Words. Literature. Writing. Ways of expressing yourself,
ways of showing the world who you are and what you think. The way in which we
communicate. Communicate anything to anyone. People often take words for
granted, don’t appreciate their importance. But without them, so much would be
lost to us. They preserve memories, express opinions, create whole new worlds
and ideas. People might say studying literature is a waste of time, that it has
no use in the real world. But it allows us to understand that world. Fiction can
be a means of escapism, but it teaches us life lessons, about people and
experiences, about different ways of understanding the world. It stimulates us,
presents new ideas, makes us question what we know and take for granted. Fiction,
or any form of writing, is a way to express oneself, to give opinions on
anything they choose – look at what I’m doing right now. Words allow us to be
as blunt and straight-to-the-point as we choose, or adapt language, use subtle
allegories and irony to express opinions that would otherwise be harshly
judged. Words should be carefully and delicately chosen, as they can present an
entirely different meaning through a tiny change in a single sentence. They
carry great power and provide insight and understanding. Words are a way of
showing the beauty of the world, and are a thing of beauty in themselves. They
can take us to far-off lands, a means of escaping the mundane real world, or
show us the beauty and magic within our own lives. Words let us tell the world
who we are. And everyone has something to say. Not everyone may care or like
what you have to say, but say it anyway. Because what you say matters. You don’t
have to be an expert in literature or language or anything at all to say
something important. Those same words we use daily, to say hello or order
coffee, only have to be changed around marginally to express something far
greater. Even if you don’t think what you have to say matters, it does, because
it tells the world who you are. Words give us that power, to communicate, to
learn, to know, to experience and to remember.
Monday, 17 December 2012
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Lyrics To Live Your Life To
4:37 pm
I believe the music people listen to can tell you a lot
about them, who they are, who they want to be, who they perceive their self as
or who they think others perceive them as. In particular, the lyrics show a lot
of characteristics and traits. They may have been written by someone else, but lyrics
resonate with people, reaching out to them through shared experiences and
emotions. These are just some of my favourite lyrics. There’s probably a lot
more that I like, I just can’t remember them all right now. I’m not sure what
all of them say about me, so take from them what you will.
This is the anthem for a dying breed
Caught up to realise that I’ve been left behind
Holding on to promises and trusting a few
Tell me how to feel like we did when we were young
We were the kings and queens of promise
These lessons that we learned here have only just begun
We’re just trying to find some colour in this black and
white world
We are lovers lost in space
She had the most amazing smile
You never got to heaven but you got real close
I’m the option you shouldn’t have chosen
Life’s a bitch but I’m friends with her sister
I smile at all my enemies; I lead a life of positivity
I’m married to the music, for better or for worse
I believe in the finer things and you don’t believe in me
We are just the sinners, we’re condemned to death
You can’t edit me
You won’t get better than me
You were fake, I was great – nothing personal
The taste of your lips says we shouldn’t have met like this
Long live the reckless and the brave
We try to run away but end up running back
When you sold me out I must have not got the cheque
Don’t hold your breath; I’m not losing sleep over you
Good luck with killing time, you won’t be killing mine
I’d rather be anywhere but here without you
I’ve got real big plans and such bad thoughts
They’re gonna miss me when I’m dead and gone; they’re gonna
talk about me over and over and over
It’s not called lazy it’s called an art
I’ll never know divinity; so inadequately I write in meter
and verse
Falling in love for the night
Tongue like electric, eyes like a child
Young and in love; that should be enough
Down but not out
Go back to anything, cos I know you’ll think of me
Three whole words and eight letters late
Maybe it’s not my weekend but it’s gonna be my year
I’m over getting older
This is my reaction to everything I feel
When it all comes down to a sunrise on the east side, will
you be there to carry me home?
We ran like vampires from a thousand burning suns
We raced the sunset and we almost won
The surface shines while the inside rots
Your voice was the soundtrack of my summer
I’ll be your shelter, I’ll be your storm
Bring on the rain, and bring on the thunder
You can be the distance in between; you can be everything I
need
Jealous minds are thinking alike, but you’re my damn damn
tie wasting all my time; you are in love
Throw it away, forget yesterday; we’ll make the great escape
The answers that we’ll never find; they don’t mean a thing
tonight
Everybody knows there’s a party at the end of the world
I haven’t made my bed for weeks and I’m not gonna get up
If we stand for nothing, we’ll fall for anything
I’ll do my best to always be on your mind
No one is looking for you anymore cos that was us
We’ll be the leaders of a messed-up generation
We’ll still be dancing when we’re old and we’re grey
You’re not on my list of things to do, cos I’ve already done
you
Your favourite enemy and your most hated friend
Where’s your passion? Where’s your fire tonight?
I’m gonna start a revolution of convoluted disillusions
Sometimes fate and your dreams can collide
You’re just a daydream away
It was your world baby and I just lived in it
In the end we all know we only breathe for so long
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
Into the Darkness
3:41 pm
A long, narrow passageway stretched out in front of
her, disappearing into the darkness of the night. She raised her candle higher
and slowly shuffled forward, while demonic shadows danced on the walls around
her. She hated the flickering flame, but she didn’t have a torch and didn’t
dare turn on the lights. The rain lashed down on the crumbling walls outside
and the dusty, cracked windowpanes let in flashes of light occasionally as
bolts of lightning shot across the otherwise impenetrable black of the night sky.
Suddenly, there was a loud, unearthly cawing noise and she jumped back,
stumbling into an ancient, musty tapestry hanging on the wall. In her bare
feet, she felt something cold and moist on the ground. She looked down to see a
dark red pool of blood seeping through the carpet, oozing out from under the
tapestry. She turned to look at it, and saw it was richly embroidered with
grotesque images of demons, witches and vampires, and the corpses of their
prey, but the heavy material was faded with age. Slowly, she raised a trembling
hand to pull the material aside, brushing away layers of cobwebs as she did.
Behind it was a small wooden door, scratched and faded like the tapestry. It
was simple, apart from a large carving of a monstrous demon’s face in the
centre, which seemed to be staring straight at her.
Her hand hesitated for a brief moment, but then
recklessness got the better of her and she grasped the heavy, brass doorknob
firmly. As her fingers made contact, the eyes of the demonic face glowed a
bright, sinister red. She froze, both stunned and terrified at once. She
couldn’t move from the spot or take her hand off the handle. She stared up,
wide-eyed, at the face for what seemed like hours, when suddenly she heard a
high-pitched scream from behind her. She made a snap decision, turned the
handle and rushed through the door into the chamber beyond it – and immediately
regretted her decision when she heard the door lock itself behind her.
She took several deep breaths to steady herself,
before looking at her surroundings. She was in a narrow stone passageway, which
was empty aside from a few burnt-out torch brackets on the wall and cobwebs
littering the walls and floor. The flagstones were freezing under her feet,
compared to the carpet in the corridor she had been in. Looking down, she could
see the passage sloped upwards slightly and a river of blood was running down
towards her, where it disappeared under the door. She was trembling with the
cold and the fear she felt. She had no idea how to get back to her room, but
with the door locked she could only go one way. With another breath, she began
to make her way along the passage. Her flickering candle was considerably
smaller than it had been, and her heart leapt at the thought of being left in
this passage in the dark.
The passage wasn’t as long as she had expected, and
soon she found herself in a large room. However, there didn’t seem to be a door
anywhere, and the room was filled with various objects, the likes of which she
had never seen before. The walls were ornamented with carvings of faces similar
to the one on the door, but these ones were covered in gold leaf and their eyes
were glowing jewels. A huge circular carpet lay on the floor, patterned with
strange, mystical symbols and images, which could also be seen on the spines of
a towering stack of huge, leather-bound, dusty books. A single skylight could
be seen in the centre of the ceiling, alerting her to the fact that the storm
had let up, as the full moon was directly over the skylight, and bathed the
room in a cold, silver light. At the far end of the room was a large,
ornately-carved wooden display case, and through the dusty, cracked glass, she
could make out dozens of bottles and vials filled with various liquids,
although the majority were a rich, dark red. Also attached the walls, were
several sets of strong chains, which looked surprisingly well-kept and oiled,
and had enormous gold padlocks on them. In the centre of the room, directly
under the skylight, was a long rectangular table, which was placed over a
rectangle on the carpet, exactly the same size as it. The table had leather
straps with large, silver buckles attached to it, but more disturbing were the
objects littering the table. Her eyes widened at the sight of dozens of sharp
silver tools – knives, hooks, drills, needles and many others she couldn’t find
names for – and every last one was dripping with blood. She shivered
involuntarily, and her mind ran wild, coming up with dozens of explanations for
what she was seeing.
Before she could do anything else, however, she heard
the same unearthly cawing as she had in the corridor, what seemed like hours
ago. She leapt in fright and stumbled over on to the edge of the thick carpet.
Her candle fell from hand and went out immediately. Trembling all over, she
slowly sat up, and in the moonlight she saw that she had dislodged the carpet
slightly and part of a trapdoor was now visible. It was, like most things in
the room, coated with dust, but she could make out dark red stains in the wood,
that could only be one thing. She recoiled in disgust at first, but as she
looked around the room again, she realised it may her only way out of this
ghastly place she had discovered. Slowly and clumsily, she pulled the carpet out
of the way and slid back the large, metal bolts, which were, like the chains,
slick and well-oiled. She heaved the door up and carefully leaned over to look
down. She gasped in horror – below the door were two scarred and tortured
corpses, lying on a bed of hundreds of blood-stained bones and skulls. She
glanced up at the table and its terrifying instruments again, before gagging
several times as the room swam in front of her eyes. She opened her mouth to
scream, but no sound came out as she collapsed on the floor and darkness
engulfed the world around her.
Friday, 6 July 2012
But I Don't Want To Grow Up...
3:16 pm
The innocence of children is beautiful to behold. Their way
of seeing the world as the magical place it really is. Miracles happen every
day, but our cynicism causes us to take them for granted. Children are awed by
things we consider ordinary and mundane. For them, everything is easy, and good
things don’t always come with a price. They see a world full of kindness and
happiness, love and beauty. And their minds work in beautiful ways, finding the
little things funny and being pleased by the simplest of gifts. They soak
everything in, learning at an extraordinary pace, with imaginations that run
rampant and wild. A cardboard box becomes a rocket to the moon, or a pirate
ship sailing the seas. Riding a bike starts as a challenge to stay balanced,
but eventually turns into a heated drag race through a desert. The stairs can
be an expedition to a mountain top, or a slide over rough terrain. Fairies live
at the bottom of the garden and Santa still leaves the Christmas presents.
Childhood is a precious time, which most don’t appreciate until the day when
they wish they could go back to it.
Children, especially when they get to their teens, are always looking to grow up, believing they will find freedom and independence as adults. But the real world is a terrifying place, and once you get there, you’ll wish you could go back.
Somewhere along the line, the real world gets to them,
turning them insecure and cynical. The time to play is over, and they are
expected to work hard and grow up. They become selfish, jealous and greedy,
often without realising or wanting to. The world forces them to change, to
become like everyone else. Doubts creep in, confidence wavers, and imagination
is stunted. They are exposed to corruption, deceit and violence. Pressure
mounts to succeed in school and work. They struggle to fit in with the peers,
encouraged to try drugs and sex, scorned if they don’t. Appearances mean
everything. A night with friends is considered a waste if alcohol isn’t
involved. Money and politics are the biggest players, driving every other
desire. Their naivety is stripped away as they discover the real world, the
world of the grown-ups. The fantasies of childhood become a distant memory,
revisited only in those dazed hours between sleeping and awake, or when looking
through old photos and mementos.
Children, especially when they get to their teens, are always looking to grow up, believing they will find freedom and independence as adults. But the real world is a terrifying place, and once you get there, you’ll wish you could go back.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Writing as A Cure for Writer's Block
8:35 pm
I don’t know what to write. I keep saying I’m going to write
more, but I just don’t know what to write. Is my life really that boring?
Surely there’s something. But I don’t want to complain about trivialities.
Nothing major has happened to me. I’ve never had my heart
broken or lost a loved one. The things that I find unfair seem silly compared
to the trauma some people face, and I feel selfish and petty going on about
them. Nothing even springs to mind right now, because nothing has been
significant.
I lost my grandfather when I was four, but I scarcely
remember it, though I do remember him. I got glandular fever for about a year,
but it’s not even life threatening. That’s about it. I guess I’ve had a pretty
good life in that respect.
But I’m struggling for inspiration right now. I’ve spent the
last month at home, since finishing university for the summer. I can’t get a
job because of this terrible job market, and me and my friends are too skint to
do any particularly exciting. So I’m left with my own thoughts and the
internet. I guess there are parts of the internet that could be inspiring, but
I can’t stop watching TV shows and films. I’m travelling a bit in the next few
months, so maybe that will help.
It’s just really frustrating, wanting to write, but being
blocked. I guess this sort of helps – writing about being blocked, in an
attempt to get unblocked. Although, now I think on it, I guess I’m writing
right now to justify my lack of writing, seeing as how I said I was going to do
more.
I’ve not even done much on my other stories, but I think
that’s more because I’m just lazy. Although it’s not like I’ve sat on my arse
doing nothing – I’ve had odd bits of work, cleaned out my room, met up with
some friends. Just nothing that made me want to write about it.
And I feel like I should write about experiences I’ve had.
It’s all very well seeing something in a film or reading about it in a book,
and that affecting you, but it’s not the same as experiencing it for real. The
writing wouldn’t be as real or honest when you’re writing about something that
happened to someone else. I guess I’m still only eighteen, and I have time to
experience more things, both good and bad, that could be inspiring. For now, I’ll
just have to try to draw on what I have seen and done, and use a lot more
imagination to flesh it out.
I guess that’s another aspect of writing. Real experiences
provide inspiration, but that doesn’t mean you have to stick to them. I’m
always day-dreaming and hoping for things to happen, so I could try writing
about those more. Just because nothing incredible is happening in my real world
right now, doesn’t mean it can’t in my head.
Ok, now I’m just getting really pissed off with myself. I
just keep writing about writing, and never actually doing what I say I’m going
to do. My willpower seriously sucks sometimes. Well, most of the time. Maybe I
need to decide to write at a certain time every day, after tea or something,
and force myself to do it more. Just write about anything, except about wanting
to write more, because that seems to be all I’m capable of doing right now.
Hence, frustration at self. I’m going round in circles, getting nowhere, and I
really need to stop making excuses for it.
Right, I’m finished with this for just now. I'm going to go
write about something – ANYTHING – else.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Is It Possible To Live In The Moment?
4:35 pm
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Living in the moment seems to be one of these things that
everyone wishes they could do, but in actuality is very difficult. It only
seems to happen in movies, when you come across those care-free characters, who
are wild and crazy and just take every second as it comes. I’ve never yet met
someone like that in real life. No matter how hard we try, I think everyone
thinks about other times, whether it be past or future.
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with doing this
sometimes. We can go back to revisit fond memories or dream about our hopes for
the future. But this isn’t always the case. More often than not, I find myself
dwelling in the past, whether it be bad experiences I wish I could change, or
times that seem much better than what is happening in my present life. I often
wish I could go back to early childhood, when the world seemed so much simpler,
and adulthood was a million years away.
Now I supposedly am an adult, and it scares the hell out of
me. I plan and analyse things a lot, and not having a plan for my future is
kind of terrifying. I’ve never dreamt much about my future in career terms –
not once in my life, not even as a young child, have I had an answer to what I
want to do when I grow up. And now ‘grown up’ is pretty much here. Yes, I still
have three more years at university, but if first year was anything to go by, I’ll
be done before I know it. The future stresses me out because of this. I had to
make decisions about what to do next when I left school, but university seemed
to be a natural progression (it’s not for everyone, but it was definitely the
right choice for me). After that, I guess the next step is job. But I can’t
even get a summer job right now, and I have no idea what I want to do as a
career. The other problem is that with the current job market I may just have
to take what I can get, not necessarily what I want.
Sometimes I have little dreams or ideas, but it’s usually
about things that I could never ever achieve. And yes, people will say ‘but you
should always chase your dreams’, but you also have to be realistic. These
fantasies are things I have no skills for or are incredibly hard to get into,
and I know I’m definitely not good enough.
Actually, sometimes my stressing about the future doesn’t
even go that far forward. I’m worried about just finishing my degree right now,
since I hate French and don’t feel like I’ve improved at all this year. They
expect near fluency at the end, and everyone says the year abroad will help,
but I can’t help but wonder what if it doesn’t? What if I just can’t pick the
language up? This is probably silly, as everyone picks it up, but I’m a natural
worrier.
I have been trying to take some steps forward lately. I
haven’t been able to get a summer job, but I am going to do a course that lets
me teach English as a foreign language, and get a first aid qualification. I
love children, and I tried to work at a summer camp this year, so hopefully
these would help for applications next year. I’m also considering doing a
year’s teacher training at the end of my degree, which is very ironic since
teaching is the one career I spent year saying I didn’t want to do, and it’s
one of the few things I’m considering at the moment!
The only part of the future I do dream about is more my
personal life, as I’m pretty certain I’d like to get married and have children.
The only problem with all this is that I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve kissed
and had a good time with a few guys, but never a real relationship. I know I’m
only eighteen and I’ve got plenty of time for this, but it’s the only part of
my future I have some sort of plan for, yet it’s the one thing I currently am
making no progress towards. A degree leading towards an unknown career and no
progress towards my one dream? I’m clearly doing well at life.
But in many ways I am. A degree should stand me in good
stead for a lot of potential jobs when I do decide. I may not have found love
yet, but I have my family and friends. I have my health, I’ve never experienced
any major tragedy and my family isn’t rich, but we get by. And lots of people
don’t know what sort of career they want at eighteen. So although I do dwell on
the past and worry about the future, my lack of plans actually means I just
have to take life as it comes, one day at a time. Perhaps, entirely
unintentionally and without trying to, I am living in the moment, as a result
of my poor decision making skills.
And I guess all of
this is why I called this blog ‘Just Muddling Through Life’. I don’t know what
will happen to me in life, and I’m just trying to get by. I want to enjoy life
and be happy, and I wish I didn’t stress so much and feel the need to plan. I
suppose it’s a part of my personality that I can’t really change, but sometimes
it’s good to remind myself that I can’t control everything, and it’s ok to not
always have a plan. I have to reassure myself that it’s ok to just muddle
through life, since that’s what I’m doing anyway.
Actually what I’ve just realised is that in some ways I am
someone living in the moment, because I don’t plan far ahead. But because of my
personality, I can’t fully enjoy it, as I’m always worrying about this lack of
plans. Oh, irony, how cruel are you?
Monday, 18 June 2012
A Rambling Train of Thoughts
5:28 pm
So my brain is telling me that I had an excellent idea for something
to write about. Except this idea is now several days old and I have no clue what
it was now. I am merely rambling on, making no real point in the hopes of
remembering said idea. I’m not getting on very well so far. I’m pretty sure it
was nothing to do with a concrete scenario, more an abstract thought.
It might have been connected to the human desire to be
desired, or that could be something entirely new I came up with just now.
Either way, it may be worth writing about too.
It also may be a short story or a piece of fiction, but not one I’ve already done. But I don’t know what it was going to be about.
For some reason my mind also keeps jumping back to One Tree
Hill. This may be because I’ve spent the last month watching the entire first 3
seasons (and I’m still going on the fourth), but I think what I’m doing is
similar to stuff like Lucas’ writing and Peyton’s podcasts. And yes, I realise
how sad this entire paragraph just sounded.
I’m intending on continuing the fantasy story I’ve been
trying to write for about 2 years now, but every time I go back to it, I feel
like it’s overdone and generally not that good. Which would be why I haven’t
even finished the first chapter. But I do have an entire plot outline, which I
really can’t be bothered to re-do. But I feel like it’s predictable and a bit
silly in places. So I’m not really sure what to do with it.
There’s also the fairy-tale thing I started, but I’ll
probably go back to the start of that because the narrative voice is pissing me
off no end right now. It also sounds really unrealistic and clichĆ©d, but that’s
kind of its point, so I need to just make myself go with it.
But none of this is helping me remember the idea that I’m
trying to remember right now. My lack of future plans maybe? Leading to a
larger thing on the point/meaning of life?
Maybe it doesn’t matter too much if I don’t get that idea
back. But maybe it’s important to write more down. It’s one of those things
that I always try to do but it never lasts very long, then I always wish I’d
kept it up. So maybe now I should try harder to do that. Not everything I write
down is going to be any good, but maybe the more I write the better the chances
are that once in a while something halfway decent will come out. I guess the
point is just to write, and not plan absolutely everything in advance. I mean,
if I do want to write a long story, or something resembling a novel, I’d have
to plan, but I could just write anything in between, I don’t have to do that,
and that alone. Sort of like I’m doing now.
Diaries never lasted long with me, because a lot of the time
my day to day life didn’t hold anything of great importance. But now I’m
starting to think maybe it does, just not in the way I thought before. I always
wrote down what I did, but maybe sometimes I should be focussing on how I did
it or what I thought. There’s not much exciting about cleaning windows or
watching TV, but sometimes your mind goes places without you really trying, and
maybe that’s worth remembering. I guess that’s why I switched to a journal sort
of thing, but it’s mostly photos, lyrics and significant memories of big events,
including mementos like tickets. Which is fine, I’ll be glad I have it one day,
but it doesn’t always capture my thoughts either.
So maybe I should just sit and do this now and again, just
write down whatever is going through my head. Maybe a spark of genius will pop
out one day. Unlikely, but it might be worth a shot. Every time I decide to
write a blog post I pick a specific topic and plan it and make sure it’s going
to be a certain length. But maybe I don’t have to. Maybe it’s better just to start
writing spontaneously, and see what happens, then post it anyway. I’ve no idea
who reads this, or if they care at all. So maybe it doesn’t matter what I write,
as long as it’s honest and means something to me, even it’s not some great
literary work.
So I’ve just unfolded an entire thought process that started
with trying to remember an idea, and finished up with committing to writing
more, regardless of what I actually end up writing. Which I guess is better in
some ways. Thousands of ideas are lost or forgotten all the time, and I’ve just
added one more to that unknown list. But at least now I’m doing something a bit
more worthwhile with my time, by writing it all down and preserving my thoughts,
no matter how odd or insignificant they may seem, so that hopefully if a good
idea does come out of it all, I won’t miss it this time.
Or maybe I’ll just spend forever rambling about nothing in
particular. Only time, and writing it down, will tell.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Christmas Eve
3:36 pm
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The city was coated in a
blanket of white, and the stars watched over on that most special night. Slow
streams of traffic trickled out of the city centre in all directions, as people
desperately tried to get home. Others hurried through the streets, sliding on
the grimy sheets of ice, as their breath misted in front of their faces,
obscuring their vision. The city lights were even brighter than usual, as the
halogen glow of street lamps were joined by snowflakes, Santas, trees and reindeer
depicted in every colour of flashing bulb. Amongst the honking of car horns and
the shouts of children in the street, carollers could be heard, as they tried
to spread a bit of cheer, despite the bitingly cold air. Somewhere in the
dreary inner city, surrounded by many near-identical others, was a tall block
of tenements. Simple, plain, grey with snowy white trimmings and lights burning
brightly in the windows - nothing distinguished this block from the others, but
it was here that a group of quite different inhabitants spent their Christmas
Eve…
On the ground floor, the
first home was lavishly decorated. Tinsel adorned the pictures on the walls and
various Christmas ornaments were arranged around the living room. In the corner
was a small but cheery Christmas tree, with mismatched decorations and topped
with a pretty angel statue. Hanging from the mantelpiece, above a crackling
fire, was a small stocking. The owner of this stocking, a small boy of about
five, came hurrying into the room from the kitchen, dressed in his pyjamas and
carrying a glass of milk, which he carefully placed next to a plate of mince
pies on the table by the fireplace. Glancing over his shoulder to check his
parents were still in the kitchen, he then tiptoed over to the pile of shiny,
carefully wrapped presents under the tree. He picked up a present with his name
on it and began feeling it all over, poking and prodding in an attempt to guess
what was inside it.
“Jake!”
The young boy jumped and
abruptly dropped the parcel at the sound of his mother’s voice, and turned to
find her looking at him sternly. She glared for a few moments before breaking
into a smile and dashing across the room to pick him up and dump him, giggling,
on the sofa, where she collapsed beside him.
“What have I told you about the presents? You
have to wait until tomorrow!” she said, wagging a finger in his face.
“She’s right,” continued
Jake’s father, smiling as he joined them on the sofa, “You know it’s not too
late for Santa to change his list.”
“Too excited!” giggled Jake,
squirming around in between his parents, “I wish Santa would come right now!”
“I know kiddo,” said his
father, ruffling Jake’s hair, “but he won’t come unless you’re asleep. Speaking
of which, I do believe it’s past your bedtime.”
“No,” whined Jake, looking up
at his father with wide, pleading eyes.
“Yes, off you go. If you’re
asleep, tomorrow will come even faster!” smiled his mother, before kissing him
goodnight. Before Jake could protest further, his father scooped him up and
over his shoulder and carried him, giggling again, off to his bedroom. His
mother shook her head, still smiling at her two boys. Then she remembered the
package that had been delivered earlier that day, which she quickly collected
from the kitchen and took with her as she left the flat and rang the bell of
the one opposite theirs. A young woman, about the same age as her answered the
door.
“Sorry to disturb you, but
this was delivered to our flat by mistake.”
“Oh, thank you for bringing it
over,” replied the other woman, taking the package, “well, have a happy
Christmas.”
“You too,” said the young
mother, smiling politely as the door was shut and she hastily returned to her
own home. The encounter was brief, but civil, as the neighbours had little to
do with each other.
The other woman closed the
door and looked at the package briefly before setting it down and returning to
her dinner party.
“Hey Liz, who was that?”
called out one of her friends from the far end of the table, over the top of
the other conversations taking place.
“Just a neighbour dropping
something off,” Liz answered casually. She made her way back to her seat around
the table, thinking how pleasant it was to have a sophisticated dinner with her
friends from the office on Christmas Eve. Like her neighbours, she had
decorated her flat, but it was all carefully planned, using only carefully
chosen sets of tasteful ornaments that all matched and complimented each other,
and a fake tree to avoid the unnecessary mess a real one would make on her
perfectly white carpet. The dinner was accompanied by quiet background music
and scented candles. Liz sipped on her wine and smiled to herself.
“So, what are your plans for
tomorrow Liz?” asked Steven from across the table.
She tried hard not to blush –
he was very good-looking – as she replied, “Oh, I have to go visit my family.
I’d rather not, but I did promise my mother. What about you?” she continued,
trying to steer the conversation away from her relatives.
“The same, though I’m rather
looking forward to it. Why aren’t you?”
“Well, um…” Liz blushed more
as she fumbled for an explanation, “they’re all quite… different from me. I
mean, the whole day will be noisy and messy and, just, chaotic. Not really me
you know.”
“Ah, I see,” Steven grinned,
glancing around her pristine, white flat. Liz smiled back, somewhat nervously.
The truth was she just didn’t like her family. They were far worse than she
made them out to be, and in her group of friends, she felt ashamed of them. The
group of them at the dinner party all worked in the same office, and though
none came from particularly well-off backgrounds, they were all doing quite
successfully. The same definitely couldn’t be said for Liz’s sisters, and her
parents couldn’t care less what any of them did.
Mentally shaking herself, she
stopped thinking about the next day and went back to the conversation around
the table. Her work was her life, and her friends were a big part of why she
enjoyed it so much. She laughed brightly at the joke someone had just made, and
flashed her perfect, white smile across the table towards Steven. Picking up
her glass again, she took a large swig, and then grabbed the nearest bottle to
top it up, ignoring the little voice warning her to go easy in her head, as she
was determined to have fun that night, before having to endure her family the
next day.
The laughter and chatter from
the flat could be heard out in the hallway, where a businessman by the name of
Tony Bakewell had just strode into the building, stamping snow off his shiny
black shoes as he did. He grumbled to himself and shot a dark look towards the
source of the merry noise, then set off up to the next floor and his own flat.
When he entered, his home was cold and dark, but that was nothing unusual. He
flipped the light switch, illuminating his dreary, sparsely decorated home. He
hadn’t put much effort in, because he spent remarkably little of his time here.
He left early for work in the morning and got back late every night. The most
important item of furniture was his large desk, which housed his computer and
several piles and boxes full of papers and files.
Removing his outdoor wear,
Tony loosened his tie very slightly before heading into the kitchen to quickly
make himself something to eat. He hastily threw a salad together while heating
up a microwave meal, which he ate as fast as possible, then picked up his
black, leather briefcase and settled down at the desk. Tony was obsessed with
his work, to the point where he had no friends and would have little to do with
his family, who didn’t understand his burning ambition. He was an intelligent
entrepreneur, who was determined to make millions, and would let nothing stand
in his way – not even Christmas. He’d been an atheist for years, and thought
the whole season was a waste of time and money. He ignored any cards or
presents he received (though most people had given up sending them some years
ago), didn’t attend any parties, never gave money to carollers or other
charities and had refused his families invitation to spend Christmas Day with
them by claiming he was “too busy”.
That night, he would sit at
his desk for hours, until his eyes were itching with tiredness. The next day,
his office was shut, but he would still work all day at home. He could hear
carollers out in the street and began muttering to himself darkly.
“Bloody waste of time… stupid
people… load of rubbish… better off working…”
He loosened his tie a bit more
and smoothed his hair down, before continuing to work away on the computer.
Just as he was intently studying a particularly complicated document, he heard
a large crash coming from the flat opposite his. He sighed exasperatedly and
muttered again.
“Damned Walkers… can’t learn
to be bloody quiet…”
He cracked his fingers and
shook his head, then carried on working late into the night, just like he did
every other day of the year.
The Walkers were a
particularly loud family, who regularly received complaints from their
neighbours about the volume of noise coming from their flat, and that Christmas
Eve was no different. The flat was usually quite a dismal place, and always
smelt like cigarettes and alcohol, but it had been decorated for Christmas with
many ornaments and a grand tree by the window. However, that night the
decorations lay broken and scattered over the floor, much to the dismay of the two
children, who were huddled together in a corner of the living room. Their
parents stood in the middle, having a screaming match with each other.
“You’re such a pig! Absolutely useless, bloody
pig!” bawled their mother, tears cascading down her face.
“Don’t you talk to me like
that, you bitch!” bellowed their father, who grabbed another ornament off the
mantel piece and flung it across the room in the general direction of their
mother.
“And why shouldn’t I? You come
home drunk, after spending all day in the pub because you can’t find a ruddy
job –” she was cut off as her husband dealt her a blow across the face, causing
her to stagger. In the corner, the eldest child strokes the hair of her younger
brother, who is sobbing with wide horror struck eyes, and whispers in his ear.
“It’ll be all right, it never
lasts, hush now, it’s ok…”
Meanwhile, their father is
still yelling abuse at their mother, who isn’t shy in returning insults, as
their language gets progressively worse. They used to be a happy family, until
alcohol took over the adults’ lives. Fights had been a regular occurrence for
some years now, leaving the Mr Walker angry, Mrs Walker upset and the children
terrified every time.
“Would you shut him up?”
shouted Mr Walker at his daughter, referring to the increasingly loud sobs
coming from the little boy curled up in her lap. She stared in shock and
horror, while still holding and trying to comfort her brother.
“Leave them alone!” cried
their mother, who was now sporting a large bruise blossoming across her face,
“This is nothing to do with them!”
“It will be if he doesn’t shut
it!” Mr Walker strode across the room and violently kicked his son, resulting
in his daughter bursting into tears, as the boy yelled in pain.
“Stop, please, please stop,”
whispered the girl, holding her brother even tighter as she felt his tears
beginning to seep into her clothes. Her pleading simply earned her a slap
across the face, causing her to gasp in shock and pain. Mrs Walker began to
scream in protest, a noise which could be heard throughout most of the
building. The girl buried her face in her brother’s shoulder, resigning herself
to the fact that this would continue until her father stormed out, which might
not be for some time.
Upstairs, an elderly couple
stopped what they were doing at the sound of Mrs Walker’s scream.
“My, what could that be?”
remarked the woman, “Well, no time to wonder, come on now Richard, they’ll be
here soon!”
“Yes Gladys,” her husband
replied, somewhat wearily. He was carefully laying the large, oak dining table
for twelve people, while his wife bustled around the kitchen, with about half a
dozen different dishes on the go at once.
“Richard, that’s not right!”
she frowned at him, placing her hands on her hips, “That place should have a
smaller glass for one of the children! I don’t want them using the expensive
ones.”
“Sorry dear, I’ll fix it right
away,” he replied, dutifully doing as he was told. Over fifty years of marriage
had taught Richard to do what his wife said without arguing, as it made for a
much easier life with her. One such thing that he never argued with was their
Christmas tradition – every year, without fail all their children and
grandchildren came to stay with them for the holiday, and every year Gladys
went to extreme lengths to get everything prepared exactly as she wanted it.
Their home was decorated with the same ornaments every year, all chosen and
arranged by Gladys, while Richard simply had to collected a pre-chosen tree. He
went with her to buy the presents, but it was Gladys who chose and meticulously
wrapped them. Now, she was preparing, in her opinion, the most important part
of the holiday – the food. They would have an adequate dinner that night,
before the spectacular banquet the next day.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
“Quick Richard, that’ll be
them! Answer it.” cried Gladys, as she hastily wiped her hands and removed her
apron.
“Yes dear,” he sighed gently,
as he opened the door.
“Hello dad, merry Christmas!”
cried his eldest daughter, hugging him, before several other people spilled
into the flat behind her. Gladys and Richard had a son and a daughter, both
married with three children, two boys and a girl each. Gladys often admired the
perfect symmetry in their family tree.
Gladys hurried out of the
kitchen to greet her family, gushing over each of them in turn.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you
again!”
“My, haven’t you grown!”
“Dear, you’d be so much more
handsome if you cut your hair!”
“That’s an, um, interesting
piercing there, dear…”
“How have you been? Work going
well, hm?”
“Ok mum!” interrupted her son,
laughing at his mother’s usual well-meaning but long-winded chatter, “That’s
enough for now, let us get our stuff away and sit down.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Richard,
help them with their bags, I must sort out the food,” she said, throwing her
hands in the air and dashing off back into the kitchen. Her children exchanged
a glance and rolled their eyes, sighing at her obsessively organised nature.
Sitting their father down and assuring him they didn’t need help, they went to
unpack, ushering their own children, a mixture of sulky teens and hyperactive
children, through to help instead. They were fairly certain this Christmas
would be no different from any other – which was just how their mother would
like it.
A few minutes later, Richard
left their flat carrying a plate of mince pies his wife had made from scratch.
He crossed the hall and rang the bell of the flat opposite.
Inside a very old man raised
his head wearily and glanced towards the door. He groped around beside him for
his walking stick, and carefully pulled his weary body out of his large, worn,
leather armchair. Slowly, he shuffled across the room, hunched over with a bad
back, and eventually answered the door.
“Merry Christmas, Mr Fields,”
said Richard, smiling politely, “My wife made these delicious pies and asked me
to bring them over to you.”
“Eh?” croaked Mr Fields,
cupping one hand around his ear, “Speak up boy.”
Raising his voice, Richard
tried again, “Mince pies for you!”
“Ah, right, why didn’t you
just say so?” he said, setting his stick aside in order to accept the plate
with both hands, “Thank you very much.”
Smiling, Richard pulled the
door shut as Mr Fields went back into his flat. He shuffled over to the nearest
table and set the pies down, before returning to his chair in front of the
television. His flat was rather drab and plain and smelt very musty. He had
lived here for about five years and was now in his early eighties. The flat was
decorated in bland shades of cream and brown, and didn’t look particularly
festive, apart from the few lonely pieces of tinsel put up by his carer, who
visited twice a week. She wouldn’t be coming the next day though, as she was
spending Christmas with her own family, after Mr Fields’ insistence that she do
so. At first she had been reluctant, not wanting him to spend Christmas alone,
but he had assured her his son was coming to see him. This was a lie – Mr
Fields had no family. His wife had died some years previously and they had no
children. He would be alone for Christmas.
Mr Fields scratched his nose
with a gnarled, wrinkly finger, and then reached for the remote control. He
began flicking through channels, looking for anything that wasn’t related to
Christmas, anything that wouldn’t remind him of how alone he was.
The last flat in the building
was on the top floor, and although it was the largest it was home to just two
people. The flat was tastefully decorated and had a warm, homely atmosphere.
The living room was full of family pictures and a warm, crackling fire burned
in the grate. The Christmas tree had been lovingly decorated with a mix of old
ornaments passed down through family, and newer ones the couple had bought
together. The smell of cooking filled the room, escaping from the well-used
kitchen. The windows offered a wonderful view of the snowy city, and it was
here, admiring the view that a young woman sat in the window seat, thinking
happily on her life.
“Lily?” a voice called.
“Through here Josh,” she
replied, smiling as she turned to see her husband enter the room. He walked
over to her, grinning broadly and bent down to give her a light kiss, before
gently puling her over to sit on the large, squashy sofa with him.
“So, how was your day?” he
said, wrapping his arms around her.
“Good, I think everything’s
ready for my parents coming tomorrow,” she answered, leaning against him,
“Yours?”
“All right, but I’m glad to be
home.”
“I’m glad you’re home too.”
she grinned up at him.
They sat together for a while,
not saying anything, just enjoying being with each other. Lily’s mind drifted
back to her earlier thoughts. She and Josh had been married for almost two
years now and she was still very much in love with him. They had the occasional
fight, but it helped keep their relationship spontaneous and exciting. The
little surprises he gave her also helped – taking her out for dinner now and
then, buying inexpensive but thoughtful gifts for no reason. They both worked
hard at their jobs, as they wanted to move out to the country one day, but they
always made time for each other. Glancing back towards the window, Lily noticed
that snow was gently drifting down from the sky again.
She looked back up at Josh,
who had also noticed it, and murmured to him, “Do you remember the day you
proposed? It was snowing like this, then too.”
“Yeah, of course I do. Best
decision I ever made.”
Lily sat up straight and faced
him directly, biting her lip nervously.
“Lily? Is everything all right?”
Josh asked, seeing the worried look on her face.
“I need to tell you something
about your Christmas present, before my parents get here.”
“What is it?” he said, taking
her hand in his.
“Well, it’s going to be a bit
late.”
“That’s fine. How late?”
“About nine months. I’m…
well, I’m pregnant.”
Josh’s eyes lit up in wonder,
as a huge grin spread across his face. Lily giggled nervously, as he stared at
her in awe.
“This is… this is amazing
Lily! Pregnant!”
She nodded again, unable to
take the smile off her face, as her husband swept her up and whirled her around
the room before kissing her again.
“This is the best Christmas
present you could’ve gotten me,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
The snow continued to float
down outside the window. The city was getting quieter, as lights began to go
out and the stream of traffic dried up. People were getting ready to end the
day, in preparation for the next one. For some, it would be a time spent with
family and loved ones. For others, it was about friendship, while a few would
spend it alone. Some would have a happy day, full of love and joy, while for
others it would be miserable and filled with arguments and hatred. Some would
treat it like any other day, while for others, it would be one they would never
forget.
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