Getting Noticed.

okay, I've fell into the habit of neglecting my blog again. Shit. For a few reasons I won't go into at the moment, but I have, and that's pretty rubbish. So basically, I'm calling out to any bloggers, no matter who you are, what kind of blog (if you even categorise it at all) you write, or whatever your interests are, to help me. I'm totally dense when it comes to technology, and I'm not sure where to start. I've been blogging for a while now, and I still don't understand all these different forums and blogging sites.

Translation: which is/are good blogging sites, or connecting sites, that can get my blog read by a wider audience? If anyone can recommend some, or just one or two, and a bit of a demo as to how to use it, that would be great. I feel like I'm missing out on so much blogging, and on different blogging communities, because of this.

Any help would be widely appreciated.
Either comment, or tweet me; @Eleanorward_ :)
big thanks.
x

Welcome to Hell.

A man in the corner of the room grins devilishly as I enter. There's something eerie about him. And this place. It's really hot, but the heat is uncomfortable rather than welcoming. It's not cosy, it's excruciating. It's like being locked in a sauna when all you want is cold, fresh air. Impossible. The man studies me hard as I walk towards the bar and order a double whiskey. As the barman produces my change, I steal a glance at the man to my left. He's watching me. Waiting for something, perhaps. I shrug it off, and walk over to an empty table in the opposite direction. I sit down with my drink in front of me and pull a book out of my handbag. Turning the pages, I can feel his eyes studying me hard. I attempt to ignore it. My eyes gloss over the first sentence of my new chapter, when my reading is interrupted noisily. Someone behind the bar rings a bell.

I look up, to hear the confirmation, but instead, there's someone in front of me. The man. His fierce, glinting eyes focused on mine. The devilish grin creeps slowly across his face once more, as he raises his eyebrows, and whispers, 

"Last orders."

My chest tightens, unnerved. He lets out a monstrous sort of laugh. I blink hard. And he's gone. Just like that. But I can still hear it. The perverse cackling drifting into my eardrums. 

Penning down life.

Radio One is playing in my ear, as I sit cross-legged on my bed, and the smell of food drifts into my bedroom from downstairs. I think it's Biffy Clyro and Bastille doing a cover. Playing I mean, not cooking in my kitchen. My dad's making lasagne. I am suppressing my deep stomach rumbles as I continue to type. I'm on a writing mission, as I explained a few posts ago. I need to beat last year's post record. Also, I somehow believe that writing and publishing snippets of my writing, whether it be random head-space typing on the bus home after a long, rubbish day at uni, or drunk 2am notes made on my phone, a creative piece or just a rant, or a list or something, in the long run, maybe it will make me more organised.
I've got to work on my ECP/CWP: it depends which uni you attend, some call it an Extended Creative Project, while others, including my Uni, know it and refer to it as a Creative Writing Project. Either way, it's a project I write myself, creatively. A story. A plot. A narrative piece of my own brainwork. Whatever, its a creative writing dissertation. As far as some are concerned, its slanderous. I should be writing my own, English Literature dissertation. Well, I stick two fingers up to those people, because this thing is bloody hard work, and I'm trying.

So yes. Back to my point. I told you, I tend to wander, both physically and mentally, from time to time. Maybe it makes for good writing, but at the grand old age of 21, I'm yet to know either way.

I should be using my Thursday evening for something constructive or organised. Instead, lucky me!!! I'm off out for food with my lovely boyfriend. I'm very excited about this, because as everyone knows, I LOVE food, and even more so, I LOVE going OUT for food. (hence the really bad caps.)

Maybe no one even reads this. I'm a bit frantic, and sometimes, I write for an imagined audience. Although, I must say, I hope there's someone in that void. Someone reading my mad rants, drunken outbursts and occasional attempts of real writing. Let me know, whoever you may be. I'll be ever so grateful.

Escaping the void.

So, real-life has kind of hit me like a train. Almost two weeks into my second semester of uni, and my head feels sufficiently sore, my hand aches and my eyes look drained, bored, exhausted. As part of a new second year module, the fourty-something of us (I'm guessing) that make up Creative Writers, have been assigned to something our university is calling Writing and Enterprise. As part of this, we are required to focus in on applying for a mock-up job ad at a local writing agency. As soon as I realised this, I knew I had hit a brick walk. Hard. 

While the class is clearly divided in one sense, I sat earlier today, very obviously, stuck. Certain individuals have their futures cleverly, clearly, or even obsessively planned out, and a career in "the arts" let's say (because I've heard it enough lately) isn't for them. They have chosen to go down a more traditional route, maybe safe, maybe vocational, maybe just something they know will pay their bills and enable them to live comfortably on. While I want all of the above, kind of awkwardly, I push the idea of a career in teaching or something like that, aside. While I know quite a few people close to me are pursuing various degrees in teaching, I know from the bottom of my heart, the pit of my stomach and the blood that races through my veins, that teaching is not for me. I never, ever, have considered a path like that. It just isn't what I see myself doing in ten years. Instead, I've opted for something I'm really passionate about, writing. For years, I've loved the feeling of picking up a pen, and letting my thoughts escape freely onto a page, or a word document, or even more recently, a note app on my phone. I want to share my words, and in doing so, I want people to react. I want my name on a book spine, in a newspaper or a magazine. I want to publish something, get something out there, become read as a person. Flaunt my opinions and let my personality leak through every word I write. 

So, back to the brick wall. After being addressed with this assignment, I realised something. Or rather, something hit me with such a violent force that I felt it could knock me straight into next week. I have little/no experience in the field I want to work in. I've never had anything published, I've never made connections with important people or acquired tips from an agency that could point me in the right direction, along with a good word and a thumbs up for encouragement. While on the one hand, I have never been more sure of anything in my life, that if I don't try to follow this, I'll spend a hell of a lot of time miserable, sinking further into regret, so I have nothing at all to lose. Well, pride maybe. University fees I may never pay back. Self-confidence, but that dwindles unknowingly anyway. I feel like I could really come across well, given the chance, even if on paper, I don't look so appealing. I'm really not sure what I should do. Grab any opportunity tightly between my fingertips and hold on for dear life? Keep everything crossed. Run in totally blind. Stay hopeful. Stay positive. Become an optimist. Learn to believe in myself, and most of all, in my writing ability. 

I'm taking a deep breath, and just giving myself some time to think. The assignment must be done regardless of what I'm debating. I don't know how to, or even if I'm good enough, to get my foot in the door of such a competitive field, but I'm sure as hell going to give it my best shot.

She said.

She said she'd never get upset because of him again. She said she'd spent her tears a while ago, and she couldn't cry any more. She wouldn't let herself hurt like this, because it was so damn exhausting. But as Allie found herself curled up in a ball, wrapped tightly in her duvet, biting back those all so familiar bitter tears, her heart just sank. A kind of sinking that made her feel like she'd never be happy again, she'd never smile or laugh or have fun and genuinely mean it. There would always be a niggling in the back of her mind. That thing. Remembering the way she felt and how stupid she'd been. It had been okay. A tough few weeks, but she'd made it through. She picked herself up even when she never thought she would be able to. After crumbling, after everyone around her asking "are you okay?" Eventually, obviously, she caved. 

"No," she said, shaking her head a bit too vigourously, as to not show her teary eyes, "no, I'm not okay." Words she had bitten back so many times before events came flooding out, and with them, a sigh of relief. She had been brave enough to admit she was wrong, and even to be honest about it all. The strong one, as she was known, wasn't meant to crumble under all of this upset, but she did. She sure as hell frightened a few people when she did it too. Faces of friends were a picture. All staring open-mouthed, as if what was happening in front of them seemed to disrupt their entire belief system. Maybe it did, she didn't know. So, she'd done all that. The hateful rage, the resentment, the harsh tears, the sleepless nights, the stress, the anguish, and came out of the other side, smiling and laughing and displaying genuine signs of happiness. How was she to know that it was all just too good to be true? It was only a temporary ceasefire. The smile of hers would soon fade. So soon. So out of the blue. 

He was there, the one night she just needed a break from everything. The one relaxing night she'd allowed herself in months, and he just happened to show up, unannounced. A smug look on his face, as if he was totally oblivious. He couldn't be. He wasn't blind to the trouble he had caused, and even if he chose to believe that, the elephant in the room was ever-expanding. Awkward glances were exchanged, people shuffled around uncomfortably, a tell-tale sign that they knew too. This wasn't supposed to be like this, they weren't supposed to see each other like this. There was nothing clean cut about it. Nothing at all. It was painfully awkward. Her smile faded into a crumpled sort of expression she tried so hard to fight back and failed to do so miserably. It was obvious. She spent the next few hours hovering around slowly, avoiding his gaze, trying not to get upset, annoyed or pissed off, when of course she was all three. 

"It's not fair, you being here," she thought to herself. "It's not fair that as soon as I'm okay again, you somehow walk back on the scene and expect me to be okay with it? I'm not okay with it! I'm less than okay with it, I'm not even sure I know how to cope with it." 

Her mouth went dry, her cheeks a crimson shade of embarrassment and humiliation. She had never felt so small, so meaningless, as she had been made to feel just then. She fought off the impulse to just grab her coat and head for home. Instead, she vowed to enjoy herself. It was going to be an uphill battle, admittedly, but she refused to give him the upper hand yet again. He may have broken her, but she wasn't giving him the satisfaction of knowing that. After all, nothing is irreparably broken. 

A step in the right direction.

Just a little note to emphasise my excitement. After a few emails, I've somehow bagged myself some freelance writing work. Unpaid, albeit, but who cares. It makes me smile, and also makes me sure that I can do anything I put my mind to, as long as I believe in myself. Big smiles guys. This really is a step in the right direction. 

:)

Allie: reloaded.

Allie is smiling genuinely for the first time in ages. She's surrounding herself with people who truly deserve her company and loving every minute of it. She's getting more confident every day and realising that if she doesn't start and take risks, she'll never know what the world has in store for her. She's closer to her family now, and is a suitable distance away from her friends. She has realised that sometimes, even the people who are supposed to love you the most are the ones who wield the most bitter slurs, but that's okay. In time, anyway. Allie respects herself and knows what she is worth and what she truly deserves from people, as well as from life. Her passion is stronger than ever and her determination is back in full-force. Her dreams are just on the horizon and she's going to try her best to achieve them. And finally, Allie has learned not to fight for people who are ready to walk out of her life, instead she will happily hold the door open for them as they leave. 

Let's be dramatic.

I've come to the conclusion that my writing is sparked by drama. Not the methodical act of drama, or drama in a worrying, chaotic kind of sense, but as in something dramatic. I write when I'm feeling, well, passionate. Yes, that's it. My blog is full of posts full of happy thoughts and gushing enthusiasm, as well as those on the other end of the spectrum. Those sad, tear-soaked posts. The pieces I write at 3am when I'm feeling upset or angry or distraught or just totally numb. Passion helps me write. None of these neither-here-nor-there feelings; the days that I'm "just okay" that are of no consequence, and just a week later will blur into the background and become a forgotten memory. My writing seems to, I've noticed, flares during emotional times. I write to illustrate my life, document an event or just to simply get a thought off my chest. My happiest pieces are usually written when I'm wearing my best smile, while my negative, upset pieces are composed when I'm wearing a deep frown and even maybe shedding the occasional bitter tear. It's took me a while to realise, but I'm just not one of these people who can write something brilliant on cue. (That's probably not a good thing to admit when I'm studying a creative writing degree, but y'know!) I feel like because I tell people "I want to write" they immediately think I should be able to whack out a bestseller in my lunch hour or during the adverts of Jeremy Kyle, but quite the opposite. It takes time, inspiration and patience (something my mam keeps telling me I need more of, and yes she's very right.) So, my ever-increasing dramatic life may actually give me some content for my "novel" but whether my personal life thrives or fails, well, it remains to be seen. 

Call me Duffy Moon.

"you can do it, duffy moon." -JJ.

The girl with the wry smile that creeps slowly across her face when no one is looking. The one who just disappears for hours with no explanation and returns later, expressing too many emotions to put your finger on. She spends her time reading and writing. It's not only her passion, but it's her escape. When life in the real world gets too much, that's what she does, and it's kind of perfect. Shut the doors, shut everyone out, and indulge in a passion that will continue long after she's gone. It's hopeful and endearing and dangerous all at once. Those pages hide so many secrets, so many lies, so many passions. Those words aren't just dreamed up, they are her dreams. What she writes, is what she envisages in her own future. That's her way of putting her dreams into reality. Making it physical. Putting it down on paper. Maybe it's not everyone's idea of dreaming, but it's hers. It's all she's wanted for as long as she can remember, and if she doesn't get it, she doesn't know what she'll do. She never stops writing. There's always something to write about. It doesn't matter that every piece she writes isn't up to publishing scratch. It's not for them, she writes because she needs to. Approval isn't necessary, from them, from you, from anyone. But if you do, even better. That girl will always be a dreamer. She's destined for big things. Huge things. That notebook by her bedside harbours her deepest desires and her biggest secrets, and some of the greatest 3am ideas anyone has ever had. All you need to do is remember this name, you'll see it in flashing lights one day. Duffy Moon.

Allie: take two.

Allie's life just got crazier. Allie is indecisive. She's less than serious. Probably "wild" in her habits, but she's beginning to not care. Life, in Allie's view, is too short to be sensible, and live by other people's rules. She's fickle and insecure, and undoubtedly, not the prettiest girl in the world. She finds it hard to distinguish truth from lies, because so many people tend to lie to her. She reads a lot, and takes in every word. Her friendship group is widening, and she welcomes that. She laughs a lot more now, and is trying hard to ignore what other people think, although it's difficult. She makes mistakes, and doesn't ever intentionally hurt anyone, but accidents happen.

Allie is self-conscious. The girl with the stretch marks, the bad skin, the total undeniable inability to handle her drink. The shy one. The nervous one. The one who, hopefully, in time, changes. For the better. Maybe, we'll see.

I'm just saying.

I'm sitting in the dark, on my bed, listening to Taylor Swift and scouring my Twitter feed for any sign of intelligent life. I'm afraid to announce there's not much. I am, as I am frequently told, too obsessed with Twitter. In fact, I must admit, I do have a life outside of the mass black hole that is the tumultuous Twittersphere. I don't know why people seem to jump to the conclusion that because I have tweeted a huge 35,719 times, that I therefore cannot even comprehend, never mind pursue an actual social life. This, in fact, couldn't be further from the truth. I'm a very sociable person, usually. On and offline. There's nothing better, to me, than meeting a friend over Starbucks and having a gossip, a drink at the pub or even a tweeting marathon online. I will dispute this constantly, I have a life, both regarding and disregarding my online activity.

We've all done it. Fallen into the social-networking trap, became obsessed with the latest networking craze and found yourself planning your sleeping pattern around your Facebook newsfeed, Twitter timeline or Bebo profiles (yes, really far back in the day!) It's kind of funny really. My parents are constantly saying to me, "why don't you get off twitter and actually go talk to your friends?" with which I respond, "what do you think I'm doing now?" I've said it before, and I'll continue to say it again, I have to be one of the easiest people to get in touch with, on the planet. I have a Facebook account, a Twitter, a discarded MySpace I never really nourished, a Tumblr I have no idea how to use, but I'm always receiving emails about comments and photo posts, a YouTube I don't really need, and of course, a Blogspot. I'm always attached to my phone, and if I don't respond to a text, a tweet, a facebook message or a phone call, then I really am avoiding you, or I'm extremely busy (i.e. Watching Luther, NCIS or lost in a book.)

I love my networking, even if other people laugh at it. I've seen the looks, and heard the comments. I'll slip in something about a tweet or a blog post into a real-life, physical conversation, and there are certain people who just can't help but roll their eyes and just stand there, blatantly uninterested. That's okay. And you know why? Because it makes me happy. I like to blog and tweet. It's what I want, so it doesn't cross my mind what other people think of it. Even some of my friends, I'm sure, probably think they have better things to do than blog, but for me, it's more than just a play-by-play, online diary entry, it's a personal way I can get my writing out there, into the vast array of the internet. A powerful force, and a way, hopefully, that may open up many new opportunities for me in the future.

There's probably a lot of people close to me who think I'm clutching at straws, or just being a naive little dreamer by wanting to pursue a career in writing, but I shrug it off. You might think I'm a dreamer, but maybe I am. But years from now, I hope to see more than four office or classroom walls. I don't mind there's no steady wage or pension plan or set holidays, because what I want isn't about stability. It's about passion. Years from now, when my friends are teachers, and scientists, and pharmacists and doctors and all that stuff, maybe my name will be known for something else, for some other reason. Maybe I'll be the next F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.K Rowling or Jane Austen. I want you to be reading someone's blog who will later become a bestselling author, a journalist, or a magazine editor. I want to write, the freedom of expression, and my words down on someone else's page. It may not be conventional, but who wants to be conventional anyway. Every risk I take may get me one step closer to the thing I really want, so if that means writing a blog, and spending too much time dreaming up creative pieces, then so be it.

 

Skyscraper expectations.

What if everything stopped here.
What if your name and mine are never uttered in the same breath any longer.
What if you're okay with that, and I'm not.
What if we never met, or never do meet again,
Is that better, or is that worse?
Do you regret it, that thing we knew as us?
Or do you want to laugh every time it's brought up,
Like it's just a fly on your windshield,
Just a spec of dust in your peripheral vision.
Maybe that's all I am now,
Or all I ever was,
But to me, you weren't just that.
You weren't just a crumb to be brushed away
Or an insufferable stain you just can't shift,
You were welcomed. Wanted.
You still are,
And I think you know that.
In the pit of your stomach, you know.
But I shrug my shoulders when I hear your name,
Because I can't ever live up to it,
Your skyscraper expectations.
I'm not that girl,
And you're not that kind of guy who is willing to compromise.
And I guess that's the beginning,
And the middle,
And the end, of everything.

Speechless.

Standing in the middle of the airport, surrounded by many happy, bustling holiday-goers, I'd never felt so alone. Your hand in mine, that look spread across your face, and as you parted your lips, I urged you not to breath another word, not to say those words. The ones we'd been hovering around for months, and now, well now it was too late. Now it didn't matter if you said them or not, everything was decided. Now I didn't want to hear them. I didn't need to hear them. I needed you. It would just make things a thousand times harder, for you, but most of all, for me. As you looked down on me with those big brown eyes, I saw them fill with tears. I'd only ever seen you cry twice before, and once was when your football team lost the World Cup, so I knew this was different. This was serious. These weren't crocodile tears. This hurt more than words can describe. This stung so badly it made me want to scratch my retinas with a blunt object just so I didn't have to watch you experience such pain.

With your suitcase in one hand, and your hand luggage slung over the other shoulder, it all looked so real, so final. Eventually, I plucked up the courage, forced myself to catch my breath and say those words I really needed to say.

"Liam. Don't go."

You stared at me blankly for a few moments, obviously expecting me to say something else. Something, I don't know, more, maybe. Finally, you spoke.

"You know I can't do that babe."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Anger rose up from a deep cavity in my chest and seem to rest grudgingly and uncomfortably in my throat. Ready to leap out like a mutant if agitated further. Why was I angry? I knew what was happening. I knew it was just something he had to do, so why was I getting so angry, so upset, so fucking infuriated at the fact he wouldn't give up an opportunity like this, for my sake. For me, for us. Did I really think he'd do that? Was I really that stupid? I shook my head a little too vigorously, not realising I'd actually physically moved. I contemplated how naive I seemed to have become over the last few months. I was on auto-pilot. Everything seemed to be happening without my say-so. It was like I was watching my life unfold from one of those mirrored windows; I was looking out but no one could see in. I was invisible, even to my true self.

"Why can't you do this for me?" I blurted out.

There was that blank stare again. You blinked too obviously. My heart seemed to plummet and at the same time, rise and bounce off my rib cage. I inhaled sharply. You let go of the handle of your suitcase, and put down your hand luggage. Taking both of my hands in yours, all the while you looked longingly into my eyes.

"Han, you know if I could have it any other way, I would, don't you?"

I nodded, biting back tears. I was acting like a spoiled brat who wasn't getting her own way. But I composed myself, a bit. I couldn't make a scene. Not here. Not with all of these people around me. Not now. He'd never forgive me. 

"Hannah?"

"I...I suppose so."

"You've got to understand. This is a big deal for me."

"What?" I snapped. "A big deal for you? You haven't got a clue, have you? It's a fucking huge deal for me too, Liam! But you never considered how it would affect me, did you?! You're being so selfish!"

You just stared again. I was getting more and more infuriated. 

"So Liam, what about me? What about us? Where do I fit in this little arrangement of yours? Oh wait, yes, I forgot. I DON'T!" I spat viciously, totally unaware of the bitter looks I was receiving from the people close by, trying to check-in with as little hassle as possible, and here was me, causing a scene, having a total hissy fit, and being "terribly inconsiderate" I believe one woman said.

The blank look faded from your face to be replaced by an upset one. I received a kind of morbid satisfaction in seeing you shed a tear at my bitter words. At least it showed you cared on some level. 

"Hannah, I do understand. More than you'll ever know."

"Don't patronize me. If you understood, you wouldn't be doing this."

"Jesus Christ" What do you want from me, Hannah?"

"I want you to stay."

"What?"

"You heard me. I want you to stay, here...with me."

"I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"It's just..It's not that simple."

"Well, make it simple."

"You're the one making things difficult here Han, not me."

"Oh for fuck sake Liam, stop it. Please!"

"What?"

"Stop with the pseudo-sympathetic bullshit you seem to be spewing out all over" Stop pretending you give a damn about me and just get on that fucking plane and do us both a favour. I thought I was enough, but I'm never, ever going to be able to live up to that. I can't let you stay if you'll spend the rest of your life telling people that I'm the reason you didn't achieve your dream. I can't be your second choice, and I am."

Silence. At last. I didn't know how to react to it. Apparently, neither did you. The surrounding area seemed to have cleared of travelers, minus one or two scurrying carefully to check-in, trying to avoid that couple having 'a domestic.' Those that were still at a close distance still managed to shoot us a disapproving glance, as if we were ruining their holiday experience before they'd even stepped foot on the aircraft. You broke the silence, to my relief.

"Han, just listen. Please. I told you about this before we even got together. I told you i had full intentions of going back to Melbourne when the term was over, and you said you were fine with it. You seemed, excited for me You knew- you know it's a great opportunity for me. I can't pass up a job offer like this. Not for anyone. You know this isn't about you, it never has been. It's always been about me. Don't take it personally. I'm not hurting you. If you just-"

"How can I not take it personally, Liam? I'm the one you seem to want to fly thousands of miles around the world to get away from? How the hell am I supposed to take that? I take it very personally. In fact, it breaks my fucking heart. Why are you doing this to me? Do you really not care at all? Am I not even worth a decent goodbye? Actually, scratch that- am I not worth more to you than some poxy job? You'd choose a huge paycheck over me?"

"You're not getting what I'm trying to say.. I need to take this opportunity but the thing is.."

"You don't get it! No, I don't want to hear any more excuses. You're going. That's the beginning and the end of everything. If I was given an ultimatum, I'd choose you over everything, every single time. But, I guess it doesn't always work both ways."

"Han, you're getting too upset.. I wish you'd just listen to what I'm trying to tell you!"

"WHAT?" I practically spat. My eyes felt like they were burning. The tears in my eyes stung like I'd been crying acid.

"I'm sorry."

"What for? Leaving me or letting me know I'm your last resort?"

"Everything." was all you could say.

"Yeah well, I'm sorry I even met you, so fucking bad luck."

"Don't be like that, Han. You're taking this all wrong."

"You know what, Liam, I can't even bare to look at you any more. Just go. Have a fucking great life. I hope you forget me in an instant, because I never want to spend another second thinking about you."

And with that, I pulled my hands sharply out of his grip, turned and walked away, heading for the exit. Without saying a word, you grabbed me by the waist, stopping me.

"You're fucking hard work, Han, has anyone ever told you that?"

It was now my turn to be wearing the blank, confused expression.

"I'm only going to say this once, Han, so for god sakes, shut up and listen. You mean more to me than anyone or anything in the whole world. I've loved you ever since I set eyes on you, at that bus stop in November, when it was pissing down with rain and your hair was soaked and sticking to your cheeks, and you asked if I had a lighter on me. I never intended to hurt you. This is something I just have to do, for me. It's not a selfish decision, it's just a decision I really need to make. But, if you give me a chance, I'll prove myself to you, properly."

I didn't respond. I just kept looking into his eyes. Liam then rummaged around in his jeans pocket, retrieved something small and then took my left hand in his. As he knelt slowly to the floor, my brain just caught up with what my eyes were visualising and a grin found its way across my face. I'd missed the signs. He'd been trying to tell me, and I'd gone all psycho-bitch on him. 

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he told me. "Why else do you think I've got so much in my suitcase? There's stuff in here for you too."

And that was it. I was finally speechless.

"Hannah, I love you. I always have, and I always will. I can't bare to live without you, whether it's in Leeds or in bloody Australia, I can't contemplate the idea of not waking up next to you every morning. So, Hannah, baby, whadda you say, will you do me the pleasure, the privilege, no- the honour, of becoming my wife?"

Tears were streaming down my cheeks, this time, happy tears. Happier tears than I'd ever experienced. I knelt down to meet his eye level, and kissed him.

"Is that a yes then?"

"It's a yes." I half-laughed, half-sobbed. 

"Thank god," Liam exhaled deeply, "I thought I was going to have to pawn the fucker."

We both laughed in unison, but we were suddenly interrupted.

An announcement came over the receiver;

"Last call for flight 421 to Melbourne, Australia. Please report to gate 16, immediately."

We exchanged a glance. "Shit!"

Liam grabbed my hand, "come on, hurry, or we'll miss it."

"Wait, i haven't got my ring on yet."

He sighed, rolled his eyes, laughing a moment, slid the ringer quickly but carefully on my finger, kissed it softly with his lips, and then, it was time to run. No, sprint. Between us, we grabbed the bags and began running as fast as our legs could take us, to the correct terminal. We were running badly, hand-in-hand, juggling too-heavy luggage that kept hitting our sides every few hundred metres. Giggling like a pair of school kids. The distance made me feel like I'd ran a marathon on a stomach of three cornflakes. I felt dizzy and my pulse was beating out of a vein in my forehead. We both struggled for breath as we reached the gate and fell into the departure lounge, laughing heartily and breathlessly. We'd done it. We'd settled our differences, solved all our problems, and established what we both wanted. Now, there was only one problem...

"Liam, why does that board say Mexico? I thought you said we were going to Melbourne?"

"Shit," we both said in unison for a second time, and collapsed onto the floor even more, laughing hysterically. 

"Fuck it, we'll get the next one."

The Last Time.

It was New Year's Eve, and the snow was falling heavily. The hustle and bustle of city life was becoming more vibrant every second. Crowds of people, all making plans to bid a fond farewell to 2011 and welcoming the new year in with open arms, overly optimistic smiles and unquestionably bad renditions of Auld Lang Syne. Throughout the town, people were buying assorted crates of alcohol, fireworks and all of the essential things required to see the new year in in style. This was no different for Hetty Jefferson and her partner Michael. They had been invited to Hetty's sister Ruth's party, a routine they were particularly familiar with. Despite this, Hetty loved it. Being able to celebrate the festivities of the season, surrounded by nearest and dearest. However, this year would be the most memorable, and for the entirely wrong reasons.

Hetty was walking down the cobbled high street, somewhat impractically dressed, bound for home. It was late afternoon, and she had been collecting last minute things for the party. She was wearing a red dress that came just above her knee, black patent stilettos and a fur coat, the expensive kind, probably worth a few months' wages. She was heavily made-up; her lashes defined with several coats of mascara, rouged cheeks and a hint of scarlet hung closely to her lips. Her red hair, complimented by her pale skin tone, hung in loose curls, and struck her face ever so slightly when she walked. The snow continued to fall and occasionally a flake or two would settle comfortably in her hair or on her cheek, before gently melting away and leaving a tell-tale streak in her carefully-perfected make-up.

Hetty was very obviously attractive, with carefully sculptured eyebrows, a wide mouth, and strong, defined cheekbones. She held her head high, and smiled enthusiastically at anyone she passed in the street, the excitement of the new year build-up was becoming infectious. Soon she arrived at her front door. Her slightly elevated sense of happiness continued as she fumbled with her key in the lock while trying to juggle her shopping; party streamers, confetti, a few bottles of reasonably-priced champagne, and too many helium balloons for it to be considered practical, all donned with 'happy new year' in fancy lettering. Hetty stumbled clumsily through the door, kicked off her shoes and relinquished ownership of her bags on the kitchen table, where she met Michael. They had been together for five years now, and as far as Hetty was concerned, she had never been happier. Michael was tall, with dark hair and eyes to match. They had met through a mutual friend, and had been together ever since.

They exchanged greetings, minimal but amiable, before Hetty journeyed upstairs to decide on her outfit and begin getting ready. Michael, who had already assumed a position in front of the television, was watching the news, but then begun to frantically flick through the channels, dissatisfied. He took yet another drag of his cigarette before stubbing the remainder of it into the glass ashtray, balanced precariously on the coffee table. Upstairs, Hetty was raking through her wardrobe, an air of impatience about her. The clock had already struck six, and she had yet to find something appropriate to wear. After trying on an abundance of dresses, she finally settled on one that accentuated her curves; an emerald-green cocktail dress. She then began to curl her hair, wrapping each strand around her tongs with artistic precision, before solidifying her tresses with a gallon of hairspray.

A few hours passed, and the party was in full swing. Ruth was in the kitchen, plating up the food she had been fussing over for the last hour, while guests mingled, alcohol in tow. Michael had found refuge in the corner of the room, and was clutching a bottle, occasionally swigging its contents and then puffing on countless cigarettes. He looked fed-up, and had started to get rowdy. The more he drank, the more aggressive he became, to the point where Hetty could no longer disguise her embarrassment, and suggested they leave. Michael, slurring his words, began shouting and protesting. Hetty, apologising profusely to her friends, rang a taxi, and the couple ventured home. She hardly breathed a word to him on the ride home, emphasising her annoyance and humiliation. However, as soon as they were behind closed doors, Michael's disposition soon became aggressive again. The insults overflowed. Hetty, disgusted at her boyfriend's drunken state, started to walk away, but he sharply grabbed her arm so they were face to face.

Michael's drunken state caused him to lash out. Hetty thought the stream of verbal abuse she was receiving stung, until she felt the force of his knuckles hit her cheek. As his large fist came into contact with her face, she stumbled backwards and hit her head off the stone fireplace. The room began to spin, but she could still faintly hear Michael's drunken slurs. She blinked hard, shielded her face with her crumpled, now shaking hands, and succumbed to a paralysing state of shock. Michael then muttered something about “getting some air” and the front door slammed, causing the noise to reverberate around the house. As soon as she was sure he had left, Hetty ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her and slowly sinking to the floor. Holding her knees tightly towards her chest, she became hysterical.

Her once-pristine make-up was no more, her mascara-ed eyes became sodden, and her tears fell with such violence that they left behind spatters of dirty grey down her cheeks. The brave face she had been withstanding for the past few hours finally broke away, revealing a somewhat younger sense of self. She struggled to catch her breath, gasping for air between stolen sobs. Hetty was 27, but with tears cascading down her cheeks, she appeared to be a teenager again. Her head was throbbing, a result of Michael's violent outburst and the sheer amount of tears she had shed. Exhausted, terrified and dazed, Hetty felt herself drifting slowly into a deep sleep.

The next thing she knew, Hetty awoke, to find herself curled up, foetus-like, on the ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor. They were cold and really uncomfortable. After a few minutes confusion as to her whereabouts, she shakily pulled herself to her feet, and caught sight of her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Her right eye was painful, the bruising already developed; a harsh mix of purples and greys. Her head was pounding, an incessant kind of headache that just wasn't letting up. She wandered over to the sink, splashed her face with tepid water, and headed to the kitchen in search of pain relief, hoping with every ounce of her being that she wouldn't find Michael there. Waiting.

Her hands, still shaking, managed to retrieve some painkillers from one of the kitchen cabinets. The remnants of a cup of coffee were on the bench, she took a gulp, dehydrated, then, realising the contents are stone-cold, winced and poured the remainder down the sink. Armed with Aspirin in one hand, she reached for the bottle of whiskey that has been sitting quietly  on the bench since the night before, a mild, impartial observer to the turbulence. She struggles to unscrew the top, as her right hand is still clutching the tablets, but when she does, she slips them slowly into her mouth, takes an appropriate swig of whiskey and swallows harshly. She winces again, and recoils as the alcohol stings the back of her throat. Her stomach rumbles, but she is unable to face any food, still too nervous and shaken-up.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted, as the front door slammed shut and she heard footsteps in the hallway. They came face-to-face for the first time since Michael's vicious outburst. For a few seconds, no one uttered a word, then, Michael persevered with his tirade of abuse. Hetty, filled with rage, and feeling somewhat empowered, told him exactly what she thought of him. The reaction she got wasn't one she was hoping for.

As Michael raised his hand to her, Hetty decided, this would be the last time. In a fury of panic, shock and anger, she grabbed the nearest thing at her disposal, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, and thrust it towards Michael's head, in a desperate bid for self-defence. As the bottle hit his skull, it smashed; fragments of glass and whiskey scattered around the kitchen. His eyes went glassy, the smug expression that had been sitting so effortlessly on his face vanished, and then his eyes glazed over completely. Immediately, he hit the floor with an almighty  thud, and drifted slowly into a state of unconsciousness.

Hetty toyed with the idea of dialling 999, she even had the phone in her hand, but something in her caused her to prevail.  She took one last look at the man who had once been, and if she was being honest with herself, still was, the love of her life, now lying battered on their kitchen floor, with blood trickling down the side of his temple. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but she held her head high. She walked into the hallway and picked up her handbag, before slamming the front door behind her. When she reached the end of the street, she just kept walking.

You're my best kept secret.

A little creative piece I just whacked out.

Aaron had left early this morning, gone to get a pint of milk before heading off for work. He'd left me a note, simply reading:

"I'll love you. Forever and a day. See you when I see you, Luce. You'll always be perfect no matter what.
Aaron
 x

P.S. Milk's in the fridge, coffee's waiting in the cup."

I was definitely wearing a grin the size of China when I'd finished reading that. Hmm, I felt inspired. I felt thrilled. I sat down, took my time, and with coffee in tow, wrote the most true thing I've ever even thought. Because, I really think it needed to be said. It read:

"Aaron,
Every second I spend thinking about you, but not talking about you, I feel like a fraud. I feel like you're never out of my head, kind of always in my heart, but those few words are never uttered from my lips, and why? I'm scared. That's the short answer. Simple. But it's no less true. I'm scared my feelings will land me in the same mess they always do. I'm scared you don't feel the same, and I'm even more terrified that you actually do. I'm scared of commitment and "what ifs" and talks about things we know too well already. It's backwards and weird and yet I still find myself wishing for it. I have for a while, but I haven't told anyone. It's like you're my secret. That feeling people describe, butterflies. Well, with you, I understand what people mean. The way you look at me. Knowing you couldn't tell me the thing you wanted to the most. The grin you flash at me, and my knees go weak, and it's like everything I could ever ask for is standing right in front of me. The way you dress, or run your fingers through your hair or hold my hand like you'd never be ready to let me go. I love that. I love talking about you. I love the expression my face takes on when I hear your name, your voice or see that name flash up on my phone. You make my bad days tolerable, and my good days great. I'm proud to know you, honoured to be part of your life, and I never ever want to lose you.
Forever and a day isn't long enough.
I'll see you when I see you.
All my love,
Lucy
X"