Self Care

It’s no secret that I've had a bit of a tough year. Getting to grips with doing a PhD, three bereavements within a month and an unwanted house move just when everything was at its peak; No, this year hasn’t been easy, but I’m starting to realise that I may have made it much harder on myself than it needed to be. In the midst of everything that’s happened, I forgot to take the time for self-care. My mum might call it looking after myself; my counsellor calls it being kind to myself. Whatever you want to call it, I haven’t been doing it, and this year has been much, much tougher than it needed to be.

As is often the case, I only realised what had been missing because I took the time to do it again. Over the last few weeks, I have tried to really been kind to myself, and I’ve found a few things that have really helped my mental and emotional well-being. And this post is as much to remind myself to keep doing them as anything else.

Over the last few years I have noticed that some of the lowest points in my life have occurred when I haven’t been actively cultivating my spiritual journey. I know that correlation and causation are not the same thing, but I’ve never liked coincidences. I feel much better in myself, much more grounded when I’m taking the time to ask questions about the universe, and to learn or ponder on the answers that feel right to me. I won’t say too much more here because I plan on doing a no holds barred post on my spiritual beliefs, but I will say that I have felt much better for taking the time to sit by myself and ponder my purpose and how I want to live my life. Two of the books that have been most useful to me of late are The Art of Happiness by His Holiness the DalaiLama and Mastery by George Leonard.

The other major component in my well-being seems to be the pursuit of some sort of creative endeavour. Last week I started work on part of my Halloween costume. It involved lots of papier mache, and I found it extremely relaxing doing a little bit every day. It reminded me of the reason I picked up painting this summer; it gives me something tactile to do, that is relatively simple and doesn’t involve my brain as strenuously as the rest of my life does. I have also found refuge in the creation of macramé or shambala bracelets. The fact I gain the same amount and kind of pleasure from a variety of crafts suggests that it is the tactile and creative nature which is most beneficial, and I should set aside some time every week, if not every day for creative pursuits.

The rest of what I’ve found seems to be on a smaller scale that the two things mentioned above, but can be exceedingly helpful in diffusing a stressful situation. Taking refuge in a cup of tea, taking time to brew it carefully and sip it slowly is of immense benefit to me. Likewise, taking the time to run and have a bath is extremely relaxing and can rescue a bad day. Other than that, my priority is to learn to expect less of myself; to be able to admit my limitations and be okay with them. And I’m learning that sometimes I just need to remove myself from a situation, take a day off and do whatever I want to do so that I can return refreshed.

That to me is self-care; the little things as well as the big that make an impact on my day to day life, my well-being and my ability to perform well in anything.

What does self-care mean to you?

Pictonaut Challenge: December 2011

I have developed something of a tradition out of either writing or posting The Rogue Verbumancer's Pictonaut challenges late.Sometimes it's because I'm busy, sometimes I just have no idea what the date is. Mostly though the prompts fail to seed ideas in my brain before the month is out. I mentioned in April that in my excitement at completing Space Junkie, I had decided to go back and attempt all Pictonauts up to date in a month. As you might guess, that never happened. I did however  complete two more Pictonauts, one of which was Falling into Fantasy. The other has been languishing on my hard drive, not entirely sure what to do with itself. I had thought of not publishing this, but what's the point in writing if no one's ever going to see it? It's a little bit risque, so be warned. Glempy called this prompt The Psychedelic Lady, but in the grand tradition of not doing what I'm supposed to, I decided to call this story A Perfect Moment.

A Perfect Moment

If there's one thing I like more than sex, it's that first cigarette afterwards.

Don't get me wrong, I fucking love sex (pun absolutely intended). I love the way sex is so dirty, so unhygienic. Two bodies (or three or four, whatever takes your fancy) mushing themselves together in defiance of the clinical and sanitary world we've built for ourselves. I love the smell of sweat, of body parts that don't get mentioned in polite conversation. I love the feel of another person's skin sliding across my own, roughly or gently, it's all the same to me. I love the feeling of controlling another person, or them controlling me, right up until that last moment when all control is lost and all you can do is feel. In that moment it's like you could reach out and touch the universe if you wanted to, but you can't because all you can do is simply be. All you can do is ride this wave that's coursing through you, taking you over and taking you to places you only know exist in that moment.

I absolutely love sex, but far more precious to me is that moment afterwards. After the ecstasy, when the world is just coming back to normal (pun also intended). When you're piled in a sweaty heap with the person or persons you've just fucked. I love the feeling of satisfaction as I sleepily, languidly reach over to pick up the packet of cigarettes. The smell of the matches, and then the smoke as it mingles with the smell of sweaty, sated bodies.

That first drag is almost as good as the orgasm that undoubtedly preceded it. Instead of allowing the world to come crowding back I stave it off by having a smoke. The blissful feeling is prolonged and I'm still master of the world.

I love watching the smoke swirl around in the air, mingling with the bodies I’ve so recently come to know so well. I love the irritated looks I sometimes get from my lovers; these are usually the ones who don't get a second visit. I love the ritual of it all; inhale, pause, exhale, repeat. I love the tingly feeling in my toes, and I love that I can never tell if it's the pleasure I just experienced or the nicotine.

There is something perfect in that moment, taking lazy drags from my cigarette as I let my gaze rove over the skin of my lover, cataloguing every imperfection. I've always thought that perfection lies in imperfection and in this moment I know nothing more.

I know that smoking is bad for me, but then the kind of sex I like to have isn't exactly healthy either. My feelings for my lover usually last until I’m down to just the filter, and then I tire of them. We get back into clothes that are always easier to take off than to put back on. Polyester doesn't like sweaty skin, and occasionally I have to hunt for the odd item or two that always seem to disappear.

After that I send them on their way, sometimes sharing a kiss on my doorstep. Sometimes I’ll let my lovers come back; some of them come back many times before I grow tired and start looking elsewhere.
I head back up to the bedroom and light another cigarette. It's not as good as the first one I had after sex, never is. But still I light it, and try to recapture some of the magic, some of the perfection of the moment. I never can.

The only way to get that feeling back is to do it all again. And again, and again, and again.

September Pictonaut: The Journey

September was a strange month for me. Not least because I spent approximately half of it in Oxford on a terrifically challenging "summer" school. One of the unfortunate side effects of this seems to have been that I thought there was more September than the poor month had to give. Consequently, though my entry for the September Pictonaut challenge was completed with approximately 15 days to spare, it has ended up being posted approximately 15 hours late. My apologies to The Rogue Verbumancer for my tardiness.

This months' entry is based on an idea which has been tormenting me for a number of months now. It actually started out as a concept for a piece of fan fiction, but when I saw the prompt for September's Pictonauts, I knew I could easily adapt to to be original. Hypothetical cookies to anyone who can guess which fandom this was originally intended for, I worked quite hard to conceal it. This piece doesn't come anywhere close to finishing the story I had in mind, so I expect we'll see more of this character's journey.

The Journey

For the first few weeks he would alternate between fitful, feverish sleep and screaming for his parents, though he could not tell them anything about them. He couldn’t remember his name, or where he was from, or how he had come to be in the desert. The weeks turned into months and still the boy’s memory did not return, he slowly stopped screaming for his parents and started picking up words in the language of the Desert People. Eventually he began to call Shand and Asis mother and father and they knew that they were his family now.  They named him Shade and took him for their own son.

Just has Shade had always known he was adopted so too had he known that he was different. His milky skin set him apart from the copper skin of the villagers. Though time spend in the sun darkened his skin, he always stood a shade apart from all the others. He was a precocious child, and worked hard to please the other villagers. His sharp wit and curious nature did him no favours in the eyes of the other children, but eventually he won them over with his kind heart and trusting soul. He worked hard, learning all he was taught and completing all tasks set him with boundless enthusiasm.

Shade grew tall and strong and showed considerable skills in tracking and hunting. He could find water and vegetation when others could not and so provided well for his village. As he grew to adolescence he showed an interest in learning what arts of war the simple Desert People possessed and he gave himself over to defending the village as well as providing for it.

Time passed and Shade was content; he loved Shand and Asis dearly, and though he was curious about his birth parents and where he had come from, his parents could not enlighten him. He put his former life out of his mind, knowing that his birth parents would have assumed him dead. Life in the desert was hard, but it was simple and fulfilling. And so it was until the eve of Shade’s nineteenth birthday, fourteen years after his parents had found him in the desert. On the eve of this anniversary, Shade began to have the strangest dreams.

At first they did not trouble him for the dreams were calming and enjoyable, views of mountains and green pastures and cool blue lakes. Slowly, the dreams became more focussed; he dreamt of a little boy running around a courtyard, of riding in the forest and swimming in the river. The blurred faces of the other people in these dreams seemed comforting and familiar to him, and slowly he realised that these were not dreams, but his own long forgotten memories. Each morning he discussed his dreams with his parents and though they were uneasy they assumed him they would be supportive should he wish to search for his birth family.

The dreams continued, though the details never sharpened. His own name continued to elude him, as did the name of the country which he was from. So too did the names of his loved ones ever eluded his grasp, though sometimes he felt as though he were about to discover an important detail just before he woke up. The people in his dreams became as familiar as those in his waking life. His father was a tall man with a bearded face, his mother a woman with long black hair. And he realised too that he had a sister, a twin sister, and he knew her smiling face and laughing eyes the same shade as his, though he never saw them in his dreams.

Suddenly, six months after they started the dreams stopped. At first Shade mourned their loss but he slowly adjusted and once again threw his efforts into providing for his village. Winter came and went, such that it is in the desert, and he dreamed of normal things. Then one night in early spring, his dreams returned. But this time they were different.

This time he dreamed of a wide, blue river on a great plain. He dreamed of a shining city on a mountain, of a tall silver tower in the morning sun. He dreamed of great white walls and a great wooden gate, beyond which there were miles and miles of fertile farmland. He dreamed of mighty banners caught high in the afternoon breeze and of the sound of silver trumpets calling him home.

And this was home, he now knew. Though he enjoyed his life in the desert village he physically ached to return to this great white city. It called to him, as though his very soul belonged in this place. His destiny was calling him. Shade spoke to his parents, to everyone in the village describing what he had seen in his dreams, but none knew of a city that matched the one in Shade’s heart. He began to despair of ever making it home, of ever finding this city that could make him whole. Then one day, a rare travelling trader passed through the village and Shade sought an audience with him. The traveller knew of this city that had haunted Shade’s dreams and was willing to guide him there.

So Shade bid farewell to his village and to Shand and Asis who had raised him as their son. They were elderly now, and though he promised to visit again if ever he could, they held no hope of seeing their boy again. For many weeks Shade and the trader travelled leagues and leagues through the desert, heading north to this city of dreams. They travelled in the cool of the night and slept through the heat of the day. Hunger and thirst they endured, and fought their way through sandstorms until Shade could not remember a time that they were not walking through the desert.

One day, at sunrise, Shade crested a mighty sand dune looking for a place to camp for before the day grew too hot. At the top of the dune he rested a while, scouting out the nearby terrain. Suddenly his breath caught in his throat; through the haze of the early morning, he spied in the distance a great mountain. And atop that mountain something glistened in the light of the rising sun. The air moved and Shade thought he could hear the sound of distant silver trumpets. They were calling him home.

The mountain was still leagues away but Shade knew that soon they would cross the great winding river. Soon enough they would begin to see fields and farms, more fertile than anything he had ever known in the desert. Some day in the near future they would spy the great silver tower in the distance and see the great banner that flew atop it. They would pass through the great wooden gates into the white city of Shade’s dreams. The trumpets would ring out clearly in the morning breeze and Shade would know he was home.

That night Shade dreamed of his family for the first time in many months. He clearly heard his father’s voice telling him he would soon be back where he belonged. He would soon be home.

He would soon be home.

The M-Word

As one of my friends pointed out to me a few weeks ago, I've been spending rather a lot of time talking about marriage. And I guess he's right. I mean, I talk about it a lot with my partner, because four and a half years into a relationship its bound to start coming up. But I've been casually throwing the topic into conversations with other people, and this apparently constitutes a cause for concern.

I never used to have any strong opinions either way on marriage, but I guess given the vehement anti marriage stance I've had the last few years, it's hardly surprising. I have somewhere in the region of eight engaged couples on Facebook, the majority of whom got engaged in the last few years. One set of friends my age who are already married, and another set getting married this month. And I went to the wedding reception of someone I used to work with at the weekend. To top it all off, I've been reading the hell out of xojane.com recently, where the m-word is a regular feature. Engagement and marriage are subjects that are never far away.

Those are just some obvious examples of the societal pressure I'm feeling to get married. I mean, I'm approaching my mid twenties and in a committed long term relationship. Getting married is this thing I should be thinking about doing soon, right? And it's not so much that I don't want to, it's just that the idea completely terrifies me, and I'm not 100% sure where this level of fear came from. Although I can promising you, people actually turning around and telling me I need to get married next really doesn't help. I've been waiting for that moment since I finished university last year and I finally got it on Saturday.

I mean, I've been an adult for a while now, and I've done plenty of adult things (oh hush you!). I left home to go to university, and got a shiny degree. I've sorted out renting a house, and all the boring utilities that go along with it. I got myself a job (two in fact) last summer. I'm in a proper adult relationship where I live with him and everything. And I think that might be one of the big issues. While it is a proper adult relationship in that we live together and share bills and worry about money and stuff, it still doesn't feel like one, not really. I mean, I put used tea bags in the sink just to wind Sam up, and he uses his creepy voice way too much because he knows how much I hate it. Our default method of communication is winding each other up. I really feel you're not mature enough to be getting married if you're still giggling at each others' farts.

All the other adult things I've done felt relatively easy, like they were just the next small step on this journey through the big bad world. And while I occasionally look back and think "holy shit I've grown up a lot", each individual step was almost insignificant at the time and as such didn't feel that scary at all. Engagement and marriage on the other hand, feels like a ginormous step up, and consequently it terrifies the fuck out of me. Especially as my mum has vetoed my plan to elope and not tell anybody we got married until I'm thirty. I'd have stipulated not telling anyone until Sam turned thirty, but that's a hell of a lot closer than my big 3-0.

It feels weird to have strong feelings on this subject one way or another; I spent most of my life not really caring much about it. I was never one of those girls who were adamant they were going to grow up and get married and have kids. Nor was I one of those teens who had their ideal wedding planned in ridiculous detail. I had friends who did though. If I was ever asked about the subject I would tell them "I'd work it out if I find someone crazy enough to want to spend the rest of their life with me". (Teenage me wasn't very aware of ableist words. Twenty something me apologises). Turns out, I found someone who does seem willing to to spend the rest of their life with me. Who'd have thunk it?

And so I find myself battling this societal pressure to get hitched, my opinions on marriage changing every six months. I can go from suggesting Sam and I elope one week to telling him I never want to get married the next. And if I bring up the subject unusually often, it's because I'm trying to navigate my own thoughts and emotions. Weighing up the pros and cons, all to aware that the pressure to actually get married is nowhere near as crushing as the pressure to do it a particular way, the "right" way.

My experience of the process in media (TV, film etc.) is that the wedding is the focus point for engagement and getting married. That it has to be this utterly perfect (expensive) day where you have to keep every single person you've ever met happy. I'm not a conventional woman. All that fussing about with the dress, the hair, the make up, the bridesmaids, the flowers, the photography, the reception, none of that appeals to me. If I got married it would be for the marriage itself, not the wedding. And it seems there are too few roles models for me in that regard. At least, too few depictions of a happy marriage that doesn't involve a house, a car, and a few kids. Possibly 2.5, I don't know what the average is any more. Marriage is more or less a complete unknown to me, and that makes it scary. How the hell can I decide to make this massive, important and mostly permanent decision about my life without knowing anything about how it might be for me?

Which brings me to another thing that scares me about getting married; the prospect of getting divorced. The idea that this might happen to me is horribly distressing for me, and one possible solution is to just never get married. I'm not sure why this prospect terrifies me so much. I know the statistics, I know that it can be as big or small a deal as you choose to make it, more or less. But I honestly don't think I could cope. I've had a few boyfriends, only a few of whom I'd actually say I had a relationship with, and every time I've gotten dumped it's been devastating, no matter how long they were my boyfriend for. And I was the dumpee in all but one cases, go figure. The devastation I would feel if Sam and I broke up would be horrific, and yes, I've had a taste of what it feels like. But as much as I know it would hurt if my relationship with Sam ended, the idea of getting divorced from him feels like it would have an extra layer of horrible to it.

Having a fails marriage is in a completely different league to having a failed relationship. You made these vows, and one way or another, you've broken them. You failed to live up to your promise. Plus, there's paperwork.

When I think about it carefully, there's a bunch of reasons this subject terrifies me. And my research into the pros and cons haven't helped alleviate that. Many of the reasons to get married that I've found are tied up in religion. Many of the advantages over cohabiting seem to assume babymaking will happen at some point. I've never seen a convincing argument either way. Never seen anything to stop the idea of this big grownup thing being to damn scary.

There was more I wanted to say, but I couldn't find the words and this post has languished in drafts long enough. If I can collate my thoughts I might do another post. You have that to look forward to.

Music makes the World Go Round.

I have always been a big fan of music. But recently I have become that which all people hate; a hipster. Ok, I don't have the silly haircut or the glasses or the permanent sneer, but I do seem to have developed the taste in music. I feel I should explain a little.

When I say I've always been into music, I kind of mean it. I have stories from my mum of me dancing in utero.Which is weird. I'm guessing my genuine appreciation of music didn't start until later. Much later, since I distinctly remember the first CD I ever owned being a Boyzone album. There were cassette tapes before that, Disney and the Black Lace Party tape, but they were owned by my parents. The Boyzone album was the first that was actually mine. I had a brief fling with the Backstreet Boys before developing a debilitating obsession with Westlife. I mean, it actually got me bullied, despite the fact they were the most popular band in Britain at that time.

I don't really remember when, but sometime during my first year at secondary school I fell out with Westlife, and pop music as a whole. Over the course of a summer holiday, I went from the country's biggest Westlife fan to being a metalhead, or 'mosher' as we called them when I was young. The only step in between was a breif fling with the Gorillaz, which doesn't have much in common with either genre of music. People were understandably shocked, some people laughed, a whole bunch of people said I'd grow out of it. Well, I've been listening to metal for the last twelve years and I've not grown out of it yet.

In fact the only thing that's happened to my taste in music as I've aged is that it's gotten broader. I used to be such a music snob; I refused to listen to anything that wasn't made with 'real' instruments. Which is kind of sad, because there's a lot of very good electronic music out there. I used to have utterly contemptible views on country music, until I found a whole bunch of country pop that I liked. One of my current favourite albums is a country album. Likewise I used to hate rap, but I've recently found someone who makes excellent rap that is relevant to my interests. Yet despite adding these things to my repertoire, I remain a steadfast fan of all things metal.

My new favouritist thing in the world is instrumental metal. Something I blame Jeph Jacques for entirely. I've tried for a long time to appreciate the more extreme forms of metal and failed. Turns out what was putting me off is the screaming vocals; I can appreciate extremely heavy guitars and drums as long as there's no vocals. Instrumental metal of any variety makes me happy.

Which actually brings me nicely back to what I said at the start, about being a hipster. The reason I lay claim to that label is because I'm having tremendous fun discovering and listening to bands you've probably never heard of. I spend hours trawling through bandcamp and soundcloud, trying to find new and exciting music by smaller, oft ignored artists. And I find stuff, free a lot of the time. Amazing music that lots of people will never hear. This is what makes me a bit of a hipster, the intentional search for music that is lesser known.

I've started using 8 track to build mixes of my new found favourite music, and putting these playlists together has made me realise how much I want to make music myself. I fear it would just end up another one of  those many hobbies of mine, that get pushed aside in favour of doing crap all. Maybe it's something I'll actually stick with, I certainly have the means to do it.

Maybe I'll just stick to listening to music.

Banana Fairy Tales

In my adventures as a wannabe writer, I have done many wondrous and varied things. I have written many, many pieces of fanfiction. Some decent, some dark, some utterly ridiculous. I had no idea just how much I'd written until I found the folder containing all finished and unfinished pieces on my computer. I probably won't share any of it here, though some of it did get imported here from my livejournal. Feel free to go hunting through my archives. Most of the rest of it is written under my usual username, if you have a burning desire to read what 14-18 year old me had to offer (I'd see a doctor about that burning thing though).

One of the other strange things I used to do was write fairy stories on bananas. If you've never written on a banana, I recommend you give it a go. It's a little odd, but oddly satisfying. These fairy stories weren't your usual fare, but slightly odd. I found the transcription of one of these stories amongst my fanfiction, and since it amused me, I thought I'd share it here.

I should write more stories on bananas.

Proof that I did indeed write it on a banana.

Banana Fairytale

Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a beautiful Princess.  The princess was in love with a handsome Prince, but he had a terrible secret; by the light of day he was a prince but by night he was a woman.  This was the result of a terrible curse placed on him by an evil sorceress.  The only cure for his… predicament was for him to receive love’s first kiss while he was in his female form.  Now the Prince didn’t want to live out his life with this curse, but neither did he want to tell the Princess his secret.  Somehow, he thought, I must trick her into kissing me as a woman so that I can end my curse and we can live happily ever after.  To that end, the Prince threw a huge ball, which he attended as a woman.  He/she plied the Princess with much mead and wine and… persuaded her to ‘take it upstairs’.  The two women kissed passionately and the Princess slid her hand up the Prince’s skirt, too drunk to notice he had changed back.  “I’m sure you didn’t have one of those a moment ago,” she said in surprise.  After a moment’s confusion she recognised her Prince and he told her the truth.  “But I like you as a woman was well,” wailed the Princess, having realised her true sexuality.  Just then, the Sorceress appeared, to cause mischief, and she made it so that one night a month the Prince would in fact be a princess.  The Prince married his Princess and they lived happily ever after.

Falling Into Fantasy: February's Pictonaut Overdue

After the initial euphoria of writing my first Pictonaut, I felt invincible. I decided I was going to try and write all the challenges I'd missed in a month. Well, I wrote three  before life caught up with me. This is the second of my Pictonauts, from February's challenge entitled Faces in the Woods. It's more stream of conciousness monologue stuff, only this one is a lot more stream of conciousness than Space Junkie. Also it's a little bit sweary. Still, I'm kind of proud of it. This was also published in the University of Nottingham's Science Fiction, Fantasy and Anime Society's Zine as "Fantasy vs Reality". That's what happens when I have to come up with titles on a deadline. I like the new title better.

Now someone make me write this months' challenge.

Falling into Fantasy

Why the fucking fuck do these trees have faces? I'm not joking, they've got sodding faces. Not the kind you see in pictures on the internet, where a particular combination of knots or branches combined with a clever camera angle makes it look like they have faces. These look like real human faces. Hell, they look like they could speak if they wanted to. They're so real; they look like they could open their mouths and eat me. Thinking about it, they look pretty fucking angry.

And it's not just a few of the trees that have these faces, its all of them. Every. Single. One. I've never seen trees like this in my life, and I’ve looked at a few trees in my time. It's like I've been dropped into, I don't know, Middle fucking Earth or something. I seem to recall that the trees got pretty angry in that and started ripping shit up. Fuck. Maybe Game of Thrones, there are trees with faces in that, and I don't remember those upping sticks and destroying anything. Although, come to think of it, the trees in that are worshipped as gods and are probably linked with some ancient magical power. Shit. This is what I get for reading too many fantasy novels.

Back away, slowly. Nice trees. Friendly trees. I don't want to hurt you. I’m not going to chop you down and set fire to you. I'm a nice guy, I like trees, I'm a regular tree hugger me. Er, that is, if you want to be hugged, I can totally respect your personal space if you don't want a hug.

Shit. Stop talking to the trees. Can trees the trees even hear me? If a man screams in a forest and there's no one around, are the trees listening and plotting to kill me?

Bloody smegging hell, where the fuck am I? I don't remember planning on taking a walk in a wood where the trees have faces. I don't remember taking a walk at all. How the hell did I get here? Crap, maybe I did get transported to some fantasy world. Which is not good, not good at all. Unless I'm the protagonist in this fantasy novel. That would be pretty cool. Except I'll probably have some sort of ridiculously evil baddie to kill, and there'll be lots of danger and at some point I’ll have to utterly lose hope in order to be able to triumph over evil. Shit, that doesn’t sound so good at all. I think I'll just stay right here. Maybe the story will pass me by.

Nice trees...

What was that noise? Oh hell, there are things in this forest with me. Maybe staying here is a bad idea. I should try to find my way out, or at least a clearing, then the trees won't be so damn close. Right, let’s try to find some wide open space so I can breathe.

It's really quite warm here, and sort of dank and musty. Smells a bit like my basement, only a bit more 

green. Does green have a smell? If it did, it would smell exactly like this place. Oh God, why is it so warm here? The air is really oppressive, almost like it's out to get me as well as the trees. How'd the trees even get so big anyway? This forest must be really old for them to have gotten that tall. Wonderful, sentient trees with face that want to kill me and eat me. It would hardly be fair if one of them ate me, I mean, I’ve never eaten a tree in my life. Don't think it would taste nice.

This forest must be the quietest forest I’ve ever been in. There are no birds or little furry creatures or even any little bugs crawling around. Just the noise of me thinking. And breathing and crashing through the trees with faces. Not that bugs would be any better. I don't really like bugs. Why is there no noise here? Maybe this forest is inhabited by some sort of ninja animals. Maybe some of them have really big teeth want to eat me. I'll never even hear it coming...

Awesome, trees with faces and ninja predators that want to eat me. That's really going to help fight the urge to shit my pants.

Wait a minute, it's a bit lighter up ahead. Maybe I've found a clearing at last. It would be really nice to have some extra air, so breathing doesn't hurt so much. A little breeze wouldn't go amiss either.

Shit! Voices. There are people in that clearing. I'll crawl up nice and quiet, see who they are. Maybe they're friendly and will help get me out of here. Maybe they'll want to kill me too. That wouldn't be good.  I can see them now. Maybe if I keep down nice and low they won't see me. I can't understand a word they're saying. They're definitely not speaking English. Doesn't sound like any other language I've ever heard either. Bollocks, definitely got dropped into some sort of fantasy story. It's not one I've read though, I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I hope I'm not the protagonist.

Oh God, that guy has horns on his helmet. And they're all wearing black. Definitely bad guys. Those look like pretty big swords too. Nasty. I bet that's some sort of wizard staff as well. Horned helmets, all in black, big ass swords and a magic staff, outnumbered three-to-one; doesn't look too good for me if they find me. Oooh, pretty blue light; definitely a magic staff, that doesn't bode well- shit, they've seen me.

Running flailing time. Shit shit shit shit shit. Oof, hello ground will you be my friend? Ouch, didn't know that light could hurt so damn much, but I guess it is magical light. Can't move my limbs. Fuck, they've caught me. 

Nice bad guys, don't hurt me. What are you doing? No, don’t pick me up, I can walk just fine by myself if you’d just let me…

Oh, didn’t notice that big stone table before, wonder what it’s for. Oh, they’re tying me down. That’s probably not good. Fantastic, looks like I’m about to be sacrificed for something. And I seriously doubt that afterwards the table will crack and I’ll be resurrected like a ragingly obvious Jesus metaphor. I wish I could understand what these guys were saying, even just a word to know why.

Bollock, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks and bottoms.

That, that’s a pretty big knife, nice and ceremonial looking. The ropes are too tight to escape. Fuck. End of the line for little old me. And I have no idea why, or even how I got here. Maybe this is just a bad fucking dream. I know, I’ll try pinching myself awake. OW! Well, looks like I’m not dreaming. Either that or someone changed the rules of pain in dreams just to fuck me over. Which isn’t all that good either.

Yes, yes, yes chanting, mystical spells, blue light. All that shit I’ve read about a hundred times. Get it over with. If I have to die, I’d rather it happen quickly, before I actually do shit my pants. Fuck fuck fucketty fuck fuck. I didn’t want it to end like this. Maybe if I close my eyes they’ll go away. Nope, still chanting. And now the horn-helmet guy has raised his knife. This is it.

Shit.