Creative Writing · Short Stories · writing

Painted Nuisance: Flash Fiction

Authors Note: Hey everyone hope you are doing well! Welcome back to my blog. This is the first story I’ve posted in over 2 weeks now. I wrote this about 4 months ago and I forgot about it due to getting a new laptop. I thought it was a cool story and thought some of you might enjoy it. If you do, let’s have a chat in the comments and let me know your thoughts!


I’m evil. At least that’s what I’ve been told. People take one look at me and decide I must be a demonic entity, determined to cause trouble and misery wherever I go. It’s the reason I’ve had so many homes. I’ve been swapped, sold, thrown out and worse. For a long time, I wasn’t sure why those who visited recoiled from behind the glass in fear. Some studied me closely noting every detail of my body; while others refused to look at me for fear of becoming possessed. There’s only one person who truly loves me. Kay brushes my long black hair, shines my shoes and talks to me everyday. She’s never kept me behind glass, like the others did. I live out my days centre stage, stood upon a brilliant marble fireplace.

Though today, I’m alone once more. I’ve been waiting for her to return for what feels like a lifetime. I’ve barely closed my glassy eyes for fear of missing her. Finally, I hear the front door open and close. A few seconds later the living room door swings open and, in the doorway stands Kay’s daughters, Jemma and Kitty. But no Kay. They sport matching red faces and puffy eyes. I stiffen as Jemma’s eyes catch mine, though she says nothing, as usual.

“We need to sort out what’s going where.” Jemma says, as she retrieves a roll of bin liners from her handbag. Kitty turns to her sister as fresh tears begin to fall.

“I don’t think I can.” She says in a voice peppered with sadness. I feel dizzy with confusion. I scream at them to tell me where she is, but they can’t hear me. They never could.

“We have to try, we promised dad we would make a start.” Kitty wipes her tears, takes a deep breath and nods her head. She starts clearing the shelf nearest to me, looking at photos and an assortment of knickknacks when finally, she notices me.

“What about Rosie, do you want her?” She says while lifting me off my stand, “Mum loved her.” Jemma looks at me the way she always does and says:

“No way! Doesn’t it creep you out? She’s evil Kitty, we’re better off setting the thing on fire.”

In that moment, I decide to fulfil the prophecy people like her have burdened me with. It’s time to give them exactly what they want. I lunge for Jemma. There’s a piercing scream and at last, I feel free.


Signed,

Jen X

Creative Writing · Short Stories · writing

Mr Picasso: A Short Story Part 2

Authors Note: Hey everyone hope you are doing well! Here is the long awaited second part of Mr Picasso. If you haven’t already, please read part one here. This story has been a tricky one indeed. I wrote this story months ago, but I was unhappy with the ending. I decided to be brave and just post the original ending here, largely unedited so please forgive any mistakes. I have been adapting it over the months so some things are a bit different now. But I truly hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

10 min read


I destroyed her innocence. I took it for my own, handled it in my grasp and then… I simply destroyed it. It was nothing personal to Beth. I’m sure she would’ve carried on her self-harming behaviour until one day that pain wasn’t enough, or it was too much, and she would’ve died anyway. I may have taken her innocence, but I made her into art. I saw that in her and decided to give her something nobody else could.

Of course, she wasn’t my first, you know that. I started with older women and for some reason they just kept on getting younger and younger. I guess the younger you are, the more open you are to a predator. She was however the first true masterpiece I ever created. Our names will be intertwined with each other forever. That’s what I was thinking once I had finished cutting off her limbs, flaying her skin into intricate patterns and positioning her into her final resting place. That was until I led you to her.

I’d tried for about a year after to recreate that piece of art. I carried with me the polaroid pictures I’d taken. They never left my person. I would gaze upon them and the urges just became too strong to ignore. But every time I tried to re-create the artwork, it never felt the same again. Even when I stuck hundreds of pictures all around the room and used them for reference, it was just not the same. Nothing could top, or even match my masterpiece. I had twelve more failed attempts before one day, as I was carving off the leg of a fourteen-year-old girl called Lilly, I couldn’t go on trying to capture the essence of my greatest works by recreating it. I must do so, by telling my story. By getting people to write about it, to write about me and Beth, Lilly, Poppy, Andi, Rose, Anna and all the rest of them. You know their names. Beth would never be special or beautiful or appreciated until I had destroyed what was preventing her from reaching her full potential.

I helped her reach her full potential. You wouldn’t be here ten years after she transgressed from mere mortal to timeless art. You wouldn’t be here, interested in recording me for “educational purposes” if it wasn’t for what I did for that girl, for all those girls. I took my time with Beth, she took ages because art takes time.

                The film suddenly paused in the lecture theatre at a rather unfortunate moment, as James looked directly into the lens of the camera. His eyes were empty, but he smiled with satisfaction. The room was silent while the criminal psychology students processed what they had just witnessed. They were warned of the documentaries highly sensitive and possibly upsetting content. It was at their own discretion to attend the guest speaker lecture.

The speaker, Casper Taylor, took his place behind the podium and looked intently around the room. He saw many tearful eyes and enraged hearts. He patiently waited for the right time to continue his mission and remained silent until he saw every person in the room waiting for him to speak once more.

“Thank you for listening to my documentary so attentively. I understand it is not an easy thing to do, a few people did indeed need to leave the room. That is perfectly fine. What matters is you opened your eyes and your minds and decided to learn about one of the most heinous criminals we have ever known.” He took a moment to clear his throat and collect his thoughts. No matter how many times he got up on stage, his legs still swayed beneath him and words still managed to escape him. He would often try to boost his confidence by reminding himself that he has extensively researched and interviewed the worlds’ most prolific murderers. Its fine, he thought, you can do this.

“As you may already know, I am a true crime author and I have published nine books looking closely at the most heinous criminals in our generation, including James Knotts, or as the media named him ‘The Picasso Killer’. Can anybody tell me, why it is I showed you this clip? What is the significance of it?”

For a few long seconds, the room froze. Nobody wanted to raise their hands for fear of embarrassment. Before Casper could offer the students any reassurance, a man who looked a bit older than the rest, raised his hand. He was wearing a black jumper with the hood up and was visibly trembling. Casper couldn’t quite make out all his features as he was in the first row of the upper balcony, never mind the shadows his hoodie cast on his face,

“Yes, thank you, you up there?”

“I think you showed us this to prove a point. You wanted to show us the story through the eyes of the one who did it. It’s all good and well writing books about it, but it doesn’t have the same effect as actually hearing it from the horses mouth type thing.” Casper was taken aback by the booming voice that erupted from such a slender man. But what intrigued him more so was just how correct he was.

“Exactly. I simply asked him to tell me about what happened that night in 1999. As you saw, I didn’t interject once. He saw an opportunity to talk about what he did to Bethany Lewis. Can anyone tell me why?”

The man once again raised his hand, of which seemed to be shaking even more than before. Casper nodded to show he could speak, considering nobody else seemed to want to contribute.

“He gets to relive it. When you talk about something, it’s kinda like reliving it all over again. Ain’t that what a lot of serial killers do? That’s basically what James Knotts was trying to do when he raped and murdered and chopped up twelve more women.”

“Yes…” Casper was about to choke on his words when the man continued to speak.

“He decided they were worthless alive, and he could make them better. He decided to drug them, brutally rape them, cut off their arms and legs while they were still fucking breathing right, peel their skin off and cut it into diamonds and ribbons and fuck knows what else, piles their body parts back up and took pictures. And you, you have given this grotesque foul specimen the platform for others to remember his name. He thinks he immortalised my mother? He immortalised himself and you helped him. He mutilated 13 women and then led the police straight to the rotting corpse of my mum. He left her in that room in a pile to rot and he thinks he made art? You made him the artist!” The man bubbled over with despair, his eyes were engulfed by a wildfire of rage. Other students looked upon him with deep sympathy while others were so shocked by the outburst they simply stared in silence. Tears streamed from his face and he realised it was the first time he had cried in a long time.

“What you failed to mention is the fact he kept them alive for days before he tore them limb from limb” the man said, addressing the rest of the lecture theatre, “he raped them when they were alive, and then he raped them again.”

Casper feared the man may jump to his death as he hung over the balcony screaming while the tears continued to flow, thicker and faster than before. Casper relaxed slightly as the man returned his gaze on him. Though that respite was short lived as the anger and hatred radiated from every inch of the man’s body.

Mr. Borthwick, the University Head, rushed over to Casper, though he could not tear his eyes away from the man’s hateful glare. The man yanked his hood off his head to reveal swooping black hair that fell into his face, covering one eye. He barely heard what Mr. Borthwick had said, but the penny had finally dropped.

“-ander Lewis…” Mr. Borthwick said for the third time, “that is Alexander Lewis, he doesn’t go to this University, we don’t know how he got in or why…I’m…I do- “

“He wanted to understand why someone would do this. The answer only served to fuel his anger.” Casper said with a blank look, as he imagined Alexander finding out for the first-time what horrors happened to the woman who brought him into the world. The angry 20-year-old man in front of him transformed into an innocent child. The anger was gone but it was replaced with ignorance and not the blissful kind. It was the kind only a child could possess. As a child, all he knew was that his mother was gone. He didn’t know where she was, or why she had left. Until the day came where he did understand where she was, six foot under, and he found out why, a psychopathic serial killer stole her from him. That was the day James Knotts successfully destroyed another person’s innocence from behind bars, and Casper helped him do it.

“I can’t get to him, so its gotta be you.” Alexander Lewis pulled out a gun and pointed it at Casper. He pulled the trigger but it flew a quarter of an inch from his temple. How could a lecture turn into a murder attempt? After a few seconds, the screaming finally pierced the bubble Casper had been floating in and the reality began to sink in.

“I made a monster famous and in turn created another.”


Please let me know your thoughts in the comments!

Signed,

Jen X

Creative Writing · writing

Untitled

Why does it hurt to cry alone? Is it because there’s no one there to console you? Or is it because you’re afraid? You’re afraid because there’s no one there to hear your cries. Maybe you’re not really crying at all. You’re not really hurting. If a tree falls in the woods but there’s no one around to hear it. Does it make a sound?

Creative Writing · Short Stories · writing

Christmas Dinner: A Short Story

Authors note: Hey everyone hope you are well. Here is a little story that has been floating around my head for a few weeks. I finally wrote it tonight and wanted to get it up before Christmas. Hope you enjoy and if you do, please let me know in the comments! Merry Christmas.


Dennis sat at the top of an empty table, paper crown in hand and a tear forming in his eye. He glanced at the cooling turkey he’d spent so many hours preparing, while black butterflies threatened to invade his chest. He watched the door, still hoping for someone to burst through, apologising for being late and showering him in appreciation for the Christmas dinner and fine hospitality. Something tried to convince him that nobody would show up. Yet he sat in his chair amongst the cold roast potatoes and vegetables, until a moonless night replaced the day. His stomach grumbled but he refused to make himself up a plate, it’s rude to eat before your guests arrive. Dennis considered tidying up as the food was more than likely ruined, though he couldn’t bring himself to do it; to tidy up is to give up and that was out of the question.

The aches that erupted from his arthritic limbs dragged him from the comfortable nothing of a dreamless sleep. He rubbed his knees and grunted when he caught sight of the clock on the dining room wall, it was just past midnight. He pulled himself up from the rickety wooden chair and found himself doubled over, unable to stand up straight. He cursed himself for falling asleep in such an awkward position and headed towards the door, he would deal with the mess later. To Dennis, it felt as though the door had been locked, for he couldn’t get it to open. He almost laughed at the thought, how could it possibly be locked? His bones continued to scream at him, as he tried again and again to get the door open, but it was well and truly locked. Dennis felt a wave of adrenalin course through him, questions tinged with mania began to infiltrate his mind: How could it be locked? Who would lock me in? Why? What if it’s just stuck?

Dennis began to scream.

“Help! Who are you?! Let me OUT!” Dennis continued to holler and yell until he could no more. If he were a decade or so younger, perhaps he could have kicked the door down. But instead of strong muscles he had bones that betrayed him. Resting at the base of the large door, Dennis allowed thoughts of his wife, Liesel, to consume him. She was the light of his life, the separation was difficult to say the least, but he took comfort in the knowledge they had not ended on bad terms. He took his jumper off and placed it underneath his balding head, grateful for the solace it brought him, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him once again. Liesel, as she usually did, met him in his dreams. Her blonde hair hung elegantly by her shoulders, her eyes piercing and glowing. Liesel reached for Dennis, but when he tried to grab her, he drove a knife into her heart instead. Her hair dropped limply and the glow in her eyes dimmed, as Dennis stabbed her again and again and again. At this point, he would usually wake up, but this time exhaustion clung to him and left him suspended in a sea of otherworldly pain and suffering.

Some hours later, a jangle of keys and metal clanking finally freed him from the confines of his personal inner hell. The metal door swung open and, in the threshold, stood a stern-faced woman.

“Mr. Harrold, why are you not in your bed?” She said, without a flicker of expression.

“My dining room door must have gotten stuck, I tried to open it but…” He paused as he noticed strangers walking up and down his hallway. “Uh excuse me, what are those…What are you doing in my house?” The woman shot a glance at another younger woman who immediately took her leave.

“And the rest of you too, go on, leave.” Dennis added as he struggled to get to his feet.

“Dennis, where do you think you are?” She said while offering a steady hand “Do you know who I am?”

Dennis pushed her arm away and instead used the wobbly chair to regain his balance.

“Of course, this is my home and you are trespassing. If you and your little friends don’t leave at once I shall be calling the police.” Dennis tried to locate the house phone that sat on the dresser, but it was no where to be seen. His heart rate quickened, and panic washed over him. The woman stood before him, motionless and cold. The younger woman returned with four men, each of them sporting matching white outfits and grim expressions. The sight of them made a bubble of familiar nausea rise in Dennis’s throat, but he stood as strong as could, determined not to waiver.

“Mr Harrold, you need to sit down on the chair please. We need to restrain you now; you pose a threat to yourself and potentially others.” The men in white uniforms grabbed Dennis by the wrists and legs, securing him to a chair with leather straps and metal buckles that pinched at his wrinkled skin. He fought as hard as he could, but it was no use. He was not a wolf anymore; he was the deer.

“What year is it? Do you know where you are?” The woman asked as she paced from one end of the small room to the other.

“I’m in my home, who cares what year it is, this is illegal!” A niggle of doubt poked at Dennis, as the sound of her heels clicking on the stone floor flooded his ears. Liesel’s heels never sounded like that.

“Okay. But we are obliged to tell you, you are not in your home. You haven’t been for the better part of 2 decades.”

Dennis swallowed hard and averted his gaze from her hateful face. He could see he was in his home, there are photographs of his children, Hollie and Jasper in his grandmothers’ frame. On the table still sat his Christmas dinner and in the corner by the fireplace was the tree he picked from the Christmas tree farm. Yet, something else inside of him tried to convince him he was wrong, but he pushed those ugly thoughts to the darkest corner of his mind. It was Christmas, the time of joy and cheer, not sadness and despair. Though he wasn’t sure he had felt the former in a lifetime.

“I know you haven’t been taking your medication. Since you’ve been here a long time, we thought we could trust you. We thought you understood and wanted to manage your illness. We had hopes for you to improve and carry on improving, perhaps then you might have been transferred to a lower security ward.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about lady. You come into my house, tie me up and talk this nonsense to me? This is an abomination. I demand for you to contact my wife, Liesel Harrold.” Dennis yelled, he struggled to remain composed while being physically restrained. The straps continued to leave angry red marks in their wake as he battled against their strength.

“Mr Harrold, Liesel is dead. You murdered her and your two children before attempting to take your own life too.” The icy tone of her voice took Dennis aback, how could she make such disgusting accusations with such little emotion?

“Don’t be ridiculous, I spoke to her not long ago. I refuse to listen to you any further.” He let the twinkle of his tree take him away from the nightmare he found himself in. He considered the fact this could all be the result of a wonderful Christmas with his family. Perhaps they had come last night, and a cocktail of cheese and alcohol had brought on a horrible dream. He hoped to soon be awoken by soft kisses and the smell of mulled wine heating up on the stove.

The woman sighed and motioned for everyone to leave. Before she closed the door behind her, she turned to Dennis. Though her face didn’t show it, her heart was breaking for the shell of a man who sat before her.

“Merry Christmas Dennis, I hope one day you find your peace.”


I hope you enjoyed this story, lets have a chat in the comments.

What do you think this story is about?

Signed,

Jen X

Blog · writing

Sleep? Where for art thou sleep?

On Saturday night I decided to deep clean my room the following day. Then I decided I better wait until Monday, everyone else will be at work and I won’t disturb anyone if I did it like that. I’d be completely free and alone.

It’s now 6.25 Monday morning, the day I planned to start the desperately needed spring clean, and yet sleep has once again evaded me.

I find when I have something planned for the next day, insomnia says “Ha, you really thought you could achieve that?”

I want to let insomnia and self doubt win. I’m too tired to fight it. I’m waiting for my boyfriend to wake up to go to work, I might even go to the shop with him on his way. I probably won’t though. More plans I will inevitably cancel.

Why is sleep so bloody tricky? Why can my boyfriend close his eyes and be asleep within seconds? How does he manage to stay asleep for so long? How does he turn his thoughts down?

I love sleep. Especially dreamless sleeps, the comfortable nothing of a deep slumber is all I want.

I will try to sleep for a few hours and maybe I will find the motivation to clean. I hope so.


Jen x

Creative Writing · Short Stories · writing

A Question Of Perspective: A Short Story

(under 5 minute read)

I can feel Emma on top of me. Her weight is evenly distributed, but heavy nonetheless. To be honest it’s a comfort, an early sign of what’s to come. The weight of her body lets me know that it’s nearly time to go home. Or as close to home as possible.

Emma’s family came to visit yesterday. I must admit I was very nervous for their arrival as I wasn’t sure whether these people were coming for another round of chopping, cutting, scraping and colouring. I was relieved to find out they only came to see Emma. Though her mother did mention how beautiful I was, she was the only one to acknowledge me at all. The rest of her family members seemed to look through me, as if I were invisible. However, I refused to allow their negativity to burden me further. It was the likes of them that brought me here and made me what I am today. I didn’t ask for this.

Emma and I were left to get acquainted in a small room of which boasted soft glowing candles and colourful windows. That was until we were transported to an even smaller room that moved, just after flowers had been placed on top of us by sullen men in matching suits. I saw other moving rooms as we made our way to a large field with a stone house in the centre. I spot Emma’s mum and her red eyes fill with tears as soon as she notices our arrival. She turns her back and cries into the shoulder of a man I’ve never seen before. He certainly wasn’t there yesterday with the rest of the family. He is very tall, thin and gaunt. His presence unnerves me for reasons I can’t explain.

“Why is she crying? Why does everyone look so… Red?” I ask Emma.

Silence. I admit defeat and promise myself not to dwell on it. Today is my day and she can’t ruin it for me. Even if we are being forced to spend the foreseeable future together, they do say time is a healer.

I notice everyone in the room turning to look at us as we are brought to the front, every row filled with long faces. After a short speech and a few songs, people start approaching Emma and I. Some people place trembling hands on me, while others are simply staring with glassy eyes. The men who carried us in here are big and strong, not dissimilar to the first men I ever met not too long ago. It’s hard to enjoy the attention when the atmosphere feels thick with despair and is swirling with sadness. The room empties and I am once again lifted into the arms of men.

“Earth you are, and to earth you will return,” says the man who is sprinkling a rain-like substance on top of us. Oh, how I’ve missed the rain. If only my roots were still intact, perhaps I could quench this dry thirst. I still feel Emma’s weight on top of me, but then I finally feel the cool earth underneath me. I take the opportunity to revel in the familiarity of the dirt and find myself holding Emma closer. I think myself luckier than most. Some never get the opportunity to be as close to home as this.

“I know it must be hard to leave your family and friends, but I’m going to help you return to the Earth. That way, you will always be near them.”


So, this is my little story. I do hope you enjoyed it and if you did (or didn’t) please let me know in the comments!

Signed,

Jen x

Creative Writing · reading · writing

Why I Haven’t Been Reading

Hello everyone,

I haven’t written a post just having a chat in a little while. I have been in writing mode for a while and have enjoyed getting my creative juices flowing.

However, I’ve found that it is proving very hard to read AND write at the same time. You see, I have been working on 3 short stories as well as my current WIP recently. This has come after having a break from writing as I had a lot of Uni work on. But somehow I still managed to read quite a few books and short stories while still doing uni work. I’m not sure how to balance both?

I’ve picked up a few books and read the first few chapters and each time proceeded to slam it down with frustration. Nothing is gripping me and I’m wondering if that is due to me being so invested in my own stories. It’s as though everything else doesn’t quite evoke the same feelings as my own.

I would like to think this is a good thing, but I miss reading. Yet I can’t bring myself to power through more than a couple of chapters.

I have been reading a lot of short stories here on WordPress, does that count?

I also quickly wanted to mention the current mismatched style of my blog. As I still consider myself a newbie blogger, I feel like I’m experimenting with what I want to post. I still love everything I’ve shared and hope the eclectic style is not distracting or off putting.

Anyway, ramble over. If you have any tips on how to balance writing with reading, please leave a comment!

Signed,

Jen X

Creative Writing · writing

Time To Go: A Short Story

I have been here for what seems like one hundred years. The trees have grown unbelievably tall and the cars now require no human intervention. People keep taking pictures of me as they go about their days. Some of them say hello. Most of them walk past without a second glance. I understand though.

Until today, I have never felt the urge to leave this place. I have been quite content with my home and the exotic wildlife who visit me everyday. Today though, I want to leave. I want to see what lies beyond this place. I want to explore and meet new species of birds, other than pigeons and the mutated seagulls that dominate the skies. Today, I believe it is time to go.

My legs ache as I will them to take a step. They refuse. I try for hours to move even the smallest muscle but every joint feels too stiff, it is proving very difficult to leave. Every time somebody passes me, I try to tell them. I try to ask for their help but thus far nobody has offered their services. Somebody is coming my way now. I clear my throat and wait for them to become close enough to talk. It is a little girl, no older than six or seven. Her mother strolls not far behind her. The young girl spots me and runs straight for me. My heart soars as I see her bright eyes studying me.

“Hello Mrs. Hayes” the young girl says to me with a curtsey. Such manners. If I wasn’t already smiling, I would beam with delight. However that joy is soon overshadowed once again when I ask her to help me and we are instead interrupted by the child’s’ mother. Her eyes are studious as she comes closer.

“Lydie, would you like me to take a picture of you next to Mrs. Hayes?” The tall woman says kindly.

“No, she’s asking me for help.” I take in a sharp breath and almost refuse to believe it. This child has heard me. She heard me.

“Yes, yes. Good child and lady, I’m stuck and would like very much to leave this place” I continue, I let my eyes fall upon the woman standing before me, but her eyes are glued to her daughter.

“What are you on about?” She says, her eyes are drowning in worry. “Stop messing around, you’ve seen that before. You know better than to make things up.”

“Didn’t you just hear her? She wants to leave, she’s stuck. Mum we need to he-“

“Enough! Your imagination is too much Lydie. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

The girl walks slowly towards me. I can feel my heart breaking as my eyes fill with tears.

“Look mum, see? She’s crying. You’re horrible mum.” For a moment, the woman looked almost, sad. She took a long look at me and then up at the sky.

“No Lydie. Look. It’s just started to rain. That’s just a statue darling, they can’t speak or cry silly girl” the softening lady says reassuringly “the lady who it’s made to look like died a long time ago, she can’t talk”. She leads her daughter to me and knocks three times on my shoulder. The young girl wrinkles her nose and mimics her mother’s actions. The sound is like an echo chamber, every knock sending more and more ripples of sound that roll through my body. They turn around and in moments they are gone.

They are free to leave while I am imprisoned within this metal cage. It is certainly time to go now.


Let me know what you think of this short story! I have planned countless stories and haven’t finished them. This is something I came up with last night and have basically “pantsed” the entire short.

Hope it proved an interesting read.

Signed,

Jen X

Creative Writing · My Book · writing

My First Book : An Extract From “Project Delilah”


“The dream began the same as it did every other night. I was standing in my front room, not the fancy one, the normal one. I looked around and every corner of the room was dark. I glanced over to the tall bookcase to my left and it was…Impossibly dark. Like a shade of black that was yet to be discovered. The thought that I was not alone unsettled me, so much so I scrambled around in search of a light source, opening drawers, feeling for a light switch along the walls. There was nothing.


Next, I heard somebody crying. The sound echoed through every room in the house. It was as if a spirit was carrying it through the walls, flying from room to room, seeking me out. I couldn’t let it find me. I looked down and found I was running down a long hallway that seemed to go on forever. The picture frames on the walls taunted me as they kept on coming, no matter how fast I ran. I remember trying to keep my eyes forward but it was impossible. Not when the only face I saw in the thousands of frames, belonged to a girl I thought was my sister. She stared at me as I continued to sprint as fast as I could.

“You’re not real!” I said sternly. “You never existed!”

At last the hallway ended and there stood a large black door. I wanted to turn around and keep on running but instead, I walked straight through the door. Every hair on my body stood up to attention. I didn’t recognise the empty room, but something about it felt uncomfortably familiar. The walls were painted black as well as the ceiling and floor. The furniture then started to appear one by one. First the wardrobe, then a bedside table, a filthy rug and finally a bed. On the bed, sat a heap of dirty duvets, blankets and stained pillows. My eyes then adjusted to the darkness and to my surprise, the blankets seemed to be breathing. I could see the pile rising up and falling back down again; its breaths short and jagged. I blinked hard and let out a quiet sigh I didn’t know I was holding. I could sense the darkness creeping up behind me, as though some kind of evil entity was consuming the room with me still inside.


I tried to call out, but the words refused to leave my lips. Though I did sense the atmosphere shift, as the pile on the bed suddenly froze. Maybe I had spoke after all, maybe it heard me. I took a silent step towards the bed, trying to stay quiet as I approached. I managed a few more steps before a squeaky floorboard cut through the silence; the pile suddenly snapped around and stared straight at me. I was stunned to see that it was not a pile of old duvets, blankets or stained pillows. It was my sister.”

– An unedited extract taken from my current project

This is an extract from my first book, of which I will be referring to as ‘Project Delilah’.

This extract is taken from my main characters book, of which is featured between (almost) every other ‘main story’ chapter. This chapter was written from the perspective of Delilah’s main character, Elodie. (Confusing, I know but all will become clear once the book is complete (I hope!))

I chose to make it harder for myself to essentially write two different stories within one book. However, Delilah’s book is very significant to the plot and I believe it adds a lot to the book in terms of depth and it offers a unique insight into Delilah as a character as well as an author.

The two stories are interconnected and that’s about all I can say about it at the moment!

I hope you enjoyed this little extract and if you have any feed back that would be great. Please bare in mind, I have copy and pasted this directly from my manuscript and it is completely unedited. (Please be nice haha)

Please let me know what you think in the comments. Even if you thought it was boring, or cheesey or clichè. Write out your initial thoughts up on reading it and I shall do a celebratory dance and take it on board.

Thank you in advance.

Signed,

Jen X