Yes, I AM serious about this blog!

Okay. This will not be one of these cliché posts with thousands of apologies why this blog is not properly maintained. I'm fully aware that I should still be posting, because there is not much more fun stuff to do when you're in final year of English and American Studies in Austria. No fun at all! This is supposed to keep me sane when I'm crushed under the immense workload but that is exactly what keeps me from writing on here. Anyway, you probably don't care about that and just want to read one of my fun posts full of fangirling. Well, this time I have to disappoint all of my beloved fangirls, but wait before you head back and give in to your facebook addiction. ;-P I'm going to show you what I've been up to...

I actually have been writing stuff. No, I'm not talking about my boring BA thesis. I went on a Creative Writing field trip at Easter to Brighton and it was just amazing. I don't have to tell you that I felt completely at home again over there and coming back to Austria and uni  life was extremely hard.

Just to show everyone that I still care about this blog and have the desire to keep up the good work, I will let you read my two pieces about Evelyn and Thomas - two characters I created in Brighton. Once the insane workload gets more manageable and I am not a typing zombie in the library anymore, I will come up with more fun stuff for my creative outlet on the web.

So for now you might want to enjoy some of my more sophisticated writing: ;-)

Evelyn

Scattered across the handcrafted carpet, the group is huddling down in front of her. They applaud.

'Please. Stay a little longer and take a look around,' Evelyn encourages the tour group.

Her favourite room in the Pavilion shines around her in all its glory. She smiles. Golden dragons, almost ruined by a fire once, adorn the ceiling and still keep watch over the precious room. Chandeliers illuminate the carefully restored artwork, protected from the glaring sunlight behind the curtains. In the blue of the carpet, red and golden dragons dance with other creatures to form a curious pattern. Often she imagines what it would be like to play the embedded organ above in the wall. The shimmering golden pipes invite her to try the smooth keyboard and experience the instrument's sound in this beautiful room. The art, chosen by George IV, overwhelms some visitors, but she would love to meet the man who wanted to have flowers inside lotus-shaped chandeliers. Tearing her gaze away from the plants made of glass, Evelyn hurries towards the staff room.

Time to meet an old friend.

Outside, her thumb brushes over the familiar worn-down straps of her shoulder bag. Army green, a Nirvana and a peace sign patch stitched onto it; it is her most precious possession. Inside, the pencils and crayons clatter and the sketchbook flaps against her thigh as she makes her way through the streets.

The Izzy Store announces the sign outside the off-licence. The old lady behind the counter greets her with a smile.

'What can I do for you, young lady?'

'A nice bottle of red wine, please. I have an invitation for dinner today.'

After a short discussion about which brand goes better with Shepherd's Pie, Merlot or Pinot Noir, she decides for the Pinot Noir. Taking the money from her, the shop lady pauses to look at her customer's left ring finger before she puts the money in the cash register.

'Enjoy your dinner with your fiancé,' she smiles and the cash register closes with a ring.

'Oh no, no. The dinner is not with my fiancé. I'm having dinner with an old friend.'

'Alright,' grins the old woman with a glint in her eyes.

Evelyn shoves the bottle into her bag and looks everywhere but into the shop lady's face.

'Bye!'

The cold air outside cools her hot cheeks. Her blonde hair dances around her face and the blue dress tickles her knees in the breeze.

Why did I say that? Max doesn't know about this. I don't want him to worry. I just want to catch up with an old friend and talk about Sarah. That's all.

Evelyn's quick step leads her to a small park in front of his apartment. Passing through the green square, the intense smell of flowers tickles her nose. Yellow and red, they line the gravel path. The birds chirrup and tweet. Evelyn sighs.

It will be fine. We can share stories about Sarah and it will be a nice evening. Max will never know that I was here.

She releases the rim of the bag from the grip of her fingers and wipes her sweaty hands of her dress. Not for the first time Evelyn wishes her sister was still alive.

The door knocker, the head of a dragon, hits the black painted wood with a thump and a shiver courses down her spine. The big smile of the dragon only mocks her for a moment when the door opens.

'Welcome to my humble home.'

He bows and she giggles.

He always makes me laugh.

'I see you haven't lost your sense of humour.'

'Never.'

With a habitual motion, he brushes the brown curls behind his ear and smiles at her. She steps inside to embrace him. Her fingers itch with the urge to ruffle through his mane, as she did so many times when they were little

He is like a brother to me.

All the tension – gone with a hug.

Thomas

Digging his toes into the pebbles, the waves lap at his feet. The sunlight warms his skin and explodes in tiny detonations on the surface of the sea. The shadows of canoes cut through the glistening water and jet skis hop towards the horizon. He closes his eyes. Like a long lost lover's hand, the breeze strokes his cheeks. The calming sound of the waves is momentarily drowned out by the wailing of the seagulls and the hum of people talking. A whiff of seaweed and fish tickling his nose, he inhales the salty air and opens his eyes. Seagulls glide through the blue of the sky like white kites. Without the strings that would pull them out of their freedom, the seagulls swoop down to catch their prey and disappear in the ocean. Next to him they swarm around the pier like bees around their beehive and chatter along with the music.

The pebbles – softened by the power of the sea – crunch under his bare feet and the fine shingle sticks to his wet toes. The metallic scent of the stones pervades the air, as he trudges through the pebbles to where he left his shoes. A boy carrying his little sister on his back skips past him. Their laughter rings in his ears. As he walks up towards the road, the stench of urine on the stairs foreshadows the beginning of civilisation.

With a tinkle the keys thump onto the hall table. He takes a deep breath.

Today is the day...

Eyes distant, his feet take him into the bedroom where he finds the vial. Holding it against the light, his pupils focus on the white powder that has been staring at him for weeks.

A faint smell of bleach greets him in the kitchen. He places the vial behind the cookbook. It is only decoration. He knows how to cook this by heart and all ingredients lie prepared on the counter.

He boils the water and puts the chocolate into a bowl on top of the steaming pot. His hands tremble as he cracks the eggs and splits them. The roar of the mixer cuts off the song of the birds that drifts in through the window. Pouring the chocolate into the bowl with the yolk, he inhales the sweet scent and smiles. Gently he folds the fluff of beaten egg white into the chocolate and yolk mixture. Having placed this chocolate delight in the oven, his gaze lingers on a paper card looking down on him from above the oven. In the sunlight, the red heart shines on the white of the card.

You are cordially invited to...

He groans and lashes out. With a flap the card lands on the floor. Taking a few deep breaths, he picks it up and puts it on the hall table.

Out of sight.

With quick movements he peels the potatoes. The slippery tubers plop into the boiling water. Carrots and onions, chopped and peeled, land in a bowl. Knuckles turned white, he grips the door of the fridge and takes out the minced meat. He stops another tremor of his hands with the clasp of his left fingers around the handle of the pan and by mixing the meat, onions and carrots with his right hand.

This is life. Always trembling. Always moving on. No matter what happens. Never stopping.

The smell of fried onions and meat rises up from the pan and his stomach grumbles. His grip on the pan loosens and he bends over to get the jug at the other end of the counter. He pours the contents over the meat and vegetable mixture. The broth plops out like boiling lava and on his hand. He stares. He doesn't let go.

Today it will stop.

Steam rises from the pot and soon the potatoes are ready. Butter, salt and milk added, he begins to mash them. Slowly at first, he moves his arm up and down. The beat of the masher quickens. Rapid breath passes through his teeth. Furiously he bangs the pot against the counter. Bang, bang, bang, bang!

The potato masher glides out of his hand. Back against the drawers, he slides down. His hands brush over his face, turned into a grimace of agony and frustration. Head sunk down on his knees, deep sobs shake his entire body.

Half an hour later the pie bakes in the oven, the candles burn on the set table and the white powder stands ready behind the cookbook. A single knock and he rushes to the door.

'Welcome to my humble home.'

He bows and she giggles.

I will miss her laughter.

'I see you haven't lost your sense of humour,' she smiles.

'Never.'

She enters his home. Embracing her, he inhales her perfume.

Roses.

Her blond hair tickles his neck when she pulls away and sends his heart racing against his chest.

'I brought a bottle of red wine for us,' she says and hands him a brown paper bag.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Lovely place,' she exclaims with a gesture of her hand as if trying to take in the whole apartment.

'Thanks. Dinner is almost ready.'

He shows her to the table and pulls the chair out for her.

'M' lady.'

She laughs again.

'You haven't changed a bit.'

'I know,' he winks at her and returns to the kitchen.

He gets out two glasses, opens the bottle and pours. Her voice comes from the dining room.

'I was at the beach yesterday.'

She hesitates.

'And ... I drew a girl walking towards the sea.' she adds cautiously.

He stops, vial in hand.

Then she blurts out, 'Did you know that it will be five years next Tuesday? It's been five years since Sarah took her life.'

She wants to talk about her dead sister at our last meal.

He pours the white powder into both glasses. Red like blood, they shine in the sunset. He takes them to the smiling girl, soon to be wed, but now soon to be dead.

This hasn't been corrected by my prof yet, so you might still find mistakes in it. (I hope not too many, because I want a good grade on this. xD)

Feel free to leave comments. Would be great to get some opinions on it. If you want to know more about the characters ask away. I developed a background story for them that isn't really in the piece to keep it more mysterious, which I think is vital for a short story. ;-)