Social Butterfly

Social Butterfly

From the caterpillar a butterfly was born

Life is about learning and giving. I am thankful for mine.

Today I am 11 Years of Age © October 2010 Elizabeth Mills

Short WritingsPosted by Elizabeth Mills Mon, June 24, 2013 21:01:41
Dawn. The orange sun streaming in low, slanting shafts through the leafy tops cast a dappled light upon the forest floor. I had been awake since the first glow, and had searched for the colours I needed. Before me lay my collection: purple and yellow flowers, green slime from the pool and dry, powdered ash from the embers of the fire.

The Priestess would expect me soon. Carefully I smeared my face and body with the colours, and plaited my long black hair. I could hear the tribe gathering around the holy stone, for today, on my eleventh birthday, I would play my part in the future of my people. I alone held the key to their survival.

I heard their voices beginning the ancient incantation, and I rose and slowly walked into the clearing, naked before all the tribe. When I reached the holy stone, I knelt before the Priestess. She placed her hands on my head and began her invocation, calling the spirits to grant me power.

When her blessing was finished, I climbed the steps and lay on my back upon the stone, with my arms by my side and my knees raised.

The voices of the tribe raised in the rhythmic, hypnotic chant, accompanied by a clapping of hands, and I heard the ancestors whispering in my head. The Priestess stood by my side, directing the prayer, her hands waving back and forth across my body.

She smiled at me and asked if I was ready for the great responsibility entrusted in me. Filled with pride I nodded, and as the chant reached its crescendo she plunged her knife deep into my heart.

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One day ....

Chit ChatPosted by Elizabeth Mills Thu, June 20, 2013 13:03:47
I should be writing, but instead I'm sitting here, idly thinking 'What do I want to be when I grow up?'

Air Hostess? - Nah! I've flown enough to know that it's not glamorous, not exciting, and you have to deal with some really ... challenging ... people. Ok, so you get to travel, but how much do you actually see?

Holiday Rep? - I've chatted with reps while on holiday. I chat with everyone; my friends say I'm a tart, but I'm only being sociable ... mostly. I can't deny that the thought of being paid to live in, say, Gran Canaria is very appealing. But suppose I got Argentina instead?

Musician? - Now you know I love music, and I love performing. But ... doing it for a living? Every day? Hmmmmm......

Anyway, who says I have any plans to grow up? I like my life as it is now, mostly. And if, one day, people should happen to discover my books and make me a famous international author, well, that would make me very happy.

So I guess I'll just keep doing what I do, being who I am, pushing at doors, asking questions, meeting lovely people. Isn't that what life is all about?

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The weather and writer's block

Chit ChatPosted by Elizabeth Mills Thu, May 30, 2013 12:09:28
Another dreary day in England, and I'm struggling to put two words together to start a sentence. Surely I can't be so shallow as to let the weather get me down? But here I am, writing my blog instead of my book ... again.

What frustrates me is that I want to write, I enjoy writing, and when it flows, I feel fulfilled. But a little while ago I sat staring at the screen, reading through the current chapter, quite unable to make the story move forward. Seems to me there's only one thing for it, and that is to turn off the computer and clean the bathroom. Right now, that's my most creative prospect.

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A Sequel is in hand

Natalie TereshchenkoPosted by Elizabeth Mills Wed, May 29, 2013 23:06:30

Natalie's story is more than just a historical/adventure/romance, it is about being who you can be. It came about as I was emerging from my cocoon, shaking off the falseness of my early life. Natalie was originally my alternative personality in the on-line virtual world 'Second Life', yet she is not me, she is her own woman.

When the idea for writing Natalie's story was conceived, I had only a vague notion about my character and her situation, and no understanding at all of what it takes to write a novel. I grew with Natalie. As she learnt from her experiences, she taught me how to share them. The story changed many times, and grew with my developing abilities. Huge chunks, many chapters, were written then discarded, and twice I published too soon.

By the time I wrote the final lines of 'Lady In Waiting', I knew that Natalie had much more to tell – and so the second book became essential. It is with a sense of great excitement that I watch 'The Other Side' unfolding, the characters (real and imagined) taking substance in the words on my computer screen, their lives tied to the history that moulds but does not define their destinies.

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Natalie Lives

Natalie TereshchenkoPosted by Elizabeth Mills Sat, July 28, 2012 12:59:33
"I have not left, I am in another room .... "

Natalie was withdrawn from sale for a major rewrite, and has now emerged in a stunning new outfit, bigger, stronger, more sassy. New characters have been added, some of whom are to feature in the follow-up - oh yes, there's lots more to tell - and new scenes have been added. Natalie herself has become more confident ... she will need to be.

The new book is called 'Natalie Tereshchenko - Lady In Waiting' and has been released as an ebook on Kindle and Smashwords, and as a paperback on Amazon (see my homepage for links).

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Setting the Literary World Alight

A Song For JoeyPosted by Elizabeth Mills Sat, July 28, 2012 12:27:35

Setting the Literary World Alight ... or not, as the case may be

How do unknown authors get themselves noticed?

I've tried taking off all my clothes and standing outside the local library. Apart from several pidgeons, no-one took any notice, and I had to wait two weeks for a man from the council to come and wash off the poo.

Someone suggested putting an advert in Facebook. I tried that, too. Lots of clicks, no sales, and my friends list has dropped below a thousand.

Book signings, that could be an idea. But bookshops are only interested if they can sell your book, and they don't buy off Amazon.

So, I watch my sales figures creep slowly towards double figures, and hope that one of them is someone who has the power to launch me into stardom.

Not holding my breath.

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Daisy and the Dragon

Short WritingsPosted by Elizabeth Mills Sun, March 25, 2012 23:48:52

Daisy And The Dragon, a Pantomime © December 2010 Elizabeth Mills

There is a school of thought that contends that the legend of Saint George was usurped by his followers from a much earlier account. The tale of Daisy And The Dragon was rooted in popular folklore long before the English Patron Saint Committee met to choose someone to symbolise the nation's strength and bravery. In that previous version, the dragon was a hideously deformed creature owned by a particularly unsavoury tax collector from Surrey, and the slayer's name was Daisy. Sadly, after much discussion over many brown ales at the King's Head, the committee felt that the name Daisy was just too, well, girly, so they made up a story that involved damsels and swords and a frankly ridiculous reptile.

To set the record straight, here is the true account of Daisy and the Dragon.

Daisy was a lad of fourteen, who lived in an age when poor people had to work to survive, even if they suffered from, like, stress and nerves and stuff like that, you know? His parents, bless them, were uneducated, and knew not what they did when they chose the name Daisy for him.

He was a simple serf; he owned no land, and made his meagre living from labouring day and night for his master, Baron Roast of Ruislip. The noble lord had become very rich and fat by falsifying the accounts of the taxes he raised for the King, and pocketing a sizeable chunk for himself. He accrued a huge estate, and ruled over his workers with sadistic greed, aided by his servant, Split.

Some information about Split would be beneficial at this point. Opinions vary as to whether or not he was human or animal, or both. He was huge, and incredibly ugly, and though he walked upon his hind legs, he did so with a stoop and a sliding motion, like he was dragging something along behind him. Whenever Lord Roast set him upon some unfortunate soul, that person fled in terror, with Split lolloping in lazy pursuit. Though the creature always returned, his victims were never seen again, and no trace of them was ever found. The people called him The Dragon, on account of his strength and bad breath.

Daisy had a heavy responsibility. As well as supporting himself, he also had to look after his little sister, Bruce, and keep her hidden from the evil lord, who had ordered all girl babies to be drowned at birth. Daisy's parents had disappeared a year earlier, following a visit from Split, and he was left alone to care for her.

One day, bad Baron Roast was patrolling his lands, riding on Stephen, one of his magnificent stallions, with Split at his side, when he came upon the field where Daisy lived and worked.

Daisy was busy, tilling the land or whatever it is serfs do. He looked up when his master arrived and saw with dismay that Bruce was playing outside their mud hut, smiling at the funny man on his horsey horsey.

He threw down his serfing stick thing and ran to his sister's side, courageously confronting the lord and his monstrous henchman, who both glared at him.

“You have been hiding a girl-child from me,” accused the Baron, his podgy, brown face contorted with anger. “She has been eating food you should have given to me. For that you will both die.”

(At this point the audience hiss and boo, and the Baron turns to face them.)

“You'll be next, if you don't behave.”

(Derisive laughter and more booing)

“You will have to catch us first,” shouted Daisy, snatching up the frail body of his tiny sibling and running into the woods.

The Baron turned to Split and nodded, and the creature loped off towards the woods where Daisy and Bruce had disappeared.

In the darkness under the canopy of trees, the children ran, panting, trying to get as far away as possible. They knew these woods well, and made good progress, but they soon heard the sounds of Split smashing his way through the thick undergrowth behind them.

Daisy knew they would stand no chance against the brutal strength of the mutant, and only his wits and knowledge could save them. Quickly, he circled the swamp, then stopped on the far side, waiting for Split to appear. He did not have to wait long before the ugly brute burst out of the thicket, only fifty feet away. Split skidded to a stop when he saw the children, and let out a great blood-curdling roar.

“Well,” shouted Daisy, sounding braver than he felt. “What are you waiting for? Come and get us!”

Split lurched towards them, splashing through the shallow waters at the edge of the swamp. By the time he realised he was sinking deeper into thick mud it was too late. He was stuck. He could not move forwards or back and, as his head sank beneath the black, bubbling waters, he gave a great bellow of rage, which was suddenly cut off by the sludge into which he vanished forever.

Daisy and Bruce hugged each other with joy, then set off to walk to London to tell the king about the evil Baron, but that's another story.

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The Voices

Short WritingsPosted by Elizabeth Mills Sun, January 01, 2012 21:40:51

The Voices © December 2010 Elizabeth Mills

The gentle waves lapped upon the shore. Jack sat on a rock and watched them, as he did every day. They weren't always so peaceful. Sometimes they were wild and angry, rising in towering, menacing surges, then hurling themselves, exploding against the rocks in heavy clouds of spray. He knew their every mood. He had seen them cold and grey like slate, and he had seen them glimmer like sapphires and diamonds in the evening sun.

He was old, now, but the sea had been the biggest part of his life since he was a child. Oh, those days when he had waited on the jetty with mam for his pa to return. Sometimes hours would pass before they saw the gyrating brown sails of the fishing boats, struggling against the tide and wind to creep carefully through the harbour mouth into the calm waters within. Then his father would step ashore, still swaying from the motion of the deck, sweep him up in his huge arms and hold him and mam close for wonderful long moments, before they walked home together.

As the years passed, Jack grew into manhood, and eventually went to sea himself. He became a fisherman, too, then a skipper. It was the life to which he had been born. And when the war broke out, of course, he took his sailing skills onto the fighting ships.

For three years he crossed and recrossed the Atlantic Ocean, protecting convoys from the enemy predators, seeking out the hunters and hunting them down. Submarines arrived, hidden and silent in the black depths, despatching their deadly torpedoes at the merchant ships. Though they hid beneath the waves, Jack developed a sense of their movements, felt their vibrations through the deck, smelt them in the air. Then, when he found them, he destroyed them. He was admired by the other commanders and loved by his crew. They knew they were safe with him, that he cared for them as brothers.

Jack smiled at the recollection, remembering the comradeship and the hardships, the celebrations and the heartaches.

Then, as they always did, the other memories returned: the two explosions that rocked the ship and threw everyone off their feet; the flames, red and gold that leapt out from below and burned your clothes from your body, and then seared your skin black in seconds; the dark, acrid smoke that whirled and choked; the creaking and crashing as the hull collapsed. But worst of all, he heard again the screams of his friends, trapped, burning, dying.

He lived again his desperate attempts to rescue trapped men, saw again the faces of the dreadfully wounded colleagues as he carried them to the lifeboat, knowing they would not survive. And, as he always did, he cried.

Charlie “Dick” Turpin, his First Officer, “Randy” O'Brien, the best radio operator he ever knew, Tommy Fielding, Albert Farrell, all gone. Brave men, who risked their lives time after time to bring the urgently-needed food and supplies from America to keep the nation going through that terrible war.

He heard their voices again, talking, laughing. They called to him from the depths, beckoning him. He longed to be with them once more.

As if in a dream, he stood up and began to walk. When he reached the line of foam that swept backwards and forwards at the water's edge, he continued, feeling nothing except the loneliness of his heart, hearing nothing but the voices of his friends. He did not stop when the warm waves brushed against his legs, nor when they lifted him from his feet. All he felt was the hands of Dick and Randy, Tommy and Albert, taking his arms and leading him back to the bridge of his ship, and he heard the cheers of the whole crew as he arrived, back where he belonged.

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