Ascension: Chapter 2

It's a day late, but here (finally) is the latest instalment of Ascension. NaNo this year is turning into a real struggle. We're almost half way through the month, and I've only written about 4,000 words. Of course, I am in my final year of university, so I think that gives me a little bit of leeway, no? Still, I'm back in Cardiff now, so there's no excuse for not posting. Enjoy!

Chapter 2

 Mari leant her head against the glass as she watched the ground drop away. The view beyond was obscured by the grey-green of her eyes staring back at her, bloodshot and bruised from lack of sleep. She gripped the metal rail, desperate to still her shaking hands.

 ‘You should be watching this; it could be the only time we visit the city,’ her father said, gripping her shoulder. As he spoke a shadow fell over the bubble. Mari pushed away from the rail taking in the view from the curved glass walls for the first time since boarding.

 Haven hung in the early morning air, a semi-sphere of white light shining in the dawn. They were too close to see beyond its underside, so that they seemed to be rising towards a second moon that hung a mile above the earth. Already, the fields had been reduced to a series of green and brown patches of colour beneath them, and the town had become a collection of children’s toys. Mari glanced back at the bald force-worker who sat cross-legged in the centre of the glass bubble, ignored by the other passengers. Mari’s mother was a force-worker too, but could do little more than moving building blocks across construction sites. This was something else entirely. And for all Mari knew, she would be able to do something similar by the end of the day.

 ‘Look at that,’ her brother said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. A mother nearby drew her own young son a little closer, eyeing the pale silver ‘T’ tattooed above his left eye with distrust. Nobody trusted tech-heads like Set; they were a constant reminder of the technology-dependant humanity. Of course, Set could do things with machines that humans could only dream of.

 They had drawn level with the rock now, and could see the shining towers of Haven through the wisps of cloud. They were among the traffic of other bubbles now, each one carrying groups of tourists and pilgrims towards the floating city. The city was like nothing Mari had ever seen: wide avenues that cut in straight lines between towers and domes, sumptuous gardens, and courtyards dominated by ornate fountains. At the centre of the city were three pyramids, arranged around a courtyard so large that it could have held their entire village.

 ‘That’s where we’re going,’ her father said, pointing at the nearest pyramid. There was a something like a skull engraved on the side, a symbol that Mari recognised as the emblem of the Lord of Death.

 ‘I’m not sure about this, dad,’ Mari said. The other two pyramids had symbols of their own; the all-seeing eye of the Faceless, and the scales and swords of Parliament.

 ‘Mari-’ her father began, shooting a warning glance at the other passengers.

 ‘I don’t see why we have to do this,’ she hissed.

 ‘It is a great honour, Marianne,’ said a voice behind her. Mari hadn’t heard her aunt approach, but now the woman stood behind her, impeccably dressed as always. Beside her stood Mari’s cousin, Shan; a younger copy of her mother.

 ‘Yes, Aunt,’ Mari said, conscious of attracting the attention of those around them.

 ‘Only a few children from each region get chosen to receive their Blessing in the temple of the Faceless.’

 ‘Yes, Aunt,’ Mari smiled. She knew that what the woman said was true, but proud was the last thing she felt. Shan sidled up to her, a smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

 ‘I’m sure everything will be fine, Mari,’ she said, squeezing her arm a little too hard. Mari grimaced back at her. For all she knew, her Blessing would be something ridiculous, or useless. There was a little old lady who lived on the edge of town whose Blessing granted her invisibility. However, she could only sustain it for fourteen minutes. And only on the night of a full moon. And what was that, compared to people like the bubble pilot? People who could levitate twenty people at a time with ease, or the power-brokers who could generate enough energy to light a whole city, or the weather-workers who could summon a typhoon with a gesture.

 The bubble shuddered slightly, and the minor vibrations that ran had shaken the vehicle ever since it had risen from the ground subsided.

 ‘What was that?’ Mari asked.

 ‘Oh, don’t worry dear. We’ve just passed through Haven’s shield.’ Her aunt pointed to a line of men and women who stood on the edge of the city walls.

 ‘The city has a whole team of force-workers who keep a force-field round the city. So that people don’t get blown away and stuff.’ Shan added knowingly.

 ‘Have you thought about what you want?’ she added, lowering her voice so that their parents couldn’t hear.

 ‘What?’ Mari asked.

 ‘You know, what Blessing do you want?’ Shan pressed.

 ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mari cast her eyes downwards ‘I guess I’d like to by a force worker, like my mother.’

 ‘She’s not very good though, is she? Still I guess it’s better than being a Linguist like your dad, or a Tech-head.’ Shan smiled. Mari grit her teeth to stop her from pointing out that her father’s ability to understand any language after only a few minutes was part of the reason that their town did so well when traders came through. Or hitting Shan for being a stuck-up cow, whichever came first.

 ‘What about you?’ she asked instead.

 ‘Oh, I was thinking a Luck-worker like mummy, but more powerful. Or an Alchemist,’ Shan smiled; the first genuine smile all day ‘That way I can get out of the town and live in one of the big cities. Maybe even Haven.’

 ‘That would be nice,’ Mari said, as they were joined by Set. Shan nodded at her other cousin, and then drifted away, as though repulsed by Set and drawn to her mother by some obscure form of magnetism.

 ‘That girl is deluded,’ Set muttered, ‘As if any of us would ever end up in Haven.’

The Ascension: Chapter 1

 Ok, so I'm a little behind on this already. In my defence, it's largely because I've spent the last couple of days in deepest, darkest Sussex, where finding a spot with a single bar of internet is like striking gold. Still, here's the second instalment of Ascension for your reading pleasure:  

 Naren looked up into the face of his brother. The white stone gleamed in the light from the windows that looked over the courtyard, so that the statue seemed to glow in the darkness. The image was perfect; an exact likeness of Cristo as he had been the last time he had left the castle. The Faceless ones had sifted through the memories of everyone present that day- Naren included- in order to furnish the sculptor with the image he needed to complete the statue.

 Looking into the marble face, Naren saw an idealised version of himself. His cheekbones were not as defined as his brother’s; his nose was not as straight and noble. Naren’s eyes were closed together. Cristo had been strong; a noble warrior, a natural leader. Naren knew, in his heart, that he was none of these things. Of course, Cristo had been 19 when he died, less than a year away from claiming the throne for himself.

‘You should be in bed,’ Naren turned to see his sister standing behind him. Rei had been Cristo’s twin, born only an hour later, and a full decade earlier than Naren.  Her purple eyes matched their mother’s, like both of her brothers. Her hair was black like her fathers, while Naren and Cristo were both blond. She had also inherited their father’s wings, although hers were a delicate dove grey, while Azrael’s were black as night. Unlike Azrael and Rei, Cristo had not been Blessed with wings. Although it was a common trait in their family, there was a good chance that he would remain earth-bound following the ceremony tomorrow. Just like Cristo He rolled his shoulders, the skin on his back itching with the thought of wings.

‘You have a big day tomorrow, and the Ascension can be tiring, physically and mentally,’ she added, coming to stand next to Naren and gaze up at the statue of their brother. Naren nodded.

 ‘I’m going now,’ he said, although he didn’t move. He and Rei had never been close, largely due to the gap in their age. When Rei had received her Blessing, and began to see the futures of the people she met as shadows in the back of her mind, she had grown increasingly distant. Cristo’s death had only driven them further apart. Suddenly, ten year-old Naren was the heir to their father’s throne, while Rei, already a grownup, was passed over because she was a girl.

 ‘Do you see anything? About tomorrow?’ Naren asked, trying to keep his voice steady. Rei shook her head.

 ‘There are some things that are beyond my ability,’ she said. Naren glanced up at her.

 ‘Are you sure? Nothing?’ he pressed unwilling to believe her.

 ‘You know as well as I do that anything could happen,’ Rei replied. ‘Still, I suggest that you get some rest. Whatever happens, you’re going to need it.’ With that she sprang into the air, buffeting Naren with a downward rush of wings as she vanished over the rooftops.

The Ascension: Prelude

 As promised, here's the first instalment of my NaNo WriMo novel: The Ascension. I'm not completely sold on the characters names, though, so those could well change before I reach the final draft. Please let me know what you think in the comments section below.

Prelude: The Fall of Man

 The humans came first. Their movements were stilted, jarring back and forth under the protection of their technology and armour. And yet there was a kind of grace in their lack of fluidity as they went about the worship of their infernal devices. If there was any beauty to them it was in their harshness, in the aura of barbarism as they lunged at each other. The men and women fell into groups, splitting apart and reforming without any notice as they warred and made peace over their trivial idols and barely-distinguishable systems of thought. The world around them was sick and twisted, so that even the air was heavy with their pollution. The humans went to war, violently clashing against each other. Fists gave way to rocks, swords were replaced by guns.

 And then she was there. She rose out of the melee of weapons and blood without a warning, merely appearing in the middle of the human strife like a gentle breeze on an arid day. She was grace and beauty personified, her movements liquid and entrancing, everything that the humans which surrounded her were not. She spun and glided between them, dressed all in white, with her auburn hair flowing loose behind her.

 One of the human men stepped forwards, a knife in each hand. He brought one of them down in a vicious, mechanical arch towards her chest. She stepped away from the attack with ease, and lightly pressed her hand to his chest. The knife fell to the ground with a clatter, followed a moment later by the human’s lifeless form.

 The humans stopped their fighting and turned on her as one. United at the end. All of their weapons, their strategies and technology, were nothing to her, though. She swam between them, and men and women fell at the slightest touch. But more and more humans were coming now, joining in the desperate fray even as their fellows lay heaped on the floor.

 In the middle of the maelstrom of blood and violence, she began to spin. The humans drew back, afraid of being touched by even the edges of her white clothes. From out of the white whirl stepped one, two, three, four figures. The first was winged, and his face was hidden behind a skull-like mask. The next was a giant of a man, taller even than the figure in white, his body a mass of tightly-wound muscle, but who moved with a grace at odds with his size. Behind him came a dark figure, wrapped in armour made of ice. And finally, a creature that was less like a man than a living tumour, an ever-changing mass of flesh that at one moment had two legs, then four, then none at all.  

 And now she stood against the humans, with her sons at her side. Death, War, Famine, and Plage moved around her in an intricate dance, each as devoted in their love for their maker as they were in their hatred for humanity. Now she was everything that she was ever meant to be, at the height of her beauty and glory. Now, she was Mother.

 Her four sons dashed around her as she resumed her dance, adding their own rhythms and patterns to her movements as they became increasingly confident. The humans fell around them, and soon no more arrive. Mother stood, triumphant, over the corpses of humanity, her four sons around her.

 A hand reached out of the carnage, a single human still alive with barely the strength to lift its arm. The fist gripped Mother’s leg above the angle. She gave a sharp tug once, twice, three times, and the hand fell away. But it left a deep red stain on her skirts which, even as she strode away from the bodies, began to spread. The red blossomed across the pure white of her dress, spreading and darkening until its purity was masked by a red so deep that it was almost black. Mother gave a convulsive shudder, and slumped forwards.

 Her sons gathered round her, moving with uncertainty and disease for the first time in their existence. Winged Death reached forwards to place a comforting hand on the shoulder of his Mother. She snapped back from the touch, whirling round in an animalistic blur of speed.

 Mother crouched, glowering at her sons. She sprang forwards, hands outsretched like claws. And now the dance began again, only now Mother was fighting her own sons, even as they were were trampling the remains of humanity into the dust. At first they evaded her grasp, unwilling to fight back against the one who had given them life. But it soon became clear that Mother would stop at nothing short of total destruction.

 War struck first, a blow to her shoulder that turned Mother in a graceful summersault towards the ground. She sprang again, however, only to be blocked by one of Death’s wings. The dance was intense now, as mother fought with her children.

 Finally, Death stepped forward, landing a blow to Mother’s chest. She staggered, and fell, disappearing beneath the carpet of deceased humanity that surrounded them.

 It was over.

 Around the hall, the dimmed lighting was returned to its former brilliance. The images of the dead humanity, of the Four Horsemen, flickered and faded, leaving only a man and woman, dressed in figure-hugging suits of sheer plack. They bowed low.

 Naren looked over his should at the throne, and the winged figure who sat upon it. Azrael said nothing, but bowed his head slightly. Beside him, his wife began to clap gentle, a motion that was picked up in a wave that travelled around the hall, until the entire room was filled with applause. The performers bowed again before retreating.

 Azrael stood, the feathers of his wings sweeping the floor.

 ‘120 years ago, humanity was destroyed by Mother Apocalypse and her sons. Among them was my ancestor, the first Lord of Death. Tomorrow morning,’ he said, his voice carrying round the hall with no apparent effort ‘My son, and my heir, will Ascend, and take his rightful place among the People.’

 Naren felt the eyes of the crowd turn on him. He raised his chin slightly, and endeavoured to appear taller than he was. Now his mother came forward down the steps, the light of the hall gleaming on her shaved skull. She bent down slightly, and kissed him on the forehead, before leading him back towards the throne to stand before his father. Azrael was a head taller than his son, and he towered over the boy, his eyes cold and emotionless. He raised a hand, and placed it on his son’s head; a universal sign of blessing.

 The crowd began to applaud again. Naren turned to look out among the assembled noblemen and dignitaries. There was always a crowd on the night before Ascension, but he was too young to remember seeing one this large. It had been over a decade since the last royal child had received their blessing. Among the crowd he saw his sister, Rei. She clapped, but only half-heartedly, and there was no joy in her eyes. Naren felt a chill run down his body as her gaze met his own.

 His father led the way down the short flight of stairs and out of the large doors at the far end of the hall, his wife and a number of servants following close behind. The crowds returned to their seats, to eat and drink, although with a more subdued air. The celebration proper was at an end now that the Lord had left, and it would not be long before the last of the revellers retired to bed, leaving the cheerful room cold and empty.

 No longer the centre of attention, Naren slipped out of a side door, leaving the heat and light of the hall behind as he fled into the gloom of the castle.

The Lady In Grey: An All Hallow's Read

 Way back in the dim and distant past (2010), Neil Gaiman came up with a new tradition for Halloween. Yes, I did just use the phrase 'new tradition', and no, I'm not going to apologise for it. At all.

 This new tradition (there, I did it again, just to prove how unashamed I am of this illogical and flagrantly anti-traditional idea) was called 'All Hallow's Read', and it is very simple. On or around Halloween, you give a book, or story, or comic, to someone as a gift. The book can be old or new, and the recipient can be a friend, family member, or total stranger. (Disclaimer: like sweets, books from strangers should be treated with the utmost caution, kids.) The only real rule is this: they must be scary.

 I love the idea behind this, because people simply don't share literature enough these days. Some of the most interesting conversations I've ever had have been those discussing books read, not for school or work, but for pleasure. Moreover, horror novels are so much more scary than horror films. It's just a fact. And sharing is caring.

 Here's a video in which Mr Gaiman talks about All Hallow's Read. Those figures in the background are people who prefer film and TV over literature. You can also find out more about All Hallow's Read here.

 In the spirit of All Hallow's Read, I've decided to give everyone a little gift. This is one of the first horror stories I wrote. In fact, it's one of the first stories I wrote, period. It won me a prize for one of the monthly competitions at Cardiff Univerity's Creative Writing Society (but not the month you might expect). Alumni from a certain prep school in Chichester, West Sussex will probably recognise the legend behind it, and I am thus indebted to the generations of schoolboys (and schoolgirls) who came before me.


The Lady In Grey

 Of the three matrons at West Street Boarding School, Marion was the favourite.

 Marion had never been married. She had been engaged once, long ago, and still wore her engagement ring on a chain around her neck, together with a small, simple cross which had belonged to her fiancée. She never told anyone about it, of course. Just like she never told anyone about the day that she had returned home from work, only to find the building engulfed in flames. She never spoke about her dead fiancée, and she always kept the ring hidden from sight. She wore, at all times, simple grey clothing, having decided that black was too severe a colour to wear twenty years after the fire, and had earned the nickname ‘The Grey Lady’ from the boys under her care.

 She had lost her eye- indirectly- because of the fire. The fire that had burnt down her home, that had killed her lover. She had stood outside their house, watching as the firemen battled the inferno, fighting back her tears. And then something hit her in the eye. There was a moment of searing pain, in her eye, which she quickly managed to brush away. An ember had blown into her eye, damaging its surface. Although she had thought little of it at the time, (who would, at a time like that?) the wound became infected and, a few months later, she returned to her mother’s house from the hospital, her right eye replaced with a sphere of glass. The fire that had robbed her of everything she owned, of her future as a wife and a mother, had also partially robbed her of sight.

 Marion loved all of the boys under her care, with the possible exception of Jack.

 Jack was, to Marion, everything that was bad about children. The student was, like so many others, a chorister. But while most of the other boys were quiet and polite as a result of the extensive time spent in the Cathedral, Jack was the exact opposite. His talent as a singer had made him arrogant, and too many midnight feasts had made him fat.

 When Marion found Jack stealing sweets from other boys, she punished him. That night, Jack was sent to bed before the other boys, without his evening snack. That night, Jack decided to get his revenge.

The dormitory in which Jack slept was called Long Dorm. It was a large wood-panelled room which was both too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. It had twenty beds, although only twelve of them were occupied. The room had hard, wooden floorboards, which gave any boy who walked across the room without shoes a foot full of splinters. In the far corner, behind a locked door, was a spiral staircase which led all the way through the building to the ground floor, and served as the fire escape.  In the event of a fire, or a drill, it was Marion’s job to wake the boys, unlock the door, and lead them down the narrow staircase to the safety of the school playground outside.

That night, Marion woke with the sound of the fire alarm blaring in her ears. She was out of her bed and on her feet before she was fully awake, striding down the hallway to Long Dorm. She knew that this couldn’t be a drill; she wouldn’t have gone to bed if there had been one planned. As she passed a staircase leading down to the rest of the school, she smelt smoke. She quickened her pace, trying to move as quickly as possible without appearing panicked.

She entered the room and flicked on the lights, quietly pleased to see that most of the boys were already out of bed, sleepily pulling on their dressing gowns and slippers and shuffling towards the door to the spiral staircase. Jack was already there, waiting by the locked door. For a few boys, the only response to the alarm had been to drag the covers over their heads. Normally, Jack would have been one of them. A moment of suspicion flared in her before she fought it down. Jack was a prankster and a bully, yes, but even he wouldn’t set fire to the school. Would he?

 With all of the boys out of their beds, Marion began struggling with the old, stiff lock of the disused door. Behind her, the boys stood in a ragged crowd, some chattering with excitement, some fidgeting nervously, some practically falling asleep again where they stood. Only Jack remained entirely still, waiting at Marion’s elbow.

Marion stood at the top of the staircase, feeling in the dark for the light switch. Just as she reached it, she felt a pressure in the small of her back. She turned as she fell, and saw Jack’s grinning face framed by the light which spilled out of the dormitory. She fell through the darkness, bouncing off one wall after another as she tumbled all the way downwards. She landed on the narrow landing which opened out onto the floor below with a thud which knocked the glass eye from its socket and sent it skittering off into the gloom below. By the time anyone knew what had happened, Marion was dead.

Time passed and life, gradually, returned to normal. A memorial service was held for Marion, at which the choristers, including those from Long Dorm, had sung. Despite an extensive search, her glass eye was never found. A new matron was hired; one who was just as strict as Marion had been, but lacked the other woman’s kindness and sense of humour. The damage to the library, where the fire had started, was repaired. The cause of the fire was never firmly established, although a cleaner- an old man with a habit of leaving cigarette butts in the bins- was fired.

 At first, Jack was the same as ever. He was still just as loud and rude. He still stole chocolate and biscuits from the smaller boys and, by the time the summer term was nearly at an end, he was even fatter than he had been before.

 It was two weeks until the end of term when things started to change. Jack found himself waking, again and again, in the middle of the night. He would lie perfectly still; uncertain of what had woken him. And then he would see, in the corner of his eye, movement in the shadows near the door to the spiral stairs. Or he would catch the smell of burning. Or worst of all, he would hear the sound. It was like a marble, a glass marble, rolling along the wooden floorboards, starting in the corner and approaching his bed, before stopping abruptly, only a few feet away.

 When he told the others, he was ignored. Everyone knew that he was a liar and a trouble-maker. He had tried to scare them, or trick them, or bullied them in the past, and they were tired of it. When he tried to tell the teachers, it was worse. There was talk of sending him to a psychiatrist, murmurs that he wasn’t dealing with the trauma of Marion’s death properly.

 The end of term was greeted, as always, with much excitement. Long Dorm was a hive of activity long after lights out, as the boys excitedly discussed their plans for the long summer holidays which stretched out before them. Only Jack was silent. He lay in his bed, perfectly still, refusing to be drawn into any conversation. He didn’t even stir to join in with the customary midnight feast. He lay awake long after the other boys had fallen silent, finally falling into a light, fitful sleep.

 Jack woke a few hours later, covered in sweat. The room, always warm in the summer evening, now seemed unbearably hot. Without opening his eyes, Jack kicking the sheets away in an attempt to cool down. He froze as his nostrils were filled with the smell of burning. Gradually, he became aware of the sound of a glass marble being rolled along the floor of the dormitory. At first it was quiet, so soft that he wasn’t sure that he had actually heard it. It grew louder as it approached. And then it would stop, the sound quickly fading away as the marble switched direction, moving away from him. A moment later, it would start again, as it drew gradually closer to his bed. Each time, it would stop just before reach the place where Jack lay, his eyes firmly closed.

 Finally, Jack could bear it no longer. The smell of burning had grown so strong that it stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. The sound of the marble, the noise rising and falling as it moved around the room, echoed through his head so that he felt he would scream. He opened his eyes.

 Someone was standing at the end of his bed.

 The moonlight streamed through the window behind it, illuminating the figure from behind. All that Jack was certain of was that it was a woman. A woman dressed entirely in grey.

 The sound of the fire alarm ripped through the building. It wasn’t until the school had been evacuated, and the boys were gathered in the playground, that anyone realised that Jack wasn’t there. They searched the building, but the boy could not be found. When the new matron checked his bed she found, nestled in the crumpled sheets, a glass eye. Jack was never seen again.

November Cometh: NaNoWriMo and Movember

 Ok, so I didn't post anything last week. Naughty me. Still, I'm going to be making up for it over the next month or so, or at least I hope so.

 This Thursday is Halloween, simultaneously one of my favourite and most hated holidays of the year. I love it because it gives me a chance to be creative, to dress up however I want without fear of any negative comments or too much hassle. (That said, of course, my Punk Rock Dorothy costume two years ago resulted in the loss of my NUS card and about £5 change because people kept lifting up my skirt.) I hate it because there's a certain demographic of people who think that putting on a mask entitles them to do whatever they want, regardless of the safety of themselves or others. Halloween also means that everywhere will be packed this weekend, and not in the good, there's-so-many-people-here-and-there's-great-energy way. In the bad, claustrophobic, elbow in the face, beer down the front, cigarette burn on you hand kind of way.

 And after Halloween comes November; the true start of winter. The month of cold, rain, and falling leaves (although we've had quite enough of all three already, thank you very much). The moth of Christmas shopping (hopefully). And, most important of all, the month of NaNo WriMo.
 For the uninitiated, Nano Wrimo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which is itself a misnomer as it started in America and has since spread across the world. Every year, writers of all ages, talents, and backgrounds pledge to write 1,667 words each day in November. By the end of the month, they are rewarded with a first draft of a 5,000 word novel. If they finish, of course, which many don't. The idea is to get people writing, without giving them the time to second-guess themselves or worry too much about perfecting their work. When you have that much to write in such a small amount of time there's little, if any, opportunity for editing.

 I took part in NaNo for the first time last year, and successfully completed my first novel The King of Dreams. Of course, it's taken me far longer to edit the damn thing than it did to actually write, but there you go. Hopefully, The King, which I am immensely proud of, will find its way to an agent/publisher soon, and thence to the rest of the world. Fingers crossed.

 In the meantime, this year I thought I'd go one step further. Not only am I taking part in NaNo once more, I'm going to be blogging my chapters as I write them. Or, rather, I'll be posting two chapters up each week in November. I'm planning a novel divided into several volumes, each between 10,000 and 15,000 words. While the chapters of the first volume will be posted on here for all to read and enjoy for free, the entire book will be available to buy online (hopefully through Amazon, iTunes, etc.) at some point in the New Year.

 My reasons for doing this are two-fold. First, it will hopefully give me the added incentive I need to keep on writing creatively, even as final year of university crushes the life out of me. Second, it will force me to self-edit as I write, while hopefully getting additional advice from my audience (hint, hint).

 Of course, the idea of serialisation isn't new. Dickens did it, and had people lining the docks in New York in order to read the latest instalment of The Old Curiosity Shop. Those writing in the comic book industry effectively divide their stories into 30-page chapters each month. The writers of soap operas do it daily. I have great respect for all of these people and the things they do. Part of the beauty of this is that it allows the story to be delivered in easily digestible, bite-sized chunks. Part of the challenge is knowing that everything you write has to stick; there's no space for errors of rewrites (retcons excluded, of course) when your work is being read almost as soon as you finish it.

 On a completely different note, November is also Movember, a month where men around the world grow moustaches to raise awareness for testicular cancer. Or something. No-one I've spoken to really seems to understand the specifics of it, other than not shaving properly for a couple of weeks.

 Every year, friends of mine do it, and tell me that I should, too. Every year, I turn them down. I do this because A) If I'm going to do something for charity, I want to know exactly what it is, and how it works. I want to do it properly. People always mention sponsorship in a vague, after-thought kind of way, and that doesn't sit well with me. If this is something that people do to raise money, then I want to raise money, not just take part for the novelty of a hairy upper lip. B) I've never grown a moustache before. In fact, I don't think I've gone more than four days in a row without shaving since I was fifteen. I have no idea if I'm even capable of growing a moustache. In fact, I'm pretty sure that my older brothers have inherited all of the hair in the family gene pool.

 But, this year is my final year at university. That means that this is, in many ways, my last chance to do this sort of thing without coming across as an idiot. So why not? Like many of my friends I'll 'look into' sponsorship as I go along, and if I find I can't grow a moustache, well, there's always wigs, right?

 So, one massive challenge. One extremely nervous writer. One impending 'tash. A lot that could go wrong. And a lot that will go right.

 Check back here on Sunday for the first instalment of the novel, and every Wednesday and Sunday for the rest of November for more chapters!

Bonsai Trees, Gorilla Pep Talks, Tie-Dye, and Sue Perkins

 I seem to be making a lot fo stupid mistakes at the moment. Or rather, I am making reasonable, rational decisions from an objective point of view, but which are utter fails from my personal point of view. For the last week or so I've been laid low by Fresher's flu (despite being a third year student), which I'm inclined to blame for my recent spate of ill-judgement. On the other hand, everyone makes a fair amount of bad decisions in their lives. Considering the fact that I tend to make safe, sensible choices most of the time, perhaps my mistakes are just coalescing together. Or maybe the first mistake opened the flood gates, and I'm now doomed to be deluged by error after error for evermore.
 What are these mistakes I've been making? Well, let's see.

Tuesday
 I bought a Bonsai tree.
 Ok, so that doesn't seem like such a huge mistake, at least in theory. Every year, there's a houseplant sale outside my student union. For the last two years, I have walked past, admired some of the plants, and then moved on. Each time, I have resolved that, while I don't really have the space/time/energy to look after a houseplant this year, I will next year. Well, there is no more 'next year'. I'm in my final year of university. So no more union plant sales, no more deferring.
 I chose a bonsai tree because I've always found them quite entertaining. Here is a tree that can literally be held in the palm of my hand. I've always had a penchant for things that are the wrong size, as evidenced by the giant key-shaped clock on my bedroom wall. So I picked one that looked reasonably healthy, parted with roughly £13 of my hard-earned student loan, and happily carried the little fella home. I proudly showed it off to my housemates, and placed it on top of a chest of drawers where it would get plenty of light.
 And then I realised my mistake. I can't care for another living being. I can barely care for myself. And this isn't just any plant, mind, where you can maybe leave it for a couple of days without watering, and it will be fine. No. According to my research (google), bonsai trees need to be kept in bright areas, but away from direct sunlight. Well, there's little in the way of direct sunlight in Cardiff, but there's also a distinct lack of anything that could be called 'bright', either. They also have to be watered daily. So far, I've been using my left-over water from the night before, but there's a fine line between 'soaking' (the word used on the pot's little tag) the plant, and covering my cupboard in water. Third, they must be trimmed regularly to maintain their shape. Honestly, who has the time? So far, I've only given it a little haircut, using my nail clippers. I may have to invest in some mini scissors, if this is going to be a regular thing.
 The only other plant I have ever had was a cacti that was given to me as a seventh birthday present. It was about ten centimetres high, and covered in white fur. Admittedly, it lasted for over a decade, but that was because cacti are, at least compared to most plants, virtually indestructible. I believe that the family dog finally brought about the cacti's demise; larger and braver members of the botanic world have faced off against our German Shepherd and failed.
 So, the bonsai tree, who I have started calling Tyler (Bonsai Tyler, see what I did there?), may well have been a disastrous decision. To be honest, I'd be surprised if it made it to the end of the term. And if it does, I have no idea how I'll get it back to West Sussex for the Christmas holidays.

Wednesday
 Stomach-shrivelling mistake number two involves improper use of post it notes on the 4th floor of the university's Arts and Social Sciences Library. Having taken out my limit of library books, I was faced with a conundrum. In order to get more books out, I would have to return some of the ones already in my possession. This would mean, in some cases, actually reading the books I've had on loan since the start of the summer. In order to further delay this inevitable and traumatic event, I decided to return one of the books I actually had read. But arouse another problem.
 I hate underlining passages in books. To me, it is one of the greatest acts of vandalism possible. However, I am also often too lazy to make notes of page numbers, or to write interesting points up as I read them. My solution over the summer holidays was to cover the inside of one particular book with torn-up bits of post-it notes. A sound idea, although they do tend to slip and slide a bit.
 So on Wednesday I sat in the library, removing bits of post-it note from the book and copying down the relevant passages. All of this took about an hour and a half. By the time I was finished I was tired and hungry, and desperate to go home.
 I started to gather up my things, but stopped when it came to the little pile of yellow post-it bits.  'Wouldn't it be better,' my study-addled brain suggested, 'to do something useful with the paper, rather than just throw it away?'
 'Alright,' another part of my mind answered, 'but what? What can I do, that would be useful and creative and uplifting, within the confines of the library, with some torn-up post-it notes?'
 'Well, sometimes the library can be a hard and depressing place. Sometimes you need a little cheering up, after hours of studying. How about some pleasant messages?'
 So I wrote down some nice thoughts on the paper. They included things like 'I will always love you' and 'Smile!'
 So far so good.
 And then I did the stupid thing.
 I went round the 4th floor of the library, picking up books at random, and placing the notes inside them. I didn't really pay attention to the books themselves. One was on Greek architecture, I think, and I'm pretty sure another was written in German. Some were old, and may not be read again before the library deems them obsolete and throws them away. Others were new, and my yellow post-it could well have been the first act of the same literary vandalism that I hate so much.
 In my mind, I had grand visions of struggling students coming across these messages of hope and love in their darkest hours of pre-deadline research, and being comforted by them. In reality, it was kind of a prat thing to do. No one wants to be bothered by other people's notes in library books, unless they can be useful to their own work. People will wonder what kind of an idiot leaves those kinds of notes in a library book. There's a good chance that people will dismiss them off-hand, and chuck them in the bin.
 So, if you're a Cardiff Uni student and you come across evidence of my little act of anarchist-peppiness, you're welcome/I'm sorry. I did it out of love.

Friday
 Next week, my choir are having a social. Because one of the pieces we're doing this term is the Lion King, it is naturally a Lion King-themed party. There will be fancy dress, and booze, and prizes.
 Now, the obvious choice would be to pop down to somewhere like Primarni and pick up an animal print onesie. But everyone will do that, and I want my prize.
 Instead, I am creating a costume by tie-dyeing some old clothing and a white sheet. More on the costume later; it's not finished yet, and I don't want to give away the surprise. But here's a little taster. Intriguing, no?

 

 This is the first time I've ever tried tie-dyeing anything. As many of you know, it is a messy process. Because I had a big day the following day, I made sure that I was wearing gloves throughout the dyeing process. However, because I was doing this at eleven at night, I forgot to keep the gloves on when cleaning up.
 The results were predictable. As I type this, the fingers and palm of one hand are stained a lovely shade of green-blue. In a desperate attempt to rectify the problem, I turned to soaps, shampoo, sugar, washing-up liquid, and, finally, white spirit to clean myself off. Considering that I have pretty bad eczema at the moment, none of these were terribly pleasant. None of them worked terribly well, either, although they did remove some of the colour. Together with about two layers of skin.  

Saturday
 Today, finally, I did something good. Or, not so much good, as enjoyable. What I should have been doing today was reading for my degree (I still have over 300 pages of the 670 page Mysteries of Udolpho to read for Tuesday). Instead, I was at the old BBC studio in Cardiff, filming for a top-secret tv project with my friend Esther. And Sue Perkins.
 To be honest, I don't even feel guilty about this one. Ok, so today I've only read 25 pages for one of my modules. Ok, so I had to get up at the crack of dawn. Ok, so I couldn't identify a picture of Ernie Wise. But I got £40 out of it, and a free meal.
 And I. Met. Sue Perkins.
 She's a lovely woman, is Sue Perkins (I seem to be incapable of referring to her solely by her first name; it just doesn't seem right). She was charming and funny, and very camp. She made a joke about my enjoyment of wearing a blindfold. There was laughter.
 I also managed to get a photograph with her. That's Esther on her left, but she's not really important to this story.

Speed Date

 Something a little bit different from my usual fair. Not only is it not fantasy or sci fi, it's actually a comedy piece. Or, rather, it's meant to be a comedy piece. I'll leave its success or failure on that score down to you're judgement. I started this for a university assignment, and expanded it later on. Who knows, if I ever end up writing scripts, it could end up in a play or tv show!
 Enjoy!

Two minutes.

 I sit down opposite the girl, and we smile nervously at each other. She is blond, with brown eyes and fair skin. A little plain, perhaps, though not unattractive. To a straight man, that is. Which I most decidedly am not.

 ‘Hi, I’m Kate.’ She says, smiling again and playing nervously with the drink in front of her.

 ‘I’m-’ Gay, I think. No, stop it. ‘I’m Alex.’ And I’m gay.

 ‘So… tell me about yourself.’ I say, struggling to get things started, and wondering self-consciously what all the other couples are talking about.

One minute, forty seconds.

 ‘Well, I’m twenty years old, I’m from Bristol, and I’m studying Bioscieince.’ She says, speaking rapidly before pausing to take a large sip of her drink. ‘What about you? I guess you’re a student?’

 Of course I’m a student, I think. This is a student speed date, set up by the student’s union, and held in the student bar.

‘Yeah, I’m studying music,’ I’m gay. ‘I’m 21,’ I’m really gay. ‘and I’m from Winchester.’ And I’m a raving homosexual.

One minute, thirty seconds.

 ‘It must be nice studying music,’ Kate says a little wistfully ‘Do you play any instruments?’

 I’m an excellent horn-blower- Stop! ‘Yeah, I play piano and guitar. How about you?’

 ‘I used to play the cello, but I gave it up a couple of years ago.’ She gives me what I guess is meant to be a seductive smile. ‘Although I really miss the feeling of something hard between my legs.’

 Something we have in common, I think.

 ‘Perhaps you should take it up again.’ I say.

 ‘Or find a substitute.’ Oh, god. I have never wanted to fly the Pride flag more in my life.

 One minute, 10 seconds.

 ‘You know, you look just like Justin Bieber.’ She says. Just what every man wants to hear.

 ‘Oh, thank you.’ I hesitate for a second. ‘Are you a fan?’

 ‘Isn’t everyone?’ No, no they are not. ‘I think he’s so talented; don’t you find he’s so original? And there’s so much depth to his songs.’

 ‘I suppose so.’ I fight the urge to tell her that I would rather pour acid in my ear than go to a Bieber concert.

 ‘Actually, I just sent him a cake yesterday, for Valentine’s Day, you know.’

 ‘Oh really?’ She’s looking at me expectantly, as though I should confess to having done the exact same thing. For a moment I struggle to find something to say to fill the silence.

 Forty-five seconds.

 ‘What kind of cake was it?’ I ask.

 ‘Chocolate, of course; it’s his favourite.’ I wonder if I should be impressed by her knowledge, or embarrassed by the apparent lack in mine. ‘And hair.’ She adds.

 ‘Hair?’ I repeat. No, I must have misheard.

 ‘That’s right. I added some of my own hair to the batter.’ She smiles, as if chocolate hair cake is completely normal.

 ‘Why?’

 ‘Because once he eats it, a part of me will be inside him, and then we’ll be one forever.’ She smiles dreamily.

 Twenty-five seconds.

 ‘So how about you?’ she asks, breaking from her revere.

‘What about me?’ Have I ever sent a freaky voodoo cake to a famous person? A raisin-and-saliva cookie to a film-star, perhaps, or a jam-and-skin donut to a footballer?

 ‘Any celebrity crushes?’

 ‘Oh, no,’ Johnny Depp, Bradley Cooper, Ryan Gosling, ‘Not really.’

 Twenty seconds.

 ‘What kind of films do you like?’ I ask, desperately trying to fill the time.

 ‘I don’t know. I like comedies, I guess. Definitely not sci-fi or horror. To be honest, I’m not that into films. I think they’re too divorced from reality.’

 ‘Yeah,’ I say. As opposed to the girl who thinks that sending hair-cake to Justin Bieber is a good idea.

 Ten seconds.

 ‘So… what’s your favourite colour?’ Kate asks.

 Trick question: Gays don’t have a favourite colour, we like them all. ‘Um, blue, I guess.’

 ‘Me too!’ she beams, as though a mutual liking for a colour meant that we are eternal soul-mates.

Ding! Ding!

 ‘Well, it was lovely meeting you.’ Kate says as I stand up. She picks up the sheet of paper and makes a show of putting a tick next to my number.

 ‘Yeah, you too.’ I smile again, before moving on to the next table.

 Two minutes.

 ‘Well, what did you think?’ the girl asks as I sit down. ‘Do I hear wedding bells?’

 ‘This is the last time I go along with one of your ideas.’ I grumble, glaring at her.

 ‘Come on, it’s fun.’ She laughs. ‘Did you tell her you’re gay?’

 I jerk my head in the direction of the boy who has just moved to the next table.

 ‘Did you tell him that you’re engaged?’ I ask, arching an eyebrow.