She was woken early in the morning by shuffled footsteps outside, the creak of the bathroom door. The shutters were closed but she knew that outside the sky was still mainly dark, a tinge of light beginning to form over the hills. Lying in the warmth of her bed she realised one of her socks had come off as she slept. It didn’t matter now with the bed so warm.
  Her bedroom door opened and a rush of irritation filled her.
  “I’m awake,” she said.
  “Do you want your light on?”
  “No.”
  The figure, one hand still resting on the door handle, retreated, pulling the door with it.
  As happened most mornings, the door swung open as soon as it was released and was stopped by the shelves with a quiet bump, muffled by the coat hanging there.
  She rolled over onto her side, face to the wall, pulling her knees up to her chest hoping that somehow this movement would make getting up seem a more desirable prospect.
  It didn’t.
  She pushed the sockless foot out from under the duvet to see how cold it was. She pulled it back into the warmth quickly. The echoing tap of footsteps going down the staircase sounded loud in the cold morning.
  Deciding that was her cue for action, she slipped quickly out from under the covers, pulling her pyjama top over her head as fast as she could. The cold air was cruel, making her shudder as she pulled on her work clothes.
  Leaving the shutters closed she went to the bathroom, arms folded across her body as if that would somehow stop her body heat escaping. She brushed her teeth and splashed icy water on her face. The remnants of sleep disappeared down the drain with the water.
  Crossing the landing back to her room she switched on the light and found a hairpin on her desk. She pushed it into her hair at the side of her face and picked up the mug from last night.

Jane Eyre

  I wrote this piece after watching the new Jane Eyre film. It's a fantastic film, by the way. Anyway, it inspired me and I wrote this. It's supposed to be the scene just after Jane discovers the fire in Mr Rochester's room and they put it out. Mr Rochester tells Jane to wait in his room and leaves.

 

  She waited in that room, the air thick with cold smoke that caught in her throat as she breathed. His heavy coat round her shoulders, she sat on a chair near the ampty hearth. The coat smelled of him.

  For more than an hour she sat there, back straight, shivering, in case he should return at any moment. Eventually, though, fatigue overtook her and she pulled the coat up to her chin, leaning back a little in the chair. She told herself she would hear him coming and compose herself quickly.

  As time passed, she fell asleep, thoughts of propriety lost to dreams.

  Mr Rochester entered his room. She was asleep in his chair, her head to one side, her serene expression very different from the guarded one that usually commanded her features. As though sensing his presence she stirred and in that moment between sleep and wake a flicker of warmth seemed to pass through her eyes when she saw him. Then she sat up quickly, composing herself.

  "You will speak of this to noone, Jane. D'you understand?" He said.

  She nodded and stood up.

  "Goodnight Sir," She made to leave the room. He caught her arm as she tried to pass him and held it by the wrist.

  "You would leave me, after what has passed here tonight?," he sounded sad. "Jane, you saved my life."

  The heat from his hand on her arm seemed to spread through her body like fire. His face was so close to hers, she could feel his breath on her cheeks.

  "I...Sir, I did what anyone would."

  "Jane, death by fire is a terrible way to leave this world."

  "I am glad then, Sir, that it was avoided," her heart was beating so fast she was sure he must hear it.

  His face was so close to hers, his eyes piercing hers....

  Suddenly she remembered where she was, who she was.

 "Goodnight Sir," her voice was barely a whisper.
  She fled. 

Here are a couple of book reviews I wrote for an assignment set by my Uncle who gave me the books.


The Big J; Andrew Murray Scott; Savage Publishers; £7.95
  Set in a fictional Scottish village on the North East coast, this novel is full of evocative local detail. The story centres around local teenager, Robbie Strachan, and ‘the big J’, a stranger to the area. He rides a motorbike and for Robbie and his friends, soon becomes an idol.
  For these frustrated adolescents, the summer is ripe with possibility and ‘J’ is soon in over his head, Robbie watching jealously from the sideline. Promptly balance is lost and things start to head downhill - fast.
  Although it’s an interesting read The Big J is not as gripping as it could be. We don’t really get to know the characters because of their lack of dimension and the ending comes as no surprise to most. Its redeeming feature is the well captured essence of the place which, unlike the characters, doesn’t fall flat. Overall, a worthwhile read for anyone interested in a sense of what life is like in a tiny coastal village in Scotland.
  Andrew Murray Scott was born in Aberdeen. He has written four novels including Tumulus, his first, which won the inaugural Dundee Book Prize in 1999.

White Male Heart; Ruaridh Nicoll; Black Swan; £6.99
  Aaron and Hugh have grown up together in the bleak wilderness of the Scottish highlands and are bound to each other like brothers. United by a love of their natural surroundings and difficult family life they rely on each other for support. But now change comes upon them when a woman arrives in the area, forcing Hugh to think of his future and to look at his friend in a new light.
  As the strain between them builds and anger ripens, they turn to the only brutal vice they know….
  This shocking tale of friendship and betrayal will leave you breathless as Nicoll builds tensions into an explosive climax. He captures the brooding sense of the place and delves deep into the dark, innate psyche of his characters. Written in instinctively original prose White Male Heart is startlingly visceral and will stay with it’s readers for a long time. Some may find it too brutal and shocking but I would say that this fantastically written book is worth every penny.
  An award-winning journalist, Ruaridh Nicoll has worked for the Observer and the Guardian. White Male Heart is his first novel. He grew up in the highland county of Sutherland.

    The narrow street was empty, a cool wind scattering a few leaves along the cobbles.
    A man wearing a flat-cap shuffled along pushing the portugese version of the street cleaner along in front of him. A bucket on wheels - and a broom, of course. He swept a few cigarette butts into a pile, taking his time. Into the dustpan which, in turn, was emptied into the wheeled bucket.
    He paused after his exertion to take a handkerchief from his pocket and mop his brow with it.

Here's a poem I wrote yesterday. I've been reading Sylvia Plath recently and she's inspired me. I still don't have a title so if you have any suggestions then leave a comment!

The oceans bleed into the sky,
People passing, grey and slow,
They look through me as through smudged glass,
My body must be solid but they want to mould it like theirs,
I cannot, I will not, their death moon wants to crush me and my strength has gone.

I may not be able to post for a couple of weeks due to the fact that my family and I are off to work on an organic farm on Wednesday. I may have some interesting stories to tell when I get back!

    Long, straight, white-blonde hair, run through with lime green streaks. Rebellious eyes and a wicked smile. Dark eyes drawing you in and holding you. She walks carelessly, swinging her arms. She moves like a child, not conscious of the eyes watching her.

    She walks through the county-side, through long grass that tickles her feet. Her dress flows out behind her, with her hair, blown by the wind. She tilts her face to the sun, a smile on her face which seems to tell everything - her joy and her pain.