{...an october child...}

Aaaah, it appears I didn't mention Chrissy among those in the October birthday range ~ myong (sorryyyy)...so remember, children -- CHRIS IS ALSO HAVING HIS BIRTHDAY SOON...

Mhm, so, while I'm at it, I thought I should also let you know Twak wants a hockey stick...or a set of good quality pencils...or money -- either way, she's happy. And Flick...Flickity wants socks: ??

I, on the other hand, would like a Panda.

-------> {...panda myong~!...} <-------

Feel free to fly me to The Panda Place.
(P.S. also, feel free to let me know if you discover this fictional Panda Place...)

Also, if you haven't already, check out Millie's murder mystery ~ well worth the while, especially if you recognise the characters

{...the panda looked longingly at the faded lemon on the table, thinking of tofu and toblerone -- sadly it had none. Care for a cupcake?... }

{...and then there was friday...}

~So now the week has ended...the warmer months are creeping closer still (Spring on Monday) and we've moved back to our 'Spring Spot' on the other side of the Quad. The air is still chilly in the evenings, but the daylight is flooding through our windows for longer in the afternoons~

And October will also be upon us in a couple of months, meaning Flick, Twacey and I will all be celebrating our birthdays (!!)...

This afternoon I was suddenly overcome with the urge to write about something vengeful, full of spite, desperation, confusion and a spattering of murder (hm, your story appears to be having a bad influence on me, Millie...or would that be a creative influence..?)...and this would be the outcome:

The heartless wind whipped past his raw cheeks, tearing mercilessly through his dripping hair in a torrent of fury. The rain plummeted down, faster, further, rushing, screaming as the boy stood silently in the storm. The hail beat and bruised him, as frozen currents of air flew through him, stinging his eyes, angrier than ever before at the unseen betrayal; but still he stood.

Long, wet strands of dark hair clung to his face, now as red and numb as the rest of him, before being flung with the constantly changing direction of the violent wind – tossing, ripping, furious, enraged – but he was still.

The frozen metal now felt heavy in his hand, held only in place by his inability to flex his arm. The dizziness returned and his head swum, lightning, thunder…a blur…more rain…he was rooted to the spot. Unblinking in the seemingly unstoppable wrath and venom of the night that licked at his last few burnt out ounces of energy – of life – he closed his eyes.

A dull ache surged through every limb as he slowly rocked backwards, his joints refusing to move, as though they had already resigned to death and only an inexplicable force kept him from falling, though every being, every raindrop, every bolt of thunder, wanted him gone – knew he should be gone.

With difficulty, and no willpower left to walk he slowly and painfully turned his crick neck to face the muddy earth beneath him, which looked in danger of flooding. Gradually, he opened, closed, then reopened his eyes.

Only a few wisps of soaked and mud covered grass were visible above the rushing water at his feet and his vision was begin to haze over as the darkness crept closer, still.

The whole hillside appeared to scream and cry in confusion and an undeniable sense that the tight-rope-thin balance had been shifted: snapped. The ceaseless rain roared more powerfully than ever, and finally he moved – slightly – his hand beginning to tremble uncontrollably, breaking the icy bonds that held him there, before grimacing and dropping dramatically to the ground as though gravity had only suddenly come into play.

He felt the icy water rush around him, soaking through his already sopping clothing as he sank onto his hands and knees, no longer caring. Numb. He looked up slightly, his surroundings oblivious to him, as the cold truth of the matter seemed to rip at his very insides, like the menacing blade that gleamed up at him from his own cold fist. The blood dripped into the heart of the rising stream, diluting before turning the water a dull pink, swirling in revolting patterns at his feet, tormenting him as he looked on intently, now more livid than ever, angry with the very storm itself. With everything. With life. With…

The body at his feet lay limp against the tree in front of him; for that’s all it was now – no soul, no family, no thoughts, no…person.

Drip.

The rain thundered and the dark clouds edged closer, closer. He stared in horror, disbelief, confusion and exhaustion as the brilliant crimson blood glowed menacingly in the dark…the dark was coming…closer.

He swayed slightly, indifferent now and almost delusional, his head throbbing and unable to comprehend. He gaped into the empty air, eyes searching frantically, though he could not actually see what he was looking at; his mind was drifting. And the darkness…it was coming.

He wanted to moan, to cry out, to roll over, to sleep, but instead he rocked back onto his heels and buried his face in his hands, dropping the hideous metal object he had clung to so dearly, awash with a sudden feeling of disgust. No thoughts came. The sounds around him died away.

Silence.

Slowly, he stopped feeling the wind and the rain, in an almost insane moment of calm – or was that him ceasing to function all together? The whole world had stopped.

Numb.

His breathing became short and exasperated, gulping for air as though he was drowning, or suffocating while sleeping, for his attempts were little more than an automatic reaction. He was no longer aware of anything: of himself, the storm, the body, the knife, the blood…the dark.
His shallow breathing was becoming more erratic and seemingly panicked as his head lolled, a half smile creeping across his face, losing more breath then he gained. His whole face contorted and he thrashed half-heartedly at the empty air in front of him, pain shooting up his spine. He tried to cry, though no tears came, only pathetic whimpers, then…

Black.

The dark had come.