Saturday, 13 November 2010
Just to say, if anyone's reading it, my nanowrimo book's plot has changed a bit. Instead of different planets, they're on one slice of land in the atmosphere of an uninhabited planet, cut up into little pockets by sheer rocks and linked by poisenous tunnels. the Transports are sealed trains they can now use to negotiate the tunnels.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Just to stick something on here, really.
An assignment for my course. No mark back yet though...
On the Last Day.
Another dreary day. It’s raining; drab little flecks of wetness land with dull thuds on the ground. Evening, so it’s dark, but the kind of darkness you only get with thousands of electric lamps shooting fake yellow lights into the sky. It’s a darkness you can see in, and you really don’t want to see.
The train platform is bathed in yellow, an insubstantial, odourless colour. It’s clinical, and almost cancels out what unpleasant smells do snake in the surrounding air. But sometimes unpleasantness is just what you need to feel, something. Bring on the stench.
A light on the ticket office flickers, tapping on and off, Morse code in its own, distinct language. It creates a little rave area to my left; I imagine mice and rats getting together when we’re gone and dancing the night away under it’s blinking glare.
I imagine allot when I’m alone on a platform waiting for a train. When I’m not alone, I imagine more. Listening in on other people’s conversations can add some excitement to a long wait for a missing-in-action train. You can embellish, edit, make them more attractive in your mind than they really are. They’re suddenly witty, thoughtful; movie versions of human beings.
But the World is dank today, and I don’t feel that anything is worthy of embellishment; I want to revel in my miserable, boring Friday evening.
I stand here everyday, or so it seems, and it never gets any better. You always hope that something exciting will happen, an anecdote for future coffee breaks. They re-paint the benches; thick green globs clogging up the once intricate patterning. They trace around the original grandeur of the bygone age of steam, then lace black wires up and down the posts to feed screens that don’t work and speakers that hiss at you. The old clock is still here, ticking away, too loud and ancient. When you’re alone on this platform, it’s all you can hear.
Someone joins me, just as I decide to ignore the World, and sits, no, slumps into the over painted bench closest to me. I lean more nonchalantly against the platform post; she’s very pretty. We’re both at the far end of the station, where the head of the train will stop.
Her face is fresh, her skin flustered with the windy night. Icicles of hair hang over her face, an absent hand fighting against them, but they still return to shield her cold, blue eyes. I can’t help but stare at her, and it seems that she can’t help but ignore me. A thick, woollen coat wraps the woman so tightly that I can still make out the delicate shape of her. Bare legs freeze below it, dangling childlike over the bench. I look away and at the screen that should be telling me when the next train’s in, but instead it just shows me snow. I don’t want snow. I consider moving to the bench, offering her my coat for her legs, something gentlemanly; but all my thoughts cast me as a Mr Hide character, leaning over her with dripping saliva while rubbing my hands. And she looks so sad, not just the cold, miserable English weather sad, but a deep, cut through sadness, and I’m no one to cheer anyone up. So I leave her.
Ten minutes, long, long, minutes, and finally an crackling announcement. The train is delayed, an accident, clearing the tracks. The worst thing about these announcements is that nobody is ever surprised; there’s just an all round tut and eye roll.
Another person joins us in time to miss the announcement. He strolls on, I never see people stroll these days; he should be holding a brolly. Not umbrella, a brolly.
He looks up at the static mess on the screen, ‘oh, right, have I missed it?’ he says out to the World.
‘Er, it’s delayed,’ I say. I too could use some editing.
‘Typical,’ he says, still not to me but to the air, himself, everyone. Then he looks at the girl disappearing into the bench. He smiles, and now I somehow know what Mr Hide truly looks like. ‘Well, missed the 5:45 anyway then?’ he says to her.
You can tell that she’s trying to ignore him, but an involuntary move of the neck brings him into her eye-line. She looks away just as quickly. He chuckles.
‘Thought you might, bit pointless running out, wasn’t it?’ Condescending is a good word to use here.
She sinks lower. The redness of her cheeks increases, and I realise that it’s probably more than weather that coloured them.
Silence for a moment, and the ticking clock is all I hear.
‘Why so melodramatic? You know you’ll be back Monday! Last day, indeed!’ He has a chipper air about him, and seems completely oblivious that the girl is now crying. He looks at me, ‘don’t you hate melodrama, such a waste! All that exertion, for what? She’ll be back, bright and early Monday morning, all sheepish like last time.’ he laughs, a jolly sound, like Mr Hide after ripping out a heart or two.
The girl won’t look at me, and suddenly all I want is her gaze. The redder her face becomes the prettier she is. I just want to catch her eye and smile and let her know that it’s all ok and she’ll smile back at me and I’ll know it too.
‘I suppose this one will be full, bustling it’s way from London.’ He says, this time to the air again.
I feel obliged to answer; eye contact with a person does that to you. ‘Oh, yes, it’s normally full. It always seems worse coming back, doesn’t it? Businessmen, all that; spilling the big macs their wives won’t let them eat. Talking too loud, clicking away at terribly important keyboards.’ I want to stop but I can’t; all the time the image of his suit pulses at me. The laptop-bag hits me in the face with every syllable. ‘Don’t normally see you here?’ I say with a questioning lilt that comes out in a squeak.
‘I’m normally on the later train but I thought I should try to catch her,’ he nods his head at the girl, whose stopped crying and is sitting very still, serene almost, and staring out towards the tracks.
‘Oh.’ I say, wanting to know every inch of her life story.
‘Yes, you’re a silly girl, Kate, like it matters, and you won’t throw it all in just because it’s not going your way!’ he snorts. Yes, snorts.
‘Um, what?’ I say quietly, hoping to move in on her on the train with some ammunition and sympathy.
The man rolls his eyes, ‘Things not going her way, well it’s not our fault is it? It’s all very sad, the death of a child, but what’s it got to do with the Company?’
I feel my entire body, mind and soul back away, but I’m not sure if it’s from the girl or to her. The clock seems set on drowning out every other sound. ‘Really?’ I say.
‘You try for sympathy, don’t you? You give them paid holiday, but really, you can’t skulk around the office for months.’ He’s speaking quite loudly now.
I’m very aware of the ticking clock and the flashing lights and the electricity of it all. I look at the girl, because I know she can hear. She’s not moved from her stare at the railroad tracks. The ticking becomes louder, the flashes more intense. She looks like she’s sitting on a set, a movie where the director’s showing off his post-modernist vision of hell.
All I want is to touch her, for some reason I want to grab her face and twist it to me. Make her eyes burrow into mine, make her understand. But that’s where it all falls apart; how can I make anyone understand when I don’t know what matters? I don’t understand. And she won’t look at me. The clock is everything, the tick is hurting me. It’s like a Hitchcock bomb becoming louder and louder and ready to blow.
‘Ah!’ Mr Hide makes a sound of elation and exclamation marks, ‘there it is!’
The train can be seen. A couple more people have joined us at the other end of the platform, and we all march towards the yellow line. The train is deafening, and finally the clock is silenced.
She stands just ahead of me, the man is moving down the platform, to avoid her carriage, I suppose. Good, I will have her to myself, we shall have to stand together by the door, I’ll smile, she’ll have to look, and we’ll talk and I’ll help her and I’ll be a good person at last.
As I think this I look at her, and she’s looking at me, and I feel my heart start, I feel the arteries pump, I feel that it will all be alright.
‘It is the last day,’ she says into a silence that envelopes me now, and she smiles at me at last, as the train comes in and she disappears into it’s path.
On the Last Day.
Another dreary day. It’s raining; drab little flecks of wetness land with dull thuds on the ground. Evening, so it’s dark, but the kind of darkness you only get with thousands of electric lamps shooting fake yellow lights into the sky. It’s a darkness you can see in, and you really don’t want to see.
The train platform is bathed in yellow, an insubstantial, odourless colour. It’s clinical, and almost cancels out what unpleasant smells do snake in the surrounding air. But sometimes unpleasantness is just what you need to feel, something. Bring on the stench.
A light on the ticket office flickers, tapping on and off, Morse code in its own, distinct language. It creates a little rave area to my left; I imagine mice and rats getting together when we’re gone and dancing the night away under it’s blinking glare.
I imagine allot when I’m alone on a platform waiting for a train. When I’m not alone, I imagine more. Listening in on other people’s conversations can add some excitement to a long wait for a missing-in-action train. You can embellish, edit, make them more attractive in your mind than they really are. They’re suddenly witty, thoughtful; movie versions of human beings.
But the World is dank today, and I don’t feel that anything is worthy of embellishment; I want to revel in my miserable, boring Friday evening.
I stand here everyday, or so it seems, and it never gets any better. You always hope that something exciting will happen, an anecdote for future coffee breaks. They re-paint the benches; thick green globs clogging up the once intricate patterning. They trace around the original grandeur of the bygone age of steam, then lace black wires up and down the posts to feed screens that don’t work and speakers that hiss at you. The old clock is still here, ticking away, too loud and ancient. When you’re alone on this platform, it’s all you can hear.
Someone joins me, just as I decide to ignore the World, and sits, no, slumps into the over painted bench closest to me. I lean more nonchalantly against the platform post; she’s very pretty. We’re both at the far end of the station, where the head of the train will stop.
Her face is fresh, her skin flustered with the windy night. Icicles of hair hang over her face, an absent hand fighting against them, but they still return to shield her cold, blue eyes. I can’t help but stare at her, and it seems that she can’t help but ignore me. A thick, woollen coat wraps the woman so tightly that I can still make out the delicate shape of her. Bare legs freeze below it, dangling childlike over the bench. I look away and at the screen that should be telling me when the next train’s in, but instead it just shows me snow. I don’t want snow. I consider moving to the bench, offering her my coat for her legs, something gentlemanly; but all my thoughts cast me as a Mr Hide character, leaning over her with dripping saliva while rubbing my hands. And she looks so sad, not just the cold, miserable English weather sad, but a deep, cut through sadness, and I’m no one to cheer anyone up. So I leave her.
Ten minutes, long, long, minutes, and finally an crackling announcement. The train is delayed, an accident, clearing the tracks. The worst thing about these announcements is that nobody is ever surprised; there’s just an all round tut and eye roll.
Another person joins us in time to miss the announcement. He strolls on, I never see people stroll these days; he should be holding a brolly. Not umbrella, a brolly.
He looks up at the static mess on the screen, ‘oh, right, have I missed it?’ he says out to the World.
‘Er, it’s delayed,’ I say. I too could use some editing.
‘Typical,’ he says, still not to me but to the air, himself, everyone. Then he looks at the girl disappearing into the bench. He smiles, and now I somehow know what Mr Hide truly looks like. ‘Well, missed the 5:45 anyway then?’ he says to her.
You can tell that she’s trying to ignore him, but an involuntary move of the neck brings him into her eye-line. She looks away just as quickly. He chuckles.
‘Thought you might, bit pointless running out, wasn’t it?’ Condescending is a good word to use here.
She sinks lower. The redness of her cheeks increases, and I realise that it’s probably more than weather that coloured them.
Silence for a moment, and the ticking clock is all I hear.
‘Why so melodramatic? You know you’ll be back Monday! Last day, indeed!’ He has a chipper air about him, and seems completely oblivious that the girl is now crying. He looks at me, ‘don’t you hate melodrama, such a waste! All that exertion, for what? She’ll be back, bright and early Monday morning, all sheepish like last time.’ he laughs, a jolly sound, like Mr Hide after ripping out a heart or two.
The girl won’t look at me, and suddenly all I want is her gaze. The redder her face becomes the prettier she is. I just want to catch her eye and smile and let her know that it’s all ok and she’ll smile back at me and I’ll know it too.
‘I suppose this one will be full, bustling it’s way from London.’ He says, this time to the air again.
I feel obliged to answer; eye contact with a person does that to you. ‘Oh, yes, it’s normally full. It always seems worse coming back, doesn’t it? Businessmen, all that; spilling the big macs their wives won’t let them eat. Talking too loud, clicking away at terribly important keyboards.’ I want to stop but I can’t; all the time the image of his suit pulses at me. The laptop-bag hits me in the face with every syllable. ‘Don’t normally see you here?’ I say with a questioning lilt that comes out in a squeak.
‘I’m normally on the later train but I thought I should try to catch her,’ he nods his head at the girl, whose stopped crying and is sitting very still, serene almost, and staring out towards the tracks.
‘Oh.’ I say, wanting to know every inch of her life story.
‘Yes, you’re a silly girl, Kate, like it matters, and you won’t throw it all in just because it’s not going your way!’ he snorts. Yes, snorts.
‘Um, what?’ I say quietly, hoping to move in on her on the train with some ammunition and sympathy.
The man rolls his eyes, ‘Things not going her way, well it’s not our fault is it? It’s all very sad, the death of a child, but what’s it got to do with the Company?’
I feel my entire body, mind and soul back away, but I’m not sure if it’s from the girl or to her. The clock seems set on drowning out every other sound. ‘Really?’ I say.
‘You try for sympathy, don’t you? You give them paid holiday, but really, you can’t skulk around the office for months.’ He’s speaking quite loudly now.
I’m very aware of the ticking clock and the flashing lights and the electricity of it all. I look at the girl, because I know she can hear. She’s not moved from her stare at the railroad tracks. The ticking becomes louder, the flashes more intense. She looks like she’s sitting on a set, a movie where the director’s showing off his post-modernist vision of hell.
All I want is to touch her, for some reason I want to grab her face and twist it to me. Make her eyes burrow into mine, make her understand. But that’s where it all falls apart; how can I make anyone understand when I don’t know what matters? I don’t understand. And she won’t look at me. The clock is everything, the tick is hurting me. It’s like a Hitchcock bomb becoming louder and louder and ready to blow.
‘Ah!’ Mr Hide makes a sound of elation and exclamation marks, ‘there it is!’
The train can be seen. A couple more people have joined us at the other end of the platform, and we all march towards the yellow line. The train is deafening, and finally the clock is silenced.
She stands just ahead of me, the man is moving down the platform, to avoid her carriage, I suppose. Good, I will have her to myself, we shall have to stand together by the door, I’ll smile, she’ll have to look, and we’ll talk and I’ll help her and I’ll be a good person at last.
As I think this I look at her, and she’s looking at me, and I feel my heart start, I feel the arteries pump, I feel that it will all be alright.
‘It is the last day,’ she says into a silence that envelopes me now, and she smiles at me at last, as the train comes in and she disappears into it’s path.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
nanowrimo is here again.
It's November, I'm doing nanowrimo, you'll here no more from me.
Here's a little bit:
The sun is coming. I feel my skin crawl, it is actually crawling, it’s trying to leap from my flesh and hide. But it’s attached to me so it’s dragging me with it. My bones ache. I suddenly feel ancient, like I’ve been living for years and years. Every day it’s a surprise, this feeling that tells me the sun is on its way. I can’t believe that it hurts so much, every day is like a new realisation that my body can inflict the most horrific pain, only to get up the next day and forget all about it.
I can hear it. Just a slight rumble at first, like the hum of a computer on stand by, or the engine sound that filters up to the first class cabins on a ship. How do I know these things? Then it becomes louder, but it doesn’t let you know that it’s getting louder, you don’t notice it. Then you do, and it’s too late. You can’t cover your ears, although you do, because the sound is already inside your head. It no longer comes from outside but generates itself in your brain. You can’t block it out because you’re making the sound yourself. The hands over your ears only elongates the sound, like holding a shell up to hear the sea crashing into your mind. But squashing your head is all you can think to do, and then there is nothing you can think of at all, except the crashing, roaring sound of the sun coming for you. It is usually at this point that I run for the bedroom, having tried to be brave but having then lost all my senses. I ricochet off the hallway walls, my feet barely carrying me along in the right direction. Then I push the door shut and fall on the bed, crying like a child. Maybe if I understood why the sun hated me so much I could bare it better, but I have no idea what I’ve doe or why it’s looking for me. All I know is that it will hurt me and drag me into it if it ever sees me, and the pain of warning is nothing compared to the hell it’s flames would inflict on me.
that'll do. Goodbye until December!
Here's a little bit:
The sun is coming. I feel my skin crawl, it is actually crawling, it’s trying to leap from my flesh and hide. But it’s attached to me so it’s dragging me with it. My bones ache. I suddenly feel ancient, like I’ve been living for years and years. Every day it’s a surprise, this feeling that tells me the sun is on its way. I can’t believe that it hurts so much, every day is like a new realisation that my body can inflict the most horrific pain, only to get up the next day and forget all about it.
I can hear it. Just a slight rumble at first, like the hum of a computer on stand by, or the engine sound that filters up to the first class cabins on a ship. How do I know these things? Then it becomes louder, but it doesn’t let you know that it’s getting louder, you don’t notice it. Then you do, and it’s too late. You can’t cover your ears, although you do, because the sound is already inside your head. It no longer comes from outside but generates itself in your brain. You can’t block it out because you’re making the sound yourself. The hands over your ears only elongates the sound, like holding a shell up to hear the sea crashing into your mind. But squashing your head is all you can think to do, and then there is nothing you can think of at all, except the crashing, roaring sound of the sun coming for you. It is usually at this point that I run for the bedroom, having tried to be brave but having then lost all my senses. I ricochet off the hallway walls, my feet barely carrying me along in the right direction. Then I push the door shut and fall on the bed, crying like a child. Maybe if I understood why the sun hated me so much I could bare it better, but I have no idea what I’ve doe or why it’s looking for me. All I know is that it will hurt me and drag me into it if it ever sees me, and the pain of warning is nothing compared to the hell it’s flames would inflict on me.
that'll do. Goodbye until December!
Friday, 16 October 2009
Stephen gately, R.I.P. particularly the P.
Death almost always has a sadness surrounding it, but the death of someone young can be the most tragic of all. The sudden, tragic death of Stephen Gately has shocked everyone, at barely 33 - a year younger than me.
Here was someone who loved life and lived it to the fullest, who loved his friends and spent time with them til the final moments. Who accepted his lifestyle and found love and affection.
Here is someone to be missed and mourned. His family and friends who adored him must be allowed the time to grieve and the respect to remember Stephen as a sweet, kind man.
The 'reporter' Jan Moir has printed a disgusting article using this death of a young man as fodder for her own misled and bigoted views. The press need to decide - are they ‘news’ reporters or ‘opinion’ reporters - and rename their papers accordingly.
Google her name if you need to, then read, decide and hopefully complain.
Here was someone who loved life and lived it to the fullest, who loved his friends and spent time with them til the final moments. Who accepted his lifestyle and found love and affection.
Here is someone to be missed and mourned. His family and friends who adored him must be allowed the time to grieve and the respect to remember Stephen as a sweet, kind man.
The 'reporter' Jan Moir has printed a disgusting article using this death of a young man as fodder for her own misled and bigoted views. The press need to decide - are they ‘news’ reporters or ‘opinion’ reporters - and rename their papers accordingly.
Google her name if you need to, then read, decide and hopefully complain.
Sunday, 11 October 2009
'take a prewritten paragraph and finish it yourself.' So that's what I did...
The church clock strikes eight, so the villagers who are awake know without checking that it is six. A cock crows. A body lies across the doorstep of the church, a line of crumb-carrying ants marches across the fedora covering its face. There is a serene, momentary quiet after the strikes cease. A figure glides past the church wall, before the silence is cracked by a baby crying.
The sound sends an involuntary pulse through the body, knocking the fedora slightly to one side. The ants stop to think and listen, then return to their manoeuvres across the mountainous range. The figure halts its float along the cold, moist brick, a white gloved hand soaking up the spongy green moss digging its way to the breaking foundations. Its foot lands just shy of the bodies partially revealed face. It stoops to push the hat to the ground, splaying the ants across the body, searching for footholds in the beaten, creasing skin. The body pulses again.
‘If you’re going to be dead you’ll have to learn not to move.’ Said the figure, its gloved hand stretching out for the hat, sleeve lifting for a moments flash of red puckered skin. Its voice streamed to the body’s ear, bubbling over and through the wind that picked up to carry it away.
The body jolted, just the tiniest of flinches, and its eyelids pulled at the lashes, white irises pushing the pupils away from the sudden light. The body looked up at the figure hanging over it. Its thick, black hood confronted him and he could see within its folds. ‘God you’re ugly.’ said the cracked male voice.
The figure smiled with curling teeth. ‘God? How strange.’ It straightened up and glanced around at the mysterious lumps of stone jutting out from the fractured ground, dead flowers rotting under long lost words. ‘Why did you come here? You know these buildings are all closed, you can’t meet death here.’
The body, a man again, pushed himself stiffly up and smiled at the figure. ‘Why do you think I only got to the doorstep?’ He stood and reached out to his hat still clinging to the figures whitened hand. Shaking it and presenting it to his head, he rolled his clicking shoulders back, and placed his hands on his jacket lapel. He stood next to the figure and took a moment to look out over the graveyard. He could still remember what it was.
Sounds were raising around them, villagers were stirring, beginning, unknowing of what enclosed them now, unseeing of the ruin and rot that ate at their nights. In the distance the baby cried out again. The man shut his eyes, his mutilated eyes to the mutilating sound of the freshly made life. ‘How long shall we play this game? I haven’t breathed in years, haven’t I amused you enough?’
The figure turned to him, its face once again visible through its heavy black hood. The man couldn’t turn to look, even now feeling the heat radiating from the thing’s burning skin. The figure smiled again. ‘Until you give me the baby, my friend, I will play with you until I have him.’
The man’s shoulders sunk down again.
The sound sends an involuntary pulse through the body, knocking the fedora slightly to one side. The ants stop to think and listen, then return to their manoeuvres across the mountainous range. The figure halts its float along the cold, moist brick, a white gloved hand soaking up the spongy green moss digging its way to the breaking foundations. Its foot lands just shy of the bodies partially revealed face. It stoops to push the hat to the ground, splaying the ants across the body, searching for footholds in the beaten, creasing skin. The body pulses again.
‘If you’re going to be dead you’ll have to learn not to move.’ Said the figure, its gloved hand stretching out for the hat, sleeve lifting for a moments flash of red puckered skin. Its voice streamed to the body’s ear, bubbling over and through the wind that picked up to carry it away.
The body jolted, just the tiniest of flinches, and its eyelids pulled at the lashes, white irises pushing the pupils away from the sudden light. The body looked up at the figure hanging over it. Its thick, black hood confronted him and he could see within its folds. ‘God you’re ugly.’ said the cracked male voice.
The figure smiled with curling teeth. ‘God? How strange.’ It straightened up and glanced around at the mysterious lumps of stone jutting out from the fractured ground, dead flowers rotting under long lost words. ‘Why did you come here? You know these buildings are all closed, you can’t meet death here.’
The body, a man again, pushed himself stiffly up and smiled at the figure. ‘Why do you think I only got to the doorstep?’ He stood and reached out to his hat still clinging to the figures whitened hand. Shaking it and presenting it to his head, he rolled his clicking shoulders back, and placed his hands on his jacket lapel. He stood next to the figure and took a moment to look out over the graveyard. He could still remember what it was.
Sounds were raising around them, villagers were stirring, beginning, unknowing of what enclosed them now, unseeing of the ruin and rot that ate at their nights. In the distance the baby cried out again. The man shut his eyes, his mutilated eyes to the mutilating sound of the freshly made life. ‘How long shall we play this game? I haven’t breathed in years, haven’t I amused you enough?’
The figure turned to him, its face once again visible through its heavy black hood. The man couldn’t turn to look, even now feeling the heat radiating from the thing’s burning skin. The figure smiled again. ‘Until you give me the baby, my friend, I will play with you until I have him.’
The man’s shoulders sunk down again.
Monday, 28 September 2009
Talent and entertainment does not reason out rape.
Not like me to be all political, but I've just seen my little girl's face as it poked sweetly and cheekily around the lounge room door at 11pm on a school night. She's down, blue, chemicals working her body to it's last defence of rationality.
She's 12.
She's gorgeous, and that's not just my opinion.
She has shape and beauty and big brown eyes.
Roman Polanski apparently drugged and sodomised a 13 year old girl.
He's a talented director, so apparently this should be forgiven.
Free Roman, they cry.
my daughter is 12.
A crime is a crime, even thirty years on it has still been carved into memory, beaten into your Self. It has made you, shaped you, it must not be forgotten. Or forgiven by us.
I was hurt when I was 9. I thought all I had to do was get my daughter to 10 to feel better, now I feel that I have to get her to 14. Let me die without her hurt, and let my son never grow up to harm.
I don't care that I enjoyed the Ninth Gate; punish the crime that has been commited, and for once say that harm is wrong regardless of the victim's unimportance to the World's distorted view.
That's all I have. I'm still a 9 year old girl, eyes wide and terrified as I face a greying World.
Don't let the World grey for my children.
She's 12.
She's gorgeous, and that's not just my opinion.
She has shape and beauty and big brown eyes.
Roman Polanski apparently drugged and sodomised a 13 year old girl.
He's a talented director, so apparently this should be forgiven.
Free Roman, they cry.
my daughter is 12.
A crime is a crime, even thirty years on it has still been carved into memory, beaten into your Self. It has made you, shaped you, it must not be forgotten. Or forgiven by us.
I was hurt when I was 9. I thought all I had to do was get my daughter to 10 to feel better, now I feel that I have to get her to 14. Let me die without her hurt, and let my son never grow up to harm.
I don't care that I enjoyed the Ninth Gate; punish the crime that has been commited, and for once say that harm is wrong regardless of the victim's unimportance to the World's distorted view.
That's all I have. I'm still a 9 year old girl, eyes wide and terrified as I face a greying World.
Don't let the World grey for my children.
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