Friday, 15 August 2014

My Writing Drafts

In the recent years, I have attempted to write a novel, something which I have not succeeded in completing but I thought I'd be interesting to share the drafts. To be honest, I'm quite impressed when I read the drafts because I certainly DID NOT expect my writing standard to be quite good. One thing that I'm really bad at is plotting so maybe that's partly why I started so many unfinished drafts. Without further ado, the drafts! (Just a little fun fact here: I wrote the drafts when I was 12 that's why it's pretty disorganised)

***

Miya was always awake on the midnight of Christmas’ eve. She could not remember a time when she wasn’t asleep on that day. To her, that night was a special one for the clock tower only rang once a year, which was on the early morn’ of Christmas.

Since young, she had always loved the sound of the bells in the clock tower. Peering out of the window, she would squint her eyes, making out the slightest shape of the clock in a distance. Although she could not see the bells, let alone the outline, she always could figure out which bell rang, ranging from the largest to the smallest. At six years, she already had the tune ingrained firmly in her mind. She could hum the tune as naturally as breathing, never tiring of it.

The low and high sounds of the bells overlapped each other, forming what Miya thought was a beautiful contrast. They mingled together, light and dark, soaring into the air. It was always a lullaby to Miya’s ears.

People thought it was eccentric of her liking to bells. “Bells? You like the sound of the clock towers’ bells?” They would say incredulously when she told them despite that it only rang once a year. Miya would always smile, not a slightest bit offended. In fact, she liked the fact that she was labelled eccentric for it. 

On her tenth midnight of Christmas Eve, after the last bell had sang, she left the still-ajar window open and climbed to bed. She pulled her covers over her body and stared out of the window. Snow, delicate and tiny, drifted by.

Miya’s sharp ears suddenly caught a faint tune. It was so soft and very faint that it could just be a figment of her imagination. She blinked. No doubt it was there. Furrowing her eyebrows and holding her breath so that all was silence, she concentrated on it. It seemed to come from outside.
Throwing her covers aside, she crept towards the window, the cold air starting to fill her lungs. She shivered slightly in cold. Pressing her ear against the open slit of the window, the tips of her ear freezing, she focused intently on the distant tune. She could hear the hollowness in it. Perhaps a flute? Miya scanned the area around her, doubting that she could find the source from her flat that was dwarfed by several skyscrapers. She sighed. That was the only reason why she didn’t like living in the city.
Miya still could not detect the music source after a long time of thorough searching although it was really only a minute.
 
+++

On the midnight of every Christmas’ evetechnically on the morning of Christmas—the bells of the ancient clock tower rang when the hour and the minute hand reunite, its chimes echoing through the city of Lysta. This was not unusual. It had been that way for as long as anyone could remember.
After the last bell had rung, a beautiful haunting tune of a flute could be heard, faint and fragile as if it could be broken with a whisper of breath, floating from the clock tower. On this night, most people would be awake, not wanting to miss this lovely melody.

It was a mystery of who the player of the melody was. Word was that the melody was played by a ghost. Some laughed it off, claiming that a ghost couldn’t play but no one could be really sure. Some claimed to have seen the player, a dark silhouette against the moonlight, but it was gone in a blink of an eye. Some said to have sighted nothing, only the dark night, when the melody was played. The undeniable thing was, the melody came from the clock tower.  

The clock was eventually named Hozaii Cozae, Haunted Clock, for every attempt in finding the player was nothing but a failure. All they could find at the top of the tower was clock’s mechanics, the click-clacking of the chains working while the melody echoed eerily around the tower, a little more defined and louder than usual. They could not find anything else and fled from the tower, never wanting to step in the tower ever again. It was a terrifying experience, they claimed.

Till this day, it still remains a mystery, never solvable.

+++

Miya always got creeps whenever she heard this story. She had an uncanny feeling that it was all true but she refused to believe it. However, she could not deny what she felt to the melody.

The melody, to Miya, was more than just beautiful. To her, the tune seemed to breathe life although it may seem like death to others with its creepy tune. If she closed her eyes, she could have sworn she could feel it, like it was writhing, moving, alive, inside her. As if it seemed to hold life in the tune, all hopes and promises, happiness and dreams. But it also held an undeniable melancholy in which Miya thought was what made this melody more divine. They mingled together, hopefulness and sorrow like light and darkness, consuming her thoughts. Unconsciously, she would sway, as if hypnotised.

Her eyelids flutter open when the soft tune finished and she was left in a daze. No doubt this melody was celestial. Then, she would come down to earth, the reality. It was all too painful. A melody was just a melody, only to please ears. How could she ever feel with such a thing? It was all nothing.
Music to her was all just an entertainment for mankind.

+++

Miya DeLezze was a born musician. She learned both the piano and the violin fast and could compose a considerably fine song. At the age of eight, she was already performing in an orchestra, her as a soloist. Sometimes, a composition of hers would be performed by the orchestra. These works were tremendously complimented by many.

She was a famous girl, well-known throughout the city, possibly out of it too. Travellers from miles away would come to hear her perform.  They sang her praises of wonder, gave her enviable gifts.  
But to her, music was all a chore. Composing a piece was tiring and learning a piece was just a mundane task. She did it to please people. It was wonderful to receive compliments.

When she was twelve, her parents died in a fire that had broken out at an opera house. A tragic, they all said for her parents were both excellent musicians, perhaps one of the best in the world. The people of Lysta gathered on a cold wet rainy day, mourning for the loss. When the couple’s coffins were sent away, they were all silent.

Miya was no exception. She had expected to weep her throat sore but she did not even spill a single drop. All she felt was this numbing sense of loss, dull and heavy in her heart. She badly wanted cryanything to rid that unbearable numbness that laid in her. Calling it numbness wasn’t right too— she did feel pain but it was a numbing one.
A few days later her grandmother, a widow, came and brought her back to her hometown, Milzei.

+++

The first thing Miya did when the carriages entered Milzei was to admire the picturesque surroundings. The trees were stripped bare of their leaves from the chilly winter and they glistering snow adorned their bare branches. Fresh pristine snow covered the ground, animal foot prints deep in them. She sniffed and found the air scented of bitter-cold winter.
  

Miya’s mind was blank as her near-lifeless hands sawed robotically at the violin. The tune the violin emitted was dull and flat. Even scales sounded much more melodious than the sonata she was playing. Well, there wasn’t much to hear from a person who lacked any emotions.

Miya gripped the bow tighter, knuckles turning white. The tune became somewhat like the squeal of a slaughtered pig from the pressure of the bow as she willed her mind to shut up. She didn’t want to think about her parents’ death. At all.

“Youch.”

The voice, clear and musical like a pixie’s laugher, seemed to come right behind her. Surprise and fear jolt through Miya and instinctively, she brought bow and whacked her whoever was behind her. Then, she pushed herself off the tree trunk she had been leaning against when playing her violin and whirled around, her heart beating erratically. Embarrassment flooded her, turning her face into the colour of tomato when she found her trembling bow pointed unsteadily at a boy. Casually as she could, as if she hadn’t tried to smack they boy with her bow, she it drew back. A hint of amusement glinted in his blue eyes, so light they looked like ice. He looked about her age, perhaps a year or two older, with a wavy dark chocolate brown hair that fringe his face and nearly hid his eyes. In contrast to his dark hair, his skin was pale, nearly the colour of the first few flakes of snow.

“I’m pleased,” The boy said.

Miya blinked.

“What?”

“That you have stopped murdering the song. I’ve been sitting there,” he gestured to spot below a tree that was stripped bare in the winter, its branches like reedy skeletons, “for quite a while.” When Miya looked closer at the spot, she noticed that it was, indeed, disturbed. The weeds looked flattened and the snow around it had melted. The boy continued, “Unfortunately, all you did was to make my poor ears bleed.”

“Really?” Miya’s eyes widened in mock-horror. She placed her bow on her left hand, along with her violin, so that her right hand was free and covered the few steps that separated them. Then, she reached up and yanked the boy’s ear down as hard as she could and peer inside, pretending to examine it. She felt a smirk threatening to materialise on her lips when the boy grunted.

“Don’t worry. It’s not bleeding. There’s no blood,” she informed him, snickering as she released her fingers. The boy rubbed his ears, which had gone slightly raw and red, and he looked up. Instead of the dirty look she had expected, he gave her a broad grin. “Thank you, docta.” He said, still grinning as he swept a playful bow.

“My pleasure,” she replied, playing along. As if she had suddenly remembered, she asked, “And by the way, what is your name?”

The boy stared at her curiously. “Do you not know? Ah!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I know you! Your grandma is Malory Baker, aye?” He looked at her, as if prompting her to agree with him. He couldn’t have been more right.

“Are you a psychic?” Miya asked in disbelief. The boy scoffed. “Naw. Word around here always spreads fast. Besides, Malory is a good friend of my family and when she left a few days ago, she told us it was for you, her granddaughter.” He explained.

Miya’s face darkened, not because of the memory of her grandmother picking her up, but because it reminded her of her parents. As if he noticed the change in her demeanour he changed the subject. “Dear me, I forgot. My name is Jesse. Miya?” He guessed, extending his hand warmly.

She woke up, her heart pounding and sweat beading her forehead. At first, she couldn’t make out where she was. Then, she heard the chugging of the train’s wheels and the comforting bump bump bump of it over the tracks.
She suddenly became aware of gazes on her.
She also realized that her grandmother’s hands were on her wrists.
“Miya? Are you okay?” Her grandmother asked, concerned as she released her wrists. She let out a shaky breath and said, “I’m fine, grandma. Nightmare.”
She must have thrashed around in her sleep but she didn’t care. At least I didn’t crash anything… she thought, not too guiltily. Her nightmares about that fire came every day and she would get used to it.
**********************************************************************************

People say I’m weird, but that doesn’t bother me. Why should I care what they think?
I’ve painted a window-sized window on my wall along with velvety curtains and the view of rolling seas. I’ve painted the raging waves, the bright sharp lines of lightning bolts stark against dark stormy skies. A lone ship with the tiny dots of people, hands raised in horror frantic as the towering waves rose above them, threatening to crash upon them.   
But I painted a glowing, effulgent angel with astral wings above them in the sky. I like to think that he came down to save them from their horrible fate, but he could turn away anything. It was just an undetermined moment, paused in time.
They don’t understand why I painted it. They think I do it for pleasure but I don’t. Painting’s not even my hobby and I don’t learn it. I painted that one and only picture because it reminded the people I’ve lost, especially papa because the last few word he said were, “I’ll be there with you, Miya, even in times of trouble.”
Except that when I said, “Always?” he didn’t reply.
He had already stopped breathing by then.
*
All I saw was fire. Hot merciless fire that burned and burned. It climbed the walls, licked and ate the curtains until it was just poor miserable tatters, no better than rags. Smoke filled my lungs, too dry and hot and I coughed violently. Ashes stung my eyes and they starting tearing, blurring my vision.
 I wipe them away, determined to get out of the building no matter what. I got up unsteadily into a crawling position, my burnt and scraped raw wounds screaming in protest. I clutched my papa’s hand possessively. He was the only living family member that wasn’t lost in the crowd in the stampede to get out, nor was he stuck in the in a room with no possibility of getting out like Coco. I could see the small crack of light from beneath a door that wasn’t much further away. If only I could get papa out there too…
With determination, I tried heaving him onto my shoulder. After all, he was feather with his reed-thin bones, compared to other men. Unfortunately for me, I’ve inherited his scrawny frame and could only sling one of his arms over my shoulder.
I whisper a silent prayer that he wouldn’t be hurt much when I dragged him across to the door. There were debris and shattered glasses littered on the floor. It’ll be unbearably painful if it dug in to his wounded skin.
Papa groaned as I shuffled painfully towards the sliver of light, trying not to collapse under his weight and pain. I gritted my teeth, nostrils flared as I watch the flaming beam perch precariously right on top of the door. Careful, careful, my brain warned. Taking a shuddering breath, I took the last few agonizing crawl steps before laying papa down on the floor. I stood up and using the edge of my jumper, I quickly twisted the knob before the metal could sting me and kicked the door as hard as I could. It did not swing open.
A lock kept the door shut and there wasn’t a key in sight. Dismay and frustration flood me and I was drowned in them for a moment. Why did it have to be locked? Why?
“Miya.”
I turned my head. “The door is locked, papa! We can’t get out!” I say frantically.
He took in a breath but sputtered and coughed violently instead. “Papa!”
“Get out while you can,” he managed to rasp.
“No, we can get out alive. I won’t leave you here to die,” I say adamantly.
“Listen, I’m dying. Even if I did manage to escape this fire, I’ll die soon too. I know it.”
Anger and desperation bubbled in me. “Papa! Don’t say that! Who’ll look after me then? I’m only eleven!”
“You’re a strong and clever girl—you’ll find a way somehow.” He smiled, lost in his world for a second. Then his focus returned. “Go, Miya.”  
Helplessness overwhelmed me. No, papa can’t die. He can’t, he simply can’t. My mother, sister had sacrificed their lives to save others. If he died, I was alone. I don’t have any aunts or uncles. Grandma Eleanor was the only one alive and she lived quite a distance from Colyetta.
As if he was reading my mind, papa says, “It’s okay. I’ll be there with you, Miya, even in times of trouble. Even when I die. Don’t you feel me at your side?”
I was silent for a while, still as a stone as I fought an internal war of decisions in the burning ruins of the once-grand opera house. When I finally asked, “Will you? Always?” his eyes were already shut, a ghost of a smile on his face. He laid on the hard ground, unmoving. The steady rise of his stomach had stopped.
Papa was gone.

Milan

A girl moved in with Mrs. Becker a few days ago.
She came walking up Mrs. Becker’s porch, her long black hair tangled by the wind and her eyes glossy and unseeing. Mrs. Becker had her head bent, whispering something to the girl but she seemed to be lost in her own faraway land. In one hand, the girl carried an instrument casing, most likely a violin, and brown patched suitcase in the other. Oh well, most likely be staying with Mrs. Becker for quite a bit then.
I pushed the window wide open and yelled, “Hey, Mrs. Becker! Who’s that with ya?” 


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