I've been looking at my English books from my old school, and I got sort of freaked out when I saw that there was an essay thing entitled, 'Eurovision Story Contest'. Now, if you know me, you'll realise that I am obsessed with anything to do with Eurovision (I even ha, even though it's all political now, and the UK haven't got a hope in hell of winning. We definitely won't this year anyway, all the candidates we have are either has-beens or wannabes. Brian Harvey, Liz McClarnon, Scooch, Hawkins & Brown or Big Brovaz, anyone? Please, not Big Brovaz! The only one that isn't a has-been or wannabe seems to be Hawkins & Brown. Beverlei Brown is just a professional singer, but... you remember Justin Hawkins, right? Of The Darkness? Is the image of him cavorting in a white catsuit in 2003, wailing, "I beeeeellllliiiiiiieeevvvvvvve iiiiinnnnnnn aaaaaaaa thhhhhhhhhiiiiinnnnnnnggggggg callllllleeeeeeeedddddd lllllllllloooooovvvvvvvvvveeeeeee..." firmly etched in your brain for eternity yet?
No? Here's a little reminder, then:
Hmm... why did this post turn into something about Eurovision? Eurovision is still a month away. *goes off to check the title*
Oh yeah. The whole point of this post was to tell you I saw an essay/short story in my English book entitled 'Eurovision Story Contest'; it's sort of weird, as I don't remember writing it at all, and if I did, I was in a very weird mood when I wrote it. It also doesn't have anything to do with Eurovision, which totally and utterly sucks. I feel like posting it, for some strange reason. So... er... enjoy...?
And if you hate the story, please bear in mind that I seem to have written this last year, when I was still a sweet little girl without a dirty mind. Ahem.
Please be warned that the following story that you are about to read is even worse than an actual Eurovision entry, and may contain clichés, sentences that don't make sense, and cheesy one-liners.
I do not accept any responsibility for loss of sanity or brain cells.
"Alex, I hear you've been through a traumatic experience," he whispered gently. At last, gazing into his reassuring brown eyes, she felt that she could at last have some peace...Eurovision Story ContestAlex waved energetically at her grandparents as she fought back the urge to cry. She clambered blindly onto the worn leather seat of her motorbike and sped off. In her rush to get away, her helmet lay forgotten between the handlebars.
"If my mother calls," she shouted behind her, "Tell her I'm going to marry Max no matter what she says."
The rain lashed down as Alex rode into the darkness. Too late, she realised that her helmet was missing. Raindrops washed her face, impairing her vision.
She could see lights in the distance, so took her hand off the handlebars to wipe her eyes. A mistake. Suddenly, there was a blinding light.
Screech. Slam. Bang.
Her inert body flew through the air. As her body thumped to the earth, blood oozed from her skull. And then, darkness...**********************************************************************************************************************************
...Whiteness. Alex squinted into the glare. Her eyelids flickered, rebelling against the harsh light. Sharp pain seared through her body. Her head pounded, everything else felt weak and limp. Alex glanced around, trying to absorb her surroundings. Struggling to escape from the bed, she realised with panic that her legs refused to obey her.
Shocked, Alex realised that she was lying in a stark white hospital room. She looked around for someone... anyone... as the memories came flooding back.
Reliving the screeching brakes, the dazzling lights, the thudding pain along her spine and the splash as she hit the ground. Reddening rainwater. The scream of the sirens. And a man's voice saying, "Alex, no!"
"Max? Max?" Alex rambled uncertainly. "I can hear you... Are you here?"
A shadowy figure loomed in the doorway. A shiver of cold air rustled the sheets and the window rattled softly. Gentle, invisible fingertips smoothed her cheek. The foot of the bed was depressed by a surreal force. Someone was sitting beside her - but how? Alex was having difficulty remaining calm as she sensed an evil presence enveloping her. Over the next few days as she began to emerge from her coma, Alex had recurring sensations of fear.
After one particularly terrifying afternoon, a wave of security began to wash over her as the comforting form of the local vicar sat at her side.
Isn't it ironic that it's Red Nose Day, and I'm talking about Eurovision already?
HAPPY RED NOSE DAY!
What is your favorite word? I don't know whether it's copyrighted; the word 'Toblerone' is music to my ears.
What is your least favorite word? Canyouhelpmecodemywebsite? OK, that isn't a word, but that dreaded sentence makes me want to hit someone because I have this annoying habit of wanting to please everybody.
What turns you on [creatively, spiritually or emotionally]? Photoshop and music.
What turns you off? Chavs.
What is your favorite curse word? Oh, shit. I say it a lot.
What sound or noise do you love? The whirring of a blender.
What sound or noise do you hate? The whirring of a blender.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Grass-sniffer, if that counts.
What profession would you not like to do? Everything.
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? "Here's a Toblerone." I'd glomp him if I heard those words.
OK, I took that meme thing from musicchick2. No one reads this blog at Summer Kiss anyway; I get a bigger response on Vox, but I like the blogging tools on Wordpress. I went to Cardiff on Tuesday as we had an inset day, and ended up with an infected foot and not being able to walk, partly to do with my shoes sort of bruising my whole foot. Did you know Cardiff Castle is home to peacocks and ducks? I nearly got a heart attack when I almost tripped over a peacock. I don't think the peacock was too pleased with me, for obvious reasons. I have now decided that peacocks and ducks are creatures of evil.
I am still writing Muse Fart (give me a better working title, please!), and so far, I don't have a clue how it's going to end. I just wasted a chapter talking about Toblerone. Obsessive, much?
At the Harrods Born to Rock exhibition a few weeks ago.
I started writing a novel a few days ago, as a post-NaNoWriMo project. It's kind of like a sequel to the novel I wrote during NaNoWriMo, so it probably won't make any sense to you. The basic premise is that the MC is Cassie, a Muse. if you've done NaNo before, you'll know that we all have Muses who we rely on for ideas. But what happens when the Muse lets us down? Or worse, if it goes on holiday? Yes, this was a crap idea that I thought of at midnight last week and you'll probably hate it, but I'll post it anyway, and let you decide.
Muse Fart
The Inner Editor is Out to Get Me
An Incomplete Novel
by
A. Writer
Prologue:
Above on some cloud high in the sky (or something along those lines, anyway; it might have been Norway or Antarctica, judging by the temperature), an ethereal being was watching a desk buried with papers on another distant shore with a concerned look on her face. The papers hadn't moved for what seemed like years. Suddenly, one of those papers seemed to twitch. The ethereal being gave a sigh of relief and quickly used her x-ray vision to assess the situation. The relief that she had just felt moments before was fading, fast. Something was very wrong. Underneath the pile of papers sat a human being, transfixed at the letters before her. Those letters were meant to make up her novel. Sadly, they did not. Instead of a novel, they resembled a bunch of unreadable squiggles, filled with corrections with black markers and Tippex. Suddenly, the human being began to sob, trickles of her tears splashing onto the paper. Her mascara (and her nose) was also beginning to run. It was not a pretty sight.
The ethereal being scowled. “This has the work of the inner editors all over it,” she muttered. “Damn it, everyone else is still on holiday because NaNoWriMo isn't on. I have to stop those wretched inner editors from ruining A. Writer's novel. I hate being her muse.” She sighed. “I was beginning to like Norway, too. Where else am I supposed to buy Invi Dolls from?”
She shoved all the items that she currently owned into her 'Mary Poppins' style bag - it wasn't that huge a deal to be able to stick a lamp into a bag in Museland, in fact, it was fashion. She then proceeded to fly down into stormy Chicago where A. Writer lived... but she forgot one important detail. She wasn't permitted to fly until next year. Her license had recently been revoked for Dangerous Flying. It also didn't help matters after she had failed her flying test and had screeched, “Up yours!” at the examiners. So, apart from being unable to fly, she also had a restraining order against anyone from the Muse Board of Law Enforcement. This made it really difficult to travel to anywhere on Earth without using Muse Airlines, whom she hated with all her moral fibre. “Curse those examiners and inner editors!” she screamed as she found herself reluctantly materialising onto Muse Airlines.
“Going somewhere, Cassie?” an all too familiar voice whispered in her ear. “A last-minute ticket to Chicago, Illinois, America, Earth will be 2500 Marshmallows, please.”
“Frankie. We meet again.” She rolled her eyes theatrically towards the ceiling.
Frankie and Cassie had known each other since they were little Musettes, and he kept on popping up like a bad smell wherever she went, even more so since he had starting working for Muse Airlines. He knew all about her, how she was prone to memory loss on Earth, how much she despised A. Writer on some occasions, and the fact that she would always be determined to do what was right, no matter how big a mess it got her into later. Needless to say, although they tried not to show it, they cared for each other like brother and sister, and knew each other inside out (no, not in that way, you dirty-minded people).
“Muse Airlines is a bloody rip-off,” she grumbled, as she rummaged around in her Mary Poppins bag for the correct fare. Apart from not being able to fly this year, her stock of Marshmallows, Muse currency, was also running low.
“Well, it was your own fault for getting 'involved' with that inner editor...” Frankie was suddenly cut off by the heavy object that had made a connection with his head. It fell to the floor with a clunk. He possessed the annoying gift of being able to read Cassie's mind. “Oi!”he yelled.
“For your information, I did not get 'involved' with that snivelling excuse for an inner editor. Andrew kidnapped Auntie Mildred and was going to erase her from the novel; what was I meant to do? Leave her there? The traffic wardens and examiners have it in for me, anyway. Now, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone because this is supposed to be my VACATION.” Sniffing, she adjusted her stale velvet seat and glanced out of the window. You'd think you'd get better seats for that amount of Marshmallows...
“Oh, now it's ANDREW now, is it?”
“Not another word, or you'll be hanging from this jet by your underpants tomorrow.” Cassie shot him a glare. In Museland, looks could really kill if you weren't careful.
Blocking the glare, Frankie said under his breath, “Ooh... I think I just hit a nerve...”
“I heard that!” came the reply.
