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Wondering whether to pick up my writing again
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Apologies if this should be in General Discussion or something, but I've come across a couple of pieces that I started writing a while ago, and I just wanted an opinion really, on whether they were any good and if I should bother carrying on. Any feedback would be appreciated.
First:
And? And what? I suppose you expect me to do something. Sitting there, behind your glass, acting like I can’t see you. Well, newsflash, I may be in the crazy hospital but I’m not blind. What? You want something exciting, something that you can write about in your notebook? Is that it? Oh I get it, I’m just the science experiment, Crazy Girl In A Glass Box. Well, I’ve got something for you. I’m. Not. Crazy. You all think I am, but I’m not. No! Stay out of here, stay behind those glass walls that you love so much. Get away from me! No, not the needle, please, not the needle, look I’m better. I’m crazy again, I don’t need the needle. No…
"I’m sorry. It looks as though the release date isn’t going to be quite as soon as we hoped. She’s had… a relapse. Unfortunately, the treatments aren’t going as well as we’d hoped and she’s not responding to the counselling. Yes, I understand that you’d like to see her, but that’s just not our policy here at Pine Ridges. We know that it’s a very testing time for you all, a daughter with these kind of… problems can be very, very trying on a family but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be a little more patient. I’m sorry, that’s all the news I have. Goodbye Mr Miller. "
How would you feel? It’s so easy for you to sit there and judge me, blaming my daughter’s problems on me. Hannah didn’t choose to be this way, but neither did I cause her problems. She’s just sick, that’s all. Only instead of a broken leg, or an infected wound, it’s her mind that’s sick. The problems she has can be fixed, but it just takes time. Pine Ridges is the best place for her. You sit there looking at me like I should feel guilty for sending my daughter away. What else should I have done? If she was at home, she would probably have got worse and worse, and at the very best, we would have been able to manage her condition. At the hospital, there are the best doctors in the world, specialists in conditions like Hannah’s. Well, they haven’t given an official diagnosis yet. No, it’s because they’re still doing treatments and tests. Well, they can’t determine it, because every time they think they have it, she responds in a way that… Look, they haven’t been able to find out what’s wrong with her yet. They just need more time to give her condition a name. At the moment, all I know is that she’s sick in the mind, and that the doctors and Pine Ridges are doing all they can to help her.
I hate this room. It’s so small, so cold. I’m alone in this room, and I think that’s what I hate most about it. I don’t like to be alone, not in this place. Pine Ridges. Sounds like somewhere rich people go to relax and play golf. But it’s not. It’s a horrible place. They hurt you, hurt you so badly that you think you’re going to die. And you can’t see anyone. There’s no communication between the prisoners, patients they call us. They say that they’re treating us for our sickness. On the outside, this place is a mental institution where young people get treated for their… sickness. And their parents pay a lot of money for them to be kept here. I haven’t seen anyone since I arrived here, although I know I’m not the only one being treated. I know something else, too. I’m not crazy.
i dont want to be here/but theres no choice/no escape from hell/thats where i am you know/this place could only be hell/if it were anywhere on earth someone would have come for me/i wasnt crazy when they brought me here/but that was so long ago/so long/i dont know how old i was when i came here/i think i was about 15/but i dont know for sure/i dont know how old i am now/not sure/i might be 22/but thats just a guess/it might have only been a week/and not 7 years/seven/is that right?i dont know/i just dont know/but i do know i wasnt crazy/wasnt/maybe i was/maybe this is sanity/i hope not/if im not crazy now/then i dont know what i am/i hope this is crazy/if im crazy then maybe i wont notice any more/wont notice the pain/i think someone lives in the room next door/i wish i could see them/were not allowed out/not without a doctor/they lock the doors/do they lock the doors?never tried/opening the door seemed too far away/across the floor/how would i explain?what reason would i have for being out of bed?no reason/there would be trouble/musnt get up/but i want so badly to see her/she has a name/its not the same as mine/mine is annie/hers is hannah/i heard someone talking to her/her name is hannah/she lives next door/we are neighbours/should i bake a cake?maybe she will come and ask to borrow the sugar/i know that happens/i saw it on the tv/
I found out her name, the girl next door. It’s Annie. I heard them shouting it at her. I’ve seen her a couple of times and she definitely looks crazy, but that could be because she’s been here for a long time. She has the look, you know, of someone who’s been in a place for too long. Annie’s the person I’m most angry for, weirdly. I mean, I don’t deserve to be here either, but at least they haven’t taken my mind from me. My father thinks I lost it all on my own, but I know, in my mind that I’m still thinking clearly. I can try to get myself out of here. What hope does Annie have? So I’m angry on her behalf; how dare they destroy a girl like that?
She seems to be… thinking something. She could prove to be dangerous. I caught her trying to look into cell 42 yesterday when she was taken for her bath. I want her watched extra carefully. At this stage, it is vital that no one suspect anything and I do not want the operation to be compromised because subject 43 decides to investigate.
I saw Annie. She’s older than me, about 40 she looks, but I think she’s younger than that. The treatments they use seem to make us all look older for some reason. I guess it’s because we’re starting to get tired, and we’re not exactly well-fed either. I looked into her room when I was being taken for my bath. It’s such a humiliating experience. They make you stand in a small room, the size of a large shower, and then they turn the jets on you, like a car wash. The water is always warm enough, so that you can’t quite complain of it being cold, but it’s not warm enough to be comforting. Doesn’t seem much like a bath to me, but that’s what they call it. And they make you go naked, and half the time you’re ashamed and trying to cover yourself and then the jets start and you have to close your eyes because the soap they use stings. They take you there once a week, but they come in the mornings and unlock the bathroom that we all have in the corner of our rooms. I say bathroom; it comprises a sink and a toilet, but we’re only allowed to use it when they come. If you desperately need to go, you need to ring the bell and someone will come and unlock the door. That’s pretty humiliating too. Imagine having to wait for someone to open the toilet door before you can go, and then having them wait while you finish so that they can lock it again. I hate it here, the way they control us. But nothing’s as bad as the treatments.
I haven’t seen Hannah since she went to the hospital. I know it sounds a little extreme, but it’s the best hospital in the country and they say that when she comes out she’ll be fine, but when she’s getting her treatments she can’t have visitors. It just sends the patients back to the way they were before they went in, you see, and then they would never get better. Dr Roberts sends me updates very regularly, and it sounded like she was getting better until last week. Hannah was only 7 when her mother passed away, and I’m afraid that I wasn’t the father that she needed. I have a very important job; I’m the owner of a record company and I need to be around for my clients to contact me whenever they need to. It’s a small company, with only around 20 or so acts on the books, but we’re worth as much as some of the larger companies. That’s all down to the amount of hours that I put in, so I couldn’t spend as much time as I would have liked with Hannah. I feel responsible for her illness in that way. She’s my daughter and I let her down.
At the age of 15, Hannah had been used to spending time by herself and with her friends; I was working long hours and she seemed fine about it. How could I have known that she was just being brave? She was lonely, and even the school counsellor noticed it. It was Dr Barnes who first brought it to my attention. What a wonderful woman. She had been watching Hannah for a while and thought that she would benefit from talking to someone; the school Hannah attends… attended is very exclusive and the staff pay a lot of attention to the pupils. So after speaking to Dr Barnes, I agreed to see a therapist. After all, Hannah had never spoken to a professional after Tina’s death and I thought that it would be good for her to try and work through any underlying issues that she had over her mother’s death. Dr Barnes recommended a friend of hers, very discreet and very private, a Dr Coombs. He was a lovely man and he certainly seemed to be focused on getting Hannah back to normal. Hannah kicked up a fuss every time she had an appointment, kept telling me she didn’t need to speak to anyone, but how do you know that you don’t need something unless you’ve tried it? It turned out to be a good thing, in the long run. Dr Coombs informed me that Hannah was showing signs of a person who is going to develop… I can’t remember what the name of it is, but it’s a kind of schizophrenia brought on by depression and feelings of isolation. When he told me this, I knew that it was all my fault, and when he suggested she be admitted to Pine Ridges, I agreed. I was doing what was best by my little girl.
I haven’t seen my father since… Well, since I’ve been in here. They say we’re not allowed visitors. I say ‘they’ but the only one I really know is Dr Coombs. He’s the one who told Dad I needed to be here. Him and Dr Barnes. Dr Barnes was the psychologist at my school. I went to a pretty good school, one of those that’s in a really old building, that looks like it’s something out of Jane Austen. I used to like Jane Austen, used to like reading her books and imagining what it would be like to have a man come and sweep me off my feet. You tend to imagine things like that a lot when you’re at a girls’ school. My Dad paid a lot for me to go there, one of the perks of being a record company owner, but I wouldn’t’ve minded going to a local school where I could come home at night. I’d been boarding since Mum died and I didn’t much like the idea of Dad being home on his own all the time. After all, if I felt this bad when I was surrounded by my friends and teachers, what must he be going through on his own?
This is going to be a problem. Hannah is not responding to treatment like she was meant to. It seems that she’s not going to be as docile as we’d hoped. Get Dr Barnes on the phone, I’m going to need her authorisation on this one. Hello? Anita? This is Jack. Jack Coombs. I’ve got a problem. Hannah Miller. Yes, the one you sent from the school. She seems to be resisting treatment somehow. I don’t know, some kind of willpower, I suppose. She’s stronger than we anticipated. I want to up her dosage. Why not? She’s on 100 milligrams, but she’s not responding. The aging process is being accelerated by a marginal amount, she’s aged perhaps 3 weeks more than she should have. This is simply not good enough, I need your authorisation to double her daily dosage. We need to do this. We’re hardly getting anything from her, she’s not going to be profitable at all and we can hardly release her at this stage. We may as well up her dosage and see what happens. Yes, I know that this amount hasn’t been tested before. No one needs to find out. Her father? He doesn’t understand mental illness, we can tell him she reacted badly to something, a chemical in her medication. So can I raise her dose? Fine. I’ll wait another week.
I feel so weak/i don't know what to do about it/i caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day/i look like my grandmother/ha/she's old/but it's how I look now/i should talk to hannah/maybe she can hear me if I should/hannah lives next door/we are neighbours/i want to be friends/her name is hannah/
Am I a bad father? It certainly feels that way. Some of Hannah's friends called the house the other day and I didn't know what to tell them. How would you explain to someone that their friend has had a mental breakdown? Especially teenagers. I can't imagine them wanting to stay friends with her if they found out, with all the stigma attached to mental illness, and I want Hannah to go back to a normal life once she gets better. I'm going to take her on holiday. We haven't spent enough time together since her mother died, and I feel so guilty about what's happened to her. If only I'd been a better father, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Still, she'll get better. Pine Ridges is the best hospital in the country.
I saw that woman again – Annie. But something was wrong with her. I only saw her the other day as I was leaving my room, and she looked about my Dad's age. Today though... I could have sworn she looked about 20 years older. If that's what happens to you at the best mental hospital in the country, what on earth must the patients at the bog-standard NHS hospitals look like? No wonder no one thinks young people get mentally ill; all the youth gets sapped out of them in places like this. I've got to get out of here. But how? The doctors won't listen to me. I've tried and tried to tell them that there's nothing wrong, but they just don't seem to care. I guess denial is a symptom of most things that they treat here, but you would have thought that the “best doctors in the country” would be able to tell the difference between a real nutjob and someone who was... it's not fair, I shouldn't call them that. I know they can't help it, but it's so frustrating.. I know there's nothing wrong with me, and my Dad would too, if he could just see me. That's pretty weird in itself. I'm supposed to be recovering from loneliness brought on by the death of my mother, and they're keeping me away from the only family I've got. Whatever. I'm so sick of being in this place.
First:
And? And what? I suppose you expect me to do something. Sitting there, behind your glass, acting like I can’t see you. Well, newsflash, I may be in the crazy hospital but I’m not blind. What? You want something exciting, something that you can write about in your notebook? Is that it? Oh I get it, I’m just the science experiment, Crazy Girl In A Glass Box. Well, I’ve got something for you. I’m. Not. Crazy. You all think I am, but I’m not. No! Stay out of here, stay behind those glass walls that you love so much. Get away from me! No, not the needle, please, not the needle, look I’m better. I’m crazy again, I don’t need the needle. No…
"I’m sorry. It looks as though the release date isn’t going to be quite as soon as we hoped. She’s had… a relapse. Unfortunately, the treatments aren’t going as well as we’d hoped and she’s not responding to the counselling. Yes, I understand that you’d like to see her, but that’s just not our policy here at Pine Ridges. We know that it’s a very testing time for you all, a daughter with these kind of… problems can be very, very trying on a family but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to be a little more patient. I’m sorry, that’s all the news I have. Goodbye Mr Miller. "
How would you feel? It’s so easy for you to sit there and judge me, blaming my daughter’s problems on me. Hannah didn’t choose to be this way, but neither did I cause her problems. She’s just sick, that’s all. Only instead of a broken leg, or an infected wound, it’s her mind that’s sick. The problems she has can be fixed, but it just takes time. Pine Ridges is the best place for her. You sit there looking at me like I should feel guilty for sending my daughter away. What else should I have done? If she was at home, she would probably have got worse and worse, and at the very best, we would have been able to manage her condition. At the hospital, there are the best doctors in the world, specialists in conditions like Hannah’s. Well, they haven’t given an official diagnosis yet. No, it’s because they’re still doing treatments and tests. Well, they can’t determine it, because every time they think they have it, she responds in a way that… Look, they haven’t been able to find out what’s wrong with her yet. They just need more time to give her condition a name. At the moment, all I know is that she’s sick in the mind, and that the doctors and Pine Ridges are doing all they can to help her.
I hate this room. It’s so small, so cold. I’m alone in this room, and I think that’s what I hate most about it. I don’t like to be alone, not in this place. Pine Ridges. Sounds like somewhere rich people go to relax and play golf. But it’s not. It’s a horrible place. They hurt you, hurt you so badly that you think you’re going to die. And you can’t see anyone. There’s no communication between the prisoners, patients they call us. They say that they’re treating us for our sickness. On the outside, this place is a mental institution where young people get treated for their… sickness. And their parents pay a lot of money for them to be kept here. I haven’t seen anyone since I arrived here, although I know I’m not the only one being treated. I know something else, too. I’m not crazy.
i dont want to be here/but theres no choice/no escape from hell/thats where i am you know/this place could only be hell/if it were anywhere on earth someone would have come for me/i wasnt crazy when they brought me here/but that was so long ago/so long/i dont know how old i was when i came here/i think i was about 15/but i dont know for sure/i dont know how old i am now/not sure/i might be 22/but thats just a guess/it might have only been a week/and not 7 years/seven/is that right?i dont know/i just dont know/but i do know i wasnt crazy/wasnt/maybe i was/maybe this is sanity/i hope not/if im not crazy now/then i dont know what i am/i hope this is crazy/if im crazy then maybe i wont notice any more/wont notice the pain/i think someone lives in the room next door/i wish i could see them/were not allowed out/not without a doctor/they lock the doors/do they lock the doors?never tried/opening the door seemed too far away/across the floor/how would i explain?what reason would i have for being out of bed?no reason/there would be trouble/musnt get up/but i want so badly to see her/she has a name/its not the same as mine/mine is annie/hers is hannah/i heard someone talking to her/her name is hannah/she lives next door/we are neighbours/should i bake a cake?maybe she will come and ask to borrow the sugar/i know that happens/i saw it on the tv/
I found out her name, the girl next door. It’s Annie. I heard them shouting it at her. I’ve seen her a couple of times and she definitely looks crazy, but that could be because she’s been here for a long time. She has the look, you know, of someone who’s been in a place for too long. Annie’s the person I’m most angry for, weirdly. I mean, I don’t deserve to be here either, but at least they haven’t taken my mind from me. My father thinks I lost it all on my own, but I know, in my mind that I’m still thinking clearly. I can try to get myself out of here. What hope does Annie have? So I’m angry on her behalf; how dare they destroy a girl like that?
She seems to be… thinking something. She could prove to be dangerous. I caught her trying to look into cell 42 yesterday when she was taken for her bath. I want her watched extra carefully. At this stage, it is vital that no one suspect anything and I do not want the operation to be compromised because subject 43 decides to investigate.
I saw Annie. She’s older than me, about 40 she looks, but I think she’s younger than that. The treatments they use seem to make us all look older for some reason. I guess it’s because we’re starting to get tired, and we’re not exactly well-fed either. I looked into her room when I was being taken for my bath. It’s such a humiliating experience. They make you stand in a small room, the size of a large shower, and then they turn the jets on you, like a car wash. The water is always warm enough, so that you can’t quite complain of it being cold, but it’s not warm enough to be comforting. Doesn’t seem much like a bath to me, but that’s what they call it. And they make you go naked, and half the time you’re ashamed and trying to cover yourself and then the jets start and you have to close your eyes because the soap they use stings. They take you there once a week, but they come in the mornings and unlock the bathroom that we all have in the corner of our rooms. I say bathroom; it comprises a sink and a toilet, but we’re only allowed to use it when they come. If you desperately need to go, you need to ring the bell and someone will come and unlock the door. That’s pretty humiliating too. Imagine having to wait for someone to open the toilet door before you can go, and then having them wait while you finish so that they can lock it again. I hate it here, the way they control us. But nothing’s as bad as the treatments.
I haven’t seen Hannah since she went to the hospital. I know it sounds a little extreme, but it’s the best hospital in the country and they say that when she comes out she’ll be fine, but when she’s getting her treatments she can’t have visitors. It just sends the patients back to the way they were before they went in, you see, and then they would never get better. Dr Roberts sends me updates very regularly, and it sounded like she was getting better until last week. Hannah was only 7 when her mother passed away, and I’m afraid that I wasn’t the father that she needed. I have a very important job; I’m the owner of a record company and I need to be around for my clients to contact me whenever they need to. It’s a small company, with only around 20 or so acts on the books, but we’re worth as much as some of the larger companies. That’s all down to the amount of hours that I put in, so I couldn’t spend as much time as I would have liked with Hannah. I feel responsible for her illness in that way. She’s my daughter and I let her down.
At the age of 15, Hannah had been used to spending time by herself and with her friends; I was working long hours and she seemed fine about it. How could I have known that she was just being brave? She was lonely, and even the school counsellor noticed it. It was Dr Barnes who first brought it to my attention. What a wonderful woman. She had been watching Hannah for a while and thought that she would benefit from talking to someone; the school Hannah attends… attended is very exclusive and the staff pay a lot of attention to the pupils. So after speaking to Dr Barnes, I agreed to see a therapist. After all, Hannah had never spoken to a professional after Tina’s death and I thought that it would be good for her to try and work through any underlying issues that she had over her mother’s death. Dr Barnes recommended a friend of hers, very discreet and very private, a Dr Coombs. He was a lovely man and he certainly seemed to be focused on getting Hannah back to normal. Hannah kicked up a fuss every time she had an appointment, kept telling me she didn’t need to speak to anyone, but how do you know that you don’t need something unless you’ve tried it? It turned out to be a good thing, in the long run. Dr Coombs informed me that Hannah was showing signs of a person who is going to develop… I can’t remember what the name of it is, but it’s a kind of schizophrenia brought on by depression and feelings of isolation. When he told me this, I knew that it was all my fault, and when he suggested she be admitted to Pine Ridges, I agreed. I was doing what was best by my little girl.
I haven’t seen my father since… Well, since I’ve been in here. They say we’re not allowed visitors. I say ‘they’ but the only one I really know is Dr Coombs. He’s the one who told Dad I needed to be here. Him and Dr Barnes. Dr Barnes was the psychologist at my school. I went to a pretty good school, one of those that’s in a really old building, that looks like it’s something out of Jane Austen. I used to like Jane Austen, used to like reading her books and imagining what it would be like to have a man come and sweep me off my feet. You tend to imagine things like that a lot when you’re at a girls’ school. My Dad paid a lot for me to go there, one of the perks of being a record company owner, but I wouldn’t’ve minded going to a local school where I could come home at night. I’d been boarding since Mum died and I didn’t much like the idea of Dad being home on his own all the time. After all, if I felt this bad when I was surrounded by my friends and teachers, what must he be going through on his own?
This is going to be a problem. Hannah is not responding to treatment like she was meant to. It seems that she’s not going to be as docile as we’d hoped. Get Dr Barnes on the phone, I’m going to need her authorisation on this one. Hello? Anita? This is Jack. Jack Coombs. I’ve got a problem. Hannah Miller. Yes, the one you sent from the school. She seems to be resisting treatment somehow. I don’t know, some kind of willpower, I suppose. She’s stronger than we anticipated. I want to up her dosage. Why not? She’s on 100 milligrams, but she’s not responding. The aging process is being accelerated by a marginal amount, she’s aged perhaps 3 weeks more than she should have. This is simply not good enough, I need your authorisation to double her daily dosage. We need to do this. We’re hardly getting anything from her, she’s not going to be profitable at all and we can hardly release her at this stage. We may as well up her dosage and see what happens. Yes, I know that this amount hasn’t been tested before. No one needs to find out. Her father? He doesn’t understand mental illness, we can tell him she reacted badly to something, a chemical in her medication. So can I raise her dose? Fine. I’ll wait another week.
I feel so weak/i don't know what to do about it/i caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day/i look like my grandmother/ha/she's old/but it's how I look now/i should talk to hannah/maybe she can hear me if I should/hannah lives next door/we are neighbours/i want to be friends/her name is hannah/
Am I a bad father? It certainly feels that way. Some of Hannah's friends called the house the other day and I didn't know what to tell them. How would you explain to someone that their friend has had a mental breakdown? Especially teenagers. I can't imagine them wanting to stay friends with her if they found out, with all the stigma attached to mental illness, and I want Hannah to go back to a normal life once she gets better. I'm going to take her on holiday. We haven't spent enough time together since her mother died, and I feel so guilty about what's happened to her. If only I'd been a better father, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Still, she'll get better. Pine Ridges is the best hospital in the country.
I saw that woman again – Annie. But something was wrong with her. I only saw her the other day as I was leaving my room, and she looked about my Dad's age. Today though... I could have sworn she looked about 20 years older. If that's what happens to you at the best mental hospital in the country, what on earth must the patients at the bog-standard NHS hospitals look like? No wonder no one thinks young people get mentally ill; all the youth gets sapped out of them in places like this. I've got to get out of here. But how? The doctors won't listen to me. I've tried and tried to tell them that there's nothing wrong, but they just don't seem to care. I guess denial is a symptom of most things that they treat here, but you would have thought that the “best doctors in the country” would be able to tell the difference between a real nutjob and someone who was... it's not fair, I shouldn't call them that. I know they can't help it, but it's so frustrating.. I know there's nothing wrong with me, and my Dad would too, if he could just see me. That's pretty weird in itself. I'm supposed to be recovering from loneliness brought on by the death of my mother, and they're keeping me away from the only family I've got. Whatever. I'm so sick of being in this place.
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The sweat drips down my back like nothing I’ve ever known and I can feel my t-shirt getting soaked through. My jeans stick to me and my legs feel as though they are lead weights. My chest is drawing tighter and tighter with each breath and my mouth is drying out. My breath comes faster and faster and I know that they can hear me panting. This is not the time to stop, though, and I have to keep running. Their have far more stamina than I and this run is wearing me out, but I just have to keep going. Ten minutes more and I will have reached my destination. The challenge is to get there before they realise where I am going. I push, a final effort before I know I am finished. I have nothing left; this is the last burst of energy before I will have to stop. Suddenly the ground is drawing closer and I’m falling and I can’t stop and I’m screaming because I know that I’ve lost, I’ve failed, and then something…someone…flies down behind me and lifts me before I hit the ground and we’re flying through the sky and this can’t be happening and then I lose consciousness.
I wake up. The surroundings are unfamiliar, and I’m not wearing my own clothes. Instead, I have a man’s t-shirt on with shorts underneath. The bed I’m in smells nice - the sheets have been freshly laundered and I want to roll over, lose myself in the smell of home, but I can’t. I have to get out of here. I don’t know who my rescuer was, but they cannot be allowed to get in the way of the plan. There are three days left before the equinox and I need to get to Matthias. If I don’t… I have to get to him. I look around. Whoever my rescuer was is not here, but there’s a piece of paper on the desk across the room. I get out of the bed and walk over to it, the sun warming me as it streams in through the French windows. This house is on the beach, and I can see the waves crashing, gently, onto the sand. It’s enough to make me want to lose myself again, but there’s no time to reminisce and I can’t allow myself to end up there. If I let my memories take hold then the whole thing will have been in vain. I am only a tiny cog in this grand design, but if I fail, the Collective cannot complete the task at hand. Shaking myself, both to become fully awake and also to forget the thoughts I was having, I pick up the sheet of paper from the desk.
“You don’t know who I am, but I know you. Matthias sent me. It’s vital that you do not leave the house. They know where you are. If you are even half the woman Matthias tells me you are, then I know this letter will have planted seeds of doubt in your mind, but you have to believe me. The equinox is drawing closer, and we don’t have time for you to doubt me. I will return three hours before nightfall. Russell.”
This throws me. I can’t possibly doubt a man who has been sent to me by Matthias, but I can’t be sure that he even knows Matthias. I know that he saved me last night, from the LightWielders but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t working for Dalthamis at a higher level. Matthias and Lenora are depending on me to reach them, and the entire collective is going to be watching for the signs of the equinox. I need to get the information I hold to them in the next two days. Can I trust this Russell? If I don’t, I could waste valuable time and destroy everything, but he could be a SoulEater and I really don’t want to take that risk. If only there were some way I could verify his claims… Whatever I do, I need to do it quickly; the sun is already past the halfway point and I know Russell will be back within the hour. I look around, desperate for some kind of divine inspiration – and then I see it. At the bottom of the letter, the inscription ‘l'ange de la lumière nous sauvera de l'obscurité et elle seule peut utiliser la lame’ which tells me that he is on our side. I know this, because he is talking about me. The inscription is used by the collective, has been for hundreds of years, even before Dalthamis was born, and they have been waiting for this moment to fulfil the prophecy. Roughly translated, it says ‘the angel of the light will save us from the darkness and she alone can wield the blade’. It’s French, and it refers to me. I am the angel of the light.
I was born 500 years ago in a small town in France. My parents knew who I was even before they saw me; as members of the collective, they knew that in this year the final battle would occur. The fate of the world would be decided in a battle light and dark, and their baby girl was to be the saviour. My name is Sophie Evangeline, meaning ‘wisdom like an angel’ and I died in 1534. I was 17 years old. It sounds strange, when I say it like that, but of course, I did not die a natural death. All my life I had known I was special, and my parents had named me to ensure that I would never forget. I had been introduced to the work of the collective from a young age, knowing that one day my descendants would help to carry on the war against the engulfing darkness. It was not until my 17th birthday that I realised I was to be the one to fight the final war.
France, 1534
I helped my mother with the water from the stream. It was a hot day, and members of the collective would be arriving shortly, so we needed the extra water for them to drink after their long journey. “It is strange to think, Mama, that we are fighting for something we will never live to see. All this work we do, and the collective’s work will not be finished for another 500 years. It feels almost a shame to do all this and not see what will happen” I said to my mother as we dipped the buckets into the stream. She looked away from me, as though my words had pained her.
“Sophie,” she replied, “There is something I have to share with you. My child, the collective comes here today not just to discuss plans, but to make provision for the future. They are going to… they are going to take you away from here and I will never see you again.” After she said this, she turned away, and pretended that she was filling her bucket with water from the stream.
“Mama? Is this true? Why have you never told me this? I must have time to prepare, I cannot just leave, why would you only tell me this today? How can I leave you and Papa?”
“Sophie, I have known this would happen since the day you were born, but I was forbidden from speaking of your destiny. You have the wisdom of the angels, and you alone can fulfil the prophecy.”
“But Mama, that prophecy will not come true for another 500 years, I will surely not be living when that time comes.”
“There is more to the prophecy than what I have told you, Sophie. In order to fulfil your destiny, the collective will need to perform a ritual so that you may live on until the day of the final battle.”
“But how? I do not understand. Of course I will do everything I can to help the collective, but I do not see how my lifetime can be extended so.”
“Tell no one I spoke of this with you, Sophie. Just wait, and it will all become clear.”
And with that, my mother turned around and walked back across the field to our home. I could not have known then what was in store, but she did, and I always wonder how she managed to hold the truth from me at that moment. Maybe she felt that I was not strong enough to follow the collective’s plan had I known, that my resolve would fail and I would refuse them. I know that she was right, and if I had the chance again, I would have turned and run for the mountains at that point, instead of picking up my buckets and following her home.
When we got to the house, the collective were waiting for us. There was Matthias, old even then, with his grey beard tumbling down to almost his waist; Lenora was by his side, and her stern face told me that they were not there for a pleasant visit. Alaina and Arnaud stood a little way behind them, discussing something. I did not know at the time, but they were deciding on the best way to kill me.
Present
That’s just another one of those thoughts that I can’t allow myself to have. I shake my hair loose from the ribbon it is tied in, and scan the room, hoping to find my clothes. My jeans are slung over a chair and my t-shirt is folded neatly, but there is a note indicating that I am to wear what I find in the wardrobe. Hanging up are dark trousers, a thin top, a warm jumper and a long coat. Practical items of clothing, and all in my size. They have been planning this, I think. Matthias never intended me to reach my destination last night, and therefore I am meant to meet Russell. There is also a new pair of boots on the floor of the cupboard. I dress quickly, and as I’m pulling the boots on I hear the sound of someone at the door. I turn quickly, ready to attack because I’m not sure who it is. A man walks in.
“Sophie. You’re ready. I hope everything was satisfactory? But forgive me, I am Russell. I’ve heard so much about you… you must be hungry, I have bread, cheese and some water for you. It’s not much, I know, but it’s all I could get at such short notice.”
He is a handsome man of around 26, with a scar running down his cheek. There is no need to ask how he got it; the shape tells me that his face was burned by a LightWielder and I realise that he means more to the collective than I had previously thought. Matthias would never allow one who had been wounded in battle to serve so close to the war if he could help it. A wave of admiration grew in me, and I extended my hand in greeting.
“Russell. I… I admit I had my suspicions about you, but I see from the inscription that you are one of us indeed. But tell me, what happened last night? I remember only that I was running and then… I woke up here.”
“Of course. But first sit down, you must eat.”
He offers me the food he has brought. In addition to the bread and cheese there is some fruit. The meal reminds me of home in its simplicity. But that was long ago and I have other things to consider. I ask Russell to continue with his story.
“I was following you, tracking your progress. I was to meet you at the tower last night and then bring you here, but Matthias had heard that there were Wielders patrolling the city, so I decided to follow you instead. They were almost on you, and I knew that I had to intervene –”
“But I remember flying...”
“Matthias blessed me many years ago with the Wings. I use them sparingly, but last night it seemed the only way.”
The Wings. Of course. He has been attacked by Wielders and escaped with just a scratch. He swooped in, literally, to save me last night. I should have guessed. Matthias only gives the Wings to those he deems worthy. My respect for the man in front of me continues to grow.
“I brought you back here, and you slept. I am sorry that I was not here when you awoke; I had some business to attend to.”
“You had to tell Matthias where I was?”
“Yes. He would have come here to see you, but it is too dangerous. Dalthamis knows of our plan and it is rumoured that he is sending SoulEaters out on patrol with the Wielders. If you and Matthias were here together, there is no way that Dalthamis could ignore the opportunity. The surge in supernatural power that the two of you would create would attract all Dalthamis’ minions.”
“But you have the Wings – surely you must be more powerful than most?”
“I have the Wings, that is true, but I can also cloak my power. Most creatures generate a certain amount of energy, you know this, but Cloakers can disguise their energy. I could be behind Dalthamis and he would be able to sense nothing more than a mouse.”
If Russell is so powerful, why have I never heard of him? I knew that Cloakers existed, once, long ago, but I thought that they had died out. It was a lost art. And yet, this man has the Wings and he is a Cloaker. There is something amiss. Why has Matthias neglected to alert me to his presence? We could have used a force like Russell in some of the earlier battles. Many of the collective were lost in the battles, and yet Matthias left this secret weapon until the end. That is not like him.
France 1534
“So it is true, then Madeline? You allowed her to become…this? When you know what she is?”
“I may have known, but I was sworn to secrecy. If I had been allowed to tell her what her destiny was to be, then maybe this would not have happened. And what difference is it when the prophecy is not destined to come true for 500 years?”
Matthias looked at my mother and then at me. He could not believe that this had happened to me, but I did not understand. I knew that I was special now, my mother had told me, and maybe if I had known earlier, I wouldn’t have done what I did, but it was too late to change anything.
Lenora came and stood next to me, ran her hands over my swollen belly.
“She is close. We can go ahead with the ritual. Sophies’s pregnancy will be nothing more than a distraction.”
My mother put her arm around me. I could tell that she was nervous, but I did not know what was coming, and so I did not share her apprehension.
“Please. Matthias, is there no other way?”
“Madeline, you knew the prophecy. And you have known of this day since your child was born. Do not stand in our way. It must be done.”
Alaina approached me. The witch put both her hands onto my stomach and pushed. The pain was unbearable, she was forcing my baby out and it felt like a thousand needles on fire were being pushed in through my skin. I fell back, and Arnaud caught me, laying me down on the grass. I began to struggle. The collective were good people, but this was dark magic. Matthias came to me and held his hand above my face, forcing me to be still. I could feel my child sliding out of me in an unnatural way. My mother was crying.
“Please, Matthias, at least let me keep my grandson.”
“Madeline! This child was never meant to be born. You know what you have to do. Take him to the river. Do not let Sophie see.”
The baby started to cry. My son started to cry. I did not have the chance to look at his face, but that sound would be burned into my memory forever.
Alaina looked at me. I could tell that she wanted to apologise but did not dare with Matthias there.
Matthias let me free. He helped me up and started speaking in a low voice. It was a language that I did not know, although many of the words sounded similar to the old French. My chest felt warm and when I looked down, there were flames coming from me. I was in more pain than I had been during the false childbirth and I could not believe that my mother had known. Lenora began chanting with him, and Alaina and Arnaud both joined in. The fire was spreading to my entire body and I could not feel anything aside from the agony and it seemed to go on forever and this was not a natural fire, it was more dark magic but then it was over and I was in no more pain.
I woke up in Matthias’ tower. He was smiling at me.
“Sophie. I am sorry that you had to endure that. It was the only way to make you immortal, my child.”
Immortal? I was never going to die and I would never see my son. A stab of pain shot through me, and it would do every time I thought of my baby for the next 500 years.
“Matthias, are you…?”
“Yes. And Lenora, Alaina and Arnaud. It is an ancient ritual that preserves the body. You will age, slowly, and then one day you will stop when you have learned all you need to learn. Reached your spiritual peak.”
And my training began. I learned everything of the collective and I embarked on great physical training. My body is now a weapon. After all, I have had 500 years to get it into shape, so it must be good.
Present
I’ve never been in the presence of someone like Russell. He is strong, but he can cloak his powers, which would explain why I cannot sense anything. He is to be a strong ally for me in this final battle, I can sense it. His cloaking ability, if he has enough power, may extend to cover my energy as well, minimising the chance that Dalthamis will be able to see us. This would help me, as I have become weakened through the past months. Matthias said that I would reach my peak, but I have felt lately as though my magical energy is seeping out of me. However, with this man, Russell, by my side, I felt strong again, and I knew that Matthias had made the right choice in sending him to me. Or maybe I was the one who had been sent to him; either way we were now a team, and I could feel his energy combining with mine. I looked at him closely when he was clearing away the dishes from my simple supper. He looked familiar to me, as though I had seen him somewhere before, but surely I would remember this confident young man. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that somehow I knew him from somewhere, and that made me feel slightly uneasy, despite the confidence I had in his ability to work with me.
“Sophie,” Russell called from across the room, “we must leave soon, before nightfall.”
His voice had pulled me from my reverie, and I must have looked at him a moment too long, for he frowned slightly and turned away.
So were your extracts any good? Don’t know. It's not the kind of fiction I read so I have no idea whether or not you were doing it well. But that doesn’t matter. Nobody ever picked up a pen and instantly started writing anything that was any good. It takes time, and even if your first efforts are rubbish it doesn't mean you should give up, just that you should keep going, keep learning and so get better. Anybody can do it if they put in the hard finger-pressing hours and innate talent counts for little. If all writers gave up because their first efforts were bad, believe me, literature would have died out by now.
With that in mind my, probably wrong, advice would be that you are being ambitious with a literary stream-of-consciousness style, shifting viewpoints and timeframes. That's hard to do, even if you've been writing for decades. Joyce wrote Finnegan's Wake at the end of his career, not at the start! To do disjointed non-grammatical stuff in a way that works you have to know what you're doing or the reader won't care about the characters and won't want to read on. Even writing first person is harder, for most writers, than third person as going so deep into a person often leads to saying odd things like that awful opening phrase about the sweat feeling like nothing I've ever known.
To be honest I had no idea what was going on in the first section and I didn’t care either. But scanning down the second bit, I became interested when you stopped trying to be different and just wrote a straight scene with dialogue and exposition. That was perfectly fine writing, as far as I was concerned. So that'd be my advice. Walk first then run. Try writing straightforward linear stories. Learn the techniques of plotting and hooking the reader in and character and several thousand other things. Then, when you have a firm foundation of technique and craft, be more experimental if that's what you want to do. And have fun.
Thanks again
I do have an issue with your view of what psychiatric hospitals are like however. I'd try to get a better view of the subject if you want to continue on this topic. Having worked at 'the best mental hospital in the country' I certainly wouldn't recognise it from your description. Sad to say but your grammar also requires more work. Those long sentences are going to have to be cut back if you want to maintain reader interest.
You do display some talent in your writing so try not to be put off by all this negative criticism
It's funny, because I'm always telling my students off for writing ridiculously long sentences, but it's one of my worst habits.
Still, these extracts are both 10 years old, so we'll see what happens when I make some revisions. Thanks
This will give you a chance to publish your stories in chapters and hopefully get reviews and critiques as you go along. You can even get beta readers assigned to your work to help with plot, grammar and construction. Good luck!
I recommend this book to everyone, even if it does have a naff title:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Write-Blockbuster-Yourself-Creative-Writing/dp/0340916915/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1267127672&sr=8-1
It was written by the founder of Cornerstones Literary Consultancy.
Some good websites for writers are:
http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/
and
http://www.youwriteon.com/
Your structure needs work but with rewrites you should do very well. Shorter sentences and a greater influence of showing and not telling. This will improve your characterisation and give freshness and depth to your writing.
Good luck!
But you should definitely keep going. Good luck!
Well, if you met someone who couldn't drive, you wouldn't tell them they were brilliant and should try to get into Formula One. You would suggest they start at the begining, take some lesson, and work their way up.
It not about being unduly harsh- its about being realistic.
I didn't read all the OP's extract because I found the huge blocks of text quite off-putting. It's important to know how to lay out a manuscript correctly so that's it's reader-friendly.
I teach creative writing to adults one day a week and as they are all beginners I encouraged them to try something simple to begin with. Within a few months one of them was selling letters to magazines and two others were submitting short stories. The magazine market is lucrative. I sold a letter recently that netted me £25 and a story for £150. Magazines may not be the ultimate goal for a writer but earning a few pounds while you hone your skills is good for the ego.
I think you either want to write or you don't. Shouldn't need to hold a poll.
Oh, that fictionpress site? Never saw it before but it looks interesting.