveled to the top floor. My mind was racing unhappily. Yes I'd done some bad things in my life, but I'd never killed anyone, least of all a woman. I cringed as he led the way to a door on the left and knocked before I could get a word in. I stood there hysterically. We hadn't planned anything. This was not a part of the plan. Heck, me holding the gun wasn't a part of the plan. I didn't have time to think, to gather my thoughts. I desperately wanted to back out. My heart was beating too fast. But before I could turn and run, the door clicked opened.

"Hi," Cameron greeted, "Do you mind if we come in?"

The woman was slightly younger than me, blonde hair, nice face. Very nice face. Pretty. She looked speechless at the pair of us.

"Um, sorry," she stammered, "no."

She was closing the door on us. My getaway was in reach. Then Cameron's foot landed in the gap between the door and the frame, and he shoved it inwards, darting inside. I cursed. No backing out of it now. I followed him, shutting the door behind us. The woman screamed.

[394 words]

Video in the Making

She stared transfixed to the screen, the scenes flashing before her eyes back and forth, back and forth. The song played repeatedly in her ear, the same lines, the same verses. Everything was on fast forward as she raced to find the matching clip, the right picture for the words. Across the entire time line, hidden near the end. Perfect. Line it up, pause and play. The line danced and progressed slowly forwards as the video matched up with the audio. This was good. One after the next. Start from the end, work your way to the beginning. Action, anger, happy, sad, fast, slow. She sighed. She would have to stop sometime tonight, but this was one video she'd be patient for. She had to get it right.

[128 words]

Pen's Secret

Eyes... stay... open... they had to stay open. He couldn't fall asleep now. He had to get his message out while they weren't looking. He rolled up the note and grabbed empty pen casing, sizing up the paper with the hole. Too big. His eyes scanned around for another pen or pencil and found one tossed in the bin. He grabbed it, coiling the paper tighter around it, before sliding it into the bigger empty casing and dropping in the actual pen, doing up the lid. It wasn't greatly noticeable, but if she was looking, she'd notice. She'd get it. She'd understand. He hoped. If only she'd forgive him, too.

[110 words]

Warming Words

She cupped the hot mug in her hands, the heart shape long distorted into a blob of brown. It was so nice and soothing and warm. It really did warm her up, make her feel better. Things were funny like that, much like laughter being the best medicine. After a while, everything always turned out okay. The stresses were released, or would be in the coming days once assessment was over. Music was a healer. Writing was life. Or at least, supposedly, even though sometimes she utterly hated it. It was strange. She had two days worth of assessment to fill the weekend with, and she felt relieved. Things were looking up.

[112 words]

Silent Swing

He felt sick. He couldn't think straight. His eyes stared unseeing at the playground. He sat on a lonely swing, watching the kids run around and give him a wide breadth. They didn't like his presence. They were wary of him. Not like Chloe. He was her best friend. Then again, he wasn't sure how many kids her age she hung around. Home schooling, never being let out of the house. He doubt there were very many. He swung himself around once, the chains twisting and uncoiling around him. He didn't want to obey them. Really he didn't. Which was why the others had to reach him first. He sighed, taking the money and paper out of his pocket. The boy that stood bored between his mum and her friend would do. He'd been watching him for five minutes now. So young and innocent, as most children were. Not those in the hands of Cameron Henderson.

[156 words]

Trail of Words

The pen hesitated before the paper, shaking with the movements of the bus. She didn't really know what to write. Maybe if she wrote the words would slowly come. Nothing really meaningful, just words. Small and messy, but readable. The music played softly in her ear, so beautiful and perfect, even without words of their own. Her thoughts trailed. Memories of school, older ones from primary. Future ones that wouldn't happen that she would still imagine. Love and laughter. She would be bound to have a few laughs when her journey came to an end. The funny ones were always the most engaging. Sometimes, at the worst of times, her imagination just trailed and the words didn't sink in. But today they would.

[123 words]

You Think

You think you're invincible when you're on your own. You think that such situations could turn out well. You have everything planned in your head beforehand. Things could work. Conversations would go smoothly, comebacks would come on time. Your voice could be your own. Such thoughts when put into action turn your voice into something that is not your own. Comebacks don't come, so the conversation just dulls suddenly, awkwardly. Nothing goes to plan. Yes, things can still turn out well, but you end up kicking yourself for not mentioning that one thing, for not speaking up for yourself. Everything remains locked in your own little world. You crumble.

[109 words]

Matters over Dinner

He sat uncomfortably at the table, slowly twirling his fork at the spaghetti on his plate. He was hungry, he was all the time now. But that didn't encourage him to eat the food before him. It would've been okay, had they not been playing some pathetic happy families charade. He jabbed his fork at the plate and shoved a mouthful angrily into his mouth. The little girl was watching him with interest, trying to calculate his movements. Damn, why did she have to be here? She was pulling him apart. He would've long left this place if it hadn't of been for her.

"Terrier, is something wrong?" Cameron asked in what sounded to be a concerned voice. He knew better than to accept his stories, his acts of supposed kindness. He meant none of it.

Still, the girl was at the table. He clasped his hand tight around the fork to try and stop his hands from shaking. "No."

"Why don't you tell us about it?"

Terrier bit his tongue. He wanted him to have an outburst. He wanted him to lose control in front of the girl so he could be sent away from the room. Heck, he's give anything to blurt it out right then and there - Chloe, your mum's a traitor, your uncle's a murderer and you need to run away now and don't ever come back - but he couldn't. He couldn't see all her beliefs crumble. Her smile fade. And so he settled with, "it doesn't matter."

It did. The game had changed now. Everything mattered.

[263 words]

Same Old Assessment

Finally, work appeared to be getting done again. It looked and felt like an achievement. A pat on the back. Yet still, it was the easiest of the lot, and she knew she was only putting off the others further and further. They all had to be done eventually. Which usually meant last minute, so why should this be any different? She knew it wouldn't. She could see it coming. Just the same old same old. Another trailing assessment item, struggling to fulfill the requirements. But she would do better this time, in both. Or at least, that was the idea, and ideas don't always work out.

[107 words]

Red Water

He writhed in pain as the hot water hit him, stinging his skin and his scars. The blood flowed off him, going in big puddles down the drain hole as he clung to his side and cried. The tears along with the water washed over his face, somewhat reliving except for the stinging across his body from the fresh scars Cameron had laid. It hurt. The water would do him good, clean away the dirt, but right now, it continued to sting. He adjusted the taps, trying to lessen the pressure and fit it into a more comfortable temperature, but the difference it would make was subtle. He ran his fingers over the scars to see if the blood was still streaming, and for most of them, it wasn't. A few more bandages would help. Then he turned off the taps. He stood there shivering for a moment, before turning them on again. Just a little longer. Maybe the pain would stop.

[162 words]

Unknown Mystery

There was a reason behind it all, and she was beginning to see it. Slowly. Or at least, see part of it slowly. She'd never know it for sure, but those were her theories. They sounded reasonable. Interchangeable. She believed them. She also believed that there were some things that would never change. Life was like that. Hopes and desires, reasons and the unknowns. Without the unknowns, life wouldn't be the mystery that everyone claimed it to be. But it'd be a hell of a lot easier, too.

[88 words]

The Attack of Folding Stuff - Part 2

Temporarily removed.

[864 words]

The Attack of Folding Stuff - Part 1

I kind of want to use this for a university assessment (or at the very least, competition), but I'm not sure... considering it's incorporating quite a few quotes and ideas that have been overheard there by my lecturers and tutors :P


Temporarily removed.

[1,176 words]

Couldn't Understand Why

At seventeen, he knew better. Don’t take things from strangers. Don’t talk to someone you don’t know. Don’t get into someone’s car if they offer you a lift. They didn’t tell you what to do when someone was on top of you, ready to chuck you into an awaiting van. It was just “stick with friends” which clearly this night, he didn’t. How many people were interested in kidnapping random seventeen year olds off the streets anyway? And if so, not raping them, not killing them, or even requesting ransom? That’s what he couldn’t understand. Why they were holding him.

[100 words]

Reality Away

He grabbed the pen. It was procedure now, whenever he was on the verge of a breakdown. Grab the pen, uncap the lid, grab the nearest paper, stab, scribble, write. It seemed the only logical thing he could do when he was fully ready to crash. Sometimes he thought it'd be easier, but instead, he wrote. Short, sharp messages. Help. SOS. A feeling. A location. Anything to get his hand moving freely. Anything to get away from reality.

[78 words]

Writing In Progress

She lay on her stomach, trying to get comfortable on the grass. She'd be here a while, so she had to find the right position. That was it! She pulled out at wig from beneath her and chucked it away. Much better. Then she pulled out her things - book, journal, a handful of pens.

"Here goes nothing," she told herself, flipping the lid off the first pen and opening to the first page in the journal. It was blank. New. Even staring at nothing, a white page, inspired the writer.

For the page wasn't blank. It was alive, images screaming out at her, clutching at the depths and trying to hang onto a corner. She hurried to put the pen to work, and wrote her first word. And the second and third. They flowed slowly one after the other. If only they came out like that every time.

[149 words]

Cold Blood

His body shook violently, his hands rolled up into little fists, his legs curled up to his stomach. His bare chest remained bleeding, but even the pain didn't stop the cold. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his breathing was fast, trying hopelessly for his breath to warm the air around him. How he wished to go for a run, warm himself up, but it was out of the question. He couldn't stand, let alone walk or run. The exhaustion was almost as bad. He needed sleep. He couldn't get there. What if he didn't wake up when he did? So much blood. Too much blood. It was possible. He could die.

[112 words]

Sleep Talking

You know, despite having very little sleep, sometimes you just aren't tired, even after that long day, all that work you've done... you're tired, but not noticeably so. In any case, you're more awake than you were earlier, although technically, it doesn't mean you are. Suddenly talking about sleep sounds like a good idea. Just a little while longer, you'll say. You just need to finish this or that. A few more things, over the other side. Tiredness was an odd thing. Never stable, although maybe that's partly why. Your brain's overworked, longing for that bed, those blankets, that stretch... but you put it off. Yeah, soon. In a minute. An hour. It always caught up with you, but you could never catch up with it. That was the downside to sleep.

[132 words]

Max and Her

They were racing each other down the sandbanks, sprinting for the docks and towards the subjects. There were four of them and just the two cops, but they couldn't wait any longer. The woman was being threatened, and someone needed to intervene. That someone was partner on the job, Max, and he threw himself into the group and on top of the man with the knife. The woman jumped away in fright as the men scrambled on the wooden deck, just as the women officer appeared, gun out and yelling at everyone to get on the ground. It was all good for them. One of the subjects was already on the ground, underneath Max, but the others were still looking questionably from one to the other on advice for what to do. She was screaming at them all, waiting for her partner to hurry up and tie the guy. She didn't want to have to shoot, but their weapons were still at hand, only the woman was lowering hers. The others had no intention.

Her heart leaped to her throat as a disgruntled yell filled her ears. She stared in horror as an injured Max rolled over, blood streaming from his clothes. Then both men were in the water. She couldn't take it. There was too much noise. It was all too much for her. Her legs buckled, the tears flooded her eyes and obscured her vision, and she let out her loudest scream, which bounced off the waves and sent the birds flying.

[254 words]

Fine Shadows

The shadows made patterns on her book, ones she wanted to trace and follow. Such a drawing they would make - different and unique... but there were other things that had to be drawn first - portraits and rooms... Still, the idea was there. The criss-crossing of bars, the swirls of graffiti. Odd, but that was okay. She could turn it into something interesting, surely. Of course, the sun would move and the shadows would change, so she'd have to draw fast to keep up with it. It was doable, just not today. Ideas to pursue, stories to write, and general work to be done.

[105 words]

Last Minute

How many times would it take to learn that things shouldn't be left 'til the last minute? Was it even learnable? No matter what it was - homework, assignments, chores, competitions, dailies - they always got pushed further and further back, until they could be put off no longer. The last minute. It was more than common sense to get things done early, out of the way, forgotten about. To get things done well before hand, and well... done. A chance to fix it afterward if it's wrong, a chance to improve. A chance to admire what's been done. But things are left to the last minute, rushed, and sometimes it couldn't be helped. A distraction here or there could lead you astray for hours. Or not lead you back at all.

[132 words]

Three Men

Is this poetry? O_o Weird! I don't write poetry!

Let me paint you a picture, a world so dull.
A black and white canvas, a cracked skull.

Glass lay shattered,
the rain on the road,
three boys of seventeen, different eras.

For the first is thirty-four,
the second, twenty-five.
Only the third remains young,
but they've all grown old fast.

For when one dream broke,
the others followed,
all stabbed out of them
by a greedy monster.

A counselor, a teacher, a boy, a friend.
One man to blame, three men on the mend.

Blood and scars taint memories, no laughter, no joy.
The horror, it haunts. The men, they fall.

How many times will they get back up again,
when one day, they could lose it all?

[119 words]

Golden Brown

The books lay on the left, untouched. A million papers stacked up high and scattered untidily on the right. A piece of origami above on the shelf, and papers of green and orange, pink and painted red, lined and printed sat pinned onto the cork board, teasing her and her dreams of the writing room with much bigger cork boards, and many more pieces of scrap paper. Although none of it was really scrap. It was all worth something, right? Paper was great. And we had to save trees. And plus, it smells better when its old. Brown and golden. Beautiful, really.

[102 words]