The Word Cloud

It’s not always fashionable these days to admit to being a fan of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Not fashionable, that is, in certain circles, although there have been times in recent years when the world has kicked back and admitted that you know what, maybe we can allow ourselves a little admiration for a legend.

            Me, I’ve never made any apology for it; I grew up with Bruce, or at least it felt like I did. Listening to the late Roger Scott playing Springsteen bootlegs on Capital Radio because he felt that the world should hear them and realising that here was a songwriter and musician of such importance, such grandeur, that he would always transcend fashions and trendsetter foibles. It was music in its biggest sense, sweeping, cinematic and bold, conjuring Kerouac, Dennis Hopper, Steinbeck and rock and roll in Technicolour widescreen.

            And yesterday the pantone darkened a little as a light went out; Clarence Clemons, Springsteen’s sidekick and sax player for 40 years passed away.

            Clarence –

            The Big Man, the Bruce-proclaimed Master of the Universe –

            Gone.

            This. Is. Important.

            At least it is to me.

            At its finest, Springsteen’s music provides the backdrop to a nation, cramming stories that others would take 200,000 words to tell into four minutes of poetry, poetry that rides waves of guitar and keyboards and a big, crashing rhythm section. They’re stories of the lost and the troubled, stories of the wide-open spaces and highways and turnpikes and the people that travel along or live alongside these lonely, dream-filled, rattlesnake interstates. And much of their ability to connect, musically, to US history comes from the fact that in Clarence, there was man with a sound that gave them an unspoken resonance with music from an earlier era, one of prohibition and jazz clubs and John Coltrane.

            His soaring, joyous sax breaks were the starbursts, the thunder claps, the mile-high rollercoasters that projected a wall of sound up into the night and let it arc across the sky, from state to state and beyond.

            Blaze on, Clarence.

Apart from here, I don't blog. I have a blog account on eblogger, but I've never used it. Part of that is laziness, part of that is I'm a nobody, why the hell would anyone be interested in what I have to say any way, but most of it is my role in the lives of a few thousand teenaged lives.

Y'see, I've been reading a lot about how it is good for an aspiring author to have a blog. How it is seen a A Good Thing, because prospective agents can google you and look you up. Problem is, if prospective agents can google you and look you up, so can the thousand kids you have at your school at any one time, too. And that, my dear Cloudies, is NOT A Good Thing.

Kids are strange. They profess to hate school, and a lot of them profess to hate you and your subject (as I said to one girl this week when she said those wonderful words every teacher lives for  - 'I hate this lesson' - I gave the standard reply of 'Well, my work here is done...'), and yet, whether you like it or not, you kind of become a Z list (heh, T list?) celebrity to them. Their curiosity for what you do in your spare time is quite voracious. Even though I use an internet handle (for this very reason, I may add) and don't put my email up, I still get 'Hi miss its Lauren from 9A2 how r u?' messages / emails every now and again, and it worries and infuriates me.

Why? The messages are, on the whole, innocent; even the kids who profess to hate you tend to send nice messages, but each time I receive one, a little piece of me dies, whilst another little piece of me panics. And yet another piece of me gets angry. There are three main reasons. 1) if you interact with kiddies out of school, you are unequivocally and obviously a pervert (even if they sought you out), b) I want a life of my own that is not observed by those I teach and c) get a fucking life! I'm your TEACHER, not some sad wannabe celebrity who craves attention. Go google some other low life who appreciates it!

A couple of years ago, the government wanted to bring in a 'Role Model Charter' for teachers. This basically meant that teachers had to hold themselves up to 'role model' standards of behaviour no matter where they were: at home, down the pub,  in the supermarket - anywhere where they might face their pupils or their parents. This included on the internet, and that is where I got angry.

I draw pictures that, whilst not particularly dodgy, an 11 year old's mum might not appreciate. I write fiction that includes violence and sex. You know why? Because I am an ADULT and therefore I am ALLOWED TO. What I get up to in my spare time is up to me (okay, so if I was caught shooting up heroin on line and then sucking off a donkey, I could understand their concern... but that's not what I am talking about here. I think anyone in any job would be in trouble if they were caught doing that on line!), but I consider myself a pretty decent person - why shouldn't I be allowed to post my drawings up online and share them, or post up my writing for critique without the fear of being hauled into the Head's office on Monday morning?

  Last year, we even had 2 cases of kids pretending to be teachers on Farcebook so they could stir and cause trouble. And cause trouble they did. They meticulously found out information about those teachers (from the internet, naturally), set up accounts in their names and then, casually as you like, systematically went around talking to other teachers about school, about their opinions of other teachers and pupils, about what they thought of the Head... things that, worryingly, could get them sacked. And that was their purpose. To harm teacher's careers as much as possible.

The kids involved were expelled, but despite the teachers' identities they stole wanting to press charges, the police were never involved. One of those teachers - a dedicated senior member of staff - left last summer, because she was so sick of it all. As far as I know, she isn't teaching any more. Our profession has lost an excellent teacher because two stupid kids thought it was fun to spy on her and ruin her life.

Then there was the staff Christmas party. The photos were hidden under 'friends only' and only showed us having a laugh and a drink. But kids got hold of them... et voila, we're all hauled into a meeting about not posting photos on line. Another teacher got hauled over the coals for posting 'inappropriate pictures' of herself after a parental complaint...  of her in her bikini on holiday. Me and my friend (another English teacher) were involved in a charity 'Teacher Strictly Come Dancing), where we moshed to Faith No More and the Boo Ya Tribe's 'Another Body Murdered' as our dance - the first time we knew it had ended up on You Tube was when the Press called the Head to ask what was going on.

It's a serious problem for us. We're getting told all the time about our 'responsibilities' when it comes to our charges and our private lives... but what about the kids? Isn't it about time someone turned round to them and said ' just pack it in'? My blood runs cold each time one comes up to me and says 'aww, that photo of Lucy was well cute'... excuse me? Are you stalking me or something? STAY OUT OF MY LIFE! I don't google you (and if I did, I'd probably be accused of being some kind of pervert), so don't google me! What is your fascination with me, any way? It's creepy!

So... sorry, Mr / Ms Agent - I am afraid that any potential google searches for my online activity are going to be seriously curtailed, because I'd have to be some kind of masochist to write an open blog right now...

Sorry if the formatting isn't all it could be, but my MW decided to give up the other day so I had to find an alternative to work with :/ Bad luck.



Food diary

 

Monday 6th September, 16:57

- 1 bag of ready salted crisp (174c)

- 1 glass of orange juice (88c)

Inspirational phrase of the day: ‘I am someone, and beautiful to boot!’

Honestly. That alone makes me want to be sick.

My mother’s insistent though, she reckons that out of all the doctors and phsychiatrists positive thinking is going to do it for me.

Her personal favorite is one she picked up from some daytime chat show ‘goals are the fuel in the furnace of achievement’ She likes to throw that one at me whenever she thinks I’m being ‘unreasonable’

It never made sense to me though, like people who talk to their cancer cells and ask them politely to go away, now they are crazy.

Of course, when I said this to Dr Jenkins, my nutritionist, he was quick to point out that anyone who measures their dry cereal out each morning to half a cup exactly isn’t, as such, sane either.

My mum took the lock off my bedroom door when she found the diet pills stuffed in Harry - my child hood teddy, so if I ever want some privacy, God forbid, I have to drag my nightstand across the length of the room and jam it in front of the door.

My wardrobe has a full length mirror built into it that I used to live in front of, that now I only use once a day.

I’m still tired from dragging my night stand across the room, so I have to sit on my bed to pull my jeans and jumper off to save me from keeling over from exhaustion.

I look stupid, stood in my socks and underwear in front of the mirror, Polaroid camera in hand ready to take the snap shot, but it’s become my ritual. I’m so tired and frustrated at working toward a goal that people want for me, that I’ve taken to this habit like it’s my new lover.

I have tonnes of these photos, starting from the first day I came home from the hospital. Sometimes I like to line them up, make a time line out of them and just watch the fat pile on. It makes it real. But for the most part I keep them in a shoe box buried in the bottom of my wardrobe. I don’t know what my mum would think if she ever found them, but I like to have them there. If the only control I have left over my body is to document it, then I damn well will.

My illness can loosly be defined as an addiction. Or as my doctor put it, ‘being abnormaly tolerant to and dependant on somthing that is phsychologically or physically habit forming.’

So with that logic there’s no difference between alcoholism, drug abuse or annorexia.

Only, I don’t get tokens for my progress, and finding a plate of assorted cakes and cookies at one of my meetings is just bad manners.

Tuesday 7th September, 07:12

-Shredded wheat (325c)

Inspirational phrase of the day: ‘You cannot plough a field by turning it over in your mind’ (whatever)

Today’s a pretty big day in my house, so everyone’s trying to pretend everything’s normal, which kind’a just makes it worse if I’m honest.

It’s my first day back at school since I was hospitalised and everyone’s worried that my nerves are going to send me over the edge. Mum tried handing me a packed lunch before and she practically burst into tears when I turned the barbie clad sandwitches down, saying I’d prefer to get somthing from the canteen.

Somtimes I wish she could be more like dad, he’s quiet and calm and I can have a laugh with him, but with mum - well, lets just say that the only thing we have in common is that food is never far from either of our minds.

08:05

Sinade was waiting for me.

She’d balanced herself on the gate and was swinging it open and closed out of bordeom. I think she feels awkward because she’s the one the rang the hospital in the first place. I probably owe her my life, but I’ll never thank her for it. Deep down I know she didn’t do me any favours.

She smiled brightly when she saw me and jumped down off the gate, burying me in her fat arms, "Hey!"

"Alright?"

She grinned cheerfully, fishing in her bag and pulling out a bananna, "Snack?"

I frowned. I suppose this is somthing I should have expected, "I just ate thanks."

When she didn’t speak I glanced over and saw her face creased with worry. She has a right to be, probably, I haven’t seen anyone in weeks, but I’d kind of hoped that the throbbing viens of fat clinging to my body would be enough proof as to the fact that I am getting ‘better.’ I grinned cheekily, pressing my fingers to my lips, "I can prove it to you if you like."

Her eyes bulged and she threw the bannana at me with an outraged cry of, "You’re vile Lissa!"

"And you’ve gotten stronger." I huffed, rubbing the impact sight hard.

She laughed lightly as we set off down the road, and as we got to the main streets people started to stare, but not at me. Sinade was a special kind of person, she could pile on as much weight as she wanted and it suited her. She wore the right clothes, and knew the right colours and she moved her hips in just the right way to make the boys do a double take. She talked to the right people and bitched about the rest. I think I should be greatful, to have such a huge personality to hide behind, but I’m not. I don’t see her in the adoring, blind way everybody else does. I see what she is, fat.

"Are you nervous about going back then?" She jolts me out of reverie and I blush guiltily. The thing with having an illness like mine is, it has it’s own personality. It’s own thoughts.

I shrugged, "The doctors say the routine will be good for me."

She studied me in side-long glances before declareing, "You should have put some make-up on or somthing. You look ill."

"I am ill."

"Yeah," She shrugged, and I could practically see the cellulite bouncing on her arms, the fat under her skin being manipulated by the movement. "But the whole school dosn’t need to know about it do they?"

"Why?" I asked dryly, "Who haven’t you told?"

Teen Entrepreneurs

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Ragged Cover Publishing is looking for two new writers of action adventure this year. They publish for the older teenager young adult. If you think you have what it takes, then why not contact them? Their area is older teenager young adult, require a book with at least a hundred thousand words, that has not been self published. You are advised to read at least one of their books to understand what they are looking for. Many are available on Google inside or chapters can be downloaded from their internet site  http://www.raggedcover.co.uk

Contact is via their websites 

 

Prologue

            The dense grey clouds overhead swirled dangerously. The rumble of thunder rolled across the sea. The waves grew higher and lashed angrily at the cliffs edge. Elana was suddenly aware of the familiar feeling rising up inside of her. The impending exhilaration of what was to come. Her breath felt heavy in her lungs, she could feel the thickness of the air, pressing down on her. She could taste the metallic taint it carried as she inhaled and felt its moisture upon her lips.

            As she stood with her hands pressed against the cool stone of the castle wall she began to feel the rush of air from the ocean below. She could taste the brine of the sea as its spray hit her face. The foam bubbled over the rocks beneath her. Her white blonde hair danced behind her as it was swept from her face by the fierce wind. Elana closed her eyes as the rumbling rose to a deep menacing growl. As she opened them once more, she saw the bright blue flicker of lightening over the horizon. The sensations suddenly intensified with the crack of electricity.

            Pulses of prickling energy emanating from her brow flowed swiftly, like a white hot river through her body. Her gaze dropped to the beautiful ring that adorned her slender finger. The silver white metal glinting as the lightening forked to the sea. The gemstone set inside was mesmerizing, it looked almost liquid as it shimmered and swirled in its ornate setting. It radiated a faint, eerie glow in the storms darkness.  Her fingers reached up to her throat as she unhooked her heavy velvet cloak, dropping it fluidly to the ground. She gently removed the elaborately embroidered slippers from her feet, the golden thread sparkling in the light slashing down from heavens.

            Placing her feet upon the jagged, damp rock she began to climb the stone wall that edged the castle’s balcony. Clinging tightly against the power of the roaring wind, she continued her dangerous ascent. Pulling herself onto the top, she stood unsteadily on her feet as the winds rushed past. The suppressed emotions began to rise within her, bubbling furiously to the surface, entwining with the roaring of the storm. The swirling winds carried them rapidly towards the sky as she raised her arms above her head, fingers outstretched.

            As Elana’s eyes closed she could feel the familiar hot, sting of tears. As they spilled on to her silken, white cheeks the rain began to fall heavily in ice cold sheets. The storm now engulfed the horizon as far as the eye could see. Her white nightdress billowed like a sodden sail as it was whipped by wind and rain. As she was swallowed by the storm, feeling its enormous power course through her, she fed it with her pain, hatred and fear.

            The images of what had passed flashed through her mind as the lightening thrashed angrily to the ground. She saw the fierce insanity in his eyes. She saw the faces of her brothers. Her mother’s anguish. She felt the pain of his selfish betrayal. The cold of their skin on her fingers. Elana, overwhelmed by the agony that rushed from within, parted her lips and screamed as loud as her voice would allow into the chaos surrounding her. But her voice was merely drowned in the thunderous symphony of the storm.

            For a time she was lost in the power of the storm, feeling the hot prickles of energy under her skin, the very cells of her body vibrating. Her thoughts were gone as she was consumed and her body felt a momentary peace. Suddenly she felt something grasp her ankles, tearing her mind from its place of solitude.

            “Elana Reàdarmus what are you doing? Come down!” a woman’s voice exclaimed.

            Elana wobbled dangerously at the intruders surprise and felt two hands grab her tightly around her waist, dragging her to the ground.

Chapter 1 - The Seer
           
             King Regalus Readarmus was a pleasant man considering he was after all a King. His father had been a great king, who had led their people through times of immense troubles. There had been many wars between the races of the Great Planes and even within the Kingdom of Elindor. Despite the wars that had ravaged the lands, as a young prince the King hoped to bring an age of peace to them. His mother Liliana, or Nana as she was now called, came from a well established aristocracy. They had no fortune of course but her wild and daring attitude along with her beauty attracted the attention of his father. 

            Regalus looked nothing like his mother, but in temperament they were very much the same. They say behind every great man is a great woman and in his father’s case this was very true. Liliana always managed to persuade him to see things as she did. She chose her words carefully and could sway the King without him even knowing there was reason to be swayed. After his father’s death Regalus had married before taking the throne. His father had given his aid the task of finding Regalus a suitable wife. As much as he protested to Queen Liliana, he eventually agreed to meet her. It was his father’s dying wish that he be married.

            Her name was Freya Cariad. She lived in Elindor near the edge of Forana forest with her family. She was an incredible beauty with copper coloured curls that covered her back. Her father had many Elven friends and often took her to visit them. As a result she was extremely fond of this race and even spoken fluent elfish. Regalus was pleased with this acceptance of others and captivated by her warm nature. They had married in a lavish ceremony and invited members of each of the royal families to join the festivities. Within weeks Freya had fallen pregnant with their first child and soon after followed five more healthy sons.

            The King’s brow furrowed as he learned over his large oak desk, scribbling away on pieces of parchment.

            “Come now Regalus, do not get so aggrieved” said a woman from beside the fire.

            “I cannot abide by this alliance Freya! After all of the attacks to the miners. Humans and Dwarves killed for Craag ore” spat Regalus.

            “I know the costs to the Kingdom and the people have been high, but we must look to the future now” Freya replied, rubbing her rounded stomach.

            “I know this more than anyone. But they are not to be trusted. I feel it.”

            The King closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb. Freya draped herself across his shoulders and gently kissed his neck.

            “We must be seen to be willing to forgive Regalus, if not all is lost.”

            She straightened, taking his face in her gentle hands. Freya’s expression hardened.

            “You know the darkness in our world grows deeper. The disturbances worsen. Other World breaches are becoming reality, no longer myth. We need to be as one.”

            Gazing sternly into her husband’s eyes all was understood.

            “You are right my love, we must try. I shall send a declaration by horse tonight. All crimes by the Goblin people will be forgiven and they will be accepted back onto the committee. They shall have all the political power that the four have.”

            She smiled sweetly at her husband and kissed his forehead.

            “I must get some rest now. Try not to stay awake too late”.

            She walked gracefully across the room and twisted the heavy brass door knob.

            “Goodnight dearest” Freya said sweetly.

            “Goodnight my love” Regalus replied with a smile, despite his concerns.

            A guard bowed as she floated past into the darkness, her hair glinting russet in the gloom.  The King’s brow furrowed as he wrote quickly by candle light, his quill scratching feverishly, inches from his nose. He began to melt a stick of wax above the flame, dripping the blood-red wax in splotches onto the parchment. Plunging his heavy, golden ring into the wax, he marked it with the royal crest.

            Regalus strode to the door and called into the corridor for the royal messenger. He handed the messenger, a young slim man, the sealed declaration.

            “Take four guards. Ride to the Goblin village and do not stop until you get there. Give this to Grindleward and nobody else.”

            He quickly bowed and replied “Yes your majesty!” before striding away.

            The King returned to his dimly lit study. Pictures in gilt frames filled the spaces not covered by books and maps. As he slumped down into his chair, he sighed deeply, resting his head in his hands. Exhausted from the day’s events the King quickly drifted into a deep sleep, only to be awoken by a frantic knocking at the heavy oak door.

            Regalus rose quickly from his desk, removing a dagger from its sheath at his ankle.

            “Enter!” he yelled, his eyes not moving from the door.

            The door swung open gently, creaking on its hinges. Stood in the doorway was a hunched, frail figure, cloaked in black. As it floated towards the King he drew a deep breath.

            “Avarah is that you?!”

             A cracked, hoarse voice rattled “Yes my Lord it is only I”.

            Two twisted, knotted hands reached up to lower the hood. A mass of matted gray hair surrounded a weathered face with thin, crinkled skin. The old woman’s dark eyes glinted dangerously in the gloom. The King took an involuntary step backwards.

            “Must you come looking like one of the nine?!”

            “Oh I am sorry my Lord!” she said as she drew a ragged breath “I know this appearance does not please you...”

            The woman closed her eyes and a low hum filled the room, shaking the instruments and ornaments strewn across the desk. As she looked up her face began to transform before the King’s eyes. Her hair darkened to a silky raven black, spilling in waves past her waist. The deep wrinkles in her paper-like skin smoothed as it filled with a dewy, soft youth. She looked quite beautiful, especially in the soft candle light. She had the same beetle black eyes as she smiled with dazzling pearl teeth.

            “Is this better my Lord?”

            Avarah assessed her image in the long mirror next to the fireplace.

            “I will never understand why you think this image beautiful, but if it makes you less... anxious”.

            She turned to face Regalus, removing a velvet pouch from within her cloak.

            “If the nine found out I was bringing the sacred stones before you I would be done for! But what I have seen is of great importance to the lands, to all our futures.”

            She placed a stone bowl at her feet, chanting words that were not understood into their surroundings. There was the sudden crackle of magic as the bowl began to rise from the ground, spinning slowly as it bobbed in the thickened air. Regalus took another step back as he struggled to breathe in the humid room, staring at Avarah with a mixture of intrigue and fear.

            Placing the velvet pouch in both hands she raised her arms above her head before emptying its contents into the bowl. Taking the bowl in both hands she continued to chant as she swirled the contents, the sound of clinking stone mingling with her mysterious crooning. Suddenly she spilled its contents onto the floor around her feet. Small stones of different sizes, ornately carved with strange characters lay strewn on the wood.

            Avarah’s black eyes grew large as she looked from stone to stone.

            “I have foreseen a great darkness my Lord. A great darkness that will fill the land. The nine will have a hand in the peril brought to us. They will bring about the end of days. Ragnarok will come. There is only one hope that we will prevail my Lord. It lays in the hands of your unborn child, your seventh child! A choice will be made, that may tip the balance.”

            Regalus stared at the stones that lay on his study floor, overwhelmed by what he had been told.

            “Are you sure of this Avarah?” he asked.

            “My Lord have I ever misguided you? We are all in danger now, even us seers of the islands. Maybe even the nine...” She replied drawing her eyebrows into a concerned frown.

            “My sons are strong, the eldest is growing into a fine warrior. I’m sure he can defend the lands. Will my seventh son be stronger than Thorn? Will he be the greatest warrior our lands have seen? I fear he must face dangers our world has never known.” he sighed.

            “I do not know my Lord, I only see what the stones chose to show me. I only know that our very existence may depend on this child!” Avarah replied.

            “Very well! Please leave me now. If there is any news send word straight away!” He barked.

            “As you wish your Majesty” she replied in a bow, sweeping quickly from the room, her raven hair turning to brittle grey as her skin began to crease.

            As the King undressed for bed his head swam with thoughts of the future, of his Kingdom, but most importantly of his family. He thought of all that was expected of his baby, sleeping peacefully in its mother’s womb. As he climbed into bed with Queen Freya he laid a protective hand on her stomach, holding them both closely to him as tried to sleep.