How long must I keep saving you?

Burgoise staggered up clutching the stick. In the distance she could see two people at the opposite sides of her vision moving towards each other.

The sky cracked. Clouds seemed to gather above her: grey and full of misery.

Burgoise squinted. The two figures kept walking in such a slow, steady fashion, that Burgoise fancied they had planned this. Am I in a play? she wondered, looking around wildly. No cameramen in tight pants wearing over-sized sunglasses while eating sandwiches, no light stands, no props of any kind. Just the thick prickly grass of this field, spanning out as far as Burgoise could see, trees lining the edges, the two figures moving like slinking cats against the dull backdrop. Why are they here?

She squinted harder. She had a funny feeling brewing in her gut. Something was wrong. The figure on her right looked like a girl wearing a long dress, her hair blowing out around her. She was holding something. The figure on her left looked masculine, wearing pants, some sort of top, short hair that was also fluttering in the wind.

Burgoise leaned forwards. There was something about that fluttering hair...

Burgoise's heard dropped right to the center of the earth, It started to rain. She gasped. They finally met, embraced.

"No!"

The stick fell from her hand as she stepped back, her eyes wide, her hands shaking, her heart pumping insanely loud somewhere next to her ears.

Rain drops fell silently in front of her face as if instructed. As if trying to dampen this mutiny by washing it away or packing it down.

"Clae..." Burgoise breathed, hardly daring to look but unable to tear her eyes away.

There he was, like a silhouette on a stage, kissing another girl.

"Oh no, no, no... no..."

She couldn't see it, but Burgoise thought she could make out laughter. The rain was so heavy on her face. Or was that tears?

The figures moved apart, Burgoise found herself leaning forwards once again, thunder crackled, there was a thin vein of lightning that illuminated the horrendous sight before her and she saw clearly the two figures who were smiling at each other. Clae and Mira.

Mira. The girl who had pushed her into the toilets and forced her to eat a rotten orange. The girl who had stolen her gym shoes, her pens, her mobile phone, and her sister's necklace, wrecked them all, then left them for Burgoise to find in her locker. The girl who had broken her nose with a soccer ball to the face, trailed a Bunsen burner flame down her arm, pushed her into a rose bush, cut a giant Nazi symbol into her only jumper, and set her backpack on fire as she walked home.

And Clae.

Clae. The Clae with whom she had bought ice cream and strolled along the pier, laughing at seagulls and kicking shells into the ocean. The Clae who had picked her right up and hoisted her over the log fence as if she was a bag of carrots. The Clae who had kissed her, once under a blossom tree and once outside the music classroom, as if she was the only one worth kissing, ever.

Another crack of thunder. The rain suddenly came down in earnest, much like how Burgoise supposed she must look. Torn down her chest and pouring out all her blood at once.

She could barely see anymore. A rage wild and ragged ravaged her entire body, rage as white as an after-spot from looking into the sun and as hot as a pot full of boiling caramel. It shot up into her shoulders, her brain, down into her fingers. She tilted a little to the right.

She opened her mouth and screamed. At the very same time, thunder grumbled overhead in a continuous melody, lightning streaked all over the sky in violent bursts, and sparks shot out of Burgoise's open hands like fireworks.

Trade you my knee bone for your Kingdom?

She came out of the woods like a disease: slow, unnoticed, and craving attention. By the time Celeste turned around with a slight feeling of unease, the woman was right behind her, half-closed eyes the colour of red-gum wood, wild green hair like mossy fern sprouting out from her scalp and falling down to her waist, and smooth, pale fingers flashing gemstone rings as they moved precariously in time with the wind.
"I didn't do it!" Celeste cried out horribly.
The woman closed her eyes and said softly, "They must not meet again. It has been foretold... of great..."
Celeste felt rage bubble up in her stomach. How dare this old hag seek her out here, in her secret spot, and demand things.
"I will not!" she shouted.
"There is no other way..."
"Leave me alone!" she took a step back and stumbled as her heel hit a root. Fuck the roots, Celeste thought angrily, the words flashing in her mind like a neon sign. Her bum hit the muddy ground. Fuck this bitch!
The wild woman gazed down at her with an expression of inhumane quality. Celeste could not make it out, but it fueled her rage further. She's just too green, Celeste wailed inside her head, too green to be human... She gasped out-loud. "YOU'RE AN ALIEN!" she screamed, pointing a finger.
The woman leaned forward and reached out a hand. "Only you can light the path..."
Celeste stared. No, this bitch glittered like Bucky- she wasn't an alien. The sunbeams poking their way through the gloomy overcast afternoon bounced off her hand, lighting it up like she had painstakingly glued a million sparkly stick-on diamonds all over her skin on a boring winter's day, and Celeste suddenly felt true fear.
She scrambled up, knocking the woman's hand away. There was a small zap upon contact as if Celeste had touched an electrical socket. The woman withdrew.
"You're a goddess," Celeste spat.
The woman drew  herself up, "I am a-"
"You're all the same!" Celeste shouted. "Stay away from me! And leave Fern alone!"
She turned and ran, glancing back only once to see the woman standing in the same spot, glaring, shoulders hunched, a darkness gathering about her that Celeste could not see but knew to be there. As Celeste looked up at her face, the woman's eyes flashed. Pain seared up her right arm. She stumbled, slipped on the mud, but kept running. She knew she couldn't outrun a Goddess, she had no magick yet, so she clutched her crystals tight and prayed for a miracle.

When will dinner ever be ready?

You know what?
I've been perusing Pinterest like a love-sick stalking mofo slash drug-addict ~c r a v i n g~ their next fix, and I have come to realise that my view of Alyssa, Frances, and Cate is bleak, dark, depressing, not to mention awkward and hollow. Like, do they not have good characteristics? I MUST dive really deep into their situations, I just must, because without focusing entirely on their whole beings I will never truly feel comfortable writing about them.
Are you supposed to feel comfortable writing, though? Surely whilst writing a mammoth of a novel you would feel all sorts of emotions and uncomfortable is one of them. However, I feel that you should at least be comfortable with your characters, at least comfortable because you know them inside out so writing them is not such a challenge, compared with writing about what they do.
If I know my character is a dick, fine, but I know that so it flows. Alternatively, are characters able to surprise you by doing something sinister or becoming someone sinful, and does this not, then, make you uncomfortable?
Ok! Enough with writing the word uncomfortable! For some reason I have spelled it wrong every single time.

Maybe so, and maybe not. The fact is: maybe my novel will actually have some really lovely bits in it that will make it a pleasure to write and not so cringe worthy to read.

I do believe that if one always goes around creased, unkempt, and with stains, that person will then acquire a life that is so. Therefore, the action of sweeping oneself, checking the mirror, attending to disarray when it should unfold- because it will such as life itself does!- would be the upmost importance and required at all times!

And a good day to you! Sir!

Holy crap the smell of food cooking is the BEST. FUCK YES. GIVE ME ALL THE FOOD. I AM AS HUNGRY AS A HALF STARVED GIANT.

~ This has been an update of the Novel Kind. Will Cerri ever continue with her random short stories? Is Avalon still part of her life, or has she been cast away in a fit of fuzzy minded blasphemy? Has Vincent found his true self, or is he stark raving mad as well as stark raving naked? Stay tuned! For more nonsensical nonsense..