Here is Jay – pen sketch

I like. Really I do, just, maybe ditch the tragic backstory?

I mashed the keyboard with my palm, knocking the tablet flat on my cluttered desk. What the fuck Kasabian94? Yeah, I get your point, but what’s wrong with injecting a bit of colour, a bit of misery into his past?

I stared at the comment, my eyes boring into the screen. Seriously.

‘Jez, JEZ, can I borrow this?’

I tore my gaze away from Tumblr. My aggravating brother was slouching against the doorframe. He was after something.

‘I’ve told you a million times Dan, don’t call me Jez. It’s Jay.’

‘Whatever man, I just need to borrow this. Alright?’ He held up a jacket. My jacket. My vintage denim jacket. I shot him ‘the look’. ‘No Dan.’

‘Go on Jez…Jay. I need it for tonight.’

I didn’t bother asking. There was no point really. Ever since he was fourteen, my impossibly good looking and cool brother had set out on some kind of socialising marathon. He was out every night, I was in, always very much in.

I sighed. ‘Will you leave me alone if I say yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alright then.’ I looked back at my tablet and propped it up again on its stand.

‘What’re you doing then?’ Dan asked, peering forwards.

I slumped across my desk with my very best fainting American belle. ‘Not your business. You’ve got what you wanted.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Dan paused before he left the room. ‘It’s far too much tragic backstory though mate.’ He laughed like a drain as I threw a balled up sock at his head, then ducked out of the doorway and back to his room. My brother, the pain-in-my-arse.

I thought that it helped to set up the scene, I typed, my fingers plodding slowly on the keys. It’s important for the plot that Amy knows his past before Rory meets him.

Oh yeah, I suppose I should have mentioned that. I write Dr Who fan fiction, and no, it’s not slash fic (but it is sometimes) and no, I don’t hold with AU stuff, UNLESS it’s done really well. Also, I’m equal opportunity when it comes to the Mary Sue approach. After all, if you’re not willing to stick yourself in the story, how could you possibly inflict it on some other character? Anyway, I’m getting off the point. The point is this, imagine me sitting at my desk (OK, so you’ve done that), annoying brother elsewhere and I’ve just typed a stinging response to Kasabian94, and that’s basically where I am.

I puff out a long breath, jutting my chin forwards and tap my forefinger against my teeth.

Now what?

 

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This is Jay!

A while ago, as part of my Creative Writing classes, we created a fictional world called, rather appropriately, ‘Fictropolis’ (thanks for the name, Alisha). We each had to create a character for this new world. Here is mine, he’s called, Jay.

Character biography –

  • Teenage guy, about 19/20. He has many issues regarding his gender and sexual identity that he’s trying to work through and explore.
  • He’s from a ‘nice’ housing estate – working class ‘made good’ in the town. He has a loving family and gets on well with his siblings, but is just very different from them. His mum works in an office and his dad is a driving instructor. He has an older sister, Emily, married with two kids, husband recently diagnosed with a rare degenerative disease of the eye. He has a younger brother who wants to be a professional DJ.
  • His personality is extravagant, which covers up anxiety issues and recurrent depressive episodes. He takes medication (sometimes), his ‘pink pills’.
  • He recently dyed his hair bright bubble-gum pink as a ‘FU’ to the world, but this is also secretly a reference to the colour of his medication. His hair is naturally fine and blonde. He’s spent the last two years growing it long, to his shoulders.
  • He’s currently in a very complicated relationship with his long-term girlfriend Holly, and her boyfriend, Taylor . He also has a growing attraction for a young guy that he met recently through his hobby (obsession), which is fandom/fan fic writing. He identifies (sometimes) as bisexual and sometimes as queer.
  • He sees his life as a grey, flat train platform, enlivened with brief splashes of colour. So, he tries to ‘paint’ his world as much as possible. He loves art, museums, clubs and posting his work online.
  • Actions and textures: Dancing and alcohol, vinyl and velvet, glittery eyeshadow and the passage of time.
  • ‘Don’t deal with the real world, because the real world will bite you in the arse.’

Natural observations

Nature observational writing

  • Tall flower, slender
  • Pale green stems, covered with sticky cobweb
  • Dead flowers – small yellow flowers, tips with the remainder of pollen, empty seed heads where the dandelion clocks have been blown
  • Leaves at regular intervals, serrated, look like sun-bleached kale
  • Odd, peculiar rusty substance on the leaves
  • Broken cobwebs, the husk of a dead fly wrapped in on itself, swings in the wind, when gently blown upon, seeds stuck in the webbing, no spider to be seen, abandoned home
  • Smells of decay, pollen, sickly sweet woodland underfoot on a country walk
  • Seed heads pale brown, twisted and curled

 

Taking from this list of imagery, I wrote a short fiction piece:

She was the picture of ill-health. Her body was abnormally slender, bent, twisted, a broken stem rising from parched root to decaying tip. Her hair was dry and brown, curled limply around her thin face. Her skin was sallow, green tinged and sickly. She sat, ensconced in her chair, spindle-limbed and desperate, drowning dry for conversation and care.

Sat waiting, in the hospice lounge, she seemed fragile, wilting, past her bloom and devoid of life. David brushed the back of her hand with his fingers. At the gentle touch, she looked up, her dark eyes softening, ‘There you are,’ she said, simply, her voice quiet.

He sat down opposite her on the stiff couch. Against the tobacco of the walls, he seemed too bright, too large for the space. David rubbed his ginger beard and smiled ruefully, ‘You look uncomfortable, would you like a cushion? I can get you a cushion.’

Susan smiled at her husband, and shook her head gently, too much movement brought on the migraines. ‘No, darling. Honestly, I’m fine.’

David shifted uncomfortably again, ‘I might. I mean, I might get a coffee. Do you want one, love?’

‘No thanks,’ Susan breathed, sitting back in her chair again and closing her eyes. Her brittle hair fanned out against the plain white anti-Macassar. David worried at his bottom lip with his teeth. ‘I’ll just go and get that…’ he trailed off, she had obviously gone to sleep again.