Short Story – The Face of the Lost

Once again, I have no idea what story I am going to be telling here, but I guess we will find out! (Thank you, title generator!)

THE STORY

When I was in school, my favourite place to go was the river in the woods. I would sit at the base of a tree and do my homework, listening to the running water and birdsong, the rustling of small animals running through the undergrowth.

Sometimes, I would sit there, my school bag abandoned on the damp forest floor, and watch as the water made its journey, always travelling forwards, never stopping, looking back. It pressed on no matter what. If there was something in the way, an obstruction in the path it planned to take, there was no panic, no fear, just the steady flow as the water either went over, under or around. It wouldn’t be halted by anything trying to stop it, to divert it, but would let the flow take it where it needed to go – forwards.

I haven’t been back to the river since I moved away. It was a small town, and when it became clear that my ex wasn’t about to leave, I came to the conclusion that I would have to be the one to go. There were too many bad memories, of us fighting, screaming at one another, banishing each other to sleep in separate rooms. Listening to the sound of the door slamming shut as I cried, knowing he was going to her.

I remember going to the river before I left, my bags in my car, stopping by one last time to say goodbye to the place that had been my friend for my whole life, the one constant that did leave, didn’t talk behind my back, didn’t turn away from me. Didn’t cheat.

I had walked down to the water in the sweltering heat of the mid-afternoon summer sun, beating down on my head and bringing sweat to my brow. The earth had grown dry with the lack of moisture, and the powdered soil crumbled beneath my feet. The birds were quiet, and I heard no scurrying footsteps, all the animals taking shelter from the scorching rays. I listened for the sound of the river, of water trickling on its way, but I couldn’t hear it. The sound of silence engulfed me as I walked, the feeling of abandonment overtaking me. 

Everyone left me, eventually. With my ex, I was the one who took control, who plucked up the courage to look him in the eye and tell him that I was leaving, and I never wanted to see him again. He didn’t look surprised. Instead, he just nodded, only half paying attention, his eyes glued to his phone screen. I don’t think he thought I was being serious. 

When I made it down to the river, I stared in disbelief at the dry riverbed, barely a sliver to water still moving, pushing on with its last tiny burst of water, no drop going to waste as it moved along the river’s course. It didn’t have backup, it was left alone. I sat down, by the river, watching the small stream push on, not a thing to be hindered by anything. Not rocks in the way, or tree branches that occasionally fell into the water. Not the sun evaporating the droplets and reducing the flow.

It’s been years since I turned my back on the river, climbed into my car and drove as far away from this town as I could. I have a job, now, a husband who adores me and a daughter, Lily, who could bring a smile to my face on even the darkest of days. She sits in the back, her head resting against the window and a drop of drool sneaking out the side of her mouth. I watch her in the rear-view mirror as I drive, my eyes flicking back to her every few minutes.

When I pass the sign, welcoming me into the town I ran from, Lily starts to stir in the back. She stretches, her hand rubbing the side of her mouth and spreading the drool across her chin, rather than removing it.

“Are we there yet?” She asks, yawning, as she sits forward a little in her carseat. 

“Not yet, sweetheart. Nearly.” She looks out the window, taking in the environment as I stop at a red light.

“I’m hungry,” she announces, and I brace myself for the start of an ongoing battle. At least it’s not too much further.

“We’re nearly there, you have to wait.” 

“Do you have any sweeties?”

“No.”

“Pretzels?”

“No.”

“Grapes?”

“Why would I have grapes in the car?”

“Because you’re smart and grapes are yummy,” she explained and I stared at her through the mirror.

“Maybe Nana has some grapes, you can ask her when we get there, okay?” She nodded, seeming content with the answer for now.

I turned onto my old street, pulling to a stop in front of the house I grew up in, the house I had lived in since I was as old as my daughter. I stared at it, nostalgia setting over me like a sheet.

“Can I get out?”

“Just a second, I’ll come around,” I climbed out of the car and walked around, my impatient daughter already trying to undo the seatbelt holding her down. “I’ve got it,” I reached into the car and undid the belt, Lily jumping out of her seat and running towards the house. I closed the door, watching as the door opened, my mother intercepting Lily and swinging her up into a hug.

“Nana!” Lily squealed, her arms wrapping around my mother’s neck. “Do you have any grapes?”

“Grapes?” She looked at Lily with a look of confused amusement. “I might be able to find some for you.” She turned her attention to me, pulling me in for a hug. “I can look after her if you want to go down to the river.”

“Why would I want to go down…” I stopped, seeing the knowing look on my mother’s face.

“Go.” She turned back to Lily. “Do you want to see your Mum’s old room?”

Lily squirmed until she was put down and ran off into the house, my mother calling after her to take her shoes off first. The door closed and I stared at it for a moment, before turning around and walking back to my car. She was right, of course, I did want to go, and taking Lily on a walk through the woods, to look at a body of water, wasn’t something high up on the list of things that would keep her occupied.

The woods that I walked through were different than I remembered, branches growing where they weren’t before, and the path I was so used to was overgrown. As I made my way along the path, pulling my jumper closer around myself, I heard the sound that I was waiting for.

The water was gushing, leaping over rocks as it ran as fast as it could, its destination one it couldn’t wait to get to. I stepped forwards, crouching by the water and dipping my hand in, the cold water hitting my skin and slowly numbing my fingertips. I stared down at my reflection, at the person staring back at me.

 Last time I was here, the face of the lost would have stared back. Now? The face of the found.

Yep, story over!

I'm not going to ramble on for ages down here, because I have a headache and want to sleep. I hope you enjoyed the story!

Bye!

 

Why storytelling is so important...

For as long as I can remember, I have loved stories. When I was maybe 10, I used to sneak books from the shelf and hide them in my room, so I could stay up reading by torchlight. I remember the terror of hearing footsteps and turning the torch off so no one would see the beam of light through the crack under my door, sitting and waiting as the footsteps faded, and then turning the torch back on to continue reading. This is how committed I was to Disney books, so you can imagine how much I love stories now I am older.

Stories have been around forever – many of them are considered a myth or a legend, but they have been told for centuries upon centuries. People have shared tales forever, and there is clearly a reason why this art has survived for so long when other things, such as crocheting or axe-throwing, are more difficult to come by in the modern day.

People used to tell stories about the gods, of great battles fought and the blossoming of love. The point of a story has always been awe, and recounting a tale of a warrior standing, waiting for battle is not particularly awe inspiring. A brave hero, however, defeating the enemy with a swift blow and turning to take on whomever else should dare to attack? A little stretching of the truth here and there does no harm.

And yet, things such as battle were not entertaining. They were brutal, deadly, terrifying – but if a medieval boy was to hear of the death and pain rather than the glory? The armies wouldn't have had any soldiers willing and ready to risk their lives. If a girl wasn't waiting for her knight in shining armour to come and whisk her away to a glamorous life? She might not find it in herself to get up in the morning to do her chores.

Stories always have a purpose. This can be glorifying battle to give soldiers the strength to pick up their weapons, or a world to escape into, to spend time in someone else's life, to sit back as they deal with problems that you need not worry about.

In a story, someone can tell their view, show the world what they see and how they see it. They can let their imagination flow. Anything can happen, for the mind is not confined by what is and what isn't, but rather what could be.

Coming away from the medieval timeframe my mind is stuck in, to a more modern perspective, stories have taken on a much wider range of possibilities. They are no longer limited to word of mouth, but instead, they are everywhere. Movies, books, television shows, podcasts, magazines, plays – there are endless amounts of different stories, and endless ways to live the story. For that is what a story is – it isn't something to listen to, or read, or watch, it is something to live, to enjoy. To feel the emotion of the characters, to learn their struggles and joys, to love and cry and learn.

When combining the imagination and storytelling, the outcome is something truly wondrous to behold. Not everyone resonates with the same story, just as not everyone gets along. If you're not expected to like everyone, why should you be expected to like every character, every world, every main love interest, every main character? Every person has a story to tell, and every person has a story to hear. It just might not be the one everyone else likes to listen to.

In the modern world, stories are everywhere. You can listen to real stories on the news, watch documentaries, and read articles, or consume fiction from a book or a television, online or offline. People still tell stories to each other, still exaggerate their own greatness or laugh at their own mistakes. And yet, in today's world, you need not look for long to fall into a completely different world and live alongside people who do not exist, in places that you may never visit, but can experience just the same.

Nearly everyone has heard the saying 'heroes get remembered, but legends never die'. People can be heroes, can carry out heroic deeds, but they are still only people. Not everyone can remember everyone who does anything heroic. Legends, however. People don't often talk of the men who led the Roman armies into battle, and many do not even know of the existence of some of these people. However to this day, we all know of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, about Robin Hood, and of the Loch Ness Monster. These are all stories that have been passed down, generation after generation, through families and spread across the world. Without stories, we wouldn't have legends, we wouldn't have folklore.

Without stories, there would be no magic in the world.

Storytelling is, and always has been, an important part of life, so if you have a story that you want to tell, just tell it. Someone is going to hear it, or read it, see it, and share it with someone else. Someone is going to find that story, and it is going to be just the thing they needed. Someone is going to find that story, and it is going to be the best thing that ever happened to them.

And if you're looking for stories? They're all around. You need only open your eyes, listen, breathe in, and imagine. There are stories everywhere, inside every person. If you listen to stories, you will learn more about the world than you ever thought possible.

Das Ende.

Once again, I googled that translation, I'm not a language whizz.

And that's all I have to say – I nearly ended this post multiple times, but there were too many things that still needed saying, so I kept writing. In my opinion, stories are one of the most important things in this world, and the art of storytelling is one that we must all work together to preserve.

That's all I have for now...

Bye!

Places To Read, An Unintentional Multipart Short Story Series – Part 9

 

 

In the library

Sometimes, there is no other place to go. The books you have at home have become boring, and you don't want to read any of them, even if some of them are your favourite books. So, you drag yourself out of the house, and make your way down to the library. The only downside? You have to change out of pyjamas.

The library isn't a place many people visit anymore. Why borrow books when you can just download them onto an ereader, or illegally obtain them online? When you walk in, an older woman looks up at you and smiles, before turning back to the books she is sorting.

You find the section you want and scan the shelves. Despite the fact that you don't want to read books you know, books you own, you find yourself looking for them. You look for the books you've read before, the authors you recognise, the covers you're familiar with. Despite coming to find new books, to broaden your horizons and to read something new, you pick up a copy of a book you have read before. You have a copy on your shelf at home. But here, the book seems so much more inviting.

At home, you sit in bed to read, or on the sofa, curled up with a blanket, maybe some pillows, a hot drink. Here, you find yourself sinking into an oversized beanbag, a faded red colour that you don't trust to be clean. By the looks of the chocolate on a nearby child's hands, the mess could easily have already spread. 

The beanbag is uncomfortable, and no matter how much you squirm, you can't get comfy, but you don't want to go home. Why bother going through the effort of checking a book out and having to remember when to bring it back? Why deal with a deadline to read it by and panic about finding the time to read it before returning it when you could simply read it here?

A little child falls over, and you pretend not to be watching as they screw up their face and burst into tears. They didn't seem to be hurt at all, but simply wanting the fuss of their mother, picking them up and shushing them, kissing it better. In the end, you're not sure who's being louder, the child who has since stopped crying, or the mother who is still shushing and kissing, offering and opening sweets. The mother's phone rings and the child wanders off again as she answers it, a lollipop in their hand, ready to stick sweets to more things.

You spend more time peering over the top of the book than actually reading it. You've read it before anyway, several times. There was no point in coming, you never found a new book to read, you simply spent the whole time people watching. Watching the mother and child, the old lady sorting books, the family that just walked through the door, two older children running for the beanbags...

You get out of the way in time, and place the book back on the shelf. The library is small, and the loud chatter of the children immediately fills the building, making it impossible to read. You can return home and pick the book off your own shelf, pick up where you left off, but you know you won't. There's something different about reading in a library that makes every book seem somewhat more special.

Part nine, we're almost at ten now!

I ran out of ideas for this series very quickly, so I don't think I'll go past ten. It'll be nice to start a new series, even though I haven't figured out what that might be yet...

That's all I have for now, but don't leave! Check out some of my other posts!

Okay...

Bye!

A Review – The Edge of Sleep

The Edge of Sleep

By QCODE & Wood Elf

A Review

Watching a movie takes about 2 hours of undivided attention.

Reading a book takes longer, and you must give it even more attention as, if your mind drifts, you must reread parts to understand what is happening.

Recently, I've been getting into podcasts, and I found something out that I never knew before – podcasts are not all simply people talking. They can be stories.

Since I'm familiar with the lead voice actor, and have heard this podcast mentioned many times before, I decided that I would start listening to it one evening when I was cooking dinner...

Let me introduce the podcast, and then I'll get into my review!

When a night watchman finishes his shift at work, he is terrified to discover that everyone in the world who went to sleep the previous night has died. Now he and a band of survivors must stay awake and uncover the secret of this global epidemic, before they fall asleep.

Apple Podcasts • Spotify

My Review...!

The cover for this is amazing, once you've listened to the whole story you can understand every aspect of the cover, and it all makes sense. The intro music is even better, and by episode 5 I was banging my head along with it.

David has always had trouble with sleep, ever since he was a child, being plagued with nightmares and suffering from the physical effects of exhaustion. After recently breaking up with his girlfriend, Katie, Dave is still struggling to get over her, despite his coworker and friend, Matteo, trying to sign him up to dating sites. Dave's night goes from bad to worse, with a suspicious van trespassing on the property and then leaving work to try and find Katie...

When Dave arrives at the party Katie was at, he finds the party finished and an unresponsive man. Rushing him to the hospital, Dave quickly finds that the man in his car is not the only person to die that night.

Joining up with Linda, who was working at the hospital when all of the patients mysteriously died, Dave desperately tries to figure out what happened. Both Dave and Linda come to the same conclusion – not under any circumstances must they fall asleep.

The whole premise of the story is intense enough, but the way the story is told is even better. You get a first person narrative from Dave, along with listening to conversations as if you are there with the characters. There is backstory, flashbacks, you learn about Dave's dreams and why Katie broke up with him. As you progress through the story, more information is revealed and things start to slowly piece themselves, albeit not everything makes sense immediately.

The way this story is told, forcing you to live the story alongside the characters by giving you the story through sounds instead of words made it all the more dramatic and gripping. You don't get told that people are walking around, or that someone is panicking, you hear footsteps and heavy breathing. You live the story, and you can almost feel the panic alongside the characters – you must not fall asleep, or you will die.

The story tackles many different themes, such as mental health, and the struggles that Dave already has are amplified with the epidemic that he finds himself trapped in. The longer everyone is awake, the more they slowly lose their sanity, and some of these changes are so small and happen so slowly, you almost don't notice them. The progression of the story has been created so incredibly well that such changes, with you already feeling a part of the story, embeds you so much deeper in the narrative.

I listened to this entire podcast in one evening. I think it's about four hours of story, and I finished it at about midnight. If you want to listen to, and live, a thriller story that will stay with you and genuinely make you slightly nervous about laying down and closing your eyes, this is definitely worth a listen.

And done!

I ended up colouring in the evening, which is something I haven't done in a very long time. In case anyone is curious, it was one of those nature adult colouring books, and I was colouring trees. I made it autumn, so half of the leaves were reds and oranges!

I really want to do more of these podcast reviews, now I have discovered the world of these stories that I never knew existed. Better still? There are tons free on Spotify! I can put up with the ads to get stories like this. Also, I don't have premium because I can't be bothered to spend money to simply get rid of ads and let me choose what songs I actually want to hear. I'm fine with shuffling and being interrupted!

That's all I have to say for today...

Bye!

Writing Prompt Stories, Mini Stories That My Mind Cooked Up – Part 5

 

His voice brought back memories of dark rooms and broken bones.

I felt my breathing hitch as he approached, slowly, disbelieving. Although I generally tried my best to ignore it, I became very aware of the ache in my ankle, the break that never healed quite right.

I had only ever caught a glimpse of him before, after. It had been late at night, bright lights and torches, the blue sweep of the police cars and busy with people everywhere. Cars coming and going, people asking me questions and other people saying that it could wait, that I needed medical care first.

I was on a stretcher when I saw him, turning my head to look at the big, old house, the flashing lights, the tall trees that would cast dark shadows over the house during the day and hide it during the night. There was movement all around, but this particular motion had caught my eye because it was different from all the others. It was another stretcher, being carried through the door of the house. All I could see was a mop of dirty, greasy and blood stained, blond hair, until he looked around, his head whipping back and forth, terror in his eyes as he tried to figure out what was going on. Squinting in the light, so different from the pitch black we were used to.

He caught sight of me, silently staring at him, the shock that had settled in my chest preventing my brain from doing anything but laying still and quiet, the calm to his storm as he panicked – he had been there longer than me, God knows how long it had been since he had experienced human touch that didn't want to hurt him.

We had been in separate rooms, thin walls separating us, but separate none-the-less. We talked, but we had never seen each other. I had curled up with my hands over my ears, rocking back and forth with tears running down my dirty cheeks when I heard the blows and the cries in the next room.

The first blows, we had both experienced and told each other, had been to our legs. He seemed to think it had something to do with preventing us from trying to run, but I think it was more to do with the terror – if you can run, you can convince yourself that you can get away. If you can't, you're helpless and know it, as you sit in the damp and dark, hunger gnawing at your insides and the cold biting at your skin.

I had been taken to an ambulance, police hovering around and doctors forcing them to leave, blocking my sight of him. I had wanted to call out, to yell to him, tell him we were safe now and that he didn't need to worry; but my voice wouldn't work and all I could do was to turn my head to the side and moan.

And now, here he was. Standing in front of me, in the middle of the street. He favoured his left leg, it seems he hadn't physically recovered either, but the dirty hair was now clean, cut shorter, and his eyes, a deep brown, like hot chocolate on a crisp winter morning, were filled with nervousness, not terror. This was the same man who had spent months on the other side of a wall, had spent seconds within eyesight, who had bared his soul to me and listened as I bared mine. Yet, this man was different and, in a way, I was different. We weren't there anymore, we were free, warm and safe.

Neither of us seemed to know what to say as we stared at each other. If he hadn't been on the phone, we might've walked straight past each other. We didn't know each other from sight, but his voice, I would recognise his voice anywhere. And he had seen me staring, and he had frowned before it clicked in his mind and he mumbled something into his phone before sliding it into his pocket and walking numbly across to me.

"Tammy?" he had said my name so many times when we talked through the walls, as if he was afraid one of the times would be the last time I heard him say it.

My eyes watered as I stared up at him and he held his arms out, shuffling his weight to be more comfortable as I collapsed against him, my hands grabbing fistfuls of his jumper.

"Liam," I sobbed his name as his hand came up to the back of me head, holding me closer as he rested his face against mine, the drip of his tears on my shoulder.

"Tammy."

I wrote this story ages ago... This was meant to be the second part to my Writing Prompt Stories series, but for some reason I seemed to think that I would expand the story into an actual book. Ha, like that would ever happen.

After many months, I realised I was never going to get around to writing the story, so I figured I would just publish this post. If I eventually do write it... some people got a little preview!

Okay, that's all.

Bye!

A Review – When Stars Collide (Second Chance Romance #2) by Sara Furlong-Burr

  

When Stars Collide

(Second Chance Romance #2)

by Sara Furlong Burr

A Review

I have read book one of this series (you can read my review HERE) and I said at the bottom of my review of book 1 that I was pretty sure both books stood alone, and that you didn't necessarily have to read book 1 to understand book 2. I'm going to start off by saying that this is completely true. You can read either books without reading the other and you will not be confused in the slightest (although there are some small things, like the relationships between some of the characters, that you might miss a little if you haven't read book 1).

Now that's out of the way, let me introduce the book!

When Stars Collide is a standalone sequel to When Time Stands Still, a multi-award-winning second chance romance.

Mena Straszewski has always lived life on her own terms. After graduating from the prestigious Cogsworth University, she landed her dream job as an editor at a publishing company in Queens, leaving her life in Virginia behind. Years later, having established herself in New York, a turn of events reunites her with her former boyfriend and partner in off-color commentary, Peter Monroe, now a single father still living in Virginia. Everything seems to be falling into place for Mena, until one by one, the dominoes of her life begin to fall.

Heartbroken after their long-distance relationship forces Peter to break up with her, Mena’s life is thrown off course in ways no amount of planning could have prepared her for, and straight into the path of Phineas Drake. Phineas Drake is handsome, charismatic, and one of the most eligible bachelors in New York City. He also happens to be the founder of Drake Publishing and Mena’s boss.

Between red carpet events and luxury penthouses, Phineas shows Mena a life she could only imagine before. But just as she’s beginning to move on, Peter finds his way back to her, and for the first time in her life, Mena is rendered indecisive; torn between the life she always wanted and the one she never knew she needed.

Amazon UK • Amazon US

My review...!

I bought this book as soon as I had finished book 1, which was a couple of months ago. Unfortunately, I never got around to reading this one until this week. This book was one that I have been waiting to get around to reading for ages, so I decided I would start reading it before I went to bed, that I would dedicate a little time to it each day so I would have time to read it. This lead to some late nights because I didn't want to put the book down.

Book 1 is focused on Elle – this book focuses on her sarcastic and loud best friend, Mena. Mena's snarky comments and witty remarks, however, act as a shield for her to hide behind. She had issues, problems, and she is largely unhappy with many aspects of her life. Her boyfriend, Peter, lives far away from her and the long distance thing doesn't seem to be working too well. On the other hand, her job is going phenomenally, and her boss, Phineas, does not hold back on compliments about her work.

With Elle's happiness on the rise, with her boyfriend proposing and therefore a wedding to plan, Mena's seems to take a downward turn. Her relationship issues go from bad to worse, and she finds herself with difficult decisions to make, with life changing outcomes.

Unlike book 1, this book is not a dual timeline novel, but it didn't need it. Mena's life is very different from Elle's, and their problems stem from different things. This book, like book 1, has themes of illness and recovery, as well as realisation about what is going wrong in Mena's life as she tries to figure out how to fix things and make her life whole again.

Naturally, I am a very sarcastic person, so Mena's personality was one that I really enjoyed reading about. In addition to this, Peter is also someone who, on the surface, doesn't take things completely seriously. Peter was one of my favourite characters, and throughout everything that happens, I kept finding myself rooting for him and Mena. They fit each other perfectly. Another character I absolutely adored was Jackson, Peter's son. Jackson is a small version of Peter, and putting a young, sarcastic child in the vicinity of Mena, who has no control over the words that leave her mouth, many of which are not child friendly, may be the recipe for disaster, but Mena clearly adores Jackson, and the feeling is mutual. Despite not being good around children, Jackson takes to Mena like a duck to water, and their relationship was absolutely lovely to read about.

I can't say much about this book without giving away a lot of the plot, as there are a lot of twists and turns, and talking about some of the relationships would completely give away different aspects of the story, which I don't want to do. What I will do, though, is say that I recommend you grab both a copy of this book and book 1, and give them both a read, especially if you're a fan of romances!

And done!

For some reason, I started writing this review and stopped half-way through (I'm pretty sure I left to watch a Marvel film) and when I came to see the post, wondering why it was a draft and not scheduled, I realised I had also stopped writing half-way through a sentance.

Why am I like this?

Anyway, it's finished now, and that's all I have to say!

Bye!

Short Story – The Dark Maple

It's an intriguing title (at least, I think so!) but as of yet, I do not know what story goes with it. Let us venture on and find out where this dark maple takes us!

THE STORY

Outside the old school, there is a maple tree. It's trunk is a little twisted, and it bends to the side, but it's been there for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, I would walk with my father to pick up my older brother from school, and I would watch my brother and his friends playing around and in the tree. I remember being scared for the branches, as they bowed with the weight of my brother and his friends all dangling from it, seeing who could hold on for the longest.

I don't see my brother anymore. He had a massive argument with our father, and stormed out of the house with a bag over his shoulder. I've tried calling him, but he never picks up. I text him every morning to ask how he is, or to tell him about some crazy dream I had, and every evening, to tell him about my day. Every so often, I might get a reply, but they are few and far between.

The school has closed down now, and the building is derelict. The gates are chained up, enclosing the tree in by itself. There are no children hanging off it anymore, no laughter, no sound except for the faint rustling of the wind blowing softly among the leaves.

Of course, it is not completely alone. When my brother left, he didn't just abandon me, he also abandoned the tree. I visit it sometimes, because I know it's pain, I know the feeling of loneliness it must feel. It reminds me of my brother, and maybe I remind the tree. When I sit under it, I can almost hear the sound of laughter when someone lets go and lands on the ground, the shouts of 'I'll get you!' when one person ran after another, using the tree for protection in the game of chase.

I remember my brother when he was younger, when he went to this school and played those games with his friends. I don't think about what happened after he left this school, moved on to the school up the road. After a while, he stopped playing those sorts of games, and made new friends. He argued with our father, and spent less time with me. I was only a child at the time, but I always remembered walking up the hill with my father, hearing my brother's voice and running the last few meters to find him.

Climbing the fence is easy, more so now that I'm older. I'm older now than my brother was when he left. The tree seems much smaller now than it did when I was little. It has not grown with me, but rather stayed the same size, the same old tree by the old school.

I often sit down at the base of the tree after school or work. When my brother doesn't reply, I feel disconnected from him, and I don't want to forget him like he seems to have forgotten me. I sit in the shadow of the maple, and pull out my sketchbook. I can't draw, I know that, but I remember sitting in the sun outside with my brother when we were younger, trying to draw each other. My drawing was little more than a stickman with hair, but his – his was a masterpiece. He never took the credit that was due for his drawing. I wonder sometimes, when I'm sat under the tree, with my sketchbook open in front of me, whether he still draws.

I look down at the empty page, and put my pencil to the paper. I can't draw real life, but I can draw pretend. I can draw monsters and creatures, tall buildings with turrets and tiny fairies with wings. None of my drawings are very good, but with make-believe, you can pretend that the mess on the page is what you meant to put there. That it's meant to look like that.

Every time I finish a drawing, I take a picture of it and send it to my brother, telling him what it is, and asking if he still draws. He's never responded to those messages, so I've come to the conclusion that he doesn't draw anymore.

As the sky, and the shadow the maple is casting over me, darkens, I start to pack up my things, and make for the fence, sending my brother a picture of my drawing as I walked. My message ends the same as usual: Do you still draw?

I hop over the fence and look up at the dark clouds. I shove my phone into my back pocket, and bury my hands deep into my hoodie pocket. When my phone buzzes, I ignore it, assuming it's the group chat I'm in with some friends, and someone's started a conversation.

It's not until I get back, shouting into the emptiness that I'm home, in case my father is there to hear, that I pull my phone out of my pocket and look at the message.

Of course I do. Here's my most recent.

The pencil lines were flawless, the shading perfect. It was a replica of an old picture of us, I couldn't have been more than eight, he no more than sixteen. He's holding me around my middle, dangling me upside-down, smiling down at me as I laugh.

I smile down at my phone, and type back.

Here's a recent picture of me. Can you draw an updated picture?

I put my phone down on the kitchen table and grabbed a drink. I didn't expect a reply, so when it came, I almost spilt my drink reaching for my phone.

Sure. But I'm not making it up, I need something to copy. We'll have to take a picture together.

I stared down at the message. Was he being serious? I hadn't seen him for years, hadn't got a text conversation out of him for just as long. Now he was proposing we meet up and take a picture?

When?

I didn't want to get my hopes up, and set my phone down again. The doorbell rang, and I put my drink down to go and answer it. The neighbour kid had probably kicked his ball over our fence again.

I pulled open the door, and was faced, not with the small, scrawny, messy-haired child from next door, but with a man, taller than me. His hair was shorter and his face more matured than I remembered, but I couldn't mistake him.

"How about we take it now?"

Run the credits!

Okay, so The Dark Maple doesn't really have much to do with the maple. Initially, I thought there was going to be a ghost or a murderer or something. What a turn of events!

I quite like this story. It's much longer than my previous ones on here, but I think it's fine.

Let me know what you think!

Bye!

Movie Review – The Talented Mr Ripley – 99% compatible with my movie preferences

 

Movie Review

The Talented Mr Ripley

I watched this movie yesterday evening (from when I'm writing this) but I needed a little time to process it before I started writing about it. After it finished, I was speechless, and would've sat watching the credits if Netflix hadn't immediately tried to force another movie on me.

I'll introduce the movie, and then get into the review.

Side-note, why is it so difficult to find a movie cover, and why don't they have proper blurbs like books?

In 1958, the charming but penniless Tom Ripley (Matt Damon) is hired by a wealthy magnate to travel to Italy and rescue his son, Dickie (Jude Law), from a life of indolence. Upon arrival, Tom discovers that Dickie has it all - including a beautiful girlfriend, Marge (Gwyneth Paltrow) - and begins to covet his luxurious lifestyle. Although Tom is sexually attracted to Dickie, the latter soon tires of him, and when Tom begins to find himself excluded from Dickie's coterie, his envy takes a murderous turn. Based on Patricia Highsmith's novel which also provided the inspiration for the pre-New Wave French classic 'Plein Soleil' and Wim Wenders' 'The American Friend'.

Amazon UK

(Or it's on Netflix. And you can rent it on Prime Video.)

My Review

If you know me at all, or have read any of my reviews before, because I mention it quite often, I am a massive fan of thrillers. In particular crime thrillers, but I don't think I've mentioned that detail before. Anyway, I was seeing this movie everywhere, it was popping up on Netflix all the time, Prime Video kept showing me trailers to it, and, according to Netflix, it was 99% compatible with my movie preferences. Obviously, I got so intrigued by seeing it everywhere, I had to watch it.

So, the movie premise – Tom Ripley is an adept lier, and one little white lie is what sends him down a hole of pretending, learning and disaster. He fills in for a friend, playing the piano when his friend has hurt his wrist, and wears his friend's Princeton jacket to complete the role. Unfortunately, in the audience is a couple whose son, Dickie Greenleaf, went to Princeton, and Tom pretends to have known him. A conversation ensues and, upon meeting a second time, Mr Greenleaf asks Tom to go to Italy to bring his son home, offering him $1000 to do so.

Considering he is broke, Tom accepts, and starts to create his role. He knows Dickie loves Jazz, so he grows accustomed to Jazz, learns the songs and the names of the artists. He arranges meetings to go the way he wants, but when he actually meets Dickie and his girlfriend, Marge, Tom's determination wavers. He double-crosses Mr Greenleaf and grows close to Dickie and Marge. While outwardly considering Dickie to be a brother, it is clear Tom's feelings go deeper than that.

I must say, I wasn't sure whether I should like the characters. At the start, you can't help but like Tom, and even when events happen wherein you should turn against him and start to hate him, you can't help but feel sorry for him in a way. It seems that he gets easily overwhelmed when he gets scared, and lashes out, but it's his actions afterwards that make you feel sorry for him. I don't want to spoil anything, but those of you who have seen the movie know what I am talking about. He seems to lose who he is, the web of lies he has created extending from lying to others to lying to himself. He is a spider caught in his own web, with no way to escape.

Tom backs himself into many corners, although he seems to be an artist at managing to get out of things. There are times when you think this is the end, this is where he gets caught out, but in a twist of events, something else has happened to turn people's heads away from him.

I really liked Marge and Peter. Peter doesn't feature until nearer the end of the film, but he is such a lovely person, and if you've seen the film, you'll know why I was so shocked at the end (intriguing, right?! Go watch it!). Marge genuinely loves Dickie, even if he is unfaithful, and his interest in her comes and goes. To begin with, Tom is a wonderful friend to Marge, and the two get along well, but as the movie progresses, and events unfold... let's just say things take a bit of a concerning turn.

I don't want to spoil this movie for anyone who hasn't seen it, and I think everything I've said so far only skims over the surface, rather than delving into what's buried beneath. Netflix was right when they said this was 99% my type of movie. If you love crime thrillers (and/or Matt Damon...) then you'll probably love this film. There is certainly suspense, a sprinkling of death here and there, and a pinch of a guilty conscience. All the ingredients for a perfectly crafted thriller.

Also, I found out that this film was based on a book. Which means I need to buy a book. Yay!

I think I'm done!

I honestly recommend you find this film somewhere (preferably legally) and give it a watch. It certainly has the feel of a 1999 movie, if you know what I mean. If not, watch it, and then you'll understand.

If anyone cares, or knows what I'm on about, this movie was number 70 on the Movie List.

Okay, that's it.

Bye!