Ten Years in the Making

As any well weathered traveler will tell you, it’s usually best to abide by the rules of the places you find yourself in. But when the first rule is that no one living should be there, abandoning all hope may be the least of your concerns.

When eleven year old Millie finds herself stepping through the dark and onto a strange-looking train, there’s not an awful lot she can do. Without her parents and the comfort of familiar surroundings, Millie is left to ask strangers for help. But the other passengers are silent and sorrowful, looking anywhere but at her – and they won’t tell her the name of the next stop…

It’s hard to believe really, but this novel (my first, completed, honest to god finished novel) has taken me over a decade to write. It started life as short story in my first semester at university and by the end of the term I was pretty damn sure the bloody thing was cursed.

Doorways

Hospital RS, photography by Nick Dessauvages via Flickr.

Working the night shift does strange things to your head. Walking down darkened hallways without light or life to distract you gives your mind the opportunity to focus on other things. Around the eight-hour mark my imagination tends to take over. It turns the rooms I look into as I pass gateways to different places inside my head. The absence of colour and conversation creates a blank slate, perfect for projecting mindscapes onto.

Reality Doesn’t Bite

‘Window in Another Reality’. Photography by Bunnis.

The question posed by today’s Daily Prompt is simple enough,

What bores you?

Well to be perfectly honest, real life does. I’ve touched on this before (very briefly) in my post on escapism.

Why I’m Glad Dinosaurs are Extinct

Don’t be fooled! Some Dinosaurs may pretend to be cute so that they can lure you into a false sense of security and then EAT YOU. (via Google Images)

I was seven years old when Jurassic Park came out and eight years old when I watched it in my Grandparent’s living room. The soft, faded fabric of the sofa cushion I hid behind, did little to protect me from the frankly horrific events that proceeded to unfold on the small analogue telly in the centre of the room. My younger brothers were on the floor, enraptured and my grandmother was knitting beside me, clearly not the least bit concerned at her youngest granddaughter’s feelings of UTTER TERROR.

The Power of Synopses and a Pensieve of My Own

via harrypotter.wikia.com

I can’t have been the only one who, upon first reading about Albus Dumbledore’s Pensieve in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire thought, god I wish I had one of those! A magical pot swirling with all the memories you wanted to keep alive and rewatchable, Catch-up TV style? Fantastic! It would be the most useful thing I could ever hope to own as a storyteller, with one slight alteration. Instead of memories, it would have the option to hold the flashes of all the untold fictional worlds in my head instead. Imagine, just like Harry, being able to tumble through the fog and emerge on the other side only to see a vivid dreamscape – one of your own creation.

A Windmill on the Moon

Today’s Daily Prompt provided me with the perfect excuse to expand a little on the description I use in my about me sections. I’ve taken the liberty of doing a little question and answer session for those who might not quite understand my future plans. Fantasies away!

One day I will own a windmill…

Q: But why would you want to live in a windmill though? Aren’t those expensive?

Steampunk inspired windmill by ZackF.

If I Had a Robotic Best Friend

Walk With Me My Friend, by abrider3.

WANTED

Robot with ‘spark’ for friendship, adventures and story telling.

MUST BE: in possession of personality programming, free will subroutines, made from robust materials and non murderous.

NO HUMANS IN COSTUME PLEASE

I Dream of Spaceships

We all have that friend (or perhaps, we are that friend) that laments being born in the wrong century. They ache for the simplicity of the past, for the castles and the royals who kept them, for the revolutions, for the art, the blues, the poetry and the uncertainty. “I was born too late,” they say, describing their passion for their chosen history, “I missed out on what I love”.

Me? I was born too early.