Sometimes, the easiest way to get a story going is to write from experience. However, that doesn’t mean you should have the ideabefore the experience. Your fictional character might be able to get away with seducing the postman using a rolling pin and a dishcloth, but you might not. You can have a go, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
This is the reason for the suspicious lack of posting. My first year of university is over and I’m leaving Aberystwyth tomorrow! I’m focusing on packing my things in a Tetris-style order so as not to reflect on the impending boredom of three and a half months in Manor Vernon, where I will play The Binding of Isaac and dodge Chairman Mow’s advances on an hourly basis.
The Year 3 class shut their teacher in a cupboard. It was the last day before the summer holidays, after all. Furthermore, there was something about Mrs. Knowles’ corduroy-skirted bottom, poking up in the air as she rifled for a new sheet of House Point stickers, that begged to be hidden from sight. The children conspired with quiet, giggling whispers. They charged: four of the boldest pupils slammed the store cupboard door shut with Mrs. Knowles inside. They let her out again after thirty seconds, once the hilarity had worn off. She was very jolly about the whole affair, really. She always was the kindest teacher, and the rest of the staff were sad to see her retire.
The primary school was small, and by the end of the day Year 3 were celebrated as heroes by the other children. The story became something of a legend, and when summer ended and the new school year began, the successors to the heroic class were determined to repeat the act of rebellion. However, the post of Year 3 teacher had been taken up by the young, newly-qualified Miss. White. Despite showing the same tender heart as Mrs. Knowles, Miss. White was rather nervous. She was, more or less, allergic to life and had a fabulous collection of phobias. Her fears included sponges, the feeling of drinking immediately after eating a bowl of jelly, and small spaces. The latter could be induced simply by thinking about an elevator, but she could calm herself down by taking her class outside to find bugs or do rubbings with mouldy bits of crayon.
The new Year 3 class waited. They had been planning amongst themselves during playtime for several weeks. When it happened, it would be perfect. Not only would it be perfect, but it would be hilarious, and they would take the title of school heroes. Their moment arrived when a girl’s chin and shirt front served as a tissue when she did a particularly wet sneeze. Miss. White, too disgusted by the mucous explosion to think about her claustrophobia, went to fetch a paper towel from a box inside the famous cupboard. The children pounced, shutting their teacher inside the cramped, dimly-lit closet. Miss. White shouted, pleaded, and hammered on the door. However, these pupils were determined to beat the record of thirty seconds. They held their little backs against the door as the tallest among them pushed back with the palms of their hands.
In the cupboard, clutching the rough paper towel, Miss. White had a panic attack and realised that perhaps she should have taken that course in floristry after all.
Toby and I made melon pan! We thought it was going to be failure, but the power of ~sugoi desu~ aided our cause.
I don’t understand what these entries have that I don’t when I’m in the shower singing semi-made-up J-Pop with shampoo in my eyes.
Hey, Europe, I can give creepy poo-smiles to camera as jets of fire singe my bum. Give me a call.
Anonymous asked: The unnatural shadows between his abs were the only camouflage he needed but they couldnt hide the rage, the black rage of darkness and rage and blackness that darkened his raging past shrouded in Shadows and rage. The sniper was angry. This mission kept him from the My Little Pony season premiere. Someone will pay!
This is wonderful. Truly wonderful. Needs more spongy love mountains, though.
The reference to My Little Pony makes me think that this anon is an Aber friend, since it has been discovered that my dodgy flatmate is a Brony. I say ‘discovered’, when really I eavesdropped on his conversation whereby he said he’d been watching My Little Pony for two hours straight. Then I told everyone in the immediate area. Heh.
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Guess who found ‘Hostage to Pleasure’ on Google Books. It is spectacular. How can you ‘kill lightly’ when you’re a sniper? How did that interview go?
‘So, you’re applying to be a sniper, yes?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Good at sniping lightly?’
‘Sniping…lightly?’
When we’re working on large writing projects, I think most of us spend a few moments visualising what the front cover would look like if it got published. However, if all you can see is a close-up of a well-toned, oily chest of the manly persuasion, accompanied with an inanimate object like bagpipes or a typewriter, you might need to slow down. You know the ones I mean. Don’t act like you don’t.
‘Would you say you’re a bitter person?’
‘Nooo, of course not.’
Lies. I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to stand for it any more! Or something. I was going to write this as a ‘Dear 14-year-old Alice’ post, but I think it’s safe to say that it would be a terrible warning. I think we’d all like to caution our past-selves to ameliorate our present life, but I don’t think many would listen. Past-Al certainly wouldn’t have acknowledged it, and I don’t blame her. Even with a clear warning, I don’t think I would have done anything differently. Now I get slapped in the face with an existential crisis just by brushing my teeth in a morning. Ahem.
And so, today, I sat at my desk and opened a new Word document. I started to write about why I am bitter. Then I deleted it. Then I began again, and watered it down to an ambiguous mush. Then I filled it out a little until it was acceptable for everyone. Sort of. I knew I would have to write about ‘the problem’ at some point, but I have done it in an anecdotal, let’s-be-totez-positive way so that you may be able to relate to it instead of recoiling in horror. I am currently in the process of polishing it up before I send it off to the Inner Condition. It’s a big step, I feel.
Fear not, 14-year-old Alice. Things will go wrong, but at least you get infinite writing material from it. Cue awkward thumbs-up.
Anonymous asked: I want to cuddle with you. But only if you wear that ririculously cute monkey... cape? Hoodie? Carcass? Whatever
It is a Rilakkuma cape, although my friends refer to it as ‘Paedo-Bear Cape’. When I wear it, I pretend that I’m like the Princess Mononoke of a really soft, non-savage landscape. Mm-hhmm.
Cuddling is wonderful.
Hello! I am a writer. I write things. Currently studying English and Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University.
I am also a columnist on The Inner Condition blog. I get around.
