Hiya pixies!


2016. Geez. We’re in a brand new year, so I thought I start off by showing you guys the start of a story I’m working on…

This story isn’t actually PH based, but I thought I’d share it with you anyway. 🙂

So, may I present to you:


Raindrops are falling from the sky. I watch them run down the window of the bus.

The weather matches my mood; black and stormy grey, with little hope of sunshine – yes, that sounds about right.

No one else sees this, of course. My feelings are hidden from the world, blocked out, safe behind my little mask.

My mask is special. It isn’t one of those cheap ones made out of a paper plate and glue. No. My mask is elaborate, detailed, and impossible to see through.

It took me a long time to build up such an impenetrable mask. At first, it was crude and easy to see past, through to the tortured soul behind it. But, slowly, it became more and more intricate. Now, my mask is more of a second skin, really. It hides my feelings and fears.

The bus pulls to a stop and I stand, picking up my bag. I hate Mondays. They always start with a school assembly, an hour of boredom. I sigh as I clamber out of the bus, instantly getting soaked to the skin. I don’t mind. The rain is refreshing.

Walking through the school gates, I remember I forgot my ID. I suppose that ruins my plan to lie in sickbay for maths. I wander through the school aimlessly. It’s early, and first bell hasn’t rung yet. School won’t officially start for another hour or so. Most students take this time to use the school internet on their phones as much as possible – teacher don’t come out to supervise until first bell.

I sit down in my favorite spot – under the stairs of the H Block, and pull out my latest book – Journey of the Firesouls. Usually I read until the bell goes – I have nothing better to do, after all. It’s not like I ever talk to anyone.

The book is enchanting – I spend the next half-hour submerged in its pages, entranced at the way the word conjure such powerful images. The climax is coming, I can sense it. Why else would the author use the phrase ‘down the dark and foreboding corridor’?


The voice startles me. I look up to see a girl standing in front of me. She has curly amber colored hair and a few freckles on her nose. She’s tall too, and seems to have gone out of her way to annoy the teachers, with her hair pulled back in a brightly colored elastic, a few golden bangles on her wrist and bright pink nail polish on her fingernails.

“You’re the new girl, right?” She says. I say nothing. I arrived at this school over a month ago. Surely the term ‘new girl’ doesn’t apply to me anymore. She still hasn’t explained why she’s talking to me. No one talks to me, and in return, I don’t talk to them. That’s how it’s always been here, and quite personally, that’s how I’d like it to stay.

The girl waits for an answer, fiddling with her bangles. I watch her, wondering what I should do. Finally, she speaks again.

“My name’s Chelsea. I’m in your English class. We sit at the same desk?”

I have a vague recollection of this girl now – she has a good hand at poetry.

“Anyway, I still haven’t finished that assignment we were given a few weeks ago – you know, the creative writing task?”

I knew the one. I had completed it ages ago.

“Well, I’ve seen how good your writing is, and I was hoping that maybe you could, you know, help me finish mine?”

She says it all in a rush, as if she’s nervous. Weird. It’s not like I’m going to yell at her. She looks at me expectantly now, as if I’m supposed to say something. I shrug. The girl hesitates.

“… Is that a yes then?”

I suppose so – it’s not like I can refuse, not now. I sigh and nod slowly. Her face lights up.

“Thank you so much!” She beams. “… Can I sit down?”

I nod again. Looking up for so long was hurting my neck. It’s a relief to look down again.

The girl sits down and pulls out an exercise book, opening it to a page filled with her neat handwriting.

“I have this idea in my head, but I can’t seem to put it on the page. Any tips?”

She holds out the book for me to have a look. I take it. I have to admit, her idea is great – but there’s no evidence of an introduction. I hand the book back to her.

“… Well?” She asks, with that nervous look again. I shrug.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” She says.

I shrug again.

“Is something wrong?”

This takes me by surprise. I look at her, expecting to see her smirking, but she’s not. She actually looks generally concerned. I stare at her, and for a moment I open my mouth to speak – then close it as I remember one vital thing:

I can’t.

My name is Elizabeth May, and five months ago I was told I would never speak again…


So what do you think? Did you enjoy it? I’ll try to post more soonish… No guarantees though. 😛

Well, ’till then,

 – Rose ❤ 😉