Pursuits Of The Squire

Hello friends,


It's been a while since my last entry, so I thought I'd update you: Christmas was great. New Year? Not so much. Time over the holiday has slipped by, as it tends to do, and I've made little 'life' progress. 
Fortunately, however, I've decided to share a short story that I "did writey that timey" (Millie B quote). In fact, this was the short story I submitted for my English in Year 10. Should be an exciting read for you - got an A* after all (bragbragbragbragbragbragnn hauhahahahaha u didn't do dat gud blad)


Enjoy! ...

Pursuits Of The Squire

'Dong!' I awoke.

It was the middle of the night when the rooster crowed. The sun had disappeared hours ago into a mass of clouds over the western hills. From the wind buffeting my broken body, I knew a storm had rolled off the North Sea. The sky would be as black as a lead mine, and even the earth, covered in snow as it was, would be invisible. The sun, when it rose – if it rose – would be masked in gloom.

Painfully, I opened my eyes. Greeted by blurred outlines of the night sky, I blinked rapidly. High above, the moon paraded around the dark abyss of twilight. I watched in vain despair, lying, confused, on cold, hard stone. A bell rang out again; jogging me to my senses.

My head rang out in pain. Cringing, I brought up my arm in search of damage. Looking back at my hand, it was now covered in blood. It was here that I remembered. Reluctantly, I recalled my recent moments... the plan... the screams... the struggle. It was all coming back to me now.

For the third time, the grand bell beside me resonated. I perished the moment when it would hit its twelfth chime. My mind was adrift. There was no use now... no use trying. Surely there could have been some sort of divine intervention? But no. I was condemned to my own demise. Another bell resounded.

I stood. Slowly, I drew the knife from its scabbard. Taunting in the moonlight, paved with dark, mindless blood, I dropped the knife into the darkness below.

I was being buffeted by wind; by darkness; by death. I looked out across my world, across my town, across acres of nothing. I was, however, able to distinguish the men below. They knew it was up here: their impetuous screams and curses of fury told me too much. These men had stayed up all night to witness an execution, and, from where I was standing, that was the only remaining outcome. Another chime resounded.

At least, I mused, my brother may have escaped. I saw little evidence of him in the gallows below. If tonight was going to plan – which it wasn't – then perhaps my loudmouth brother may have escaped. Chime.

Footsteps behind me rang out obtrusively; no doubt they had taken to ascending the stairs to reach me. Fortunately, the door was locked, and I was given yet further time to question my predicament.

Escape was useless. I knew that. From the start, when I formulated my plan, somehow I knew that I was going to die. And now there were only two ways off this belltower: neither of them pretty. Another chime... the seventh? Although you would would have thought of it as important, I found counting my remaining seconds to be inappropriate.

My body was badly battered. I could hear little; see little. The men below, the men behind, their shouts of vindictive, bloodthirsty rage, were almost silent. No, it was the wind that was most overpowering up here. I spread my arms wide and let it consume me. Chime.

The small, distinguishable, cogent door was now being ruthlessly shaken, and now kicked at in an attempt to get at me. I ignored it. Squinting my eyes, I noticed the torches below were burning out, and soon the only remaining light source became the moon. Chime. Its gaze. I felt as though the moon were directly looking at me: as though I were somehow important. Pitifully, I laughed at this, in spite of myself.

It was all coming now. Fast, but not too fast. I had taught myself to prepare for this, but, truth is, nobody wants to die. Chime.

For once in my life, I felt free. No laws. No restrictions. No limitations. I was unafraid. My endeavour had been successful, and now I was ready.

I calmly moved to the front of the belltower. My toes curled over the edge. The door behind me was being torn to pieces, but it did not matter. I was free now. Chime.

I felt as though time had stopped: as though I were alone in the world. My senses had numbed. I could hear, smell, taste, and feel nothing. Then came the final chime.

Breathless. That's the word I would use to describe it. Falling, I mean. Falling into death. Falling into life. Nothing was going to stop me from doing what I wanted to do now. I was fully, utterly, and complacently free. Like the sun, now curving in over the brink of the horizon.

A Milan Banwaith Tale

With the recent success of my previous entry from yesterday, I've had recommendations from Tom Edwards and many others to continue writing.  Over the course of the day, whilst pondering both life's mysteries, and what I could write for my second article, an abomination of a person came stumbling over to me, (wearing his "£65" fleece) and said, in his most naive (sorry Mrs Fisher - can't put an umlaut on the "i"), honest, and sincerest voice:


"James! What does 'dispute' mean? Seriously James, I just don't know."

                                      The great Milan Banwaith


This conversation evolved into how he also didn't know the definition of 'mistress', and kept pronouncing it 'mist-ress', and then, with Josh Murphy reluctantly joining in the discussion, Milan commented: "Josh! Your breath stinks! That's so 'bs'..."


This was in a History lesson period 3 & 4, and so, with a substitute teacher, our ability to talk freely was hardly discouraged. Well, now that I think about it, this old lady (who had one of the most strangest accents) was shouting a lot: I didn't really like her. Anyway, sorry; I'm digressing.


So next, with this old woman who's practically crumbling with age looming and watching all of us strangely, silence befalls the classroom. Completely spontaneously, and utterly randomly, Milan screeches in sheer delight: "Press it hard!"


A series of unfortunate events then unfurl which I shan't delve into, and, almost immediately, another blinding comment passes Milan's lips: "James, move your arm!" (I'm left handed you see, and my arm was getting over his work) 
In retaliation, I replied sarcastically "I'm sorry I'm left handed."
And his golden response was: "Well why don't you change hands?!?!?!?!"


Now that this inaccurate anecdote about today's events has been told, I must reveal that Milan is, in all 200+ official countries, by all experiments known to man: psychologically insane. It is this insanity that has been described today: one of his outrageously stupid actions and terminology, his repetitive ramblings about how he will one day become the next Nigel Smith, and his obsession with women's clothing and make-up.


In the future, say... 10 years from now, I would like to meet up with Milan, to see how he has fared in independent life. My bet is that, if his ambition to become a dentist has failed, he will either become the Godfather of the world's largest organised criminal cartel in the world, or someone will have got so fed up with him that they will have brutally killed Milan with nothing but a blunt tooth pick and a wooden spoon.


The sad thing is, despite his probable retardedness, I still class this lovable, blundering idiot as a friend. It is this pathetic stupidity that brings out the best in a person: Milan Banwaith is a prime example.


And so I say, let the legacy of Milan live on through our tales. Never surrender; never faulter. And in the words of the great Millie B. himself:


"STFU, or I'll slap you silly!"


Sianara.

Monsters & Statues

So I've always thought of myself as a weird person. You know: that socially awkward kid who's always daydreaming about what meagre, pointless detail will happen next in life. That person who you'll see sitting in the corner of the classroom reading the slogan on his pen for the thousandths time, and who never seems to be able to control his ostentatious, wavy hair. This unusualness is also portrayed through my undecided political and religious views - which I suppose might be expected from a 15-year-old such as myself - my realisation that if the meaning of life isn't 42, then it's nothing, and also in the fact that, to this very moment, I still can't remember the twist to Planet Of The Apes.


I like to think that first paragraph summarises me quite nicely: strange, yet mysterious and dashingly handsome. I do wish to amend one thing though. I mean, I'm not completely socially inept. The term "friends" is one that is , even if in a broad sense, is still associated with me, and I've always had an unusual sort of confidence, that has survived me this far in life (do please note that this is almost ironic sarcasm, as living in Hampshire, England, is one of the easiest, most comfortable, and most discriminationally-secure [that can't be a word] places in the world).


And so, when an old friend of mine posted on his Facebook account that he had begun blogging (shoutout to Sam Francis!), seeing as it is the weekend, and my "homework ran thin over an hour ago" (Milan Banwaith quote), I've decided, in death-defying, ruthless fashion, to "jump on the band-wagon", and see where this strange world of blogging takes me.


Before I continue, I've got to admit that I've always thought of blogging as strange. Not in the extremely strange sense that potentially anyone across the world can find out just about anything about me (not strange at all), but instead in the sense that blogging is writing down your opinions of the world. But, in reality, it is so much more than this: blogging is telling both friends and strangers your thoughts and secrets - most of which are never communicated to anyone in the real world - so reading a blog about the person truly lets you into their mind (Inception). I've always thought of that as pretty cool.


Before I leave you to ponder how this specific blog will impact the world (that being, not at all), I must reveal my ambitions in life, and true motives for writing this blog, as is tradition for a blogger's very first post. My ambition in life is to go into medicine; for as long as I can remember, this has always been what's interested me, and has motivated me in life for a career path. But still, I have a yearning - a desire - deep down. And this yearning is to write.


Ever since I wrote my first story when in Infant School (I seem to remember it being something to do with a monster and a statute), I've always had an urge to write my radical, outlandish, eccentric, and utterly impossible ideas down, and share them with the world. I'm relatively sure that writing novels is the perfect way to do this. 
Now, I'm sure you're all wondering what my desire to write novels has to do with blogging? Truth be told, I myself don't know, or understand, the link (yet), though perhaps it is in the childish quote, "practice makes perfect", in that blogging will help me when I am older, and my wish to write will be enhanced because of this superfluous blog of mine.


And so, when you are older, look out for my name; James Leggett. It is a name that will be written in the stars, and shall be told for generations to come: of a novelist with great valour!


Until next we do meet, my friends. Night is drawing in, and winter is coming. I must leave you.


Until then.