Day 4: Gah

Having bored myself rigid with the scene in the railway station and feeling like I was pulling teeth - even with the return to the cliche part where our main character gets dressed and I revel in the boy/girl clash (the original story of my own that I'm ripping off is named oh-so-originally Boy to Girl in case it wasn't obvious) - I decided I would skip ahead. I've been watching some video essays and Harry Potter kept being referenced and so, with that in mind and with my main character on a train, I thought I might use the journey to try and get some other characters in the narrative. Still no real plot here but at least I have a conversation. It's clearly first draft territory though - you'll see that for yourself - but at least I have a name for my main character now. The other character is the only name I remember from the original (not the surname, not sure she had a surname back then), as is her character design but description of her here is deliberately sparse because my MC isn't analysing her looks as they analysed their own back in their room and I wanted that to be a Thing. Mind you, maybe being sparse is a bad choice.

First draft. Just keep repeating that mantra and maybe I won't hate it as much! Here's the noodling from tonight:

       “Are you going to Leeds too?”

       I was a bit startled, having been enjoying the view across the rugged landscape and chalking up yet another cliché by making the observation deliberately in my head just to do so. “Huh?”

       “Leeds. Is that where you’re going?” repeated the girl sat opposite me. She looked unnervingly similar to the girls at my school in the face, which just added the feeling that things were off when I took in her clothes. “I’m going to Leeds. Union camp, you know, learning about the value of friendship or something annoying like that. They’ll probably say something about what jobs to do. I want to do Maths.”

       “Maths?” She spoke quickly, too quickly for me to really take everything in all at once. “I mean, yeah, yeah, I’m going to Leeds.” Also, there was a bit of a culture shock to be spoken to by a girl without opening conversation. Not to boast but people tended not to open conversation with me for any reason. If this were a film would it pass Bechdel’s test?

       She looked harder at me, cocking her head like a small dog. “Are you a Colonial?”

       “Pardon?” I don’t usually use that word but the situation seemed to demand the kind of archaic confusion my grandparents were fond of, I just removed the undercurrent of irritation that usually accompanied their pronunciation.

       “You said ‘yeah’ rather than ‘yes’. Makes you sound like a cowboy.”

       “Cowgirl.” I corrected impulsively, feeling stupid before the last syllable left my mouth. “On account-”

       She was laughing anyway, the kind of light polite laughter that came from genuine amusement and not being threatened by the situation. I’d heard it often enough, but never evoked it. “Well, then, what’s your name?”

       For the briefest moment I consider telling her my actual name, the one I grew up with, but luckily the confusion of seeing her laugh gave me pause for just long enough to realise that this was not the time nor the place. At least, not yet. “Suzanne. Suzanne Charlton. You?”

       “You talk funny. Are you sure you’re not a Colonial?” she caught my look of utter incomprehension. “Well, I’m Harriet. Most people call me Hattie though and Harriet sounds a bit posh if you ask me.”

       “Hattie,” I repeat, anxious to catch hold of one thread of the conversation at least. She seems nice enough.

       Smiling at my repetition. “Hattie Watson. You’re not from Carlisle are you?” Perceptive too.

       Without thinking I started talking: “Lived there seven years,” it came out almost as a defensive boast, which was not what I was intending. “Moved from Lancashire.” I was flustered, recognising that this was a chance at gaining a friendly ear in whatever the heck was happening, and grabbing it with both hands. “I live in Stanwix.” Luckily this was true for Suzanne as well as me, so I could bring things back on track. If I’d learned nothing else by watching Quantum Leap it was that Sam had to leave those he leaped into the way he found them so they could carry on living. I had no intention of leaving Suzanne with a web of confusion when I left. And I felt like I could leave at any time. Unless this was like Quantum Leap and I had to put right what once went wrong. Hattie was talking again.

       “…that’s why I ended up going to Trinity School rather than working down in Denton Holme. My Dad reckons it’s better for me anyway so…” she tailed off. “School or Co-op?”

       For a moment I thought I’d misheard. Also, I had no idea what she was talking about. Nor did I know. What on Earth was a Co-op anyway? Oh well, in case of emergency: be honest. “School.”

       “How fabulous! So you’re an academic as well?”

       “I mean, I guess.”

       “Don’t you know?” she looked moderately confused.

       This wasn’t an easy conversation. But then, I reflected, most conversations were filled with landmines and mistakes to make so this was unfamiliar but no different to normal. “Oh, yeah, I do. Just… it’s a figure of speech.”

       “Lancastrian?”

       In for a penny… “Yeah. I mean, yes.” Also I had no idea what a Union camp was and that was, apparently, where I was going. And Hattie had been nice enough to strike up a conversation. I decided to take a risk and ask some questions of my own. “You been to one of these before?”

       “No, first one. I suppose it’s the same for you.”

       “Absolutely.”

       “Oh, good. So, what’s your favourite subject? Mine’s Maths, and the sciences obviously.”

       “Oh, History. I like the First World War. Well, like is probably the wrong word, but it’s my favourite thing to learn about.”

       “What’s that?”

       “What’s what?”

       “First World War? Is that like a Roman or Saxon thing? Most of my History is all about modern stuff and nonsense.”

       I was taken aback. Well, I did think this was all a bit close to Victorian times. Either that or she was very into Maths and not a fan of History, which would make sense, most of the History I’d done in class was medieval and industrial era anyway so we hadn’t actually studied the First World War, it was just what my Dad was into. “No, 1914-1918, I guess it’s a bit-”

       “Oh, the Great War you mean? I’ve never heard it called the First World War before, you make it sound like there was another one! Or more! Gosh! Can you imagine? Oh! I bet you like reading those science fiction books! I’m not a fan, my Mum made me read H. G. Wells once, she really liked it, and it wasn’t as good as Anderson or the Brontës. Have you read Wells?”

       Something told me to drop the subject and take the opportunity to talk books instead. “Read the Landships once, prefer short stories.” I’m not completely dense, but I ignored the ‘something’. “You’ve never heard of the Second World War? Hitler and the Germans, that sort of thing.” In the moment, despite my huge confidence in my own abilities, I found myself floundering and relying on half-baked memories of Commando comics and bad TV shows. “Like Dad’s Army or ‘Allo ‘Allo?”

       Hattie looked utterly confused, but clearly decided that I wasn’t a raving lunatic and, instead, jumped to what must have been the only logical conclusion for her to draw. “I’ve not heard of those books, who wrote them? I’ve heard of Hitler though,” she looked thoughtful for a moment, “Angry gadgey with a silly moustache, did something in Germany or something?”

       I didn’t think Hattie was this ill-informed, nothing about her so far suggested it, apart from the fact that she had blonde hair and films had long since told me that blonde girls in films were a bit- no, that seemed unlikely. Basically, I got the distinct impression that she really didn’t know about Hitler and that, therefore, this strange place in which I found myself didn’t find him as noteworthy as perhaps I thought he ought to be. “Leader of Germany, of the Nazis?”

       “Yes, he went on a bit of a radge from what I know, then he was done in. Capitalist and all that.”

       I wasn’t expecting that. I’d heard that term once or twice but honestly had no idea what it meant. “A what?”

       “Oh, you know, a radge – bit angry… a radge.”

       “No, no, I know that,” I did, heard it before: Carlisle slang. “Capitalist?”

       “Well, that’s what the Soviets say about Germany. It’s a capitalist country. Like the Colonies. My Dad reads all the news, says I need to as well, he quizzes me on it. Says Maths is a pointless subject with no real applications in the real world.” Her voice took on a posher tone when she said that, I guessed she was quoting her father. “Sorry, I’m going on a bit.”

       “No, it’s cool.”

       Again that look of confusion flashed over Hattie’s face. “What?”

       “It’s cool, I don’t mind.”

       “Is it? I thought it was pretty decent, actually.”

       “Huh?” This was far harder work than normal conversations. I decided that the best course of action was to play this more carefully, say less and pay more attention. It was beginning to dawn on me that being in the body of a girl might be the least disorienting thing happening and, arguably, the least confusing. “Why Maths?” I grasped at anything to keep the conversation moving. I had at least found out that it wasn’t Victorian times: Hattie knew about the First World War, or the Great War, which meant that had happened. Didn’t people between the wars call the First World War the Great War?

       “It’s easy. You line the numbers up, apply the stuff and they do what they’re supposed to do. Then, if you’re not certain, you can work backwards. Everything has a correct answer, no opinions or guessing. You know, like in Literature Appreciation where you’ve got to say why the author used that word or this phrase. Or Computers, where the programming can have mistakes and you don’t realise until the end and even then you don’t know where it is.”

       I spotted the ‘Literature Appreciation’ rather than English, the use of ‘Computers’ rather than ‘Information Technology’. However, more importantly, I totally got what she was saying about Maths. “Yeah!” My enthusiasm wasn’t put on. “Same with languages. Like, in Latin, when you know the verb endings it’s easier to translate and, if there’s a problem, you can work backwards.”

       “Latin?”

       “Oh, yeah, I got to take it in…” I paused, I took it in Year 8 because my school offered it but this place might not have that. I took another stab: “Language of the Romans. I learned a bit because I want to learn French and Spanish and Portuguese but, well, haven’t got the time. Not yet. Latin’ll make it easier ‘cos they’re Romance languages, based on Latin, and Portuguese is practically Latin anyway.”

       “I’m not as much of a fan of languages. Had to learn a bit of Russian, obviously, and my Dad wants me to learn some Zulu and Xhosa.” Hattie had that look again. “Trinity doesn’t have African languages, Dad was talking about going to Union House. God, I hope the camp doesn’t make us do languages.”

       Zulu I knew, I’ve seen the film, but the other one I wasn’t even going to try and pronounce even having heard her say it. “I know a bit of German,” I said, a little lamely. I’d always considered myself a bit of a linguist but I had never even wrapped my head around the fact that Russian had a different alphabet, let alone learned any words.

Day Three: Worldbuilding?

Yeah, no, I'm struggling with the plot on this one, can you tell? Today I decided that I would try to go back a bit and see if that helped bring some action or co nflict or indeed, anything of interest to make people want to read it. It turns out that this is harder to do than I thought and I got the first tendrils of worry that maybe writing the characters my 12 year old self wrote back when I was 12 might not be the best idea now I'm in my 40s... Oh well, so far the main character remains 13, I think, and so far that hasn't caused me too much angst apart from revealing how old I now feel.

I'm also struggling with when the main character, who remains unnamed, is from. It's obvious that they aren't from the 1990s, I think they were at first but I spotted that a lot of their verbal tics are much more modern, but from around now-ish. The setting is still very much early 1990s but I stole it from another place and now that may provide more of the initial conflict. It's the Republic that I kept banging on about eearlier here, actually. We'll see if I can actually make it work this time...

Here it is:

       Carlisle railway station is mercifully familiar in layout, I have been here before, even if the specifics remind me that something is very different and that this is not where I think I am. The old pedestrian bridge, all white and brown paint over metal, is still there but there aren’t any advertisements or barriers – the station and platforms are open. And busy. People walk to and fro all over, the hubbub and noise almost jarring after the relatively quiet roads and streets on the way. I am once again struck by the fact that everyone, everyone, is wearing a hat: men, women, children, all hats. Despite the warmth of the day, the sun streaming through the glass above, there are so many people in long coats done all the way up. Briefcases, suitcases, trunks like mine, satchels, all on display. It is heaving. People wait in lines by the edges of platforms and there is a smell of steam in the air – maybe I was right when I thought it was Victorian times, because I keep expecting to see steam trains. I don’t. Waiting at the main line platform there is a train that looks, well, familiar. It is blue and silver painted and has a red stripe down the middle running horizontally. I watch as the doors open almost soundlessly – or at least I cannot make out their noise above the human chatter – and people leave in numbers before being replaced by the crowds waiting.

       Leeds. The girl’s father told me I was going to Leeds and he told me, and I remember, that the platform for that journey is left from the main entrance hall. I remember there being glass automatic doors between the entrance and ticket halls to the main station but here it’s just an open arch. I walk and turn left and it looks almost exactly as I expect. There’s even a train with a yellow painted front waiting there – which is just what I remember from the last time I took a train. It looks like a diesel, I suppose, I’m not enough of a train spotter to really make much of an identification, but I notice that the electric cables over the mainline are here too and that the waiting train is connected to them by extending roof-rack things. It means the train is electric, obviously, which in turn means, if this is direct, then the whole route must be. I’ve been on the Settle to Carlisle railway before, was it electric? I can’t remember and decide that not knowing and being open to it is probably better than knowing and feeling that unsettling wobbly feeling that each new revelation and things provides.

       Motion sickness, like I’m on the back seat of a car and can’t see where we’re going or I dared to read on a trip through the winding roads of the Lake District and I feel sick but not enough to find relief in retching and vomit. Hanging permanently on the edge of it without the climax.

 

       First things first: getting dressed. There is no way I’m risking breakfast in a nightgown! Luckily, for whatever reason, there isn’t much in the way of choice of clothing. Unluckily it is all clothing for a girl, which makes sense, and that makes me a little wary. I am no fashionista and, well, I haven’t had a lifetime of preparation of being a girl. Being aware of what girls were wearing in my class or in my street or even my Mum… it’s all well and good, sure, but even that isn’t very helpful when the options are both limited and, for want of a better word, strange.

       There are no trousers and the knickers are less stretchy than I remember my own underwear being. No label in the back with washing instructions, no evidence of anything but elastic in the waistband and leg holes. I sigh, I suppose there’s no need for any expansion in that area, but it is a surprise. Also, and this is embarrassing, they feel almost nice as I pull them up. Similarly for the bra. I’ve seen my Mum getting dressed once or twice passing her bedroom to go downstairs, I know it fastens in the back and I know it’s supposed to feel supportive and nice. This one was white, like the knickers, and relatively plain, like the knickers. It also felt soft in the same way and had no labels – have they cut the labels from all of their clothes? – and there was only one in the drawer when I looked anyway. It doesn’t take a great deal of dexterity to fasten it and then just shuffle it around to make everything feel comfortable. Which is a very strange sensation, by the way, and not one on which I want to linger too long.

       I have a choice of white or light pink for a vest, I checked the thickness of the blouse and there’s no way it will be thick enough to hide the bra and whilst I’m not used to having that consideration there’s also no way I’m going to make the mistake of showing more than I need to. The blouse is thin, making the decision for white for me. I’d have chosen white anyway. Again that lack of stretchiness, just doesn’t seem right, and then I put on the blouse. Exactly like a school shirt except the buttons are on backward and they feel smaller – this genuinely takes me the longest of any of the clothing items so far and causes me to hiss a few times as I try to get the buttons properly fastened so they don’t just pop right back out of the buttonholes. I end up having to button the cuffs too, twice for each one, further cementing my idea that I have jumped into a psychopath’s body: who unbuttons their cuffs?

       Like I say, there are no trousers, leaving me a choice of navy blue pinafore dress, about knee length, and a longer skirt that seems a bit airy and leaves more room to move. It’s a contest, but not in the way anyone would guess, and I plumb for the longer skirt simply because I don’t want to look like a schoolgirl. If it’s a school day and I chose wrong, I reason, then I’ll find out pretty quickly and still have time to change accordingly. Once again, the skirt has no label and the waistband isn’t stretchy, in fact it takes tying it together at the left and a zip to make it hang properly. Seems too high, higher than I’d wear trousers, but that’s where it fits and so that’s where it sits.

Experimentation

One of the aims for this project was to try writing a section in second person. I had this mad idea that I should be able to write something that allowed the reader to play a role, better than Complicity, where the reader wouldn't find the character written in second person reacting too differently to them. I was really disappointed with Complicity because the character was so far removed from me that I really couldn't make a connection. Mind you, since then, I have seen stuff like Twilight so there's a limit. Anyway, turns out it's really hard and I found that I hadn't got enough of a plot to keep it going, so I defaulted back to my MC, whose name I still don't know.

Anyway, that's my way of introduction. Here's the extract below:

       One thing occurred to me as I loaded the wooden trunk onto the wheeled carrier: I hadn’t seen any plug sockets in the house, nothing plastic either. I hadn’t seen anything obviously electrical, apart from light fittings, but it all seemed… well, not what I was used to. And, as I stepped out onto the street outside, I was struck immediately by the fact that the centre of the road was grassy and not tarmac. There were two tracks of cobbled surface, but no pavement. Small paths led from each front door of the terraced houses running down each side of the street but ended at those cobbles. No yard walls or yards, the whole rest of the surface was just grass. Unkempt grass at that, none of it looked like the neat and tidy lawns I was used to seeing, but nor was it completely out of control and untidy. Wildflowers bloomed, grasses grew to seed and there was a lot of green.

       I dragged the chest up the slight hill to a main road, I still didn’t quite know where I was but some things were looking vaguely familiar on some level. Perhaps this girl lived somewhere close to where I did. Then I was at what appeared to be a main road, at least there was a tarmac surface here, but once again I didn’t see any cars using it and none were parked either side. Down one side of the road there was a large building with flags hanging from the side, I didn’t recognise any of them and they didn’t look like national flags or anything. Lots of them had words on, but with a lack of breeze I struggled to make out much more than that. To my left I could see some longer buildings, taller too, standing about six storeys high. On the far side of the tarmac there were poles with lights atop, and wires strung between them. I knew what these were: they looked like the tram lines I’d seen when I visited Blackpool to see the Illuminations, but this didn’t look like Blackpool. Beyond that, at the bottom of the slope, there was a taller building, looking for all the world like one of those concrete tower blocks I’d seen in a big city.

       A tram clattered by, barely making a motor noise, heading down the slope and I watched it go. Double-decked with rows of windows, open back with a pole and a man standing with some kind of machine looking out. It seemed reasonably full. There were pavements here, well, paths of some sort on each side of the main tarmac section, and people were walking. I was struck immediately by just how old fashioned everything looked. There were men wearing flat caps and overalls walking in small groups; women in overalls too, but also long coats and long skirts, much like what I was wearing in style, and their hair tied back with scarves or under hats of their own. Other men walked in long coats and also wore different styles of hats but there were fewer of those. A gaggle of boys in what looked suspiciously like Scout uniforms, but wrong somehow, were dawdling by a shop window. At least, it looked like a shop.

       Another tram passed and I was aware of something else, I whipped my head around and saw an actual truck cresting the top of a rise to my right: it looked very different to any truck I’d seen before. A large cab but strangely streamlined rather than flat fronted, a high exhaust pipe, and pulling two long trailers behind. Like a train, almost. These were flatbeds and had tarpaulin stretched across, tied down with sturdy ropes, revealing little of their load beyond the fact that it looked like boxes had been stacked rather than containers. It thundered by and I realised that the reason it seemed so loud was because there wasn’t the sound of traffic that I was expecting – the whole place seemed unnaturally quiet. I could even hear birdsong as the truck rumbled into the distance.

 

SOMEWHERE ELSE

       The man nobody knew as Fabius Denning entered the office and turned to hang up his coat. “Good morning,” he said without looking at you. You, of course, did know him as Fabius Denning because it was your business to know such things. “Anything interesting?”

       You took a moment before responding, it never hurt to let him think about what you might say before you spoke and, besides, you’d been busy when he walked in and you didn’t want to leave the task incomplete. It was only a couple of strokes on the keyboard, watching the figures line up on the screen, so it wasn’t like you were being rude. That would never do. “Potentially.” You take a moment to adjust an aspect of your clothing, aware that Fabius was watching. He preferred to be called by his surname but it wasn’t something you felt the need to adhere to. “There’s a new case been handed down anyway.”

       Pouring himself a glass of water, Fabius turned back to face you and walked over to his own desk. “Oh?” It was hard to tell if he was genuinely interested or feigning it in order to be sarcastic.

       “Information theft,” you stated baldly, “low level local civil servant, we think. Ah…” You called up the file on the screen once again and quickly scanned the details. “Doesn’t look like it was targeted, maybe disgruntled, but it was something big. Big enough they haven’t told us what it is.”

       You could see his eyes change as he realised the implications. Yes, he was genuinely interested now, and he leaned across his desk without taking a sip from his glass. “Resources?”

       “Plod. Don’t want to draw attention if it was an accident nor tip off whoever organised it if not.”

       “Sensible.” He nodded, more to himself than for your benefit. “How long ago?”

       “Last night.” You picked up the address you’d written out on paper before Fabius had arrived and waved it at him, turning your attention back to your work. Fabius always preferred a bit of field work to making sure the office ran smoothly anyway, and sometimes it didn’t hurt to let him have his little bit of fun. “Trevor Billingham. At least, that’s the account. Worked at the office in Leeds. His building is out by Seacroft, the brutalist estates.”

       “Makes sense.” Fabius had moved from his desk and took the paper you offered. He raised an eyebrow, you couldn’t see it but you knew he had, something in the way he held himself in your peripheral vision. He was much more of an open book than he thought and that suited you just fine. No need to ever tell him, the fact you knew was good enough. “Ugh. I’ll go and put in the call to the Plod now. Wait. Do they know about this?”

       A moment for you to glance at his face, he was still looking at the paper, and then back to your screen as you typed in the query and checked the logs. “They got details of the theft first, actually, but the address was handed over by circular about two hours ago. Oh. Looks like they sent a team out already. Someone’s marked it as urgent.” You sighed, it was probably some desk warmer somewhere with an over-inflated sense of importance or too-developed sense of duty. “If you hurry you might be able to get there before they do.”

       Fabius was already getting his coat on as you spoke. He put on his hat and paused a moment with his hand on the doorknob, “Better than a day spent making small talk with Mr Security downstairs, I suppose, let’s hope they haven’t buggered it all up already. Have a good day.”

       Before you can control it you smile and glance over at him again. “You too, don’t forget to call.” Sarcasm went where truth feared to tread.

       “I won’t.” And he was gone.

 

       The small triangular common area I could have sworn was a carpark, I was beginning to get my bearings now and was fairly certain I stood in Stanwix, Carlisle, but it was very different to what I remember. In Primary School I had been shown Victorian photographs of the area, with all the cobbled streets and empty spaces and few people. The houses, the terraced houses, look like colour versions of the black and white images and the car park… well, it wasn’t a car-park. Paved, yes, but no low walls or cars, instead there were four bus shelters and a dot-matrix display showing times and destinations. On the main road section there is a raised platform for the tramlines and, behind, on both other sides there are more normal looking pavements with what I would have guessed were bus stops.

       “Remember,” says the girl’s father looking at me, “When you get to the railway station you want the Leeds service. I remember that line myself, beautiful, and you’ll enjoy it. It’ll be the one leaving from…” he tails off and smiles in the sort of embarrassed style my own Dad uses when being, well, a Dad. “Sorry, I know you know, I still want to look out for you. Forgive a silly Father for being a bit sentimental, eh, girlie?” He reaches out and rubs the top of my head.

       I seriously consider telling him, telling him that I’m not his daughter actually and that I’ve Quantum Leaped my way here or something but I get the distinct feeling that this would be a bad plan. Besides, he made me bacon butties and I’m not complaining. “Leeds,” I confirm with that alien voice and a nod that I hope exudes confidence. Apparently I’m going to Leeds then with this ridiculous chest and a sun-hat.

       “Oh!” the girl’s father looks suddenly distracted and starts fishing in his pockets before he pulls out a battered looking wallet – the first thing I’ve seen that doesn’t look new or well-cared for – and opens the coin section. “Here, you’ll need the fares.” He takes out a large copper coin, like a penny that ate a two pound coin, and a couple of smaller silver ones. He looks back at me, then pulls out a note, and closes the wallet. “Don’t spent it all at once, will you?” He smiles as though this is funny – fathers don’t ever change.

       The coins feel really heavy in my hand and I worry that maybe this girl is just comically weak before realising that the coins are just heavier than I’m used to. Inspecting them I find that the big copper one proclaims itself as a penny, putting me in mind of those lessons on Victorians again, and the two silver ones say ‘one shilling’ on them, like old ten pences my Dad showed me once. “Thanks,” I say, more to hide the fact that I’m looking at these coins like it’s the first time I’ve seen anything like them. Even though it is the first time I’ve seen anything like them. The note is similarly alien, being a sort of browned white colour of paper rather than the shiny plastic I’m used to. It informs me that I can claim five pounds on demand from the Bank of England but there’s no old person’s head on it anywhere. Honestly, it looks like play-money for some old game.

       “Thanks? Goodness, you talk like someone from the colonies. You’re welcome, of course.” The girl’s father looks a little confused for a moment, but it passes mercifully quickly and before I try to fix it and inevitably put my foot in it. “Looks like that’s your bus!”

       Following his gaze I see a red painted bus coming from the direction of Eden Bridges over the river Eden. One of the bits of trivia is that when the bridge was made wider the builders just joined a second bridge to the first, so it got named in the plural and it stuck even though it sounds stupid. Mind you, this is lucky, because apparently saying ‘thanks’ is suspicious or something.

       “Come here,” says the girl’s father as he throws an arm around my shoulders and leans down more to my level, “Have a lovely time, telephone if you get chance and don’t forget to write. Love you, little girlie.” I feel him place a kiss on the top of my head and get an irrational urge to squirm away. It all feels wrong. Not least the idea of phoning, I haven’t seen a single mobile since we left the house and even in this crowd of people not one has checked notifications or a map or anything. I am seriously beginning to doubt that anyone even has such a thing. Maybe it is Victorian times.

Attempting a Rewrite

When I was 12 there was an after-school writing club that got to use these laptops with a display that showed a whole two lines at the top of a keyboard. Enamoured, I wrote a story that I enjoyed, printed it off and decided that it was a bit... private. So I never showed anyone and hid it in my wardrobe. At some point between then and going to University the story was lost. Naturally, this year, I resurrected it and am attempting to rewrite it.

Here's the first foray.

       Something was definitely not right: in fact I would go so far as to suggest that the feeling suggests something was, in fact, very wrong. Much as a logical inconsistency throws me out of a dream no matter how asleep so it is that I was aware enough of something having changed that I wake and take a quick stock. Before my eyes are open I know this is unfamiliar, I can feel my heartrate quickening, my breathing is shallower, faster, standard feelings of fight or flight are swinging into motion – but that’s the rub. It feels off, wrong, false, unfamiliar. The air sucking in through my open mouth is moving differently, the sound of it is higher; my heart beats differently, maybe faster and harder but dulled somehow, as though from far away. Before my hands are moving I know they are wrong.

       Eyes open, take in the light from the wrong direction: right time of day, morning, but it comes from my right rather than my left. The sound of my nails against the bedclothes different, sensations implying… what? Hair on my face, over my forehead, catches my eyelash – alarm bells ringing in the distance in my mind – and my legs feel… “What?” Not as loud as I want, groggy, and that’s not my voice, it’s not what I sound like.

       “Honey?” There’s a knock on a door nearby, the voice is muffled and male. Older, concerned but hurried. “It’s time to get up, we’ve got a long journey, I know I heard your alarm.”

       A hem? On my thighs? Worse, I feel a dull ache, my stomach roils over itself, and an unusually urgent sense that I need to be a bathroom now asserts itself. “Uh…” Not my voice, but definitely my syllable. I said that, I thought it and I said it. It is imbues with my confusion, my hesitation. So not a dream, not a nightmare. At least, not like that.

       “Just- Bathroom’s free, get yourself dressed and I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast. Okay?”

       Not my bed. Not my sheets. Not my room. Not my hair falls across not my face as I sit up on not my mattress and look around. Small box room, light pink colour motif, thin curtains, a white desk by a chimney breast, a white painted wooden door behind which the voice’s owner clearly waits. “Breakfast, yeah.” Not my voice carries my words: repetition working. I hear someone walk away from the door. I’m dressed in a light coloured fabr- no. My eyes take in the body I see. So, bear with me, this is a cliché that even I know is a tawdry one and I like a good cliché. This is not a good cliché.

       I stand, there’s a mirror on the back of the door obscured by a hanging white dressing gown. White is a bad colour for a dressing gown, I can practically hear my mother saying in my mind, it picks up all the dirt and grime. “It would need washing far too often,” she said, and I had to yield to that logic. I didn’t want to be cold between washes. But this one is clean and almost shining in the morning sun. I take it from the hook, push my arms through the relevant holes and tie it at the waist, which is too high, to face the mirror properly.

       Looking back is a girl. She’s shorter than I am expecting against the door and I am remarkably bad at estimation of measurements. I guess five foot tall. She has brown hair, mostly straight with evidence of having been tied back I suppose, that falls past her shoulders. Beneath the white dressing gown, a little too big for her frame, she’s wearing a nightgown in green with small pink printed flowers in little clusters in a repeating pattern. She’s got a fringe over her forehead and her hands are playing nervously with one another at her waist. Barefoot, I can see some slippers by the bed behind her, and with a pained expression. Maybe she feels the same warning cramp I do.

       She moves her head when I look around, her brown eyes matching where I’m looking as they dart. She raises her hand to her face when I do and, yes, that’s what I mean about it being a bad cliché. It is clear that she is me and I am her. And that cramping. For the avoidance of doubt this is not what I expected to see in the mirror because it’s not what I look like in a mirror. I mean, okay, it is now but it’s not… whatever. I have a choice: dwell on all the myriad sensations (I have a decent vocabulary, I’ve read a lot of books) or deal with the immediacies. I choose the latter.

       Stepping back, the girl dons the slippers; one hand holds her stomach as it cramps again, the other reaches for the door. She seems the same age as me, maybe younger? It’s hard to tell and there are no context clues leaping out from the wall and no time to look more closely. The carpet is soft and thick pile, easily better quality than the one at home, and the slippers feel barely used. Certainly they don’t have the worn moulding to the girl’s feet that comes from extended wear. And, okay, I’m describing my thoughts so I’ll stop pussy-footing around: I really need the toilet. As she walks out onto the landing it occurs that I have no idea where that is. But the landing is small. A room off to the right, a second door almost immediately afterward and, then, almost immediately opposite and with the stairs to the left, a final door. This is white, like all the rest (the walls are a soft yellow), but looks older and less detailed – a bathroom door if ever I saw one.

       Pushing through, it is the bathroom and I feel immense relief, I spin round and pull the dressing gown out of the way to sit as I lift the seat cover with my other hand. Oh, the night gown isn’t trousers, I can’t pull it down. I hitch it out of the way, it’s not thought-through, I’m in a hurry, and I let the bladder do its thing. I don’t quite know what I am expecting, but the feeling is not it. I mean, sure, it feels good to let a full bladder empty, but there’s something else there as well. Now, I paid attention in my sex education lessons in Science back in Year 7, so I have some inkling that certain things happen as well as a list of possible symptoms. Not that I ever expected to feel them, in this case quite literally, in the flesh but here I am and so, huh. I get it. It hurts. And the feeling, well, down there, is like nothing I have ever known. I simply don’t know how to put it into words, because I have no point of reference. Oh, I think, great.

       So, to recap: I appear to have woken up in not my body in not my house living not my life and that body is having a period. Great, just peachy. Again, I paid attention. I’m not that kind of 13 year old and I like to think of myself as practical: pads or the other one. The one that goes in. My mother uses the latter and she stores them in her bedroom, I know because she’s had me go fetch them for her once or twice in the past. Little plastic wrapped bullet things, impossibly small, with the same sort of opening that her cigarette packets have where you grab the red bit and pull. Behind me is the boiler, there’s a bath by the wall to my left, opposite the door, and a frosted window there. A shower and some tiling fills the bit where the boiler cupboard is by the side of the bath, and there’s a sink opposite me with a medicine cabinet above it, small mirrored door, standard issue.

       My business completes, but that other feeling remains and there’s another cramp. The hissing noise I make through the teeth and mouth is louder than I intend and sounds almost self-pitying. Maybe this girl is the same? I don’t know, I don’t recall ever noticing girls being self-pitying. Hey, I do my best to pay attention and I’m hard pushed to recall a time any girl I know has been obviously on a period. Like, I assume they talk to one another about it, but no one talks to me.

       I check, it feels really odd, but a quick wipe (again, I pay attention, I know which way you go to avoid infection) seems to work for now. The noise of the toilet flush mercifully covers me rifling through the cabinet over the sink, that girl’s face is flushed now and I’m certain I can detect an air of panic from the redness in her cheeks and the ways her eyes are moving. I don’t find any plastic wrapped white bullets, for which I’m grateful in one sense, and I retreat back to the room I started off in. Under the window there’s some shelves, mainly books and a couple of teddies; by the desk there’s a wardrobe in pink and white wood, above the bed there’s some shelves with doors on them like cupboards but clearly a DIY job.

       Where would a girl keep things? She seems to have a room that is far too tidy for my tastes, it’s not right that the floor is clear, that the desk seems unused, that the tape racks are tidy or the books look neatly placed. On the plus side, she’s not a barbarian, none of the spines have been abused but I think she’s maybe taken refinement too far. The wardrobe seems curiously uncluttered, very few clothes on the left side with the coat rack and the shelves on the right seem strangely empty. Midway down, in a small drawer, I find what I’m looking for. I think. Cardboard box, already opened, white folded things inside. There’s a bit with backing paper and a bit without. I can work it out, and I already found underwear. It’s over mercifully quickly. It does nothing to deal with that very odd feeling but it does seem to deal with the immediate problem of making sure this body isn’t leaking fluids everywhere. A sudden thought and I check beneath the duvet – there’s a pair of knickers there with a pad inside, scrunched up and near the wall. Ah, I think I see now, well, at least there’s no laundry just… clearing this up. And I am going to describe that in no further detail. In fact, forgive me, but I’m going to skip ahead to breakfast!

Day 5: A break later

So I didn't write anything last night. A combination of starting back at work, having a trip on today and general rattiness on my part meant that I wasn't really in the right mood to write anything other than swear words and curmudgeonly moaning and ranting. Tonight I had the pressure to let out and have managed to impose some kind of order on the sections that I've written so far, so that there isn't really a contiguous section to post here tonight.

Mostly I now have a plot, ish, with a structure that helps it all make a modicum of sense. I have two plot lines that seem to be self-sustaining and a feeling that I want to pervade them both - it can best be summed up by that Eurovision song I was referencing in an earlier post, but I have no idea how I'm going to get that whole idea working and woven into the very fabric of the story I'm trying to tell.

I'm also this-way, that-way on whether to include a male MC this year. I mean, there's a potential one that I've written in tonight along with a semi-important supporting cast member who is also male that I already had (Tremayne) but... I don't know. I'm quite keen on having most characters as females, at least, most named and important characters, because most books do the opposite and I would like mine to be different. The other reason is simply because I'd like the challenge of writing that way, in a way that most readers would not consider to be 'normal' when, in reality, it's just as 'normal' as mostly male characters in books.

Also, it's not actually fundamentally changing the plot or the story, it's just switching the gender of the characters from what most people would expect. Meh, I'm like that from time to time.

Of my bits and bats, numbering some 2,000 words this evening, 750words tell me that I am feeling mostly upset (with anxious coming a close second) and concerned mostly about money (with success a close second). This is unusual for my writing.

Total wordcount is now 9,565 words. Yay?

A Day Off - Day 3

So it is that I keep going. I suspect that, in order to make the wordcount for the evening, I shall have to take drastic action later in the month. For now there is enough guff to keep me going and plenty that, should I choose to go anywhere with this in the future, I will have to cull. But this year I am writing to participate rather than participating to write, for all that this entails.

I took the advice to write a normal day for my protagonist but couldn't resist the usual odd twist at the end, making it perfectly normal for me (the idea of the knowledgeable stranger who knows more than they ought is something of a trope with my writing - especially if I don't know where I'm going). It's... working so far. I do not believe it is like my more recent (and slightly better than usual) efforts. However, it's there.

www.750words.com tells me that it's mainly affectionate and concerned with eating and drinking tonight, but I have little else to share. There is a swear word in this, so I guess it's NSFW but it's only one.

Day 2: a plot?

So I'm obviously in this for the long haul now and I appear to not be writing the story that I had rather hoped I would be writing. A sheaf of marking for work has meant that the only time I've really had to think about what it is that I'm doing is as I've written the next tranche. Of course, this means I have made the word count for the day, which is nice.

On the minus side, I still don't really have an endpoint or even much of a conflict. These things tend to get more and more complicated in a desperate effort to find something on which to hang a plot. I hope that doesn't happen. I have, at least, gained one named character - Rebecca Collins. I think I may also have some idea where parts of this are going, it uses a concept I think I have already detailed on here called the 'Reality Gun'. Well, I guess we'll see.

If you really are a glutton for punishment you can read some more of this... thing after the line break.

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Again!

So, here I am again to the party(?) that is NaNoWriMo and this time everything is different. I have done no preparation, I have planned nothing and I have no real idea where I am going. Even this blog has been fallow for a very long time after moving house sort of ate my life over the summer holidays and a new job (very nice by the by) ate my time since. I actually only managed to move less than a month ago and so the last few weeks have been punctuated with unpacking boxes and attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to get my lovely new home in order.

Anyway, this abomination just spewed forth from my brain, only 1,193 words so far and it's taken about half an hour. Read, if you dare, after the page break. It's pretty awful and based loosely on the Eurovision song by Margaret Berger Feed you my love. You'll find that after the line break too.

It's Psychological

Back in the saddle again, and not even side-saddle, but a new edit of those first paragraphs of the nano attempt from last year. I'm hoping this will help me get started again. There aren't many huge changes but I hope it's easier to read, has less run on sentences and fewer repeated words.

Analysis is intriguing and is from 750words.com as ever.


Rating: PG-13 (swearing, sexual content[?] and violence[?])

Feeling mostly Affectionate[?], and concerned mostly about Home - intriguing.

Mindset: Extrovert - Negative - Certain - Feeling

Time: The Past; Primary Sense: Hearing; Us and Them: Them

40 minutes at 24 words per minute

Novelling

I have a confession to make.

I have never actually finished any writing of any length. I have countless short stories that I have finished but they were written between the ages of about ten and twenty. They are not the most edifying of things. After I finished my degree, well, I haven't really been in a place where writing short stories would work.  In that, well, those stories were... bad.

So, in 2006, after much fruitless furtling about trying to write an actual first draft of anything, I tried my hand at NaNo.  I wrote 85,000 words plus about 21,000 words that I deemed unfit to be in the final project. But it was not a novel. It was unfinished and I had no real idea where I was going with it all. Anastasia may or may not have had imaginary friends and may or may not have had her memories altered by some shadowy government agency (or not) for some reason. My plotting remained as amorphous as that. 8,000 words were devoted, in one instance, to her waking up routine.

In 2007 I tried again, but got about 12,000 words in before the lack of plot killed me and the lack of characters became a major issue. 2008 was two projects, both very boring with no plot and no real attempts at characterisation. In 2009 I actually wrote something that had been fulminating since 2007 and got about 26,000 words done. However, despite having a much more vibrant setting than I was used to and some actual real characters I still had no plot for them to live. As a consequence it remains totally unfinished because I have no clue what's supposed to happen there (that is, what I fill that vibrant setting with). In 2010 I tried the same setting. Again the lack of plot killed it at around 18,000 words. In 2011 real life prevented any writing at all for most of the year as I struggled with my day-job and the day-job won.

Now, this year is different. No, I haven't finished the novel at all. However, I know where it is going. I have a character and a plot that live and a setting, though not as vibrant and real as the one from 2009, that will stand the story I want to tell there. And I do want to tell that story. I am maybe half way through that story, I don't know (the war that takes up so much of this year's project was planned to be a short three or four vignettes, so about 4,000 words, and is currently about 38,000 words), but I feel happier with this than any of the rest of my projects.

Why the wall of text? I told my mother that I "won NaNo" and, after explaining it to her (again), she replied "Well, you never finish anything, do you?" Thanks, Mum. My father was interested until I explained that there was no judging and then sort of let it drop.

I have a reputation, you see. :)

Reflections

I have won, I have written 52,300 words in thirty days. However, that war drags on and I can't stop the damn' thing. My boy was up all night last night, then there was the day-job and tonight I am still dead despite being desperate to finish the blasted war.

It wouldn't be so bad but I can't end it as quickly as I would likme. These men deserve better, I know, and they will be denied individual death scenes, as war is wont to do, and will instead die as men in war do. Alone, unmourned and without any real rhyme or reason to it. There is no heroism in death, no romance in it and certainly no celebration of the sacrifice that they make. Sure, they knew it could happen, it doesn't make it worthwhile.

It is a horrible scene to write. I love these guys. I know these guys. I want to save them. But I can't. War has come and now it has its own immutable logic and path. William will survive. He has to. He has to become a Sergeant and be regarded as a loner. Meet the cowards and traitors around him, those that survived when his family has not, and reach his own conclusions. He'd almost redeemed himself, you know, almost become sympathetic. It's almost too sad.

Almost.

I will try to keep going. No more word count updates, but I have enjoyed this experience so much and made some really wonderful new friends. I am addicted to this lovely feeling and I hope I keep contact.

I win?

Well, I just hit 50k. Just over it. I finally reached what was supposed to be the final scene in the war too, but now find that it is just not happening.  I thought I was going to use the Eyes Open schtick that I have on this blog to power through but find it doesn't really fit the characters I have drawn, nor the arc that brought them to this point. For one thing, Batemann, the original sergeant, ended up being badly beaten by William when he attacked a civilian (Batemann, not William). Though William did end up as the de facto leader of his little band by accident - something I was certain wasn't going to happen.

I think I 'get' why William likes the war now, as well, and why he will be sad when it finally does end. In this scene everyone around him will die or be horribly wounded and die later. Batemann will die in hospital. William will end up wounded, return as a Sergeant himself but distance himself from those around him. A loner and a bit peculiar as veterans go, with the charge of cowardise hanging over him due to how he shall be found surrounded by the dead and dying of his own platoon.  Those Bilankrish will have a lot to answer for!

So, the war may not actually end by Christmas after all. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Love scene with a difference

You need to play the song as you read this.  I hope I've captured it.  Eventually I want all the stuff in <..> to be in proper French. I want the reader to feel as out of place as does William in this.  However, I don't know any French.  This took a few hours.  I wanted to get it right. I didn't want to rush it and I didn't want it to be anything other than realistic. I fear that it is not. I fear that it is very much a scene with cardboard cut-outs rather than real people.

       “So.” Batemann had been the first to leave the table, ably supported by Claudette, and it had been very obvious what they were going to do. There had been giggling and squeaking from the room since they left ever since. Then Pablo had simply nodded to the elder woman and they had left together in silence, descending the stairs. Whatever they were up to made little noise that could be heard in the upstairs kitchen but the embarrassed smile of Eponine told William that it would be little different to the activities ongoing in the nearby bedroom. “I don’t speak any Aixlenean.”

       “<Have you eaten enough too?>”

       William stared for a moment at the girl’s hopeful face. “I don’t know what Pablo was saying either. But I have eaten rather well.” He reached over to his jacket and dislodged the letter that Pablo had given him. Both of them watched it fall, it landed close to Eponine’s foot.

       “<Your letter, sir, I…>” Picking it up from the floor, with William’s steadfast gaze fixed on her, she paused and then, with a quick look at his face, she opened it. “<I can read Merkavian a little, sir. With your permission…?>”

       Failing to snatch it back, and catching her hopeful tone, William shrugged and sat back heavily. “It’s not like you can understand a word of it. I’d sooner you were doing something like that rather than… well, whatever else we’re supposed to get up to.” As she bent her head to look at it more closely, William shifted uncomfortably and looked anywhere but at her, as if by not seeing her do the deed he could ignore the breaking of Pablo’s trust.

       Something about delivering food for a night of sex seemed rather tawdry and not a little unfair. Unbidden, he remembered his mother and sisters, and shuddered at the thought of any of them being so hungry and alone that they would agree to such an exchange. Whatever romance there had been vanished from the room and he just felt cold and wet and tired, huddled in a towel with illicit food roiling in his stomach. Battles had been fought with less concern and worry. She was still studying the letter, who knew what she was scrying, and he watched her expression grow shocked, a hand over her mouth, and then enormously sad. Most likely she had read into the unfamiliar language whatever she wanted to find, whatever would make the situation most palatable.

       Presently she looked at him again with concern in her eyes and the look of something else that William couldn’t quite place. She put the folded letter carefully back on the table and, without meeting her eyes, William snatched it back. Too late, he knew, but simply leaving it there seemed worse than doing nothing.

       Throughout the night he had caught her looking at him, as a young girl would look at passing soldiers, with a mix of wonder and awe; so that, he felt, if he so much as bared his teeth she would either laugh at the gaiety or else take fright and fall dead on the spot. Now that look of awe had changed but he would be hard-pressed to offer any guesses as to what it had become.

       “<You have known loss on all sides.>” She spoke very slowly, enunciating clearly, trying desperately to make him understand something, “<I think that you are different from the others. I think that, if there was no war and we had met I would like to get to know you better. And now, sir, I do not know what to do next for you. For we shall not meet again, however much I wish it.>”

       Her hand grasped his and held it, softly and warmly, while she fixed him with her eyes. William did not know how to respond, nor could he understand what was being said, but it sounded important enough to keep listening.

       “<I… Should I undress? Would that make it easier for you, Willy?>”

       The way she said his name alerted him to something else going on, he still couldn’t place it, but he found himself responding physically. This was like nothing he had ever felt, even with Jerry, and his heart began to race with the prospect of the unknown and dangerous. It reminded him of the moments before being called to attack in the trenches but without the certainty of leaving things to fate and trusting in his own place in things; this was worse. “Call me William.”

       “<Will-yam,>” repeated Eponine with a giggle, “<It is better than Willy, Will-yam,>” standing, but not letting go of his hand, she pointed to a room at the opposite end of the room in which they had been eating, “<Shall we?>”

       Wordlessly, he stood and followed after her, something had occurred and he wasn’t sure what it was but the beating of his heart propelled him forward. As she stepped across the threshold she turned to face him and took both of his hands. Awkwardly he took them, letting the towel fall from his shoulders. His mouth was dry and he could feel the cold sweat beginning, everything in him was screaming to flee but, at the same time, he was simply transfixed. “How… How old are you?” he tried, “Age? Years?”

       A frown before realisation dawned on a face now lit only by the dim moon through the window. He had to admit that it was a lovely face. “<Twenty-nine,>” she answered, then, seeing that he had no idea what she had just said, held up both hands with fingers outstretched twice, then just one hand. She smiled. “Et tu?”

       Jerkily, and keenly aware that he was only wearing his underwear, William signalled that he was thirty. “Twenty-three,” he added, as if by adding it he could shrug off the obvious lie. It was not her face or body that had him drawing breath though, but whatever it was remained tantalisingly out of reach, like the one thing that one forgets to check before going into battle.

       Slowly, she backed away, her face flushing and her movements more spasmodic than seductive. She was trying too hard to impress him, part of him supplied, she was trying to move like he had seen far more practiced women doing in the dingier parts of Alnwix on the way to the show. Whereas they had been slinky and even quite adept she was uncomfortable and very much out of her depth. All at once she caught sight of his expression, “<This does not excite you?>” There was no mistaking the twin themes of disappointment and relief in her voice.

       “Just…” Breathe, you idiot, breathe, “Just stop. Eponine. I… Eponine.”

       Moonlight filled the space between them, there was a bed in the corner, everything seemed black and white now that the door was closed. In the distance there was the rumble of the war as far away from them as was the moon herself. If anything, space seemed nearer, blazing with starlight and pregnant with promise. And he found it difficult to breathe.

       “Will-yam?”

       Moving to the bed, but keeping his distance, he sat down heavily. “Eponine.”

       “<You seem… delicate,>” she chose her words carefully, but kept undressing: functionally rather than trying to make anything of it at all. “<A flower, no?>” She smiled sympathetically at him. Stood in her underwear by the window she did look beautiful. Forbidden. Out of reach. “<I think…>”

       She was delicate, but strong, like a rose growing on a garden wall turned to the sun. The white rose that grew in the father’s flowerbeds, tough and wiry, flowers delicate like spider web but with thorns that would cut and tear flesh. There would be no rough treatment of this woman and no arguing with her if she got an idea in her head. He needed to say something. “Thank you,” and he meant it, “I have known few who would do for me what you have done. But it is not needed,” he shook his head, “It is not needed.”

       “C’est la guerre?” As she sat down next to him he fought the urge to jump away, it would not have been polite, she caught his expression. “C’est la guerre.”

       A wan smile met her remark, William had heard similar sentiments in Aixlenean before, enough to know what they meant. A nod. “It is hard.” There was nothing else to be said.

       Her arm snaked round his shoulders and he did not mind, merely closed his eyes and let her do it as her free hand took is chin and rubbed along its smooth surface. For once he was glad that he shaved every day. “<You would look better in a dress, my friend, you were not born for war.>”

       Grunted assent. He would have agreed with anything at that moment.

       Looking at him, she seemed to grow in confidence, and he returned her look as best he could, lost in the feelings that ambushed him and beat him down with the flat of their spades. No shots were fired, no artillery barrage was required, he surrendered freely to a superior foe without ever knowing quite why he was doing so. Fate decreed that he do so and he had yet to argue with fate.

       Pecking him on the cheek tenderly, she placed a finger over his lips and drew back, a smile greeting his confusion. She stood, placing the same finger on her own lips to cover the playfulness there, and walked back to where she had undressed, looking at him all the while as an artist would at a subject to be painted. There was a confidence in her that she had previously lacked, it oozed from her, and he could feel his own response to that awareness, to that aura of assuredness.

       “Mon petite fleur,” her whisper was so low he had to strain his ears to hear her properly, “<My beautiful, delicate, little flower.>” She picked up her dress deliberately, let it fall from her hands whilst holding the shoulders and fussed with it until it fell straight and clean. “<Would you wear this for me?>”

       Unable to understand her words, but following that something had been asked of him, something pure and deep that could not be denied, William nodded dumbly. He was rewarded with a broad shining of the sun from her face, bringing colour back to her body that was robbed by the silvery light from the window in his mind’s eye if not in reality.

       She walked back to him deliberately, one foot in front of the other placed with precision and care on the wooden floorboards, not a sound seemed to be made. She bade him stand with her eyes, and he did so, then rolled the dress and indicated that he should raise his arms. Now William was simply unable to speak, unable to discern how it was he knew her instructions, unable to register anything beyond the room or Eponine. It didn’t exist.

       Material at his fingertips. Passing. A breeze across all of him and the skirts fell about the floor. It shouldn’t have fit, but Eponine was already working at ties and buttons so that it seemed to expand to take him in, falling easily to the floor. Unbidden, his arms returned to his side as she walked behind him and pulled at various laces and clasps. He felt the bodice tighten around his chest and waist, hugging him tightly in a way that made him feel more relaxed and safe than he could remember feeling before.

       He was home.

       This was right.

       Darkness was ending in light. Movement below.

       Stillness behind, Eponine had finished her work. He felt, rather than saw or heard, her move back to inspect her handiwork. She said something, he did not catch anything, but twirled to face her, causing the skirts and petticoats of the dress to flare up and brush against his legs. An electric feeling.

       Instinctively he looked down as he faced her, hands catching the flare of the dress and holding it from the floor. His mouth opened but no words came out.

       “<The flower is opened. You are beautiful.>” Her hands were clasped in front of her and her smile was as a mother to a child. “Mon petite fleur.” A short, but only semi-mirthful, laugh. “Fleur, oui, <it is better than Will-yam,> Fleur <it is>.”

       “William,” he corrected her instinctively.

       She shushed him with a finger again, “Non,” she said, playfully but firmly, “Tu,” she pointed at him, “Fleur, oui?”

       Pointing to himself, “Fleur?”

       Nodding, “Oui, Fleur.”

       He tried to shrug, but his body would not obey, instead he simply bent his knees and lifted the dress a little with his hands, that had re-clasped the dress. “Fleur.”

       “Tres bien,” she clapped softly, without making any noise, “<Now, repeat after me:> je suis Fleur.”

       “Zhe swee Fleur.”

       “Bon!” She took one of his hands and kissed the back of it, “Je suis Eponine. Enchante. Je suis, por tu, madame. Oui? Madame.”

       “Oui, madame.”

       And that was when the screaming started.