Monologue #2

Another piece of potential coursework that did not make it to the teacher!

I’m so annoyed! Yesterday was a complete and utter disaster! One would have thought the aristocratic garden party at Daddy’s manor house would have easily sustained a mature environment but obviously I was mistaken! It just baffles me how people with such polished exteriors can show what complete baboons they are after a glass of wine. It’s not as though we’re living in the nineteenth century – this is nineteen fifteen for goodness sake!

I should have seen it coming – the afternoon was doomed from the moment my grand entrance failed to impress because father’s butler was entertaining the guests with his impression of a possessed goose. Of course I might have found it slightly humorous if it weren’t for the fact the novelty had already worn off after he had tried it in the dining room but ended up choking on his cufflink. That stupid man is constantly stealing my thunder.

And the head house maid...oh my goodness the shame, my cheeks burn at the mere thought. They knew this was my special afternoon yet clumsy Maggie still managed to trip over a stool and send a wine glass flying in Lady Garnet’s face. The poor old bat is sixty four and I’ll tell you now, those scars will vanish long before her nostrils stop flaring angrily. They were nothing compared to her expression though; somewhere between bleeding where the glass shards had hit her and blue in the face from wailing she looked as though she was ready to throttle the next person who cried “Oh Mrs Garnet are you all right?”

She certainly didn’t look alright, but I suppose her nose did that thing where it screws up when she’s trying to show emotion, so on the bright side we did get a familiar response from her.

Father was most excited that Sir Arthur Eccleston made his appearance – he’s a Lord, you know. Maggie thought she’d make him feel welcome by personally offering him an egg and cress finger sandwich; it had obviously slipped her mind the man is lactose intolerant, but not to worry, we got him breathing again in the end...even if he did wheeze a lot after speaking.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for me really...I put so much effort into making myself seem respectable and the blunders of a few idiotic people cast a shadow of humiliation upon me. The day wasn’t all wasted I suppose as I did receive many complements concerning my dress, though it’s hard to accelerate your ego when you faint soon after because Maggie fastened your garment too tight when she dressed you in the morning. Father actually snapped at me and crudely suggested that if I wasn’t satisfied I should get off my...and dress myself, which I thought was quite rich coming from a man who won’t even pour his own cereal.

Enough about all of that though, I’d rather just put it all to bed now. I mean, what are the chances of having ditsy and attention seeking house staff? Whatever I do, I mustn’t blame any of it on myself...I’m not exactly hard work!

Monologue

I was originally going to use this for my coursework this year but I decided on another topic. Anyway, I still have it saved so I thought I would share it (:

I was just a privileged child, brought up in a flamboyant home. Of course I took everything for granted; flurries of maids and butlers scurrying around my home was the norm for me. They’d fret until they turned green if they’d forgotten to fluff a pillow, but what did it matter to me? I used to think them silly panicking over the smallest of things – I mean, if I’d dropped a fork onto the carpet I’d hardly have been scolded for it! Who was I to know, the spoilt little heiress prancing proudly around daddy’s spacious manor house.

I’m relieved to say my knowledge of the world wasn’t all jaded by deliciously jewelled chandeliers and generic portraits of important people; I mean I frequently saw the town, all thanks to the house keeper Mrs Rawton. Oh she was good to me, making sure my spoilt little head was fixed on the right way at least sometimes, leading me across the cobbles of reality.

I was sixteen when the War came, hardly frightened out of my wits though I must admit. I thought it was hilarious the day the kitchen maid scrambled through the ballroom wheezing and bawling; I’d believed it undeniably ridiculous of her – what was the threat when we were so safe inside the mansion? The thing itself was worth over a billion so it was bound to be protective for goodness sake.

I’d been banned from entering the town due to bomb threats for at least three months. Mrs Rawton did eventually lead me tightly by the hand out of our front gates soon after, much to my mother’s disapproval; but even she couldn’t argue against my father’s opinions and his tone of finality: ‘It’ll do her good!’

 It did more than that.

There was a little girl curled up in a ball outside the bakers; she was crying because her father had been killed in a bomb attack at War. I saw a man feeling his way along shop walls, stumbling here and there on a cobble. His sight had been snatched during a gas attack. For a moment he glanced my way and his milky eyes, though blinded, seemed to gaze into mine with pity, as though it were I who needed saving. They were wrecked at the hands of our enemies.

I remember the man on the bench, the man in the muddy brown uniform, eyes fixated on the floor. Those eyes had no doubt seen horrors enough to etch themselves into the mind forever; had he seen his friends die? I don’t know.

The world had changed since I had last stepped out of the house and I hadn’t even noticed...

I’ve changed dramatically since then. The Victorian brat who would pester the cook for night time sweet foods is only a shameful memory. Life no longer revolves around how generously my jewellery sits along my collarbone, or how tight my garments are. It never will again.  

Story clippings

During the months surfacing around my year 12 coursework last year I, being the perfectionist I am, started and abandoned many stories, each holding the potential to make it successfully to the teacher's desk. One of them I particularly enjoyed writing; it was peaceful, serene, but held no obvious link to any article ideas I also needed to conjure. 
This is an unfinished piece. 

The crevices sculpted carelessly into the cliff face served as vast, shadowed spy holes; to what, Aires was not certain. Today, he did not awknowledge them however, but scanned his eyes drowsily across the bloody sky that gulped the landscape in a pink haze. The ocean, distanced enough for Aries to be able to imprison it between two outstretched fingers, rolled rhythmically across a mass of soaked sand, drawing back moments later, to repeat the process mournfully. Every time a particularly determined wave collided with a stubborn rock, sprinkles of salt water propelled into the air, glinting in the rising sun like spits of orange flame. This place, lonely, isolated and haunting served as the perfect place to hide what lay inside his tent.

After slowly flexing his shoulder muscles and releasing a deep, satisfying breath, he lazily raised himself from the frigid rock and turned, examining his small, stout and hopefully temporary home. Tension sidled through his fingers as he cautiously approached the tent and carefully tugged at the zip. It was almost impossible to enter without having to crouch awkwardly which Aires proved; even by bowing his head a considerable amount, the distraction of attempting to appear unnoticed caused his foot to stumble on his rumpled sleeping bag. Doing his best to mute his breaths, he peered at his right leg extending out of the mouth hole and slowly drew it inside. Against the far right hand corner, a selection of old matted blankets and a sleeping bag lay in a settled clump. A few wisps of dazzling silver hair protruded from somewhere within the bundle. Not even the reddish glow the crimson tent emitted from the dawning blaze of the sun weakened its bright image.

The bundle stirred and Aries froze. Seconds later his hand groped inside his trouser pocket and his fingers clasped around the subject he had found not far from the cliff’s edge. The silent atmosphere was pierced with the muffled wail of a seagull and the boy, throwing an angry look in the direction of the disturbance, slinked to the edge of the tent, closer to the subject of his interest. The Unicorn nestled within the protective blankets was the size of a large cat and prior to Aries’ first encounter with it, he hadn’t even imagined that such beauty could exist. Curls of thick, silver hair fell down its back creating a shimmering mane and tail. Its horn was merely a pearly stump but nevertheless, the overall effect was baffling. The boy crept closer, intrigued but fearful; he did not dare touch it as not to contaminate it and each step that brought them closer together brought with it the dread he might ruin its innocence. The dirty, mangled materials it rested upon clashed horribly against the calf.

As he continued his mesmerising stare, the creature’s small, white eyelids raised and two large glassy eyes regarded him with fatigue. Aires blinked and withdrew his hand from his pocket, placing his outstretched fingertips close to the Unicorn. A plum, which had insulated heat from his sweaty hand, rolled onto the fabric and biffed the creature’s nose lightly. The boy carried on gawping as its marble eyes darted to the fruit and the stunning head retreated back slightly. The Unicorn had not eaten since Aires had found it, lost deep within the cavity in a cliff half a mile down the beach; He therefore unfortunately had no idea of what its diet could possibly consist of.

“No?” He breathed, and its tiny head jerked upwards, apparently startled by the sound.