Well...

It's been a while since I last wrote...

I guess that's because I've been busy. No shit, you might say. I've recently started writing for the online music magazine www.muteprint.com and have had the grand privilege of my first article for them becoming the most viewed piece that week the night after it was posted.

It is not exactly the most academic of publications, especially since the clientele prefers bass to books.

In the face of furthering my career-to-be in journalism my academia has taken what I might affectionately refer to as a nosedive. The prospect of exams that will determine my future sends me into a gibbering, hyperventilating wreck, only to be roused again by the lure of Cadbury's dairy milk and  Coca-cola- the real stuff, no diet or fake pepsi.

Being seventeen is one of the most monumental challenges of life. I find it surprising that so many people make it to eighteen, the previous year being the struggle that it is.

You are not an adult, and yet certainly not a child either. You are expected to express political views, and yet you cannot vote. You have fully emerged from puberty's greasy embrace, and yet the traces of hormonal acne remain.

My dress sense has taken a turn too, by which I mean I have some. Before, when pulling on some too-loose jeans and an old T-shirt was considered smart-casual, I have floral dresses, beneath a tailored black coat, with which I wear brown suede pixie boots. And when I do wear jeans they are fitted and only accentuate my figure.

It makes me cringe to recall the tatty denim overalls which were my holiday uniform for my adolescent years, out of which I have not quite emerged, I'll admit.

I will credit my newfound love of, not fashion but beautiful clothing, to the sudden interest of more mature men in my life. It all began with the French-Italian post-graduate mathematician, Hadrien, then Michael, the ex-military construction worker. Both men were and are highly intelligent and attractive but they were both, sadly, also edging a decade my senior.

But they could never hold a flame to my current infatuation: The ginger-bearded music assistant at school. His eyes are gorgeously blue and flick to mine to exchange glances during orchestral rehearsal, he armed with his clarinet, I, my violin. It is a constant battle, throughout chamber choir, lessons, and while I am waiting for my private tutoring, he is always there.

I know his desires are a figment of my imagination, as he is employed by the school so dangerously out of reach, but his attentions are all the more potent for their lack of existence.

Examinations have been interesting, particularly in that my new glasses mean I can no longer see without them. It is most peculiar that I went to the opticians to have my sight improved and came away with a throbbing headache and blurry vision whenever I can't wear my glasses. 

Such a disaster had the misfortune to occur before my English Literature exam, just a few weeks ago. I had left my glasses on my bedroom table and was nursing a pain which was not unlike a blunt knitting needle probing though one temple and out the other. Needless to say, it was horrific.

On the verge of a panic attack, my friend, Grace, made the mistake of insisting that I breathe into a plastic bag. While it's close relative, the paper bag, is exceedingly useful in preventing hyperventilation, the plastic bag is not useful at all, especially when the victim, in their state of panic, inhales a section of the plastic bag.

But then again, Grace is not known for her brilliant ideas. She once decided it would be an excellent idea to balance a small ball of blue-tack on the rim of her left nostril. Attempting to remove the blue-tack, I hit her on the back, causing her to snort the offending piece of malleable plastic up her nose.

After a trip to the health centre and an unfortunate episode with a pair of tweezers, it was removed, but my faith in her ideas was lost forever.

Farewell my subjects.

Until next time.

Emily Winters 

xx

Overachieving

This year I've taken on too much as per usual. I am doing my gold Duke of Edinburgh, violin diploma, five AS levels, one fast tracked A2, running a ukulele club for kids, taking my 3rd kyu aikido, lead in an orchestra, singing in a choir and volunteering at Cubs while at the same time trying to maintain my sanity.

Last year was the same story. 6A*s and 4As at GCSEs, my grade eight violin, my silver Duke of Edinburgh, the majority of the aforementioned clubs and failing to stay calm, composed and in control.

Everything inside of me is buzzing with energy at the beginning of each day and at the end I am an exhausted wreck. I spend the last lesson on Friday slumped on the desk, wallowing in a pit of misery, maths, and cheesy wotsits.

And I need those cheesy wotsits, because the Monday chamber choir means I skip lunch. And the Tuesday ukulele club. And on Thursdays I have my violin lesson, so I miss lunch then too. And on Fridays I have charities committee. 

I do homework while shovelling an apple in my face at high speed for breakfast, then maybe catch a piece of flapjack thrown my way by my mother and race out the door to catch the school bus. In fact I can't remember the last time I sat down to eat properly, I'm just rushed off my feet. Stressed, tired and doing too much.

My form tutor told me to drop the extra AS. The teacher for that extra AS told me to drop ukulele club. My ukulele club wanted me to drop chamber choir instead. And the conductor for chamber choir told me I wasn't allowed, and to give up the Duke of Edinburgh award which my tutor valued as the most important extra curricular activity. So I just try to please everyone and struggle along, doing all of it. My mother argues that it's better to do a few things and be outstanding at them than do everything badly but that's just an excuse to get me to practice the violin more. She doesn't think an hour and a half each day is enough.

I know I'm doing too much, but if I didn't, that wouldn't be me.

Blowing hot and cold

On again off again. I think you're hot. I'm not ready for a relationship. We should hang out more. It's so awkward between us. 

The things he's said go on and on and I'm tired of his excuses and constant changing his mind. I can't be bothered with this.

Why is this such a big deal to me anyway? He didn't mean anything, just a drunken kiss caught up in the loud music and dance.

I shared these thoughts with Elizabeth who'd been trying to get us together for the past week.

Oh Hun, let's find you someone else! She texted me.

Thing is, I don't know if I want anyone else. I'm tired with the whole dating game to be honest.

Teen noir

Am I the only one who's sick of teen noir? The predictability of the strange attraction to the mysterious person, the revelation, the trials and the inevitable graphic sex scene.

It may be a vampire for those who like their men pasty pale and prone to spontaneously ripping their shirts off. It may be an elf, for those who never truly grew out of the rainbow fairy series. Or it may be a werewolf for animal rights activists and other people with equally strange fetishes.

The predictability bores me and yet authors keep churning out these copy and paste versions of twilight which may aswell be computer generated for all the social awareness displayed.

It sickens me how the covers are still almost identical with a dark background and white or vivid red featuring in a random object which has zero relevance to the actual story.

And while writing this I realise that all other genres have their stereotypes, if not quite as pronounced as dark romance.

In detective stories the brooding private investigator will find that he is somehow linked into the plot, his life may endangered or a suspect is a close friend or relative.  He will also have an intimate encounter with a female friend which is broken off for some reason or another, perhaps to be requited later, perhaps not. And of course, the butler did it.

Teen narrated stories will focus mainly on the opposite sex with all physical features explained in explicit detail but neglecting to mention that, say, they play the piano.

Dystopian fiction will have large amounts of death, one or more of which will be of significance to the protagonist. Rulers of dysfunctional worlds will be cold and unpleasant which the protagonist will sense even before they do anything remotely evil. There's such thing as too much foreshadowing.

Talking of which, did anyone notice that in the first few scenes of the twilight movie Bella is carrying a cactus which remotely resembles the hairstyle of a certain Mr Edward Cullen? Coincidence? I think not. 

Empty house syndrome

When you are the only person in your house you suddenly notice all sorts of noises and shadows which have been there the whole time but the lack of movement allows them to be heard and seen. 

Your breathing seems unnaturally loud and you might be aware of your pulse throbbing in your throat. Unseen supporting beams and hidden pipes creak in the walls and somewhere close by water drips.

Tiny mouse paws are amplified by echoey hallways and wooden floors and it suddenly seems as though below my feet is a little troupe of tap dancing rodents.

Shadows seem darker and the slightest of movements in the house seem eery and unnatural. The fridge hums with energy and water is rushing through some pipes somewhere to some unknown destination.

Next doors dog barks and cars rush past in ululating whispers. One passes with the window open, spewing out a heavy bass beat which grows then fades as they pass by. 

The phone rings and I start at the sudden noise. I let it ring twice then answer its Mia.

"Hey babe, my brothers driving me crazy, can I come round?" 

I look around and feel the urge to fill the empty space and silence.

"Yeah, of course. In fact, let's have a sleepover, stay the night."

Awkward.

Lots of awkward things have happened to me in my life.

I was once caught on my period on an raf camp when I was the only girl and I'd forgotten to bring any sanitary towels or tampons. I've walked in on a chemistry teacher groping the deputy heads arse. I've seen a boy I have a crush on make out with one of my best friends.

In each case I made it through. I improvised with toilet paper, I coughed loudly and pretended to be tying up my shoelace and I found a random guy and made out with him too.

But nothing ever prepared me for the awkward silence on sitting on a bench with that same random guy and two friends who were each urging us to make out. Or talk. Or do something. 

The small talk got smaller until it dwindled into nothing. He got out his phone and checked his messages. No one has texted him. His friend confiscated his phone.

Our friends started ignoring us and began flirting.

We sat in silence.

To be honest I didn't really know how to start the conversation. So, last night we made out and now we're sober. And, by the way, you touched my bum.

Our friends next to us got more excited and moved closer together. 

He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. Half an hour later I made my excuses and left. 

My friend texted me frantically. 

Omg he said you were really hot!

I was very puzzled... And replied

He barely talked to me

Well he said he's not looking for a relationship right now

Eww boys. I intend on living alone with seven cats.

The big bad wolf

My name's Stacey. I live with my dad and two brothers. Life's not so good at the moment, but I still get to go see mum after school at the hospital. Dad used to come with me but last week he stopped. I know he's given up on her. He thinks she won't wake up.

My brothers are called lance and Keith. They're alright as far as brothers go. We live in a housing estate in Birmingham, it's a pretty rough area and my school shows it. There's this one guy, calls himself "the wolf". He's a complete and utter tosser. He sticks peoples heads down the loo, steals lunch money and generally makes a prat of himself. He calls me Steve. Says I look like a man. Go figure.

But I made a mistake. Capital M, mistake.

This morning in English Mr Smith made us write about our family. I felt like screaming at him. We're not in primary school anymore! Plus obviously he knew about my mum.

Then he picked on me to read mine out, the sod. So there I stood announcing my mothers medical history to the class.

And when I looked up twenty three pairs of eyes gazed at me with pity. And one pair with an almost sadistic glee as if I'd offered him a challenge.

As I walked to the hospital that day, intrusive eyes followed me. The whole school knew. I didn't look, I just kept my head up and walked past. Never show them you care, that's what my dad always says.

It was going fine until I passed wolf. He stopped bullying a first former to come and walk by me. Wow. I feel honoured.

"You going to see your mum?" He leaned in and said in a low voice, deep and rough as if he didn't want anyone to hear. That wasn't like him. However I didn't want to waste time on him so I didn't reply, just kept walking.

"Hey, Darren, leave her alone." Lance came and joined me, walking on the opposite side to wolf. Both boys leaned in towards me, as if spoiling for a fight. I felt trapped between them, almost claustrophobic.

Wolf sneered at Lance, "I was talking to Steve, gay boy. What's up? Are you jealous?"

"Fuck off, Darren, that's my sister."

"And that's any better?" Wolf flashed a predatory smile.

"She doesn't have time for your shit,"

"I know, she's off to see her mum before she kicks the bucket." Lance pushed me out the way and shoved wolf against a wall. We'd walked down an alleyway. No one could see us here.

"For the last time. Darren. Piss off." He released him and wolf panted, angry at being humiliated like that. 

"Race to the hospital?" He said, then sprinted away. Without thinking I chased after him, not caring to speculate what he might do when he got there, I just chased. Lance fell behind, he wasn't as quick as me. 

Brick lined alleyways flew past and dissolved into clinically clean white corridors. I followed him until he dived into a patients room. I panicked, that wasn't even my mothers room. I ran to the door and saw him stand there, facing me, defiantly. 

An aged man occupied the bed. His eyes closed peacefully as he was asleep. Wolf lay a hand on the mans shoulder.

"Don't think you're alone." He said, "you're just the same as me."