Recently, I had a friend who had a birthday. Her birthday present from me was an anthology. I didn’t want to wrap it up, so I hid it in her English book, but I refused to let her open it. It was actually quite funny…
I’m currently in the process of writing an anthology for my friend’s birthday in September. This series is about a politically incorrect and cynical English teacher who works at a private girls’ school. His name is George Rothschild.
I had been refraining from posting a story because I don’t want to ruin the surprise for my friend. However, I haven’t posted anything for over a month and besides, she’ll probably like to “try before she buys.”
The chef set a deliciously colourful martini in front of me, earning him an impressive tip. “Thanks, Chef,” I called before dipping a piece of scallop into the correct dipping sauce. Whoever came up with the idea of combining a teppanyaki restaurant with a bar was a genius. I heard a rustle of material as a young woman with money sat one seat away from me. She was wearing a cut-out red evening gown, and her perfect blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder, and her fake tan wasn’t even orange! She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t stunning, elegant, or graceful. She was hot. If I put a piece of bacon on her, it would burn. I enjoyed looking at her. “Can I buy you a drink?” She turned and looked at me seductively. Her eyes were an unattractively muddy blue, but she had more than enough curves to make up for it. “Vodka and tonic, if you don’t mind, Mr…?” “Rothschild. George Rothschild.” “Mr Rothschild.” She looked no older than 22, ten years my junior. She slid onto the bar stool next to me, however when I followed her gaze, a Japanese chef on the other side of the room had caught her eye. “I’ve never had teppanyaki before,” she hinted, taking a sip of her concoction. She looked at me innocently. How I would love to corrupt her. “Chef!” I called. The squat Japanese man who’d made a habit of serving me waddled up to the hot plate. “Yes, Mr Rothschild?” “May I please have a small fried rice? The Miss will have a medium rare steak.” “Certainly.” The blonde smiled at me secretively. “So what is your profession that allows you to make accurate predictions about a girl’s favourite style of meat?” she asked. I struggled not to squirm in my seat at the question. What is it with twenty-somethings and questions about jobs? “I’m a teacher,” I replied. She raised her eyebrow. “Well,” she said, placing her drink down. “I’m a shopgirl at Chanel.” Maybe teaching wasn’t so bad. The Chef started cooking the steak and a flame rose up, bathing her in a thin orange light. He cut up the steak finely and placed it in her bowl. “Thanks, Chef!” I smiled. She nibbled on her meat and then began waving her chopsticks around. “No, don’t do that! That’s rude in Japanese culture!” She put the chopsticks down hastily. “I’m so sorry, you must think me culturally ignorant.” She batted her eyelids apologetically. Of course I thought her culturally ignorant. She was a Chanel shopgirl, for goodness sake! But I didn’t say this. “No, it’s fine. You know now.” The chef took our plates away. “Thanks, Chef!” I called, handing him my credit card. The blonde faked a yawn, thrusting her breasts out provocatively. “I’m afraid I have to go to bed. I do wish that I could invite you up for a drink.” She smiled at me coyly, her hips swaying naturally as she entered the lift. “Apartment 70, level 12,” the chef said. I blinked, confused, and then it hit me. “Thanks, Chef,” I called, and, grinning like an idiot, I followed her into the lift. I didn’t even know her name.
There’s the first story! I’ve written another two, and I’m in the process of writing a third. At this rate, it’ll be a Christmas Present.
Ugh, I really need to get my creative juices flowing. I’m currently in this bland, unimaginative blur. This time last year, I was writing daily. What is wrong with me?
Anyway, I’ll post soon.
But for now, that’s it from me!
– The Empress
P.S: Is it too much to ask you to nominate me for the Liebster Award (what does Liebster even mean?)?
Actually, given my current state of blogging, it is. Yeah, it is. Okay, just ignore my egotistical ramblings.
The last time I requested a title, I got nothing. It still needs a title. Please, actually respond to this request, because I actually want a title.
Onto the story: It was inspired by two episodes of ‘Silent Witness’- Truth Part 1 and Truth Part 2. The victims in Part 1 are kidnapped and tortured before being poised by Anthrax (oops, spoiler) as part of some sick guy’s plan to get noticed. Perhaps not so much Anthrax, but more drug lord kidnap thing, I am open to all title suggestions.Now, my story:
She had been there too long to know the difference between night and day, winter or summer, rain or sun. She didn’t know whether she was alive or dead. If she was dead, she wondered what she’d done to anger God so much to put her in this Hell. If she was alive… She didn’t want to think about that. The door opened and two people walked in. A curvy silhouette followed them as they dragged her to a cuffed wooden frame. They suspended her, and she saw the curvy silhouette walk around her. “Have you gut the whip?” she asked, her voice sounding muffled and distant.
“Yes.” The woman nodded as her victim closed her eyes. And the pain. It felt like a snake was digging its teeth into her as it dragged through her skin. “Quicker, faster, harder,” the woman barked.
“Sorry.” And then the pain again. A saw was slicing through her flesh roughly. Warm liquid trickled down the back of her legs before she was taken down again. As her captors exited, she slumped into her knees, the only sound in the room being the erratic drip of her blood onto the cold stone. She had been there too long to cry.
Remember when I posted my ‘A Little Something to Inspire’ poem? Well, here’s the actual English paper it inspired. Take note: This is how you write rubbish that receives an A+.
Life is art. To succeed at life, you need to be an artist.
You need to understand that life is beautiful. The gentle sway of the trees in the light wind. The faint patter of rain on the window. The clouds catching the fiery rays of Sun as the day fades to night.
You need to understand that life is passion. The fire in a musician’s heart. The power of a painter’s brush. The legacy of a writer’s pen.
But then, how does one become an artist?
You need to sing when you can’t hear the song. You need to chase the sun into the depths of the night. You need to smile when you want to run. You need to love when you can’t trust; it may be the best thing you’ve ever done.
You need to dance when you’ve fallen down. You need to laugh when you’re all alone. You need to hitchhike when you’ve lost your way. You need to fly when you’ve lost your wings. You need to find the sun in never-ending rain. You need to find the light in eternal darkness.
You need hope in the darkest of hours. When your friends have turned your back on you, you need to leave before you’re chained.
When you’re imprisoned by your fears, you need to let them go. Relax; what you’re fearing isn’t the worst that could happen.
Your life is now. It isn’t a dress rehearsal. You can’t change the script; there isn’t one. You need to seize life with both hands. If it kicks in the gut, brush yourself off and kick it back harder.
As the day ends and you close your eyes, don’t sleep. Dream. If it’s bad, learn to fight it and find a better one. You might find the thing you’re looking for.
And when you do, then what?
Well, your life is a story. You have to write your story to the best of your ability. Every person you meet is a new character – and you, the author, can make them however you want. Befriend them; they become the core of your happiness. Loathe them, and now they are your antagonists.
Feel free to make mistakes – only the best characters are flawed. I, myself am living proof that the errors of your past only add to the masterpiece that is life.
But sometimes happiness is only found when shared. But how do you share happiness?
Find love. Without love, the masterpiece that you as the artist has struggled so hard to perfect will be bland. Finding love will add the colour your artwork needs. Whether it’s a platonic love for your friends, or a romance with someone special; whether it’s an obsession with a tv show, or a craving for a celebrity. Your love will make your artwork a masterpiece.
An easy way to find love is through starting hobbies. I like writing, one of my friends likes blogging, another is a hockey genius, and one even likes Maths!
Make sure to share these hobbies. A musician should participate in school ensembles, and one with a more artistic temperament should join the art club. Perhaps one with a more physical persona should participate in sporting activities. Who knows? You could meet somebody worth double their weight in gold.
I have only given you an inkling on how to make your life an artistic masterpiece. There is so much more you could do to become an artist. Life is wonderful, yet repulsive. You have to find the beauty, the wonder, the excitement in a world of ugliness and disgust. You must if you want to thrive.
Life is art.
Become the artist.
And there’s my A+ English essay that is (in my humble opinion) absolute rubbish. Make sure to vote on the poll!
I’m going to say this right now: I am obsessed with the supernatural. I love vampires, werewolves, mermaids, just to name a few. You should see my collection of books about fairies – one of my favourites is a book of poetry devoted to them. However, today, I’m sharing a little something on werewolves. Be warned: This won’t be the first, or the last, time you’ll hear of these characters.
The wolf stares at me. It’s a new wolf. It’s not my wolf. My wolf had emerald green eyes that glitter starkly against her immaculate white fur. This wolf is different. He’s a shadow, and the alpha. His eyes colourless holes of black, the curious glint the only thing distinguishing them from his black hair. I wait with baited breath. Is he going to attack me? The only thing I can think about is my older sister, Astrid, being dragged from her favourite spot beneath the oak tree at our edge of the woods. I was five at the time, and I had come out to tell her that I had just seen George running into the woods through the public entrance if she wanted to join him. I remember that as I arrived at her oak tree, a shadow of a wolf seemed to be dragging her through the snow, leaving a thick stream of blood. I’m not sure whether she was screaming or not – I was too far away. But she did turn her head towards me. The snow had buried her nose and mouth, and her dark yellow hair, wild and dirty from being pulled and dragged in multiple directions, covered her the rest of her face. I did see her eyes though. The bright, luminous emerald green that only a twelve year old can have. That was ten years ago. I look at the wolf before me. Is it going to drag me away too? He looks directly into my eyes. I reach tentatively into his fur. I had assumed it would be course and gritty, the fur of a survivor, of an alpha. But it was soft and fluffy. I pulled my hand back and he nuzzled my palm. He looks at me, then at the pond where my legs are swirling in the still blue water. He glares at the water, almost as though he can see something in there that I can’t. I follow his gaze, and for the briefest moment, a pale green face looks back at me, but it was gone before I could notice anything else. The wolf snarls at me before stalking off. I look back into the water, but the face isn’t there. I shake my head to clear myself of the eerie feeling. There’s something I’m missing… But what is it?
This story really needs a title. Any ideas are welcome!