To Warm Frozen Fingers: COMPLETED!

To Warm Frozen Fingers COMPLETEMy quest of something which took 73 days longer than anticipated (due to procrastination, mwhahaha – don’t ever say that procrastination isn’t incredible!) is over, finally over! Because yesterday, February 29th 2016 (the last day of winter) I published the last story in my 23 day short story challenge which became to be known as To Warm Frozen Fingers.

Since November 25th 2015, I have tried to complete this challenge and although it’s been hard and stuff along the way, I didn’t feel much like writing, the winter blues drove me crazy… I actually finished something I set out to doContinue reading “To Warm Frozen Fingers: COMPLETED!”

The Differences Between…

…A Short Story, a Novelette, a Novella and a Novel

Well, there are a lot of different things you can write – maybe I’ll do different poems or something soon – but I thought that, today, I’d start with the basics.

Short Stories

  • Shorter than a novel, a novella and a novelette (duh)
  • Usually narrative prose
  • Has a beginning, a middle and an end
  • Generally about 3500 – 7499 words, although there is no set length
  • Under 1000 – 2000 words, in my opinion, is called ‘short short stories’ or ‘flash fiction’ – but others say just below 1000 words
  • Tend to only have 1 climax, but maybe 1 subplot
  • Doesn’t have too many characters


  • Shorter than a novel and longer than a short story
  • A long short story, basically
  • Generally about 7500 – 17499 is considered a novelette
  • Has 1 climax, and then subplots


  • Shorter than a novel, but longer than a novelette
  • Generally about 17500 – 39999 words
  • The rules are pretty relaxed with characters and plots and whatever


  • Longest work of fiction
  • Mainly fictional prose
  • Generally more than 40000 words, but can go up to a billion words, I guess

I hope that that helps with definitions, and I’m sorry that this was so late! 🙂


The Evacuee {Short Story}

The Evacuee

Wordcount: 1000
Prompt: ‘word grab!’ Words are: front, deprive, picnic, throw and mock.


You stare, in disbelief, at the book in your hand. The scratchy, knitted throw presses against your bare legs, and you play with the loose thread. Absent-mindedly, you run your fingers over the front cover of the leather journal you have just been given.

It’s 1943. You were evacuated just last week.

The family that you’ve gone to seems friendly to everyone but you, but they are motherless. You, too, are missing your mother, even though you know that your father is already dead.

You remember the day that the telegram came. The ship that he was on had been sunk by a submarine. Your mother had dropped to her knees, a silent scream on her face. Blood tricked down your ankle as a shard of a dropped plate stuck into your body.

That doesn’t matter now. You’re 500 miles away, in Inverness, Scotland, whilst your mother remains in London. During the Blitz.

A pretty, red ladybug crawls onto your ankle, where the cut still shows – a scar now. You let it climb onto your leg, and the combined tickling of that and the throw beneath you makes you chuckle in spite of yourself.

Here.” A sandwich, filled with lettuce and an odd sauce that you don’t recognise is thrust into your palm. You stare at the boy’s plate, which is piled up, mainly with Scotch eggs. Although the family seems nice, you can’t help but feel a bit deprived: after all, you only had the throw for a blanket last night, and it’s spring.

Albeit cold, the day is bright, and you eat your measly sandwich, savouring the disgusting taste. Crumbs fall onto the front cover of the journal, and you wipe them off carefully, making sure that they don’t stain the beautiful leather. It was the one thing that the family had given to you that you felt like they wanted to give to you.

The journal, with a pen in a pocket to the side, is brown leather. The front cover has a motif, an embossed Celtic triskelion. You run your fingers over it, enjoying the way they fit into the lines.

The father of the family stretches out leisurely on the large throw. He winks at you, and you smile back. So far, he is the only one that’s been kind and welcoming. He gave you the journal, after all.

Go and play,” he orders the others; three boys, with whom you’ve been sharing a small farm cottage with.

The eldest, two years older than you, glares in your direction, but says sweetly, “Ok, Papa. Shall we take her with us?” You feel your stomach drop when the father nods. The boys have been pests since the day you arrived, laughing when you dragged in a ratty teddy bear and ate with your fingers at the table, even though they were soaked in gravy.

You stand, carefully placing the ladybug and the journal on the throw. You give it one, last longing look before following the boys down the hill.

You aren’t very good at running. You can do it in London, but you prefer to stay in and read. Thankfully, the teachers understood there: but, in Scotland, it would seem that they would rather you went out and froze than stayed inside.

Stockinged feet in black, leather shoes pound down the hill. When you reach the bottom, you see that the boys are by a rope-swing, over a small river. Watching them for a while, you see them ‘play’ – if you can call it that. More shoving each other around.

Come on!” the eldest shouts gleefully, pushing the rope at you. You catch it; just about. “You have a go!” He laughs, clearly assuming that you won’t be able to.

And he’s right. When you take a running jump onto the swing, you miss, falling into the freezing water below, soaking through your thin dress.

The boys hoot with laughter. Fuming, you stand, glaring at them. “Oh, look at her,” the youngest says, “She can’t even jump properly! What do they teach them in London? How to be losers?” The comments set the boys off again.

You storm back up the hill. The thin dress, the only one you could afford, sticks to your skinny body, and you shiver. You may be old enough to have started to grow a bit, but so far you still look like a boy.

Water drips down the front of your dress, keeping your legs in a constant state of wetness. Clenching your hands into fists, you ignore the mocking voices of the boys behind you. You race up the hill to your adoptive father. The picnic hamper is still open, and he is taking a glass bottle from it; you can see an amber liquid, then five cups follow.

Ginger beer?” he asks cheerfully, holding up the glasses. His face drops when he sees your stormy expression and the water dripping from your clothes. “What have they got you to do now?” he sighs. You shrug. You don’t want to talk about the humiliating experience. He pats the place next to him. “Come and sit next to me,” he smiles.

Even though you’ve only been there for a few days, you already understand the privilege of sitting next to the head of the household. As you sit beside him in the sun, beaming, the boys have caught up, and promptly begin to complain.

But Papa! She’s an evacuee!

Papa, you said that I could sit next to you!”

Yes, yes, I know,” he consoles them, “But look what you have done to her! She is soaking wet.” He shakes his head disapprovingly, but passes them a cup; although he gives one to you first.

As the boys glare at you, their Papa the only thing stopping their mocking, you poke your tongue out, relishing in the feeling of not being the piece of dirt on someone’s shoe: for once. 


As always, feedback is appreciated! 😀 Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed. 😀 

The First One {Short Story}

The First One

TW: Drugs, murder.
Word count: 994


The tea was steadily getting colder, but still remained untouched. The marshmallow had been mutilated to the point that it probably wasn’t a marshmallow any more, and parts of it lay scattered on the saucer.

Fingertips tapped on the table top. Hard, blue eyes stared, watching various people go about their daily business outside.

Inside the coffee shop, there was a general buzz of content as the first flakes of snow fell.

A young man passed her by and sat opposite a pretty woman. He laughed and reached over to hold her hand. The woman’s eyes flitted to hers, and the girl stared, almost unseeingly, back at her. Shifting uncomfortably, the woman dropped her gaze.

The bell above the door rang as it was opened by a boy, no older than 16. He kicked grit from his boots whilst his friends passed him. They were jostling and laughing, but that wasn’t what made the girl smile.

Pushing tousled, brown hair away from his face, the boy’s gaze met hers. It dropped a split second later, and a hint of red appeared over his cheeks. Brown, intelligent eyes were enhanced by bright, white teeth, and he followed his friends to get drinks. With a skip in her heart as the handsome one looked at her again, the girl watched as the group sat opposite her table.

The book that had been used as a prop was ignored, and the girl put her full attention on the boy opposite. He sat, slouching but still managing to look interested in what the others were saying. He took small sips from his hot chocolate, pushing the hair from his face every so often.

Now and then, he would glance up at her, and she would pretend to be watching someone else, or would stare down at her book, feeling when he looked away.

Eventually, the three boys stood. The brown haired one turned her way one more time and smiled, before following his friends out of the door, which clanged shut behind them.

The girl stood. Leaving her untouched tea behind, she picked up a heavy duffel bag and opened the door, silent save for a light ringing of the bell.

For once, her tiny frame worked to her advantage. She followed the boys in a practised manner, waiting outside whilst they went into shops, always pretending to be engrossed in something else, making sure they didn’t notice her too much.

Long, loose hair flowed down her back like a white waterfall. Rubber soled boots made no sound on the concrete. Her leather jacket kept the rain off when a few drops decided to fall.

Finally, the boys split up. The girl followed the handsome one as he went this way and that, down the small alleys that no one else went down in the city. She watched carefully as he bought something from a dodgy looking guy, and, once again, waited outside as he disappeared into a club for an hour.

It was nearly 2AM by the time she caught him alone. He seemed sober and his eyes were clear, although she suspected he was under the influence of something or other.

What’s a pretty girl like you doing out so early?” he asked, stumbling upon her leaning against the wall just outside. She shrugged and batted her eyelids daintily.

Waiting for a handsome guy like you to come along, I suppose,” she twittered falsely. The boy smiled, almost warily, and she thought she saw a hint of recognition in his eyes.

Didn’t I see you earlier? In Mrs J’s?” he asked. The girl uttered a high, fake laugh.

Oh, perhaps. Weren’t you the handsome one that came through the door?” She stroked his arm, and the boy looked more at ease.

Perhaps,” he smiled. “Can I walk you home, then?”

The girl felt a rush through her veins. “Oh, yes please. It’s a little scary out here at night, what with all those strange men around.”

The boy nodded, and she reached down to pick up her duffel bag. “Oh here,” he said, “let me carry that for you.” She shrugged, and passed it to him; he bent momentarily over the unexpected weight, before straightening, and passing it to his right hand, so he could walk with his left to her. “Blimey, what have you got in here?”

Oh, just some…books,” she said, saying the first thing that came to her mind. “Shall we go, then?”

Casually, the girl walked off, and the boy hesitated for a moment before following her sashaying hips.

Street after street passed them by as the boy tried to make small talk. The girl answered in short sentences, still trying to keep the pretty tone to her voice. A small alley came up on her right, and she halted.

Oh, I know this place! This is a short cut,” she lied, holding out her hand for his. He took it without thinking, and she tugged him down the gloomy passage.

They met no one. Heard nothing. It seemed as if they were in their own little bubble. Perfect, the girl thought, a sly smile on her face.

So, where does this lead to?” the boy asked, peering back over his shoulders as the darkness engulfed them, taking them away from the comforting, orange street lights.

Somewhere special,” she replied vaguely.

When she felt sure that no one would see nor hear them, she pulled the boy towards her before pushing him against the wall. He dropped the duffel bag in shock, and they both heard the clanging of metal.

Frozen, the boy stayed tight against the wall. She reached down and slowly unzipped the bag. Drawing a knife from its depths, she held it up, so it glinted in the slither of moonlight that came from between the buildings.

This was it.

The first one.

The first boy she would ever kill. 


Thanks for reading! Feedback appreciated! 🙂 

I’m Really Sorry

Hi guys,

I’m really sorry that I haven’t posted in ages. I will once more when I actually have some decent ideas of what to write about…

In the meantime, have a short story, thing. Or, you can read it here on ReadWave, a site for 3 minute stories (or 800 words). This one isn’t 800, but enjoy anyway.


I Think I Care Too Much

When people ask, “What do you care about?” it’s easy to say what was probably the first thing that popped into your head: “Oh, my family of course.”

And, when you think about it, yes, that is true.

But when you think about it some more, other things pop into your mind.

Friends, even ones you don’t talk to that much any more; pets, even ones who are a little bit wild; hell, even food – ’cause you’re lucky if you have a full plate every night.

And then you think a little more, and other things make themselves aware.

You care about that special book that you’ve had since childhood; or the teddy bear that you couldn’t sleep without. Even your favourite seat on the school bus, or a pen that you thought was lucky and had it in every single damn exam – even when there was no more ink left.

Perhaps you’re a little more superficial – you care about your phone, or laptop, over other things. Or even a special woolly Christmas jumper, that you pretend you hate but secretly cannot wait to get out every year.

Sometimes even just sitting in front of the TV and watching your favourite program or a film with a hot drink and a blanket.

There are a lot of things many people care about – sometimes too many to list, even if you had all day.

But, for most of us, there is that special someone in your life. You know the one – they make it seem like you are floating on air when your feet are firmly on the ground, like your heart is beating at 10,000 miles an hour, and you pray and pray and pray that it will never, ever end.

See? That one person just popped into your head, didn’t they? The person that makes you smile when you think of them; the person who’s voice you can hear in your mind, and that voice that you can formulate into any sentence you wish; the person who’s face you fall asleep smiling about and is the first thing that pops into your mind in the morning.

And if I asked you after reading this, “What is the thing you care about most of all?”

What would you honestly, truly say? 

How To Write Good Fanfiction – Oneshots


*Cough* anyway, back to the post: which, today, is on oneshots!

Oneshots are basically very short stories, that tend to be about 5000 words at the most. Some are as short as 100 words, though, and some as long as 10,000 – so it can differ greatly!

So, what makes a good oneshot?

  • Tells a good story – unless it’s PWP (look it up if you’re brave enough) or ‘fluff’. Or a ‘drabble’, which is basically just a few words telling a really really short story. One of my favourites is ‘The Bestest’ by lovelyapper on
  • Shows off the characters well – oneshots don’t tend to be AUs (Alternative Universes) so they tend to be really good with the characters. Make sure you know them well!
  • Has a good ending that satisfies readers – unless you’re like me, and like to end on a really annoying cliffhanger. 😀
  • Is engaging and tells the whole story – there’s no point in a boring oneshot, and it would be really annoying if it didn’t tell the whole story (see above) or left gaping plot holes.

If you do write a oneshot, make sure the summary is short. Maybe the summary could just be a quote from the story? It’s up to you.

So, I hope that helped. I really have to go now, so I’ll probably delete this later, and update it.

Questions? Shoot. 🙂

NaBloPoMo Index

Others in the ‘series’:

Why I Like Wattpad

Well hey, glad to see I didn’t get any hate for the last one! That’s always nice. Not having hate, I mean, not having hate…

So, anyway, today are some reasons why I like Wattpad, to counteract the last one, cause, you know, the more I looked on the site after that, the worse I felt about it. I’m sorry, Wattpad *pats on head*.

Firstly, if you can get your story out there, it gives you a great readership. Many of the stories on there have thousands of reads (though these are added up chapter by chapter, not one read for the whole book). And, if you get a lot of reads, you can be noticed by actual publishers – I once read an article in SHOUT Magazine, and there was another in a different magazine that I can’t remember the name of where teens were found and had their stories published. There was actually (SHOCK, HORROR!) a good One Direction fanfiction, and the author was commissioned to write a boy band novel! How cool would that be, though, seriously. That would be fuckin’ awesome.

Secondly, there are a good array of books on there, if you can get past the shitty ones. I once read one called ‘White Lies’ which I quite liked, and then there was ‘Waiting’ and a collection of LGBQT stories that rocked. It offers a good, free read when you can’t afford books, too!

Thirdly, their mobile equivalent isn’t too bad. Alright, maybe it’s a bit dicky trying to look up your own works and edit them, but reading others is great. It’s basically the only place I read them!

Fourthly, this is a better place for longer books, unlike ones like, or, as they have a lot of one shots and short stories. So if you actually want a good, long read: here is your place to go!

Finally, the Watty Awards get a really big hype, so congrats to anyone that’s won them! I don’t tend to really look at them, as I’ve never had any reason to, I guess, but yeah – and you could even get your book published from that.

So, those are my reasons why I like Wattpad, as opposed to don’t. Overall? I guess I have to say I’m 50-50. I’d use it and read stuff on it, but I don’t think it would be my favourite just yet! Next two days, I might evaluate Miss Literati, who knows?!

Find me on Wattpad!

Wattpad - I'm 50-50.
Wattpad – I’m 50-50.

NaBloPoMo Index