FIRST PAGE - so, what am I actually working on?

                                                           RAISED

Upon the death of the Wisest Wise, the first child born within each of the four trading clans will be raised and trained apart until the leader is, once again, revealed. Nesh, Kir, Rhi and Dija learn through trials and competitions while they wait for fate to make the pronouncement. But when destiny is written in the stars, some claw dirt-deep to furrow a different future.

Amri’s hands shook as he drew the oil lamp back from grey lips. His fingers encircled light and desperation, the acrid scent of each an assault on all his senses. Clan Fiu’s fortunes were eroding with the swell of Amafu’s tide but, although the arrow tip of flame no longer danced to the rasp and wheeze, he had not departed to sail the rivers beyond the seas. Amri stumbled as he left the dais; the pride of Fiu rose and its honour drained to sand. His hand, deep within the folds of his wilath, could not crush the vial there, the vile essence of the deed was rooted too deeply.

The hand Amri extended, pulled Amafu's doctor in. For six shine Caleth had cherished the life of Amafu, Wisest Wise.


Robes of white flustered as he hurried; the physician closed rank and distance, “Lord?”

“Caleth, now is the time.”

The wives of long dead sons stood closest with their arms clasped over straining lungs, knuckles whitened; the weight of  knowledge bent their backs as their tears fell in crystal respect.

Caleth’s eyes widened, his lips blanched, “Too soon, Lord.”

Amri straightened his spine as he narrowed his eyes, “The stars have aligned to deny Clan Fiu continuity of service? Due two moons late?”

“Lord, I beg you think of the child.”

“I think of the Clan.”

Caleth rounded his shoulders as sickness welled within him.

“Do this and bounty will rain upon you.” But the finger’s holding the vial thrust it into his heart. They scrapped, clawed, as if to gain entry.

Caleth bowed, his eyes locked upon the inky, crystal bottle which contained a clear, odourless liquid and the blackest of intents: the child would live or die, but it would be born that night expunged from it’s mother’s womb, too soon. The pity of it was if the child were born living and lived, it still might not be soon enough.

Diary of an Expat-teen

GEORGETOWN, Hot Guyana - not NEAR EDGWARE at the moment.

Diary and me... like company, only not.

This is April and I’m revising.

Really, would that be revising... for a change?

Me and revision ?

HOW MANY WEEKS TO THE EXAMS?
NOT ENOUGH.

I’m not getting enough done. Chats to Ben and my girls are taking all the time I’m not spending with my trainer.

Manly, Masoud has been pushing me – he wants me to fly not run – but short distances, fast? That’s not me. I only feel like flying when the distance is long and I forget I’m on a machine with the air-conditioning making my hair stream out behind me, lol. I’m going to get it cut. Break Dad’s heart, again. Great. But it is so in the way!

Today – day 7 into the holiday – I’ve discovered I have to do something about learning enough to pass exams and everything. It’s important now because Mum said we may as well move home. Dad thinks everything is sorted at work: the situation no longer applies. So, we can move home!!!!!!!

Now work avoidance has been a bad, bad idea because Ife was going on about how Woodford College won’t take some students into the Sixth Form. They’ve been given targets to meet or it’s out on your feet. There are other schools in this locality and you may apply yourselves there if you do not wish to apply yourself here; I’m loving the Head teacher's little chat.

I made a timetable – good revision strategy.

I divided my life into 2 hour long blocks between 09:00 and 22:00 with an hour off for lunch and another off for dinner. That works out as 2 sessions in the morning-ish, then eat and watch-up on some TV, fast. Then two sessions in the afternoon and eat with parents if they're in, and available, followed by one more session before I’m allowed down to the gym.

I’m going to do subjects and stuff first block, Art until lunch – artist’s studies – back to other subjects for the next block with more coursework Art before dinner and lastly a bit more Art - the artwork I like. With my new plan running from today I might get all my Art done if not my running. I think I should have done more ART, already.

It’s not too late to do LOADS of work and get As with decorations, if I have A* everything no Headteacher's not going to want me.

I’m going to go back to Salters’ School, Woodford – Woodford School ,Woodford – Woodford College ; they made it sounds almost as grand as here; don't things change?!

Count down:
April, now; home in September – 5 months?! That’s a life time away; I’ll be my own grandkids by then. 167 days. : (  Could be worse; I want to go home.

How is my French sounding to you? I’ll go do some then.

Jess

Wednesday - wordless with woe - why?

An Esoteric Moveable Feast?

Words - two words have been plaguing me all day. They've been gnawing so loudly even Lady Gaga's Paparazzi on full volume hasn't been able to drive them back. Tidally moving, but not straying far has been the phrase moveable feast.

Easter is migratory, I know that. It wanders about causing timetabelling and educational difficulties. The shortest Spring term I remember was eight weeks and the longest nearly sixteen, so Easter is, clearly, moveable and feast-like.

I have not spent time thinking about Easter, people can do that in anyway personal to them, but I have had the phrase moveable feast doing the cha-cha-slide in my head.

They are both powerful and emotive words for me: ripples from the deepest, darkest place.

MOVEABLE:

Memories; on one of the Blogs I read during Kelly's First Page Blogfest one writer suggested she remembered her first birthday and this sparked the whole train of thought: does a person know the events that took place during their first year? I moved countries. Having a frail, premature brother born soon after my first birthday? I don't remember his arrival but I'd bet my subconscious does. Fifth of eight, I'd say Moveable should have been my middle name. The three, and a half, who were older kept me moving on (educationally, socially and physically) while the younger three also had reasons for needing. So, moveable - Id not recommend.

FEAST:

The wonder of smells so tempting you'd risk nasal blisters to get your head close enough to draw them deep long before the food reached the table, and before it was truly safe to attempt it. Every meal has a feast's air of panic and military precision when cooking for large numbers: steaming bowls, bread by the loaf and the need to get in quick before it's all gone. The anticipation, the tacky-fingered, chin-encrusted, hard-stomach of enjoyment: the only sight that reminds me of how this felt would be good-natured puppies heading for their food bowl.

Ernest Hemingway describes Paris as  "A Moveable Feast" devoured and yet always with you not matter where you go. I'd have to go with Childhood. When I yelled, what do you think of when you hear the phrase moveable feast? - my Minnow, prosaically, went with Macky D.
 
I'll relish reading what you think of when you hear - moveable feast

Me and Dickens we're like that -x- FLOWER PAGE 2

TO CELEBRATE THE DISCOVERY OF HOW TO CUT AND PASTE, I  POSTED PAGE 2

FLOWER

The sick feeling, an over-extended balloon of despair, stretched in my stomach. Worst of all the tears leaked. They wet my face and hurt my cheeks though I tried to squeeze hard enough to hold them back. I could hear the banging on the wall, again.

"Cheers... babe.”

I took the doll, this was the quickest way back to solitude and it made her feel better. But Hannah wriggled inside the curtain beside me, I forced an eye to open when another kind of head began rub at my arm. For the first time in 17 days I remembered I could smile.

The peel of the doorbell chime took away even that.

“That’ll be the door,” said Jo.

I stared at her but no power on earth was powerful enough to make me look at the door. If you don’t look then you don’t see, and if you don’t see then it isn’t so - and I wouldn’t have to start my new life again.

“He’s early,” Jo made her way past the things standing neatly in a row, but her head remained turned toward where I sat, almost hidden, by the floor length curtain, “that’s a good sign.”

With her hand on the door, and without a word being said she begged me to believe. Believe it could be alright, believe he really wanted me, and believe I might not, literally, die.

But how could that be when I’d seen the suitcase and the lilac folder balanced on top of my jacket. So, how was it going to be alright? I didn’t even feel it could be alright here, just 20 minutes from the house that wasn’t really mine anymore? How could it be better when I’d be 20 hours further away from it by tomorrow?

But life went on. For 17 days I'd been learning that fact. Your parent can go out and life goes on – they don’t come back and life goes on – services and cemeteries, and fairy cakes and wills and still life goes on. How that was happening was the most bizarre thing.

Kelly Lyman's FIRST PAGE BLOGFEST

Kelly Lyman is hosting her FIRST PAGE BLOGFEST today. I couldn't decide which first page I wanted to go with. Whenever I'm in that situation I reach for the first book I ever started. It's a comfort thing: me and Flower BFFE ;)

I didn't have to look too far because last night I took Flower's tragedy and turned it into a real horror - my apologies to Flower because she has enough trouble as it is.

FLOWER

CHAPTER 1

LIFE GOES ON

The tiny torrents raged down the pane until they puddled on the deep, white sill. Not the dribbling dot-to-dot now, the constant streams fought the elements: they were blown sideways by the breeze. I tracked the movement of one rivulet with my index finger, prodded and hoped to stop, to have any affect on the running flood with about as much success as I'd had with everything else, lately. With the distraction of walking washed away I'd have to wait in the house with the fosters, not literally The Fosters, just the family who'd been doing their best while I'd been doing my worst.



"We could still go out for a walk," Jo said. She was close, but not touching.



With the splattering at the window, the whilstling through the crack at the base of the patio door, the wind-driven, black-stained clouds slashing rain, I would have.



Amy and Hannah, lying by the TV banging the heads of lilac dressed dolls with their biroed, facial tattoos, became unnaturally still.



"No. Thanks."



Waves of relief rolled from the mini pop-moguls, they went back to organising the less-than-live auditions.



Well, not long now, Flower." Jo patted at my arm before she straightened up and returned to the kitchen.



Moments later I felt a little plastic head rubbing the same spot.



"Flower?" Hannah was making the ultimate sacrifice, "Do ya' wan' my doll?"



Jo leaned against the kitchen counter, as I watched she smiled - adoration and pride - and the razorblade of loss slashed another wound into my heart. I pushed my back into the edge of the wall and grated my spine to balance the pain, replace it with an ache much easier to deal with.

The Alternative Version Blogfest: FICTION SLASH HORROR

See? Holidays and competitions, a perfect combination. Livia Blackburne is hosting this Blogfest over on her Blog http://liviablackburne.com/2010/03

I have had fun trying to keep to the spirit of the original but to capture a very different feel.

FLOWER'S a YA FICTION

"We could... go out for a walk?"

Splattering at the window, whistling through the crack at the base of the patio door, the black stained clouds slashed down rain.

Amy and Hannah - lying by the TV banging the heads of lilac dressed dolls with their biroed, facial tattoos - became unnaturally still.

"No, thanks."

Waves of relief rolled from the other end of the room as the mini pop-moguls continued their less than live auditions.

"Well, not long now, Fower."

Jo patted my arm before she straightened up and headed for the kitchen.

Moments later, I felt a little plastic head rubbing my arm in the exact same place.

FLOWER'S HORROR

"We - could - go - out, for a walk."

Rain slashed from black, stained clouds.

There was splattering against the window. Whistling through the crack at the base of the patio door.

Amy and Hannah lay beside the TV, unnaturally still - the heads of lilac dressed dolls with their biroed facial tattoos.

Banging.

"No! Thanks."

Waves of relief rolled.

From the other end of the room the mini pop moguls continued their less-than-live auditions.

"Well. Not long now, Flower."

Jo patted at my arm. She straightened up. Headed for the kitchen, moments later.

I felt a little plastic head, rubbing my arm in the exact same spot.

I recommend this exercise to anyone, I recommend any exercise to anyone. ;)