The Snow Killer: Nearly ready

The book is nearly finished! Just some editing to do and then it's ready for print. It's going to be about 120 pages - not what you would call a novel, but I'm proud of it. 

Keeping you posted,

Mel. 

UPDATE: The Snow Killer

Be excited my blogger-lovelies, 

I am currently in the midst of Chapter Nine of "The Snow Killer", the thriller/mystery/murder/romance fictional book I have been writing.

Parts One to Five were published on my blogger page, and are available until New Years, or whenever I decide you've had enough of a sneak peak. 

I will be printing said book at the beginning of November 2013, so please feel free to buy a copy. "The Snow Killer" is on sale for £8.99 in paperback. Please Tweet me @melissaholden94 for a copy, or email me @ melissah183@googlemail.com

- Mel. 

The Snow Killer: Update 25/10/2013

Just to let you know....


Hi Blogger,

It's 4AM in England, and I've just finished Chapter Five of "The Snow Killer". I'm currently on 10, 435 word count, and am aiming for a total of 25,000. 

"The Snow Killer" will be removed at the end of November, to to copyright issues, so if you haven't read Draft One, Parts 1-5, then get moving, because they won't be there for long.

Thank you for all your support, 

Mel. 

The Snow Killer: Announcement

Hi blog-readers!

As you might have noticed, "The Snow Killer" has had Parts 1 - 5 released. 

This post is to tell you that this was a PREVIEW for all my followers, and that no more parts will be uploaded. I will still blog about the actual writing experience, and go indepth to the inspiration behind the plot, but no more sneak previews. If I put the whole thing on here, no one will need to buy it!

My aim is to have the book finished by Dec 1st, as I'm having it printed by blurb.co.uk. The next step is to publish it on Amazon.co.uk, and actually sell a few copies. 

Keeping you posted, 

Mel. 

The Snow Killer: Part Five

This is Post 50 for my blog, what a mile stone. But it is also Part Five on The Snow Killer! Part Five is from Diane Warner's perspective: 

The Snow Killer: Part Five 

Diane walked out the main door of the pub, and headed east to find a taxi. She walked for a few minutes before she saw any sign of a waiting cabby. They always avoid this part of town; don't want pick up any students. I don't blame them. They make so much noise. She waved him down and climbed in. 

"Where to, love? Time'n half 'cause of the snow."

"Yes, it's fine. Westgate Drive. No rush." 

"Yes, ma'am." The cab driver switched the overhead light off and started the engine. Diane sank into the back seat. She had always hated cabs, but she couldn't drive when she'd been drinking, and it was freezing, so there was no point fussing. 

She thought about the boy, the boy with the blonde hair and the cut-glass cheekbones. She closed her eyes and he was there; kissing her; whispering deep, love-filled words into her ear. Danny looked like the boy a little bit. 

"He's gone, stop thinking about him. He isn't going to come back to you. Jerry made sure of that. So, stop thinking about him." She whispered to herself. 

"You alright, love? Bit of boyfriend trouble?"

"Nah, a bit of husband trouble, mate." Diane scolded herself for speaking like that. She hated pretending she was common, but it stopped her feeling superior most of the time, knowing that everyone around her thought she was a common housewife from the estate, instead a posh housewife with a criminal for a husband.

Westgate Drive was certainly not an estate. 23 Westgate Drive, Canterbury. She had lived in Canterbury nearly all her life, in that exact house, for 35 years. Diane loved that house more than anything. 

23 Westgate Drive was the smallest house amongst the 50 houses that surrounded it, because it was sandwiched between two great manor houses. Number 23 was a faded duck-egg blue, with silver woodwork and a dark-stained oak door. Mrs Tabatha Finn died in 1954 and left it for Diane's great uncle, a Mr Roger Tate. When her uncle died of an unsuspected heart attack, Diane's parents inherited the house, who in turn left it to Diane for when she married and started a family. 

Diane met her husband six months before they got married. She had fallen in love with him, with his beautiful violet eyes and the shiny auburn hair. But, like the flame of his mane; Jerry had a temper. 

"I said I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me, Bunny." Jerry kissed his young wife, stopping tears in their tracks and tasting the salt of the pain he had caused. He brushed his thumb across the cut on her forehead and whispered at her. "I'm so sorry, Diane. I don't know why I did it. I just felt so angry. I just wanted to hold you."

"All I said was that I was tired. Why did you throw a book at me?" Diane's voice was cold, like Jerry's touch. 

"To teach you a lesson, baby." Jerry's violet eyes darkened as they bore into Diane's white face. He grabbed her hair and jolted her head backwards, so he towered above her. "You never say no to me. Got it? I own you: you are my wife. I know you've been messing around, Di. I won't stand for any wife of mine messing around with some marine on the side. You got it, sweet cheeks?"

The anger filled Diane as she sat in the back of the taxi. Part of her just wanted to scream at the cabby to stop and take her back to the pub; to drown in a pool of tequila and her own tears. But, she couldn't. She never would. 

That boy poor. Poor Jamie. He didn't have to hurt you. I know he says he didn't but I know him. I know what he did you and your pretty face. Carved it off is what he did, I know it. He's such a brute. But I can't go. I can't leave my beautiful house and all of Mamma's things. I need her things to feel safe. 

"I don't know why you're with him, Anne. I see the way he looks at you. It's like you're a dog that he can just kick when it misbehaves. Leave him, Anne. Please, leave him." Sophie begged her eldest daughter, but she knew any promise of Diane's was empty. She had been empty for a long time.

"I will Mamma, I promise. But not yet, we have the Robinsons' twins boys christening on Saturday, and then the social on Tuesday, and-"

"Your social calendar isn't an excuse for what he does to you, Anne. You know that right?" Sophie watched Diane look at her perfectly manicured hands, and simply say: 

"But, Mamma, he can't cope without me. He's not even sure how to put on a cravat. He needs me, Mamma."

"You don't need him. By lord, if your father was still here..."

"Well, he isn't. So, I'm going home to my husband, to cook his dinner and feed the dog."

"Does he kick the dog as much as he kicks you?" 

Diane slammed the taxi door and walked up the drive. She stopped, as always at the post box. A sign of a happier time in their marriage: two blue hand prints on a black box attached to the porch's brick wall. The painted flecked off onto her fingertips. She brushed away the layer of snow covered the top of the post-box, and wiped her hands across the cheap coat. 

Diane took the coat off, and folded it gently into her handbag. She stood at her front door in full business attire, and unlocked the oak door. "Jerry? Are you home? Sorry, I missed dinner..." Diane laughed at her own sarcasm as she shut the heavy door behind her and waved the snow off of her suit jacket. She removed her shoes and placed them in the shoe rack to the left of the door. Walking upstairs, she unfolded the coat and approached a locked cupboard opposite the top of the stairs. She pulled out a set of keys, opened the cupboard and put the coat neatly on a hanger. As she walked towards her bedroom, she heard a woman's voice.  

"Jerry, I hear someone. I think it's your wife. You said she was out of town?" Diane paused outside Jerry's bedroom door, and grinning, knocked on, and then opened the door. 

"Jerry dear, is this one staying for tea, or should I fetch her coat?" 

"Fuck off, Di." Diane exited the room to avoid the pillow Jerry had just flung at the door and headed for her own bedroom. Using the set of keys once more, she unlocked the white panelled door and went inside. 

The room was a pale yellow, decorated with delicate floral ornaments. A beech laminate floor lay beneath a fluffy chocolate-coloured rug, and to the right of the rug sat a small round table, covered with lace, and on top: a canary yellow circular vase donning twelve red roses. Diane looked at the roses and sighed. 

"I suppose I should throw them now he's gone, but they are quite beautiful." As she placed her keys back in her bag, Jerry entered the room. 

"Are you talking to yourself again? Crazy old-"

"And why exactly are you in my doorway, Jerald?"

"To accept your apology for storming in on me and Janine." He shrugged at her.

"I haven't apologised, Jerry."

"Yeah, but ya gonna." Jerry winked and strode across the small room; pushing her against the tall white wardrobe. "You interrupted my big finish, Di. I think you owe me at least that much?"

"Is she still in your bed, Jerry? Did you leave her there to come beat your wife up and then go fuck her?" Diane spat at the gorilla in front of her. 

"You think you're so high and mighty don't ya, Di? I'm gonna bring you down a peg or two." Jerry grasped her neck with his right hand and pushed her back harder. The glass of the wardrobe's mirrored door smashed, and Diane felt the glass bury itself into her shoulder. 

"Get out of here, Jerry, before I get angry." She smirked at him, and looked into the violet eyes that haunted her dreams. "Do you think I care who you sleep with? I don't give a shit. Just make sure they're gone by the time I get home."

"Well, I would, but you're never here. Always out drinking your weight in vodka. Where do you go, eh Di? Kicking it out in the slums with the poor boys? Eh? Got a little bit of a Mrs. Robinson thing going on? Promise them the world? Yeah, I think you do."

"Stop it, Jer." 

"Ouch, did I touch a nerve?" Jerry looked down Diane's body as the blood soaked her crisp white blouse. "Or was it an artery? What was his name, do you remember? James Maccersfield, 26. God, Di. They're getting young, aren't they?"

"Wasn't that Janine from down the market? You know she's 17, right? Cradle robbing was always your style. At least you're consistent, I'll give you that much." Jerry shoved her on to the bed, still holding her neck. 

"Don't you ever shut up, Di? You always make me hurt you. Every time: it's your fault, Diane. You're just as weak as your mother: You're pathetic, the pair of ya." Jerry picked up a photo frame from the bedside cabinet. "I'll tell you one thing though: she was a piece, your dear old Mum. I wouldn't say no to that face." He smashed the frame on the corner of the cabinet, and dragged the picture out of the broken glass. "Not looking so good now is she? Blood on her face and glass through her tits. Looks a lot like you last month, doesn't she, Di?" He bit her cheek and she screamed. The blood ran hot down her face.

You can do this. You know you can do this. It's your home. It's your bedroom. Kick him out. 

Diane kicked her husband in the shins, hard enough for him to recoil in pain. She stood smartly from the bed and straightened her pencil skirt. She picked up Jerry's shirt collar, and pulled him to the bedroom door. "Goodnight, Jerry. That's enough blood for one day". 

And that's Part Five!

Current word count: 5507

The Snow Killer - Part Four

In demand of several relatives and a few like-minded friends, I am aiming to finish this novel, and publish it through blurb.co.uk, before Christmas in order to deliver (and sign on my mother's request) copies of my book as presents. I then plan to sell them (hopefully) in small bookstores and possibly on amazon.co.uk. 

We left Danny just after he committed a terrible crime: let's see what happens next... 

The Snow Killer: Part Four

Danny rushed around the corner, and started to head home. After a few moments of frantic walking, he stopped in his tracks. 

What if someone saw me? 

Danny looked around him, but calmed down somewhat when he realised he was the only one in the street. It made sense: it was the middle of the night. In the snow. Alone. Freezing. 

She was blue. She turned blue so quickly. And her eyes...

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

As Danny started walking again, tugging his jacket closer in a failed attempt to take the chill off the skin. But he knew the chill had nothing to do with the white snow that surrounded him.

All that blood...  

Danny walked faster as he thought about what he should do. His feet near-running, carrying him home - faithful to him when his mind wasn't.

I should turn myself in. I can't just leave her there to be buried in the snow: they might not find her for days. She has a family... 

The snow whispered to Danny as he trod:

Killer. Left the girl in the snow. Snow killer. You hate the snow. Emily loved the snow. She danced in the snow. Killer. You killed Emily. You killed the girl. You killed your mother.

"No!" Danny panted. "I'm running away from snow! Snow can't talk. What's wrong with me?" He grabbed fistfuls of his hair underneath his hood, and crouched to the floor. The words echoed around his head. They burned like a cold star: impossible anywhere but his mind. He had always known it was his fault, but it was an accident. This was different. This was by his own hand, his own physical hands had taken the life of a sixteen year old girl. She looked just like Emily. But prettier. The girl had rejected him immediately. 

Why? What is so wrong with me? Emily had always been the best of both of us, but I never had any trouble before she died...

Danny remembered his father's words just seconds after they buried Emily and Sara side-by-side. "You let them smother you. You're a man now; you need to rid yourself of all these ideas of a happy, care-free life and focus on getting a job, making a businessman out of yourself." 

"It's just not logical to have your head in the clouds. Sara always let you get away with it. All the writing and painting and what-not. Girl's stuff."

"I should have sent you to boarding school, but Sara always molly-coddled you. She said it would upset you too much. That you were fragile. You're not right in the head, boy. She made sure of that. Ruining my only son. Sometimes I feel like I have two daughters instead of one."

"You couldn't just be normal, like Emily, could you? Such a pretty girl. Always did what she was told. But you, well, I'm glad I will be seeing the back of this ridiculous behaviour. You are not your sister. You are a man. That I'll make sure of. Oh, stop crying. They are gone and there's nothing you can do about it." 

The words kept going in Danny's head, even though he tried so hard to banish them, pressing his hands into his eyes and seeing the burning colours of his skin against the fragile lids that protected him from the pain. But they didn't. His eyes may have closed to the world, but his brain wouldn't let go. All he could see was the girl, blue skin against fragile white snow. Her long blonde hair darkened by the blood. The blood was everywhere. 

Danny stopped again: The blood was everywhere: All over his hands; in his hair; on his skin; dried into his clothes; across his lips; buried into the ridges of his fingerprints. He pulled his jacket off and searched for a lighter. 

I gave it to Diane. 

"Fuck!" Danny ripped the jacket in to pieces and put different pieces in different bins on his way home. The last bin was Mrs. Roberts, the old woman that lived next door. He lived on the top floor of a maisonette in Winston Close. A dark building, cornered by other houses: being bullied. Upon taking the rooms, the landlady had commented on the pale of his skin: "Well you'll fit in here Mr. Fores, no light in this house. You'll always have the lights on. Unless you like the dark..."

He unlocked the door and pushed hard on the frame. Always sticking. The money I pay... Danny caught himself: thinking about such trivial things when I am covered in blood. He ran up the stairs to his apartment, opened the door and locked it behind him. He padded to the bathroom and turned the shower on. The steam rose, taking that first layer of ice from his heart. He went back into the bedroom/living room/study and took off his clothes. Everything was dark with blood. He turned the bedside lamp on to look at the mess. 

It's everywhere. 

He could see the handprints of the girl on his jeans, she had struggled. He had panicked and pushed back. He shook himself, don't think about it, and put the clothes in the bin. 

"Oh, Daniel, you stupid boy: falling over. Now that's your best shirt ruined, look at this, there’s blood everywhere. Oh, and you tore straight through the elbows. What an earth were you doing in that tree anyway?"

"I was watching a bird, Mummy. It was so beautiful, and it was signing. I drew it, Mummy, look". The young Danny attempted in vain to show his mother his sketches. 

"Not now Danny, Emily needs her lunch. Go and wash up, no more climbing trees, now, y'hear?" 

"Yes, Mummy." Danny looked to his feet, but was filled with glee moments later when his father walked through the door. 

"Daddy, look, I drew a -" 

"Not now, Daniel. What's wrong, Sara?" Marcus kissed his wife's cheek and took the shirt from her hands. 

"Your son was out in the woods today." Sara shot her husband a scornful look. 

"Really, well boy, what happened here?" He held up the shirt.

"i was in a tree, Daddy. I was-"

"Climbing trees, finally. Just be more careful next time, kiddo. OK?"

"Well, yes Daddy but-"

"Sara, where's my dinner?" 

"How should I know, I've been watching the damned kids all day. Daniel, go play with your sister."

"Sara, I've been at work all day! all I want is a goddamn fucking meal when I get home from work. Is that so much to ask?" Marcus stood up from the armchair he had just occupied and approached his wife. "Is it, Sara? Just a bit of dinner. Not difficult is it? All you do is sit around and drink. Maybe next time you could make my-"

Sara slapped her husband across the face, and stood trembling in front of him. Marcus shoved her against the wall, making her drop the plate she had been holding. 

"Now look what you've done, you stupid cow. Made a mess. You're going to clean that up, aren't you, Sara?" Tears ran down her face as her husband’s breath hit her lips. 

"Is that Chanel I smell, Marcus. My , my, you have gone up in taste." The fear in her eyes diminished her thinly veiled threat. 

"That's enough! Clean this mess up." He released his grip on her shoulders and sat back down. 

Sara cleaned up the broken shards of china, and threw them away. She had stopped crying by the time she brought Marcus a beer. She smiled sweetly at him and kissed him on the cheek. 

"Danny was a smart boy today, climbing up that tree. Shame he did it to draw. Kid needs to learn to man up a little bit. It was only a shirt, Sara. Just buy him another one and shut up about it, OK?"

"OK." She smiled again. 

Danny remembered that day so well: the first time he had ever seen his parents fight. It was only years later he had found out it had been happening since he was born. They had wanted a girl, not a boy. Sara never wanted a boy. 

"He'll end up like you, you know. I don't want any son of mine being violent to women. He's not a coward." 

"He is a coward, Marcus. He's your son."

Danny climbed into the shower and let the water burn him.

That's part Four finished: missed the first three? Go to the "The Snow Killer" tab at the top of the page for the full story. 

The Snow Killer: Part Three

1260 words, so much is said between the lines. Let's see what Danny does next:

The Snow Killer: Part Three

Danny took a swig of his drink and rushed out to follow her, to find she was already gone. He swore under his breath at the snowflakes that landed on his iced skin, and pulled his hood up over his short dirt-blonde hair.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

It’s only snow. It’s not the same snow. Every snowflake is different. They aren’t the same ones.

Danny searched for a lighter in his jacket, before remembering he’d given in to Diane.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

But they could be. They could have seen it all. They know it was my fault.

He turned the corner, bumping into a man in a leather jacket.

“Sorry, you alright, mate?” The man had a strange look on his face.

He knows.

Pump. Pump. Pump.

They know I killed Emily and Mum. They were there.

Rush. Pump.

It was the snows fault. I couldn’t stop the car.

Rush. Pump. Rush. Pump.

I shouldn’t have been driving.

Rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Rush. Rush.

I couldn’t drive, Mum knew that.

“You need to practise, Danny, otherwise you’ll never pass, and then I’ll have to keep driving you everywhere.”

“Emily will pass before you do.”

“You should have learned when you were seventeen like all the other kids.”

“No, Mum, don’t let me drive.” Danny stopped abruptly and slammed his back against the outer-wall of the block of flats on Spring Lane. “You shouldn’t have let me drive.” Danny began to sob, but stopped when he heard a voice.

“Oh my god, Jen, there’s some beggar crying. Yeah. It’s a guy. I know right. I feel so bad for him, like, ‘cause it’s snowing and everything. I better go, Joe’s picking me up. Piss off, he’s my brother!”

Danny moved to see where the estranged voice was coming from, and realized it was the girl from the pub on the phone. He watched as she put her phone away and moved towards a lamppost. As she leaned against it, she pulled her thin jacket around her, and looked around.

They were at the edge of a council estate, in the middle of the night, and it was snowing.

Hardly a safe place to wait, stupid cow – doesn’t she know anything about Stranger Danger?

Pump. Pump. Pump.

The girl fidgeted in the cold but kept looking up at the sky, as if wondering where the snow comes from.

If she realises I’m here, she’s gonna go nuts.

Danny tried to stand up, but slipped down the wall and crashed into a bin.

“What the fuck was that?” The girl moved in to the light more, and Danny saw just how young she really was. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

Emily is nineteen in March.

Danny caught himself before he could think about her again, but his grip on his own mind was weak.

She was so young. So pretty. Everyone loved her.

He looked at the ditzy girl in front of him, and noticed her hair: it shone in the light of the flickering street lamp. She was fair, but not sickly pale, like Danny. When he was younger, his mother was always telling him to go out in the sun and play with the other kids.

“Who’s there? I’m calling the cops if you don’t come out right now!”  Her voice trembled like a crying child. “Now, dammit!” She screeched.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

Danny walked towards her, holding up his hands in surrender.

 “Whoa, OK, I’m coming out. I wasn’t watching you I swear, I just-“

Rush. Rush. Rush.

“Oh my days, it’s you: you’re the creepy bloke from the pub. You’re stalking me!” The girl stepped back.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

“No, No, seriously I’m not. I was just walking home, I swear.” He lowered his arms, and stepped towards her again.

This is beginning to look like a tango. Backwards, forwards. Backwards, forwards.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

Shut the fuck up, will you, so I can go home?

“Well then why were you hiding behind a bin? No sane person stalks anyone. You must be some psycho freak. Stalking girls in the snow.” She tried to stand firm, but her legs buckled beneath her and she fell into the quickly forming bed of snow behind her.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

Not the snow. It’s always the snow.

“Will you shut up about the weather? I’m not fucking stalking you.”

Rush. Rush. Rush.

“Yes you are: an attractive woman out on her own. I rejected you. You thought it would be funny to come and scare me. Well I’m not scared, Freak.” She spat the last word at him.

“Shut up” The words of a petulant child with no anger but his own.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

“Freak. Leave me alone.”  She scrambled back against a wall, and tried to stand up. Danny got closer and closer.

Stop talking.

“HELP! HELP ME HEL-“Danny covered her mouth with his hand.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

“Shut the fuck up. What are you trying to pull? Flirting with men and then accusing them of stalking you. I bet you’re not even old enough to be in a fucking pub.” He gripped her mouth with his palm; his nails digging in to her milk skin.

She’s so beautiful.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

The girl mumbled beneath his hand, and a warm expulsion of breath tickled his skin.

“Stop talking. Do you ever stop talking?”

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

The girl tried to scream, which panicked Danny.

“Please stop talking. You talked about the snow. The snow hates me. Please, make it stop, please.” Danny sobbed hysterically. The girl’s eyes widened, and she tried to scream once more.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

Danny jolted his hand in panic, smashing her head against the bricks behind her head.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

She cried out in pain. Every noise she made was mumbled. She couldn’t breathe. There was blood everywhere.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

Danny pulled his hand away from her mouth and frantically tried to bring her back. He pounded his clenched hands against her silvery top.

“Breathe you bitch, fucking breathe.”

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

“BREATHE” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her furiously; her head hitting the wall. Slam. Slam. Slam. More blood.

So much blood from such a tiny person.

“Please stop.”

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

Danny dropped the girl’s body, and looked around for her bag. He pulled out a pink purse and a silver flip-phone. He fished out her I.D, looking for a name. He found a provisional driver’s licence.

Fuck. She’s sixteen. Oh my god, she’s fucking sixteen.

Tears escaped his eyes, burning as the cold and the wet hit his cheeks.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

“Lily Addams.” He looked from the I.D to the girl. I.D to the girl. I.D to the girl. I.D to the girl.

RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum. RUSH. Da. Dum.

Danny dropped the I.D card in the snow.

She looks just like Emily.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

Danny put everything back in the purse, and lay it next to the girl. He placed her blue hands on top of her stomach, and left her to sleep in the snow. 

"Snow Killer" current word count: 2,355 / 40,000 (est finished count)

The Snow Killer - Part Two

We left our two main characters in a bar, lets see where they go. 

Didn't read Part One?  http://melissaholden94.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-snow-killer-first-installment.html

The Snow Killer, Part Two

"There you go, Diane. Enough ice for you?" 

Hopefully it'll help her cool off of me a little.
 
"Yeah, it's fine, sweetheart. Now come cosy up down here next to me." Diane patted the space next to her with her left hand, and picked up the drink with her right. 

Or not...

"I'm fine over here." As he spoke, he pulled out the wooden chair, placed his drink on the table, and sat down. 

She's not that bad looking from this angle...

"So, kiddo, who was the broad?"

Pump. Pump. Pump. 

"No one. Just some bitch I met earlier."

Rush. Rush. Rush.

"Ah, I geddit. She reject-"

Pump. Rush. Pump. Rush. Pump. Rush. "She didn't reject me!" Danny slammed his palm down onto the beer-covered table between them. 
 
Pump. Rush. Pump. Rush. Pump. Rush.

"Hey - don't lose it with me, or I'll lose it with you, got it sweetheart?" Diane became cold and stern. Like his mother. 

Pump. Pump. Pump.
  Danny looked down at the table, and stared for a moment at the shot glasses in front of him. After a brief silence, he handed Diane one of the tequila shots and simply said: "Cheers?" 

"OK kid, cheers". They clinked glasses and swallowed the amber liquid. 
The burn. That's what did it for him, not the taste, but the feeling of fire running down his throat. The fire calmed him when it should  have enticed him. But Danny had always been made aggressive by much simpler things than alcohol.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Diane suddenly pointed at the window to the left of her, "Hey, look: it's snowing".

Da. Dum. Da. Dum. Da. Dum.

She sounded young; as if it was her first snow. Her face glowed in the dark pub. Danny saw (for the first time in the moments they had known each other) what kind of woman she really was: not a stubborn, angry old woman, but a scared girl in need of a friend.
Why else do you ask a stranger to go to the pub, if not to avoid going home?

Da. Dum. Da. Dum. Da. Dum.
Da. Dum. Da. Dum. Da. Dum.
Da. Dum. Da. Dum. Da. Dum.

"I need to go," Danny watched Diane's face darken as he spoke. Feeling guilty, he said, "Ya'know, just because of the snow. I'll walk you back if you like?"

Da. Dum. Da. Dum. Da. Dum.

She shot him a weak smile, finished her drink and stood up. "It's alright kid, I'm getting a cab." She smile again, and grabbed Danny's hand. Diane pulled a pen from her pocket and scrawled her phone number into the palm of his hand. "Gimme a call sometime. Everyone needs a bit of company, and I get the feeling you need it more than most". And with that, she walked out.

Pump. Pump. Pump.

Danny was left sat at the table feeling frustrated.

Pump. Pump. Pump.

She doesn't know anything about me.

Rush. Rush. Rush.

He took a mouthful from his drink.

Da. Dum. Da. Dum. Da. Dum.

I should have walked her home. Cabs aren't that safe.


Well that's PART TWO finished with, I can't wait for you all to read PART THREE!

- Mel

The Dragon Statues

Stemming from my "Kent Connections" lecture this evening (it finished at 7:00 pm), I have written a short Dickens-based description piece about the dragon statues that feature in two of the photos( see "Home"). 
These dragons were purchased by me for my step-dad for his birthday (or Christmas, I can't quite remember) last year. It explores the idea of mystical beings and dragon-lore, whilst attempting to include extended (sort of) metaphors and just general description. This was written in three minutes, and minus some type-up, has not been edited. 


The fire-breathers, as they once were: a tall and proud mystical creature; stood side-by-side-by-side upon the dust. Bright young colours dimming their natural beauty - black stones where emeralds should shine. 

They have no princess to guard, only dust. 

They are regarded as a proud creature, but how could one be proud if made of stone and the stroke of a machines mechanical brush? 

Not loving; not adoring; not even fully aware of the presence of such magnificence: are the dragon owners, but rather: consciously observant of two-inch tall "cute" dragon statues on a forgotten mantelpiece, out of reach to anyone with the imagination to love them. 

Home

Home, a set on Flickr.

This is a project I did for my Kent Connections lecture @ Canterbury Christ Church University. It had to be images of our home, and what made it home for us. A little background info for you: my mother and her partner run a pub in Dartford, and that is where I consider my home to be. It is a lovely pub that I have ten years of memories of.