My story characters--- building their profiles

My story characters.....fleshing them out.

The Clan Leader

My name is Psychomann. I play a Shadowsword on Gate3, and tonight is another anniversary of the clan. Three years tonight and Chicory and LuLu are starting tonights event online. I make my excuses as I sometimes have to every third week of the month. I feel pangs of guilt that I will not be there on my headphones, with the people I consider myself closer to then people in my everyday life.

Frank Shenny is in the room next to me, and I can hear him coughing through the walls again. Between coughs he curses the air, shouting at the top of his voice. The walls do a good enough job of muffling some of what spills from his throat like venom from a snake. The bells ring and I hear footsteps walking down the hallway. I quickly close the laptop and switch on the tv, pretend to be engrossed.

"Are you ready John?"

I nod.

The Head Clansman

I call down to Jed that the baby is crying again. He swears and from downstairs I can hear him slam his plate down on the coffee table. He stomps angrily upstairs and using my well rehearsed sing song voice I call out "Its my raid night". Toby stops crying and before I can get back to my mic, Jed bursts through the study door and dumps him on my lap. My glass of wine falls to the floor and smashes. Cold wine splatters up the side of my leg and with that Jed walks out of my life. My eyes return back ot my monitor. I may be able to carry on with him on my lap.

Perfect dinner party...

Going through a strange time. My mind is hyper, jumping from one thought to another. Emotions whipping past my face...happiness, WHIZZ, lust, Deep intellectual thought...BAM!

I will not lie to you, I enjoy it. Its like a second wind....

Doesn't hurt that I am seriously in love. I know,,,,,,,, /blush

After thinking about a question I was asked....Who would you like to have a dinner party with, if you could choose anyone from he past, present or future?

My answers. 

1. Emily Bronte

2. Frida Kahlo

3. Kate Bush

4. Tony Blair (I cant help but love him)

5. Margaret Thatcher.

6. Robin Williams (as Mork)

7. Eva Peron 

8. Kurt Cobain

9. Jim Morrison

10.  Vivienne Haigh-Wood

I will reveal why in future blog entries. 

A short story I wrote...

I was dead and much to my amusement, the afterlife was remarkably like life had been. I awoke, or what ever it was that I did after "it" happened to me, to find that I still had a basket overflowing with laundry and a pile of bills propped up behind the roses tin. I sat across the breakfast table and stared into the face of the very man I tried to get away from. It was impossible to escape the sheer irony of it.

My eyes became fixated on the stubble on his chin, the salt and peppery collection of sprouting hairs. I grimaced with disgust. I really hated this man.

It wasn't as if he liked me very much either. We had lived like this for some years, simply because of the convenience. Rental prices been what they were, not to mention the flat was so near our respective workplaces meant it was a solution. to suit us both. So I thought.

It was just as I stood to put the breakfast bowls into the sink, that I caught my reflection in the mirror. Staring back at me was the face of a dead woman with a gaping knife mark severing her neck. My neck had stained rusty, I caught the scent of my own blood, metallic and musty. The gasp I took drew his attention. He looked at me as if it was an effort to fix his eyes on me and simply said "Its only a flesh wound", and with that continued with his cornflakes.

I recoiled for a moment, clicked her fingers and I was gone. For now I wouldn't be back. I was now standing in my mothers front room, I guessed the late 1970s if the gaudy orange flowered curtains and the tan bean bag chair that had seen better days were anything to go by. I tentatively looked around and saw the room through the eyes of my 7 year old self. From the kitchen I could hear the kettle boiling, the radio blasting out Bonnie Tyler's its a heartache. My mother singing quietly along. Upstairs I caught the familiar sound of my father snoring, and suddenly none. Silence. I heard my mother turn the radio down, and remembered how she always did that if she though she had awoken him. Hoping to get 20 minutes more reprieve. No such luck. The sound of his two feet hitting the floor.  The sound of the plates been snatched out of the cupboard and a meal hurriedly dished out.

The living room door opened and I saw the face of my father for the first time in 4 years. Younger here, less lined, fuller face, thicker head of hair. He stared at me and shook his head, looking confused.  He walks slowly to me holds his freckled hand out and with one finger runs the tip down my cheek, I mistake it for affection. The finger follows my chin, down to my neck. His finger rests at the gash across my neck and after pausing he pushes the finger inside the wound. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt me at all. As I stare into my fathers eyes I want to tell him so much. I have a lifetime of words I need to share with him. As he gently pulls his finger from my neck my mother enters the room with two plates of rissoles, potatoes and garden peas and a bottle of daddies brown sauce tucked under her arm. She also fixes her look on me for a moment, just enough time to look straight into me and at the same time through me. I hear her sigh and  she sets the plates down. She hurries back into the kitchen for the plate of sliced white bread. As I watch her go, my father cups my face in his hands and turns my head to face his. Pulls me close so our noses nearly touch. He whispers in a voice that doesn't sound like his  "Its only a flesh wound love".

Then the ground falls away and I realize that this was the last time I will ever see my parents again. I surprise myself about how easy I am taking this. It almost doesn't matter anymore.

"You can enter now" says a disembodied voice from inside the room. I am standing facing a large corporate brown oak door.  Slightly unhinged it opens easily and I begin to walk inside. The light is low. I can see windows showing no view of outside apart from what looks like clouds, wispy and thin. I feel like I am on an aeroplane and if I look outside the window I will see a city in the dark, house lights acting like little beacons in the night sky.

I dutifully walk in and the woman sitting behind the desk lets a small smile escape her lips as she beckons me with a slight wave of her wrist to sit across from her.  She opens up a small drawer from beneath the desk and takes out a envelope. I know immediately what it is.

"I am afraid we cant accept this" She pushes the envelope across the table and I reach for it. I open the letter and I read.

To anyone that cares

I cant go on like this anymore. I have grown so used to fear that I have to make it stop. I go to bed every night wishing I didn't wake up. I cant cope anymore and I hate him so much he deserved to die. I don't feel proud of what I did to him. He was helpless, like a baby when I crept into the bedroom and stabbed him until I was too tired to keep stabbing.  Tell my mother and father I wont stay around to embarrass them. I guess I'm like my mother. I put up with it for so long that a little bit of me died every day. I don't want to be like her anymore.

I will punish myself. I'm sure even after I'm gone I will keep on being punished. So what does it matter if I stay or if I go.

I know what's coming now. The room spins. I no longer have any control over this.

A woman is shining a torch into my face, I am disorientated, petrified. I'm lying on the floor of my bedroom, my dead husband lying in a pool of congealed blood on the bed, arms flayed. Dead eyes looking straight at the ceiling. Our cat licking his face and purring. The paramedics are holding a pressure pad against my neck so hard I feel like I am choking. My legs are elevated, a person takes my pulse.  Its at this point that I realise its not worked. Its just not worked. I cry so hard the tears start in the pit of my stomach and resonate through my whole body. A kind looking paramedic wipes my tears, looks straight into my eyes. "Your going to be alright love" she says.  "Its just a flesh wound".

I hear my father and my husband laugh.

Right here, right now

Right here, right now

I dont feel like when I knock on my own door, that I am in anymore
Im hiding behind the sofa, putting the phone on mute
I want some silence but Im the noisest thing around

So I hold out my hands for liquid redemption, and its so sweet, its so kind,
its so forgiving and it loves me.

It puts me to bed and wraps the blanket over my head, safe inside the dark, safe under the problem
It takes the phone away from me, it hides the bottles at the bottom of the bin bag.

It makes me feel closer to dad 

claire redmond

The shadow of her former self- written after my father died.

The shadow of her former self

I may return called out the shadow of her former self,
Listen out for me and I shall return
She sits and waits, for time is plentiful

DO you hear her footsteps draw near? , is it her you hear in the back of your mind
Does she nag at you; does she whisper tales of repercussions?

She remembers a time in space long gone,
A confidence she can’t recall feeling any longer
She mourns an emotion that once was so wholly hers

Her steps always sound so near. Almost hearing words still beyond her definition
Words of woe, words to grasp you back into the abyss

She sits and waits for time is plentiful 

claire redmond

Control- an old poem of mine

Control

I seek truths I already know
Dream dreams I once lived
Breathe air that is mine to breathe
I will the clouds to rain on me
I poison myself with my temptations
They are mine to give into

I have control

Like sharp cuts that bring relief
Like water that overcomes me but cant drown me
Like the shiver that haunts me in the dead of night
The tears that don’t bring relief

I have control

I don’t want the fluffy blanket
I don’t want the reassurance
I won’t accept the kind word,
My faults,
They are mine to give into

I need control 

claire redmond

Put your hand over the side of the boat

and what do you feel.

The suns warmth, like a fathers blessing.
"Its ok, go ahead"
The muscles in every part of my neck and shoulder relax,  and the heaven sent warmth of the rays relax each tired tendon.
Close your eyes. Tilt your neck gently towards the rays. Soak up a years worth. For tomorrow it will cease to be.

ClaireDawes's albums - Imgur

ClaireDawes's albums - Imgur

The lament begins

I am using my married name before I am actually hitched. Yes, ...intake of quick breath..naughty!
Yet I have not a care in the world, because I am enjoying the prospect of my changing name so much, and feel more then happy to switch it to that ,of the man, who despite annoying me at least each minute of each day also makes it all worth living, every second of the day.

What a wonderful few years it has been since we both stopped fighting each others natures, and learnt to live with each others eccentricities.

We almost hate each other at times, because we have the fiery nature that keeps passion alive but also allows us to equally hate in small amounts.

I have learnt from past relationships that I can never and will never be a person who can be submissive and hold her tongue, I have almost felt sorry for the wonderful men that I have had in my life (as they all have been), as I have been at times, a unheeding force of nature....will do what I want, when I want, how I want...

Then I met Mr D, and I realised, he was having none of that...

Didn't like that much, as I am used to getting my own way, but he made me cry as hard as he made me laugh.

He is an almost suffocating force of love. We are like a family in us, just us. We laugh and joke like brother and sister and fight like warriors, love like film stars and support each other.

We don't get it right all of the time, we probably never will. We have learnt to forgive fast, and try to understand sooner.

Now my main worry isn't if he loves me, its if I ever lose him.

He thinks I dont think these things, but,  I do Mr D.