Untitled.
Elley Edwards
Chapter one: The science room.
It was a practical joke that had gone terribly wrong…
Jeremy gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth.
What have I done!?
Stephen was moaning, wiping his streaming, inky eyes.
“Get it out! Get it out! It’s burning!”
Jeremy was also covered in splotches of midnight blue ink.
“I’m sorry man, sorry! Shhh! I didn’t mean to…that wasn’t s’pose to happen!”
Mrs. Frahmien wheeled around from the whiteboard, her plump, red face instantly beaming with rage as she surveyed the scene.
“What have you boys done!? I cannot turn my back on you for one minute without something like THIS happening!”
Uh-oh. I’m totally in for it now. My life is over.
Jeremy slumped back into his chair.
Stephen’s wails and Mrs. Frahmien’s thunderous voice stunned the class. Everyone froze; mid-nose-pick, mid-spit ball, mid-pash (up the back).
All that was audible in the science room was Stephen’s groans of:
“It huuuuurts!”
Mrs. Frahmien boomed, in her military, matter-of-fact way,
“Sarah! Ebony! Escort Stephen to the sick bay immediately. He needs urgent attention!”
Her gaze scanned the room and flicked back to Jeremy who had recovered from his horrified apologies and was now stifling giggles.
‘The Fellas’ were imitating Stephen- led by Sam, his best mate since prep- ribbing him to get his attention. Stephen left the room with his hands over his eyes, letting out a faint sob.
“Alright everyone- pack up! The bell will ring in 2 minutes.”
The class sprang into action.
“I want all Bunsen burners, tripods, mats, etcetera returned and left exactly as you found them, or else you’ll all be in at lunch time!” Mrs. Frahmien roared over the bustling movement.
Jeremy tried to look inconspicuous as he hurriedly tidied up the bench where he and Stephen had worked.
He half-heartedly tried to mop up the exploded ink from the table with a smelly, soggy cloth he’d found in the sink up the front, but all it did was smear the mess and make it worse.
Jeremy piffed the stinky-and now stained- cloth across the room and it landed with a loud ‘SPLAT’ in the sink. Swishhhh!
The bell rang and everyone raced to the door, pushing, shoving, and jostling to get out in one massive blob of arms and heads.
Jeremy was in the middle of it and had just elbowed Sam to squeeze out in front, when Mrs. Frahmien called in a shrill tone,
“Mr. Batton! Where do you think you’re going?”
Jeremy stopped, his back still to her, facing freedom.
“Well, I was off to lunch…”
What does she think I’m doing, making cookies for the girl guides?
Luckily for Jeremy, he kept his mouth closed, turned slowly in the doorway and artfully plastered the standard ‘bored’ teenage expression all over himself.
Everyone had left the classroom and the hallway was now quiet as he stood there…waiting.
Mrs. Frahmien continued to pack up her things and wipe the whiteboard clean.
Am I meant to just stand here all day? C’mon! I’m starvin’ marvin’!
Of course, Mrs. Frahmien was deliberately taking her time, delaying the inevitable a little longer, hoping to see remorse of some sort on Jeremy’s face.
She glanced quickly and registered the impatient, bored glare; Mrs. Frahmien packed up a little slower.
Jeremy was itching for the sausage roll, which had his name on it, waiting for him at the canteen.
Mrs. Frahmien finally met Jeremy at the door, tub over-flowing with science and chemistry books. She shoved it in Jeremy’s direction.
“Take this!” she growled,
“Walk with me.”
This is not good.
Chapter two coming...
Friday, June 19, 2009
Young adult fiction: The adventures of Hermon Brown
The Adventures of Hermon Brown.
Elley Edwards.
CHAPTER 1: Meet Hermon and Henrietta
Human life is such a remarkable and fragile thing. From the moment we’re born we enter the race to become the smartest, richest and most fulfilled being we can possibly be.
What if one met the slowest, simplest and least emotionally evolved person one could find? What would that person be like? You might ask yourself. Perhaps that person would be like Hermon Brown.
Hermon Brown, as one would imagine, lived a simple life in Bristol, England. His house was as simple as he; lined up, side by side, next to other two storey, town houses identical to his. Our friend, Hermon was born in this house, on Middle Park Lane. He grew up in this house and when his mother died of a sudden heart attack, Hermon continued to go on living in this same house in Middle Park Lane. His father was killed in the World War when Hermon was a boy. When he was left in this world to his own devices, after his mother died, he didn’t know what else he was meant to do, so he kept on living in that simple house in Middle Park Lane.
Hermon did the same thing every morning, a routine engraved in his mind from childhood: He got up at precisely 7am every morning, showered, dressed and made himself 2 generous slices of jam on toast, and ate it on the balcony by precisely 8 am. He did this because he loved to say “Hallo!” to his neighbors, and anyone else who happened to walk the sidewalk under his townhouse.
Hermon’s balcony breakfast coincided with the 8.15am train at nearby Middle Park station. Hermon would sit on his balcony after his toast was promptly devoured- because Hermon always awoke hungry-and wave to the people rushing past on their way to catch their train.
One such neighbor Hermon liked to say hallo to was Henrietta Berkenstien, who was a longtime widow and lived in the identical house on the left-hand side of Hermon.
Henrietta’s balcony differed from Hermon’s in that she had a small garden of flowers, vegetables and herbs, which grew in little pots and were lined up along the balcony, like cheerful soldiers.
Hermon always marveled on how she could get her hair to match the lavender she liked to cut from her small, potted garden.Hermon noticed little things like that; true he may not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he was curious enough to pick up on the subtleties of life, and he spent much of his time pondering to himself about such things: like why dogs’ noses are always wet, what the mailman does when he’s not delivering mail and, of course, how Henrietta’s hair became lavender!
Henrietta liked to go to her balcony too, to tend her garden. Often times she spotted Hermon, who would give her an enthusiastic wave and a robust “Hallo!”
Henrietta could never fathom why Hermon was always so cheerful, for apparently no good reason. In fact, she often thought to herself how strange Hermon was.
‘It’s weird,’ she thought, ‘that someone, like Hermon, who is all alone in the world, should be so happy! Whatever is the matter with him?’
Henrietta, you must understand, was not the sweet, little, old lady one expects to meet. For, as you already know, her hair was a curious shade of purple and she always wore a full face of makeup (particularly crimson lipstick). She was tall and bird-like, with poppy, beady eyes and was slightly bent over from many years of gardening. She was seldom ever seen without the layers of gold jewelry that hung from her lanky frame. My, she was a sight to behold-and quite formidable when crossed. She had a very high opinion of herself and detested anyone who contradicted her.
You and I both know by now that there was nothing the matter with Hermon Brown, only that he was peculiar and he found pleasures in the simple things, most particularly the people around him; something that Henrietta Bourkenstein didn’t understand very well at all.
She had seen and experienced a lot in her eighty-odd years and had grown suspicious and resentful. Cynicism festered as the years sped on after her husband died. Mr. Bourkenstein was a warm generous person and before he left for the war he left her a tidy sum of money from which to live off, should he fail to return. This, one would think, would afford Henrietta some sort of peace of mind of not being burden on her children in old age. Unfortunately though, Henrietta had become so cantankerous and difficult that even her two grown children, who lived in nearby towns, refused to visit her; Christmas was the only exception.
So you see, there was a world of difference between Hermon Brown and his neighbor, Henrietta Bourkenstein, excusing one, blindingly obvious similarity: they were both alone in the world.
CHAPTER 2: To be continued...
Elley Edwards.
CHAPTER 1: Meet Hermon and Henrietta
Human life is such a remarkable and fragile thing. From the moment we’re born we enter the race to become the smartest, richest and most fulfilled being we can possibly be.
What if one met the slowest, simplest and least emotionally evolved person one could find? What would that person be like? You might ask yourself. Perhaps that person would be like Hermon Brown.
Hermon Brown, as one would imagine, lived a simple life in Bristol, England. His house was as simple as he; lined up, side by side, next to other two storey, town houses identical to his. Our friend, Hermon was born in this house, on Middle Park Lane. He grew up in this house and when his mother died of a sudden heart attack, Hermon continued to go on living in this same house in Middle Park Lane. His father was killed in the World War when Hermon was a boy. When he was left in this world to his own devices, after his mother died, he didn’t know what else he was meant to do, so he kept on living in that simple house in Middle Park Lane.
Hermon did the same thing every morning, a routine engraved in his mind from childhood: He got up at precisely 7am every morning, showered, dressed and made himself 2 generous slices of jam on toast, and ate it on the balcony by precisely 8 am. He did this because he loved to say “Hallo!” to his neighbors, and anyone else who happened to walk the sidewalk under his townhouse.
Hermon’s balcony breakfast coincided with the 8.15am train at nearby Middle Park station. Hermon would sit on his balcony after his toast was promptly devoured- because Hermon always awoke hungry-and wave to the people rushing past on their way to catch their train.
One such neighbor Hermon liked to say hallo to was Henrietta Berkenstien, who was a longtime widow and lived in the identical house on the left-hand side of Hermon.
Henrietta’s balcony differed from Hermon’s in that she had a small garden of flowers, vegetables and herbs, which grew in little pots and were lined up along the balcony, like cheerful soldiers.
Hermon always marveled on how she could get her hair to match the lavender she liked to cut from her small, potted garden.Hermon noticed little things like that; true he may not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he was curious enough to pick up on the subtleties of life, and he spent much of his time pondering to himself about such things: like why dogs’ noses are always wet, what the mailman does when he’s not delivering mail and, of course, how Henrietta’s hair became lavender!
Henrietta liked to go to her balcony too, to tend her garden. Often times she spotted Hermon, who would give her an enthusiastic wave and a robust “Hallo!”
Henrietta could never fathom why Hermon was always so cheerful, for apparently no good reason. In fact, she often thought to herself how strange Hermon was.
‘It’s weird,’ she thought, ‘that someone, like Hermon, who is all alone in the world, should be so happy! Whatever is the matter with him?’
Henrietta, you must understand, was not the sweet, little, old lady one expects to meet. For, as you already know, her hair was a curious shade of purple and she always wore a full face of makeup (particularly crimson lipstick). She was tall and bird-like, with poppy, beady eyes and was slightly bent over from many years of gardening. She was seldom ever seen without the layers of gold jewelry that hung from her lanky frame. My, she was a sight to behold-and quite formidable when crossed. She had a very high opinion of herself and detested anyone who contradicted her.
You and I both know by now that there was nothing the matter with Hermon Brown, only that he was peculiar and he found pleasures in the simple things, most particularly the people around him; something that Henrietta Bourkenstein didn’t understand very well at all.
She had seen and experienced a lot in her eighty-odd years and had grown suspicious and resentful. Cynicism festered as the years sped on after her husband died. Mr. Bourkenstein was a warm generous person and before he left for the war he left her a tidy sum of money from which to live off, should he fail to return. This, one would think, would afford Henrietta some sort of peace of mind of not being burden on her children in old age. Unfortunately though, Henrietta had become so cantankerous and difficult that even her two grown children, who lived in nearby towns, refused to visit her; Christmas was the only exception.
So you see, there was a world of difference between Hermon Brown and his neighbor, Henrietta Bourkenstein, excusing one, blindingly obvious similarity: they were both alone in the world.
CHAPTER 2: To be continued...
Adult fiction/Sci-fi: My life as an invisible
My life as an invisible.
Elley Edwards
I’m not sure when it started, or when I consciously recognised it. It was so gradual and insidious that I was in too deep long before I knew what had developed. Now? Well, now I have to deal with the consequences, the mess, I suppose you’d call it. I sometimes hardly think that I’m able, but, by some unforeseeable force, I’ve come to this point in my life and Lord knows it’s too late to undo or reverse what has happened.
I’m not sure if it is the Lord whom I should refer to…I’m not exactly what you’d call a religious person. Spiritual, sure, but religious: church every Sunday, belief in a higher power which controls your life’s outcomes…nuh-uh. That’s definitely not me. Oh, sure I’ve prayed a couple of times during these past few months, simply out of despair of not knowing who to turn to, who else to put my faith in, but I’d hardly call the Vatican and announce another believer.
My irritation has clouded my judgement and I’ve clearly omitted the whole story of how this came about; my life as an invisible.
Elley Edwards
I’m not sure when it started, or when I consciously recognised it. It was so gradual and insidious that I was in too deep long before I knew what had developed. Now? Well, now I have to deal with the consequences, the mess, I suppose you’d call it. I sometimes hardly think that I’m able, but, by some unforeseeable force, I’ve come to this point in my life and Lord knows it’s too late to undo or reverse what has happened.
I’m not sure if it is the Lord whom I should refer to…I’m not exactly what you’d call a religious person. Spiritual, sure, but religious: church every Sunday, belief in a higher power which controls your life’s outcomes…nuh-uh. That’s definitely not me. Oh, sure I’ve prayed a couple of times during these past few months, simply out of despair of not knowing who to turn to, who else to put my faith in, but I’d hardly call the Vatican and announce another believer.
My irritation has clouded my judgement and I’ve clearly omitted the whole story of how this came about; my life as an invisible.
**************************************************
When I was a little boy, I loved going to the airport with my dad to see the jets take off. We’d go out there on a Saturday morning and watch the small planes magically rise from the ground as if being pulled up into the clouds by an invisible string. That was our thing: dad and me. Dad used to be a pilot until his eyesight forced him into the lesser job of a baggage handler. Dad had to go to our small town airport 2-3 times a day to collect the baggage of the passengers flying in and out. Being a small airport, with one carrier connecting to larger city airports, the carrier would ensure that their employees could do more than one job. This saved time and money. Dad’s job wasn’t just collecting the baggage and transporting it to the aeroplane’s empty belly, but he also served as a marshal on the runway. He would don his hi-vis orange vest and direct the pilots to a safe take-off.
Dad loved these jobs, but not as much as he loved to fly. So on his days off, when they fell on a weekend, we would go out to the airport together and sometimes he’d take me behind the baggage desk and show me the radio in which they talked to the incoming planes; other times we’d just lean against the cold, chain link cyclone fence and watch the spasmodic flights of the planes landing and taking off… I thought it was awesome and couldn’t wait for those days off to spend time with him.
I guess from the early days I knew I wanted to be a pilot and by the time I graduated from high school I was already qualified, having attended flying lessons and flown with dad from the age of 14. I was ready to apply to a commercial airline. A random twist of events set me on a path that was far more ambitious than flying commercial planes. I was looking for more excitement and glamour. I wanted to fly fighter jets.
To be continued...
Where I’m heading in this story possibly...Jet fighting leads to astronaut in space program ET encounter or space experiment gone wrong.Conflict: literally invisible? Part of the group of astronauts who are being shunned by public/government after a tragic event.
Ending? Hoping for a ‘cure’ or a resolution/ recognition.
IDEAS?
Adult Fiction: Daniel and Paula
Daniel and Paula.
Elley Edwards
That was the moment when Paula lost her ‘give a shit’. That was the moment: after two years and ten months of being together and one year and six months of living in the same house that she felt nothing.
It wasn’t that he stood there, telling her to “Calm down” in that patronising way; that he stood, staring at her, while she had a miniature (by her standards) hissy fit over the state of the house, or even that he failed to take the hint and use some initiative; it was the fact that, at that moment, she did not care about him. Let me re-phrase that: she did not care-in that moment of miniature hissy fit- wether or not his feelings were hurt.
Oh, and they were! He’d never experienced someone so quick to frustrate, so quick to spit out poisonous words from her forked tongue. This was why he automatically told her to ‘calm down’ when the slightest bit of hysteria crept into her voice, or her questioning became rhetorical and sarcastic, and worse- when she morphed his name into a feminine substitute: “What do you think is the matter with me, Danielle?”.
As soon as a phrase like this was uttered, Daniel knew she’d gone too far. Not ‘gone too far’ like he’d ‘put his foot down’ and ‘bring her into line’ for dealing a sly blow to his masculinity, but gone too far for her mood to be salvaged and too far gone that he could crack a joke without her throwing him a deadly look, or worse- the plate in her hand, or the vase on the table.
That is definitely how Paula felt sometimes when the frustration levels got too high. It was made even worse that his brain seemed to be on pause through the whole disagreement/ argument/fight…whatever you want to call it. Daniel genuinely seemed dumb to her in those moments: deer in the headlights, ‘I just got caught pulling my dick’, faced-with a-million-dollar-question retarded. And he wondered why Paula reacted so severely!?
Daniel did wonder why Paula was so severe on him. Perhaps she had a mild case of bi-polar disease. Lord knows her mood swings were impressive! Daniel was easy target and fell for every tantrum hook, line and sinker.
Daniel thought that Paula was the easiest person to talk to, but not when she’d worked herself up into a mood. There was no point in talking to her when she was dramatically flailing arms, stomping around and growling like a caged animal; but oh, she was beautiful in her fury and Daniel couldn’t help but love her, as bewildered as he was by her frustrated outbursts.
In retrospect, Paula knew that her frustrated outbursts confused Daniel, but even though she took it out on him, she could still hear that he loved her. Felt it. He would continue to say loving things like “What can I do to help, darl?” and “What’s the matter, honey?” Sometimes, in the back of her mind, she would recognise that he was only saying those things to placate her. Yes, the love was still there, as evidenced by the ‘honey’s’ and the ‘darls’, but the concern? He wasn’t concerned about why Paula became that way; only when the mood would pass and all the egg shells had been stomped on.
Sometimes when Daniel did take initiative and thought to be helpful, Paula’s tone would soften, and if he caught her mood in time, it would even soothe her into mild annoyance; a mood which easily-and quickly-passed. He’d learned some of these ‘hit and miss’ tricks early on in the relationship, but it seemed as though Paula had caught onto them, and the pacifying affect was now, short lived and momentary.
To be continued...
Elley Edwards
That was the moment when Paula lost her ‘give a shit’. That was the moment: after two years and ten months of being together and one year and six months of living in the same house that she felt nothing.
It wasn’t that he stood there, telling her to “Calm down” in that patronising way; that he stood, staring at her, while she had a miniature (by her standards) hissy fit over the state of the house, or even that he failed to take the hint and use some initiative; it was the fact that, at that moment, she did not care about him. Let me re-phrase that: she did not care-in that moment of miniature hissy fit- wether or not his feelings were hurt.
Oh, and they were! He’d never experienced someone so quick to frustrate, so quick to spit out poisonous words from her forked tongue. This was why he automatically told her to ‘calm down’ when the slightest bit of hysteria crept into her voice, or her questioning became rhetorical and sarcastic, and worse- when she morphed his name into a feminine substitute: “What do you think is the matter with me, Danielle?”.
As soon as a phrase like this was uttered, Daniel knew she’d gone too far. Not ‘gone too far’ like he’d ‘put his foot down’ and ‘bring her into line’ for dealing a sly blow to his masculinity, but gone too far for her mood to be salvaged and too far gone that he could crack a joke without her throwing him a deadly look, or worse- the plate in her hand, or the vase on the table.
That is definitely how Paula felt sometimes when the frustration levels got too high. It was made even worse that his brain seemed to be on pause through the whole disagreement/ argument/fight…whatever you want to call it. Daniel genuinely seemed dumb to her in those moments: deer in the headlights, ‘I just got caught pulling my dick’, faced-with a-million-dollar-question retarded. And he wondered why Paula reacted so severely!?
Daniel did wonder why Paula was so severe on him. Perhaps she had a mild case of bi-polar disease. Lord knows her mood swings were impressive! Daniel was easy target and fell for every tantrum hook, line and sinker.
Daniel thought that Paula was the easiest person to talk to, but not when she’d worked herself up into a mood. There was no point in talking to her when she was dramatically flailing arms, stomping around and growling like a caged animal; but oh, she was beautiful in her fury and Daniel couldn’t help but love her, as bewildered as he was by her frustrated outbursts.
In retrospect, Paula knew that her frustrated outbursts confused Daniel, but even though she took it out on him, she could still hear that he loved her. Felt it. He would continue to say loving things like “What can I do to help, darl?” and “What’s the matter, honey?” Sometimes, in the back of her mind, she would recognise that he was only saying those things to placate her. Yes, the love was still there, as evidenced by the ‘honey’s’ and the ‘darls’, but the concern? He wasn’t concerned about why Paula became that way; only when the mood would pass and all the egg shells had been stomped on.
Sometimes when Daniel did take initiative and thought to be helpful, Paula’s tone would soften, and if he caught her mood in time, it would even soothe her into mild annoyance; a mood which easily-and quickly-passed. He’d learned some of these ‘hit and miss’ tricks early on in the relationship, but it seemed as though Paula had caught onto them, and the pacifying affect was now, short lived and momentary.
To be continued...
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