The Girl in the Forest

A random little piece of writing from many years ago. Welcome to the internet, random little piece of writing. Enjoy your time here. I hope someone enjoys you.

The story begins in a far off land full of magic and mystery. Stories usually do. No adventure ever starts in our own repetitive little world. No one would read it if it did.

The first scene of a story is a peaceful one. Nothing has happened for many years and this is all about to change. After many years of unhappiness, an orphan boy will discover he is the rightful heir to the throne. A girl, her dog and a cottage will be whisked off by a freak gust of wind to sing songs with short people. Anything could happen. And probably will...

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Imagine you are floating high above the clouds. Above you is a clear blue sky and below, a billowing landscape of white. Watch as you accelerate downwards, passing through the clouds, feeling their soft dampness caress your cheek. Once through the cloud there is nothing but forest below you, the leafy canopy stretching as far as the eye can see.

You pass through the leaves...

... and settle to the ground...

... and observe.

Two figures move through the forest, one running, one chasing. The first is female, her feet bare. She is clad only in a flimsy white dress that sweeps along the forest floor as she runs. Her face is flushed with her speed, but her smile is wide. She passes by without seeing you. Minutes later, the second figure arrives. He looks much older than the girl, and his breathing comes in gasps. He wears what was once a smart suit, but now it is ragged and soiled. There is a gaping wound in his left leg. He staggers into the distance, limping.

Now follow...

It is night. A bright full-moon shines down from a cloudless sky. You are in a small clearing, surrounded by trees. The girl is sitting, naked and motionless, in the centre of the clearing, her arms hugging her knees to her chest as she stares up at the moon. Her only expression is one of fascination. She appears unaffected by the harsh coldness of the night.

He is getting closer, she can feel that, and soon he will be here. She knows he will follow her. They will meet, face to face, at this very spot. Her expression breaks and a girlish giggle escapes from her lips, sounding loudly in the silence of the forest. She stands. Her arms raise and her legs kick, and she begins to dance, around and around the clearing, faster and faster... laughing, singing, crying with joy.

The man has arrived. He stands alone in the centre of the clearing, waiting for the girl to emerge from her hiding place. She has watched him arrive and has circled around until she can creep up behind him undetected. Now she advances, eyes always upon him. Her naked feet pad silently across the cold, damp grass and if he hears her, he makes no sign. She stands directly behind him and giggles in delight at the thought of how silently she has approached him. Slowly he turns. His face is haggard, his eyes bloodshot and tired. They look at each other for a very long time.

She dances once more. She is clothed now, and her flimsy dress swirls in harmony with her motion. Her hands are clasped high above her head and her expression is one of pure joy. She dances in a spiral, each circuit of the clearing spiralling further away from the man’s crumpled form that lies at the centre of her dance. He is not dead, but his body is motionless, and the collar of his jacket flaps uneasily in the gentle winter breeze.

Free writing

Every writing blog needs at least one random post of weird prose. Here's mine.

The blade slices through my shame and fills my eyes with wonder. A tiny step through my life as we live in peace and harmony but, when the storm arrives, only then shall we truly know how we feel. Life takes your dreams and grinds them down, like a small child may crush the life out of a beetle. It’s a struggle, but we never stop, never breathe, never break. I am in charge of what I do, yet there are controls to which I must adhere. Who and what I am is up to me, but how I act is not my choice. I am controlled – made to abide by the laws of society. There is no use in rebelling. You just continue as you have been: swept along in the flood of apathy in which we live. There is no getting out – no quitting – until every last drop of your energy has been spent. The stars shine and I contemplate my future. Harsh and bright, my hatred glares back and I long to break free. My past rushes through me and I bring up the barrier once more. Again I hide behind the mask that I have worked on for so long. So many believe. No one is let inside. I must block any attempts to penetrate my true reality. No one knows or understands what I am, not even myself.

Soppy Bastard

Have you ever really liked someone but been too shy to tell them? Well, why not sit at home and write a long poem about it? And then still not actually tell them how you feel? Yes, that will work. Then, years later, you can find the poem in an old notebook and post it on your blog.

If I asked you really nicely

If I begged you on my knees

If I sent you chocolates and roses

Or if I just said “please”

Then perhaps you’d grant me

My one and only wish

I’m asking really nicely

How about a kiss?

I’d like to be romantic

But I’m afraid I don’t know how

I really want to ask you

But I’m scared to do it now

I’ve got a spot upon my nose

And a spare inch here and there

I’m sure I’ve got my good points too

But do you really care?

I think about you every day

You’re always on my mind

But, before I ask you,

Some courage I must find

I’d need a private moment

With no one else nearby

I hope to God that you’ll say yes

If you don’t, I think I’ll die

I suppose it’s now or never

I hope you’ll hear my plea

I’m asking you right here and now

Will you go out with me?

Moorhouse Mouse's Mouse House

This is the first part of an old piece of writing I produced back when I was considering trying to write a book for children. I can see a lot of problems with it, but I think it's worth posting just for the fun of the "Moorhouse Mouse's Mouse House" title. I imagine the sequel would probably involve Moorhouse finding a wife ("Moorhouse Mouse's Mouse Spouse").

Farmer Budd was a fat old man who lived with his wife on a little farm in the countryside. He was a friendly chap, but he didn't like mice. Mice ate his stores of grain and, as he often said to his wife, he really did not like the way they left their droppings all over his nice clean farmyard.

"Let's get a cat," said Mrs Budd. So they did.

Battered Tom arrived at the farm in a cardboard box. At first he was just called plain old "Tom" but after his first skirmish with Angry Gilbert, the farm's prize pig, the poor cat had earned himself a broken ear and a squinty eye. Good old Battered Tom; he was a lovely cat but he never did manage to catch any of those mice.

Perhaps I should explain who I am? I'm Jon, the farmhand. That's me over there – the young lad with the pitchfork. I've just finished cleaning the horses out for the day and, let me tell you, it's backbreaking work. It's a good life here on the farm though. Farmer Budd lets me sleep in the stable and Mrs Budd always makes sure I have more than enough to eat. Sleeping in the stable might sound a bit rough but I like it. If I didn't sleep in the stable I might never have met Moorhouse Mouse. And if I'd never met Moorhouse then life would have been a whole lot less interesting.

Moorhouse started life as just one of fifteen baby mice. That's a big family! They all lived in a tiny nest hidden behind the skirting board in the farmhouse kitchen. Just imagine growing up in the dark surrounded by fourteen brothers and sisters.

When I first met Moorhouse he was a very young mouse living in that very crowded mouse hole. Back then he wasn't called Moorhouse. In fact, he wasn't called anything at all. You see, mice do not get their names in the same way we get ours. You and I were given names by our parents long before we were even old enough to know about it. Not so with mice. When they are old enough to go out into the big wide world on their own, they choose names for themselves.

Now Moorhouse was a brave little mouse and so one day he crawled to the edge of the nest and peered out. Everything was dark except the half-circle of light that was the entrance to the mouse hole. Outside that hole, all manner of strange and exciting things seemed to be happening. He could hear strange noises and smell all manner of wonderful smells. His mouth watered at the thought of eating whatever it was that smelt so delicious.

Bravely he clambered out of the nest and towards the hole. He peered out into the light. It seemed very bright and busy out there. In the distance he could just about make out Angry Gilbert rooting for truffles in the farmyard.

(To be continued... maybe)