Uni work

Published a silly little book of fictions, go check it out here: http://www.scribd.com/victoria_mcdonagh

Missing: motivation.

Missing: Motivation last seen boarding a airplane, possibly clutching a passport that could be fake. Tracks have stopped at Paris, sightings suggest the motivation has made it further into Europe, either towards Italy.


The owner of the motivation is upset and only wishes to know that the motivation will return home soon, as she desperately needs to get work done for university.


Little git probably won't even bother with a postcard either.

The Hunger Games

There's been a huge amount of hype about this series recently since it's been made into a very big film, so I decided that it was worth downloading onto my kindle.

And I think I'm getting addicted.

The main character Katniss is strong, a little bit sassy and sticks her fingers up to society (well, not openly). What I like about her is that she has flaws, she's bitter, but tough. Who wouldn't be in that sort of world? And the sense of televising such a brutal show where young people kill each other, well it if we did Big Brother in the same way, it would be a helluva lot more interesting than it is now. It would also help cull some of the stupidity in this country too.

I'm only at Chapter Three, but I'm looking forward to where this will go. Might even go see the film when it comes out.

My first publication

On Wednesday morning I opened a letter to find a letter from the lovely people from United Press that they liked the poem I submitted in their competition 'Pastures New' and wanted my permission to publish.


Yes I squealed. I'm a writer, I have no dignity.


I didn't win the £100 prize (which would have really made my day) but I'm happy anyway, it's my first poem actually in print.


http://unitedpress.co.uk/


Go visit them, the competition is free to enter (but what they will do it charge you for extras, like putting your bio next to the poem, a mere 14.99 for that considerate service.)

Dating for Writers

So at the ripe of twenty-two I decided that it was time to take my life into my own hands and try again at internet dating. I thought this time round I would part with some money and get on one of those better websites. The appeal of a guy singing to me at the train station got me to sign up onto match.com (for a month’s membership at an eye watering £29.99). And they brag that have more relationships and marriages than any other website. So why not?

   It’s filled with hundreds of semi good looking men, some with vague interests outside of hiking, meeting their mates for a beer, and let’s say, happy slapping sheep. I’ve moderated all of my filters so no one older than 30 can get in touch with me, but still somehow men old enough to be my father are trying to talk to me. Then there are the guys my age who write like five year olds. Too many emails going, ‘hey how r u?’, that I am so tempted to offer a long essay discussing the theory of metaphysical poetry, or plays I’ve read, or just something more interesting than what music I’m into.

   I think courting in Jane Austen’s era would be more fun than this. I feel my stomach plummet with dread faster than a rollercoaster with a death warning attached when yet another greasy looking man in his forties has winked at me. They most probably have a couple kids and a few tattoos and couldn’t even spell the word novel, let alone discuss the themes of one.

   Strangest of all, I started chatting to a guy who was a journalist, and it was clear there was no interest of a spark, but I’ve got some good advice out of him. I bet that made his day thinking that of all places to give a young writer at advice, it was a dating website for singles. The internet is a hard place to generate that instant, ‘wow you are good looking and this could go somewhere’ feeling. One guy ticked all the boxes, but in person, just nothing seemed to happen.

   Perhaps I’m setting my standards too high. I’m angling all of this from a very literary perspective, but books and writing are a key interest, and there’s only so far you can see going to the gym as a hobby. I find myself trawling through pictures of hundreds of guys thinking, you’re okay, not so good looking, oh what tragic fish eyes, and one good looking guy turned out to be an inch shorter than me, and he was off the list.

   The world of internet dating is as fraught as the real world of dating, expect there’s less chance of getting felt up, but the virtual feeling of being felt up is far worse (a hot shower and a bottle of shower gel helps get rid of the dirty feeling.) Maybe I should start trawling the bars in the local city, and just go with the next guy who says, ‘hello sweetheart, how’s it goin’?’. It’s about the same as what I’m getting online.

   

Lourve

Louvre

To a bronze Egyptian mirror seen at the Louvre

A mirror, not cold greyed glass,

instead warm ambiance of polished amber hues,

halo gilded owner.

Shines still after millennium of reflecting

Sand specks in dunes,

Dust gathering of old pharaoh’s breath as

he rests, cocooned under lays, brainless,

heartless, all exchanged for a feather.

A mirror raised from the tomb,

packed in reeds cut from the same riverbed,

then brought across hundreds of miles

for each thousand years of waiting.

Hush now, and view yourself, I have not seen a face

for three thousand years.

Hush, watch yourself,

connecting with your wooden carved ancestors,

polished onyx and jet beads dance

under the glass panels

as I see again.

A Misplaced Generation

His weathered hands shook as he read over the Melbourne Age again. The pages rustled as he slowly put it down and spread it out across the worktop. Matthew wiped the sweat from his forehead and then dragged his dry hand over his eyes too. The thought of it was too much to bear, why now? Why after all this time? ‘Granddad!’ Melanie called crossly. She crossed her arms, the plastic fairy wand sticking out like a street sign from her hand. The tiara was falling forward over her forehead. ‘Are you going to come play in the garden?’ ‘In a minute, sweetheart. Granddad has to finish making Grandma a cup of tea.’ ‘Okay,’ Melanie sounded defeated, and hung her head in the expert childish fashion. ‘I’ll find you a bit of chocolate if you play with your brother,’ Matthew bribed her. The smile from her was worth it, and Melanie skipped out into the garden, her dark hair swinging behind her as she went. It was hard enough trying to keep up with her at this age, especially when their mum relied on him so much for last minute childcare. He flicked the kettle on again, and scanned over the paper in disbelief. It wasn’t possible, after so many years. ‘Probably media scares again.’ He muttered to himself, at least to correct his fearful assumptions. Normally it worked, this iron will over himself. Matthew could displace any bad thought; bury it into the workings of his mind like a gravedigger. But today, that would not happen. It niggled in his stomach like a flea irritates a dog. ‘Oh lovely,’ Margaret purred as she accepted the hot cup of tea from him. She sat in the shade in the garden, watching the children play at the old swing set. Melanie played with her younger brother who trotted after her, pointing at things and grinning wordlessly. Matthew’s hand shook, and Margaret reached out for it, calming him. ‘What’s the matter?’ There was a rise of concern in her voice, and Margaret abandoned her book. Matthew trembled. ‘Front page of the paper,’ He managed to say in a whisper. Margaret rose from her chair and went into the kitchen to find the paper. She came back a moment later, clutching the paper to her chest like a new born child. ‘They’ve issued an apology.’ She whispered. ‘Sixty years too late.’ Matthew murmured. ‘I can’t forgive them.’ His face was sunk; suddenly the years had caught up with him. ‘I’m here,’ Margaret said, enfolding her arms around his shoulders. ‘What’s wrong, Grandad?’ Melanie stood on the patio, utterly puzzled. ‘Nothing pet, your Grandad just lost something.’ ‘Can we find it?’ Melanie’s eye lit up at the thought of a game. Margaret found tears in her eyes. ‘What he lost, a long time ago, it can’t be found, pet.’ Melanie looked at her grandmother, studying the words of the newspaper, making out a few of the words. Child Migration victims given long awaited apology’ She didn’t know how you could lose your childhood.

Falling Feathers

When he disappeared, they told me not to follow. In the Goodwill Institute for Homeless Children, we di as we are told. I clasp my hands in prayer, dig my nails deep into my hands so we could feel something.

            The walls are grey. The seats are old concrete. Even the nuns wear a washed out grey habit. It was like God didn’t say ‘There shall be light’ over this place. The world like newspaper print dipped in water. Nothing thrives here. Once in the corner of the yard some children found a tiny plant sprouting up through the gravel. It was delicate and green. We watered it and kept it safe until one of the sisters came and plucked it like a tick our heads.

            Kindness was a word I had only read in the dictionary, along with words like vermillion, turquoise, flowers. But fear, hatred, we know these better than we know ourselves. It is the taste of hatred that sits on our tongues every night. It is the sweaty fear that keeps you awake.

Even when one more child has been ripped from their bed, silent hands clawing at the sheets, their cries smothered out, no one hears it, no one sees it. But we know. You turn over, pull the coarse sheets over your head. Somehow, you are glad you have another day in this miserable existence.

            They say to us that the saints were born from suffering. All of us here should be saints. The nuns even gave us pious names, as if this should help the process along. I hate my name, Hope. It’s bitter, hangs on at the end, promising me something I’m not allowed to have. I try to nurse a tiny sliver of it, hiding deep in my chest. But the sisters can smell it on you, and beat it from you. Everyone has the marks of the cane on their thighs and buttocks.

            Gabriel is like a brother to me. He could be my brother for all I know. We don’t remember where we came from before this place. It was like you blinked, and were here, suddenly alive and awfully aware of the grey around you.

            He went last night, the head sister told us at breakfast this morning that he ran away to the outside for a life of sin.

But he’s still here, I can feel him.

We have never told anyone how we can feel each other. We can share words and pictures if we feel strong. The nuns almost found out once. I fell over on the hard gravel outside and scraped my knee badly. Gabriel fell over instantly, his knee mysteriously bloody. The nuns made me kneel and pray on my cut knee for hours. I still have a scar, a bit like a heart falling sideways.

            He’s asleep. It makes me feel sleepy, and once I nearly fall over during prayer. I have to find him, I feel so lost without him.

I’ve never been much of a dreamer, but sometimes Gabriel lends me his, vast blueness, fading into glorious deep magenta. I didn’t know the sky was supposed to be blue. My dreams are often me trying to climb a wall, but between the gaps blood leaks out, and I can’t keep my grip.

            I start planning my escape. At dinner I steal a spoon, and at night I bend off the top and carefully sharpen it against the brick wall at the top of my bed. I also scrape my name into the walls, and Gabriel’s too. I store rations of bread traded from the other children for my few precious belongings.

They come for me the night before I decide to escape. Cold hands grasp at my throat, the deep voice of authority whispering in my ear not to make a fuss. My hand finds my weapon, and I drive it hard into soft flesh. The cry of pain is inhuman as I bolt from the dormitory. Children lie huddled in their beds, and I know they are awake, silently cheering for me. I make it outside, half way across the gravel.

            There is pain, like lightning across my shoulder blades. It hits me twice more. I clutch at my head, curse, scream. It’s him, it’s Gabriel.

Darkness, cool ground against my cheek.

I feel close to him now.

When I wake, the whole room is white, blinding and clean. I didn’t know so much white existed in one place. This can’t be heaven. It is too cold, too awful. The back of my hand itches, I see a small tube leading out of it, taped secure against my skin. I reached out clumsily with my other hand to try and pull it out, only to find I’ve been restrained. I trace the small tube to a clear bag of liquid. It could be water, or poison.

            ‘She could be the key to this. She might be the first successful transplant without a donor.’

            ‘His operation went without many complications; he seemed to wake at one point. The donor tissue however has taken well to his bone structure. Only time will tell.’

            ‘This is a miracle, the first miracle in years!’

            Someone strokes my hair almost lovingly. I struggle, twisting my head away weakly.

            ‘You’re our hope, our little Hope.’

            I hated him, whoever he was, whatever he had done.

I next woke to find Gabriel in a bed near mine. The pain in my back is unbearable. It  itches like someone is constantly pressing needles into my skin. Gabriel is lying on his front like me, to allow the air to get to our backs. I reach out from the bed; our fingertips just meet, but that contact is enough.

            ‘What have they done to us?’ I ask.

            His eyes darken, unreadable even to me for a moment. I didn’t need to speak, but it breaks the silence.

            They weren’t trying to make saints of us, no, they are trying to make angels.

Later, a man comes to the room, robed in clothes that once were brilliant and white, but look tatty and worn now. The air about him is repulsive, and the way he looks at us isn’t like we’re human to him.

            ‘Marvelous, simply marvelous, we want only one messenger, but here we have two. Hope and Gabriel, fitting names!’ he cries happily. He continues to speak, telling us that we are the first successful grafts to accept the donor tissue. A large wing had been found several years ago, rumours told that it was an angel’s wing. The world outside the walls is broken, filled with disease, hunger, poverty, greed, murder, rape. We are man’s salvation, we must fly to God, to prove that the remaining humanity is worthy of heaven. All we must do now is rest.

            The days blur into weeks, all the time the wings from our backs grow strong, firm and beautiful, but we become thin, despite all the rich food they feed us. The veins stand out on Gabriel’s face, bluish against his pale skin. Dark circles hang under my eyes, and my mouth had become a thin line. All the time Gabriel and I talk in our heads, dreaming of blue skies, flying endlessly. When the time comes, we’ll know what to do.

The day comes sooner than we are ready. Only we know our wings aren’t strong enough, but they are desperate for deliverance. What remains of the world is falling apart rapidly. Sirens and alarms sound in the distance, along with the sounds of bombs, faint echoes of shock waves travel through the building. They dress me in silk, a flowing robe that must have cost the earth so long ago.

            They lead me and Gabriel onto an open roof, and the sky above us is terrifying and wide. The priest chants quickly, dozens of nuns lined up neatly in praying, rosaries swinging from their clammy, nervous hands. A scroll has been tied to my waist, detailing a plea, names of those to be saved, those to be punished.

            ‘Go forth, messengers! Bring forth the love of God to purge this land, and all ascend into the glorious heaven!’

            I grasp onto Gabriel’s hand. The wind feels strange through the feathers on my back. Each air current is begging to be ridden, explored.

            ‘I love you,’ I murmur. Gabriel’s hand squeezes hard. I have never felt more alive or whole. I spread out my wings, and leap into the air, suddenly soaring. Our bodies are so light, our wings carry us up with little effort. The sky wraps around us, becoming bluer than Gabriel ever dreamed. I tore the scroll from my waist and threw it away. I faintly hear the priest cry in outrage and despair. I smile, laugh. Gabriel laughs too.

            Our wings aren’t strong enough to go the whole way. We didn’t want that, anyway. I breathe in the air, so pure and wonderful, but keep my eyes fixed on the sky above me.

            Gabriel held me as we fell.