Grab the bull by the horns.

For some reason, it had always suck me as an odd phrase, although it Is far more coherent than many of the the other phrases floating around.

And it is what I was doing now, I was sure of it.

Sneaking out to Erroll’s house at three a.m., to tell him what he meant to me the night before he left.

Surely I was grabbing the bull by it’s horns.

I reached his front garden in record time and threw some of the carefully raked gravel that thrived there at his lighted window.

There was only a suggestion of movement from my position, the possibility that someone twitched aside the curtain and peeked outside.

And then he was at the door, still in the check shirt and jeans he had been wearing earlier, looking at me.

There was something about the way Errol looked at people that made them feel small and insignificant. No matter how he felt when he turned his eyes on you, you always felt wanting.

This look was mild in comparison. There were minimal amounts of confusion in it, overridden by curiousity.

And he said: “Julia, why are you here? It’s three twenty six a.m.” And there was another thing. He always got to the heart of things immediately. He didn’t make small talk, he didn’t beat around the bush. The only time he would allow any deviation from the plot was during a debate.

“Why am I here?” I asked, trying to buy myself time. The thing with grabbing the bull by it’s horns is that there is no rational thought involved. Now I was on this- highly metaphorical, of course- enraged bull going full speed ahead, I really began to question the wisdom of my actions.

But it was too late now.

I cleared my throat. “Well. I’m here because like you said, it’s gone three in the morning and I spent the last four and a half hours unable to sleep because you keep cropping up in my head and I’ve tried everything else. And this is something I have to tell you in person.”

It says something about Errol that his expression didn’t change a bit. He had no clue, not even a slight idea, of what I was talking about.

I knew then that I definitely had no chance, no chance at all. But I held onto hope. Maybe the right words could change the way he saw things.

“I love you Errol, and I wanted to tell you before you left. I wanted you to- I needed you to know.

There was a silence, then Errol said “Oh.”

The moment stretched on for eternities.

“Please say something else,” I said finally, quietly.

“Right now there is nothing to say. I need to think about it – it doesn’t make sense-”

“It doesn’t have to make sense!” I cried.

“It has to make sense!”

The anger in his voice struck me back.

Errol had been brought up differently. It wasn’t bad, or wrong, as such, just different.

He had been brought up with wire in his blood, and he thought in straight lines. He was harsh, because he didn’t know how else to be.

But he was learning.

“Perhaps, though, you can explain to me.”

That was his apology.

And so I explained. I argued my point, and my love till every word, every metaphor, every angle had been exhausted and abused.

The light, by then, had begun to seep into the sky and the birds began to cheep.

And he, by then, had a new glow in his face and I soared. My words had shown him a different way.

“That is…” he said, his voice slipping for a second into thought before resurfacing quickly. “That is astounding. That is truly astonishing,” he pondered some more, not seeming to notice the heart that I had just poured out to him lying on the floor. “It’s amazing, and so ridiculous.That the mind creates such an extraordinary ‘feeling’ just to give an extra push to the natural need for pro-reation.

If it was possible, I sunk down lower than I had been before.

“So you think you are in love with me?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. I nodded, mute. “And in return for your feelings what do you want??”

I couldn’t answer.

“Perhaps a kiss would be appropriate?” he said, making his way to me. “You’ll have to help, I’ve not done this before,” he said, leaning in and pecking me gently on the lips. I’ve not had much experience myself, but that was not in any way a good kiss. But I wanted time to practise, to do it again, with him.

I reached in the second time, and took control.

Now, he had picked up my heart, and he held it in his hands.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured to himself, before taking a few steps back. “Well, I should probably go. I still have to finish packing. Maybe I’ll see you later, but I doubt it: we leave early.”

And he went inside, still clutching my heart so tightly.

I didn’t see him later, of course, and he left, moving far out of my reach, and taking my heart with him.

Madeline Simmonses Day

Shit.

Late, late, late.

I am so fucking late.

Nothing for it. I jump into the shower and am breaking records with my ten minute wash. I'm back in my room again, completely bypassing the outfit I laid out meticulously last night; something about it was suddenly giving me shivers to the back of my soul. I pull things out by sheer intuition instead, not even looking in the mirror as I throw them on. My bag is packed and by my door. I haul it onto my shoulder, ignoring the weight.

It's a pretty hefty thing.

I'm out of the door moments later, patting myself on the back. It only took me half an hour to get ready. That's got to be some kind of record.

I have to do my mascara on the bus. I don't wear much makeup, but some cruel twist of fate left me with skimpy eyelashes.

I have become a master at putting on mascara on the bus. In three years, I have not poked myself in the eye or scribbled black all over my face once.



I'm ten minutes late. I have Buzzard first lesson: I don't even bother trying to get let in.

Instead I find myself in the Social Area with all the other miscreants who got locked out of their first lessons.

I spot Brynmor sitting by a window and settle myself next to him, dropping my bag to the floor with a relieved sigh.

"What, no hug?" He asks dryly.

"I was getting to that," I reply, almost admonishing. I turn to give him a smile, and am engulfed in a hug.

My smile broadens into his chest- even sitting down he is a head and a bit taller than me.

I discover a headphone once he releases me, and slide into my ear to see what he's listening to.

It's as I'm nodding along that Alistair comes up to us.

"Hey guys," he says sitting down. I've never once heard him use my name and I'm beginning to suspect that's because he doesn't know it. Which is strange, not only because he sits next to me in Psychology but also because he is the only person who has figured out my little secret.

"Hey Alice," I say in return to him; Bryn simply nods.

It doesn't take long for the two of them to become absorbed into a conversation that I have no place in, and so I steal Bryn's other headphone, choosing the soothing melancholy tones of Radiohead to names and terms I've never heard before.

Bryn's arm slung casually across my shoulder is a good consolation however, and I shift so I am leaning against him completely.

Alistair would be raising his eyebrows at me if I could see him. But it was okay. I knew he wouldn't tell on me.



The hour ended all too quickly and I had to remove the earphones and hug Bryn and Alistair goodbye before trudging to my form room.

Susan and Karl had moved seats to sit next to each other.

It was meant to be subtle but everyone had noticed, and had suspicions although the two vehemently denied any claim that they were going out. Amy, who Susan used to sit next to, looked distinctly lonely.

Thankfully, Crystal and I remained unseparated, and we spent registration talking about the most inane shit.

Break was a hurried stint in the bathroom, fixing our hair, and then to the canteen for curly fries. I realised with horror that my next lesson was my worst: Psychology with my worryingly bipolar teacher.

I had to leave the canteen a whole five minutes before everyone else to avoid being locked out: I was behind enough as it was.

I made it in time, and slid into my seat next to Alistair.

"Yo," he said, saluting me.

"Hey Alice," I replied absently, taking out my folder and my textbook and beginning to take down notes.

Or trying to begin at any rate. Alistair is unfortunately able to take notes and distract me beyond belief at the same time.

"I heard you and Bryn got pretty intimate at Lou's on Friday" he says in a low, chatty tone. I thank God for my dark skin, my blush would have been beacon bright on my cheeks otherwise.

"I'd had a lot to drink," I murmured, trying to focus on the words Ms. Hewitt had written on the board.

"You know as well as I do that that changes nothing," he whispered. I did. Everyone did. Bryn had a girlfriend, it was common knowledge. Her name was Claudia and her parents had carted her off to America almost as soon as she'd done her GCSE's. That left Bryn a lonely. A little company, a kiss here and there, a little something more... it wouldn't hurt.

I said as much to Alistair, told him he needed to lighten up.

"You know, Bryn's my best friend," he replied, "and yes, it does kill me to see him moping around about Claudia. But I can see that he's playing you thoroughly, my girl. If you were just some random chick it'd all be alright but you're not. You're actually quite decent. And my admirable best friend is taking advantage of you. He is, as they say, having his cake and eating it too." And although his tone was jokey, I knew he was being serious. I turned away from his concern.

"I'll be alright, stop worrying," I said, mindlessly copying from the whiteboard. Alistair humphed. but he couldn't say anything more because Teach was sending death glares our way.



Alistair's little talk had turned my mildly pad mood into a miniature pit of depression, and by lunch I was too confused to communicate.

I had to escape, fifteen minutes before enrichment, to Smokers.

I knew I shouldn't, I was meant to be quitting. But sometimes, you have to treat yourself.

I bummed a cigarette and light off a friendly boy in the upper sixth and allowed the nicotine to flow through me, drawing the experience out for as long as I could.

My lungs complained one I was done, the unmovable hacking cough telling me how displeased they were with my actions but it was well worth it, I decided. It was even worth the blood I coughed up into a tissue. I had been expecting it. I didn't care anymore.

I got to enrichment just as the teacher in charge read out my name. I alerted the room to my presence by choking into another coughing fit halfway through replying 'present'.

Alistair glared at me.

We both took film club for enrichment, but it wasn't done with the intention of spending another couple of hours together on a Wednesday afternoon. It had been a mistake, and one I often regretted: I don't like spending so much time in the company of someone who knows everything about me.

After a little confusion, a small group of us traipsed out of the room to finish watching Pan's Labyrinth.

I sat alone, but I couldn't escape. Alistair ditched his friends to sit next to me.

"Hey Alice," I croaked in a pathetic attempt to put off the lecture I knew I was going to receive. The cough had finally subsided but my throat and my lungs felt raw, like they were bleeding. I guess they were.

I tuned out while he whisper-shouted at me. I wanted to say 'Calm down for God's sake; it's only a cigarette', I wanted to say 'It doesn't matter about that at all', I wanted to say 'It won't make Bryn love me', I wanted to say 'Shut up, Alistair'.

But I knew any of those would just bring a barrage of wrath down on my head, so I refrained.



It was a bit strange, I reflected on the bus journey home. How one boy- who possibly didn't even know my name- had figured out something my own father didn't know about me.

A propensity to Bronchitis during my lifetime, coupled with a steady smoking habit from the age of thirteen had shredded my lungs. So effectively that they just kept on shredding.

Emphysema, it's called. For the most part, it's incurable.

I found out just under a year ago. With treatment, and a strict regime of pulmonary rehab and no cigarettes they could slow down the rate at which my poor little bronchi are dying, or doing whatever it is they do.

But if I carry on smoking and burning the candle at both ends, the doctor said I'd have less than five years to live.

God knows how Alistair found that out.

But it's okay.

I knew he wouldn't tell on me.

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.