Cassandra Howell's Day

With a name like Cassandra Howell, I don't deserve the life that I got.
Someone called Cassandra Howell should know people who'd nickname her 'Cassy', and should always be laughing. She should always have something to say, and when she says it -which she will- everyone will laugh. 'Cassy' should have people flock around her. She would never be alone.
At the very least, I should deserve to be a 'Sandra/Sandy', who has a small yet tight-knit group of friends. Because of them, she will never be alone, and once you get through the initial layer of shyness, 'Sandra' will be seen to have a sparkling personality, which is why she is the one her friends want to be around most.

I am, rarely, Cassandra, and that's usually at home. Otherwise I'm just not there.
Sometimes I wonder if I am just an angsty teenager, but I realise that I have been like this ever since I was a child.
My day invariably starts at six a.m., whether it's on school-days, holidays or weekends. I quit setting an alarm when I was ten, as for two years, I had woken up a full thirty minutes before my alarm went off. At six o five, I get out of bed, and shower, then brush my teeth. It's been like this ever since my cousin told me that people who ate before they washed were weird. I don't why I believed him, I think it's due to the fact that I was six, and he was three years older then me.
Of course I dress next. As everything in my wardrobe is pretty much the same, and my mother irons everything before putting them away, all I have to do is pull out one item from the six neatly arranged compartments and wear with care.
I then eat, a meagre breakfast because I am sick otherwise.

Yesterday was a weekend day, and I met the postman as I walked out of the door. There was little mail, as usual. But there is a package for me. I haven't ever gotten a package before, so it provided interesting diversion. I hand the rest of the letters back to the post-man, and carried on. I wasn't really headed anywhere, but my mother believes I am sick-at-heart, and prescribed a daily constitutional, which is really rather dull. I opened up the package as I proceeded along the road, conscientiously folding the boring brown wrapping. I can't stand ripped wrapping paper. Inside is a boring brown box, which I opened. Inside the boring brown box is a ribbon. A red ribbon. Not a small one, lengths and lengths of red ribbon, filling the box almost to the point of overflow. The colour, blossoming on a grey day, in the boring box made me think: maybe tomorrow, I'll try harder.

Today I woke up at six, and washed and dressed, my usual routine. Then I Did My Hair. An activity that deserves every capital letter it gets, because usually I brush'n'go. But today, I had a roll of ribbon. My mother had rolled it up when she found it draped over my bedstead, and placed it in a makeshift drawer labelled 'ribbons'. Upon inspection, there was a piece of card on which something had very clearly been written and then rubbed out again. I had used a pencil to define the words on the card. They read 'To My Neighbour, welcome to the road'... which, of course leaves the question: how do they know my name?
Once I had finished doing my hair, I took a glance in the communal mirror, as I don't own one myself. I am so bedecked, I could be mistaken for a cake. I undo the disaster that my hair became, and instead snipped some ribbon away, and used it to hold my hair back. I feel that a description of me could now rightfully contain the words 'fresh-faced' but I carry on in my morning routine, and leave for school at eight a.m.
At school, I made a conscientious effort to smile nicely at people in my class. It's not that I glare at people, but instead that my facial expression is more morose than most. Probably out of habit. My smiles feel so empty and false, but I persevere, in the hopes that I will be able smile naturally. A mirror in the bathroom showed me that my smile hinted at a sparkling personality. Maybe, at this, my fifth school, I will be a 'Sandra'?
At some point during the day, a bubbling person definately worthy of the name 'Cassy' approaches me.
"Cass... right? You're my new neighbour. Is this the ribbon? I saw you when you moved in on Saterday, and just thought you'd be a red ribbon person. I'm Jess."
Jess was deserving of her name. When Jess spoke, I smiled, and it felt like a smile with something behind it.
I walked home with Jess, and we parted at her doorway. I got a glimpse of her house. It was warm and cosy, and cluttered.
I opened the door to my own depressingly clean house.
Some things will never change.

Eleanor Whittaker's Day

The first thing I did when I woke up (at nine:thirty, first time in about eight years that I've gotten up this early, without any apparent cause) was check my e-mails. I read in the guardian weekend magazine that I shouldn't, that I should give my self an hour to relax, and not let technology take over my day, and dictate my actions, but the allure was too great.
Yes, the night before, I had exchanged e-mail addresses with some one I'd just met. We clicked, just like that! Well, I gave him my e-mail address, and he said he'd send me some of his writing (he does a column in one of those magazines that I always pick up, to look intellectual, but never actually read).

There wasn't a message from him (his name is Gareth, by the way, Gareth Jones), which I suppose is what I should've expected. However, I was imbued by spam, and messages from Melissa. I've been ignoring her, and I really should answer them. Don't get me wrong, I do like her, but she just overwhelms me, you know? She's always so perky, and cheerful, and reading a message from her, listening to her speak is like being stabbed to death with an exclamation mark.
It's always : 'Oh! Ellie, how are you!' or, 'You'll never guess what I did today!!' or 'So how have you been?!!!' It really depresses me, how disgustingly cheerful she is all the time.
But I opened the latest message. I have to throw her a bone every now and then, or she'll be all:
'Ellie, have you been ignoring me!!! I've been trying to get through to you in ages!!!!! I have soooo much to tell you!!!' or, in a particularly bad case 'That's it, I'm coming round on Saturday, to see if you're still alive!!!'.
The message goes:
Hi Ellie!
I have a job!!! It's only small, but it pays my bills!!! Morris said Hi!!!...' It only gets worse.

I finally get around to doing some actual work around midday. I actually managed to write something, which Jessica (my agent) will be ecstatic about. I haven't written anything all week, partially because I have writers block, but mainly because I can't be bothered. It's just so tiring sometimes. OK, so I'm lazy. That's why I haven't ever been able to hold down a 'proper job'. To quote my mother. She read one of my books, and she vowed never to do it again. She said it was like being tortured with burning irons, the words 'cynical twit' being branded into her.
I write a paragraph, then go to the cafe on the corner of my road to get something to eat, and for inspiration. For a small cafe, there's always a lot going on.
Today, there are two lovers. The girl is sitting across from the man, crying bitter tears of disappointment. It appears he is breaking up with her, and she appears to be heartbroken, although he must be about ten years older than her, at the very least. She looks beautiful, even with her face tomato red, and her eyes swollen from too many tears. I resist the urge to go and ask the man what could be better than her, and instead sip my coffee in the corner, staring at the other patrons like a demented mad woman. I like breaking down people till all you have are raw emotions, like blobs of colours on a palette. Maybe that's how artists feel, thinking: that orange is a perfect mix of three parts burnt umber to two parts scarlet. How pretty. Maybe not that precise, Artists aren't that practical.
That's one reason why I enjoyed Gareth's company, I was staring at a woman with a huge smile plastered onto her face, clutching a cocktail (it was her fifth, I believe) and talking in an over-loud voice to a man who was aching to get away. I was thinking what's made her so upset? When Gareth came over and said
"Manic depressive. She doesn't need a reason." It was like something out of a romantic novel.

I get home, and write a bit more (after checking my mail, still no Gareth, but more Melissa, which I diligently ignore). Then, I call my mother, so she can't accuse me of being ashamed of her.
"Hello, Ellie darling, how are you? Have you gotten a job yet?" She croons down the phone.
"Mother, I told you, I don't want another job, I find writing hard enough." I say. She ignores me.
"Oh, such a shame, dear. You need a job, how else will you live?"
"Mother, who are you with?" I ask.
"Oh, yes, I've been fine thank you... no, dear, I haven't missed your company, although I think you should come home. I have lots of fun, though, I'm just with auntie Maysie. She sends all her love, and wants to see you." I realise why she's been making up a phone conversation.
"Well, I best go then. I'm sure I shouldn't keep you from 'Aunt' Maysie." I say.
"Bye dear-" I hear her begin (my mother is awful at goodbyes) but I put down the phone.
I write in a new character called Mrs. Feathingill (she bumped into my protagonist on one of those things that immobile elderly people use to get about in, knocking her flat, and then ploughing on, in a typically regardless fashion), and looking back on her, she is remarkably like 'Aunt' Maysie. Mrs. Feathingill is a sadistic, evil minded little old lady, and I think she may have something to do with my protagonists fate- which is undecided as yet. It's a toss up between suicide or murder, at the moment.

At ten p.m., I finally get an e-mail from Gareth. The actual message is brief, it consists only of three sentences (fifteen words, including his name):
Sorry, I have been busy all day. Here are the articles I promised you.
Gareth.
However, there are what would be a sheaf of attachments. I open the first, expecting to find it mind-numbingly boring, and to have died of ennui before it was done. I was pleasantly surprised by the article, which was funnier and more entertaining than I dared hoped... which, I suppose, couldn't be hard.
But then I felt guilty for underestimating Gareth's writing abilities.
After all, wasn't he the man who delighted and excited me with his anecdotes for a large part of last night?
I message him back, just a quick thank you, and then go on to read all fifteen articles before collapsing into my bed, exhausted at three. It's true, we do live in a fast age. Already, I think I'm in love with Gareth.

Clara Shane's day

Clara Shane's day... did not start well.
She woke up, half an hour after her alarm went off, groggy because she'd gone to bed too late last night. Not for an interesting reason, but because she'd had a mountain of dishes to wash.
She stumbled out of bed, and hit her head. On what, she never found out. She thought it was the wall.
Her journey to the bathroom was better, being completely uneventful. She failed to trip on a leftover toy, or pile of clothes, and made it into her shower without incident.
The water was cold. They were 'fixing' a water main outside, and it had affected the water supply to the whole house. Getting hot water was a praiseworthy task, but one that was nigh on impossible.
It was not a good day for clothes either, but Clara managed to find something that would pass muster.

Clara finally left her house, ten minutes late, and walked up her road, her art folder banging against her leg, and her hair- untamed- getting absolutely everywhere.
Her bag was heavy too. Clara wondered if random yet unfortunate events were just in abundance that day, or if they were conspiring against her. No one answered, which is not strange, because, even if she had said it aloud, no one was around to hear her.

No one was at school. Well, no, there were people at school, but no one worth considering. During registration, Clara sat alone, trying unsuccessfully to do something with her hair.
Her day looked up, as one of her friends turned up halfway through maths. About time, Clara thought.

That was as good as Clara's day got. A little bit of delayed-reaction dis-orientation from her bump on the head that morning hit her just as she was leaving her art classroom for lunch, and she walked- quite catastrophically- into a boy she had liked for about two years.
The result of this was that his first words to her ever were: 'What the hell? Walking with your eyes open helps!', a smothered giggle from her one present friend, and her lunch escaping somehow into her bag.
She wondered if she would ever be destined to have a reasonable life.
She doubted it.

Clara went home, after her post-art incident. She cried, for about fifteen minutes, and decided against going back to school.
She thought she might as well forgot today-it had been doomed from the start- and focus on making tommorow better.

Clara's awful day ended with her shutting the heavy drapes of her bedroom, thus creating a false twillight, and getting into her comfiest pyjamas. Which was just as well, really, because she hit her head again- this time on the post of her bed- and didn't wake up for two weeks.