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I hope that this blog will become a place to look after my writing ideas and that, over time, I can use it to archive all my favourite creative sites on the web. Maybe others will enjoy it too.

Thursday, 27 March 2014


So, it's the next installment and I'm getting bored of my own voice here. I think it's because I'm writing chronologically rather than plot-lines. Equally, I'm being stupid and staying up late as well as working and so I'm tired. Knowing that I want to get through the back-story quickly and cover a few introductions at the same time means that I think I'm trying to do too much. Mind you, this is what first drafts are for, right? Right.


So not my best work. :)

Analysis is provided courtesy of 750words.com as always. They are good, but I am beginning to wonder about their filter for violence because I am certain that there is none in this section!

Rating: PG-13 (Violence)

Feeling mostly Affectionate, and concerned mostly about Eating and Drinking, followed by Leisure

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Sight (wee-oo, wee-oo); Us and Them: Them

33 minutes at 29 words per minute.

"You got a shift on tonight?"

"Monday. They don't need me in."

"Cool," Leslie walked through the door first, "Thanks. Yeah, so, you should come by. I was hoping to spend a productive evening watching TV and I could do with company."

"You invited Suze?"

"God Bothering Girl?" Eyes twinkling, she turned away, "Of course. Said she had work on and something about early lectures tomorrow."

"I've got a seminar."

"Like always and you'll miss it, like always."

Urine. Buses at this time of the night always managed to smell of urine. Even when there wasn't a drunk in sight and they didn't run through the centre of town before picking up passengers from [suburb]. Handing over the exact change, and hoping it wasn't wrong to want the driver to like her for that, Anastasia stated her destination abruptly and took her ticket without really looking. A stagger as the bus set off made her stumble and sit in the first seats gratefully. As it happened there was something less appealing about watching the latest box-set on Leslie's tiny personal TV than sleep at the moment. Mondays were too long. Always too long.

Through the window Anastasia watched the hall that Jake's martial arts society rented passing by, the steel shutters were already down and one or two people stood smoking and eating take out food at the bus stop. The ground was wet, reflecting the sodium glare of the street lights in the darkness after the rain, sandpaper sounds of tyres reaching through the skin of the bus and assaulting her ears with an attempted serenade.

Looking back, Anastasia startled and snapped back to face the front as she gasped. The hooded man. On the back seat. She was sure, it was him, it had to be him. The man that had followed her to the bus stop on Saturday. It was the same sweatshirt, the same trousers, and the same darkness that prevented her from seeing his face clearly. Just sitting there at the back of the bus. She couldn't see the man's eyes but there was a feeling, a sense of being watched, as though beams were firing into the back of her head. The man was watching her, she was certain of it. A deep breath, forcing the heart rate to slow down, and then calm as she closed her eyes.

No. He must have been on the bus already when she got aboard. That was why she had spotted the man at the bus stop on Saturday from the city centre, he lived somewhere close by on the same line that operated past Broad Street. A dark hood obscured his face, of course that made it feel as though he was specifically looking at her, and so there was nothing to worry about.

So it was that she nearly jumped clear out of her skin as a flash of movement brought her eyes up quickly to see the man standing close by. He was here for her.

Then the inevitable feeling of stupidity as he walked on to the doors and waited for the bus to stop without so much as a backward glance. Stupid, Anastasia admonished herself, it was definitely too late: her brain wasn't working right and was reduced to creating drama. It was the sort of thing she'd heard about more in her old school. There was never a day went by without someone claiming that they were being attacked or stalked by someone else. Hormones, she had always assumed, but it appeared that grumpy tiredness was another good reason.

The bus slowed down and stopped at the very next bus stop and despite everything, Anastasia felt suddenly threatened. As though she had been backed into a space that was too tight and too small for her. A smell like adrenaline and danger, her hackles rising on the back of her neck and her limbs tensing as though there would be action soon. Fight or flight, she realised with a shock, it was a primal urge. Curiosity made her study the people getting aboard.

Three of them. The first was broad shouldered and looked like he worked out. Tight t-shirt, a show off, stretched over a muscled frame. Thick neck and eyes that bulged slightly from an otherwise severe face. Buzz-cut hair, ginger, and piercing green eyes but not in attractive sense. It was easy to imagine him in fights or playing 'white knight' on a society night out. At the same time he had the look of someone who wasn't terribly bright, someone that relied too much on his muscles. Behind him was a gawky looking teenager, attempting unsuccessfully to look cool and self-assured. The sort of boy that would have played the big cheese at Sixth Form college before being steadily rejected by the tide of females that he tried his non-existent wiles on. She almost pitied him. Dressed in mechanic's overalls, this one was also spattered with grease and oil. An overpowering stench of cheap after-shave shrouded the more familiar alcoholic tang that hung around him. After work drinks were likely.

The final one was different. Female. Alert. Their eyes met for just a moment and Anastasia caught a smirk. Severe pony-tail, too much make-up and kitten heels. Trying too hard.

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