College

Library.
He has a distinguished walk; confidence. He doesn't push the library door, he touches it and it swoons. He walks straight past the shelves of books. Shakespeare? psh, please, he has no interest. Not today. He glazes over the sight of used computers. No emotion is shown. Everyone here has a different look. But not everyone is so happy to look in the mirror. We all, as girls who like boys, have a kind of strange attraction to this one. Confidence; the key.

cafe max.
The social hub. Table after table. Friendship, friendship. Don't let them crash. There are three places to buy food and drink. Each basically a replica of the other. Any irony? In a place where looking 'normal' is more unusual than having dyed hair and a pierced face. So original.

To be a writer?

When did you decide to write? The question for which authors so often have a funny anecdote, or a poignant memory, an uncle that sat down and gave an inspirational speech, a book that changed their whole world. My life has never been in order of epiphany. I have no memory of deciding I ever wanted to commit to anything, and actually follow through with it.

In primary school the teachers thought I was dyslexic. I was dragged out of my favourite lesson at the time, maths, to go and spell things they knew I couldn't spell. I had two English tutors outside of school while I was growing up. So supportive. I have a clear memory of when my mum told me to read more advanced books. I liked Mr Men far longer than any child should. I have always found it impossible to express myself vocally. My first love of language sprang from acting. I joined a drama class at the age of six and was there for eight years. I have always been passionate about music and fascinated by the power of great lyrics – since the age of about three. Since my early teens I've been interested in stand-up comedy and film. Also, because I've always found it difficult to interact with other people, I've been interested in psychology for as long as I remember.

I think of writing as something that just happens. It’s something I want to do. To be a writer you have to write. To be a musician you have to play music. To be an actor you have to act.

I have always recognised myself as a musician because of my love for music, but that is something I gave up because I no longer had the opportunity to play.

I have never recognised myself as a writer because I've always had a complicated relationship with writing. I do actively write a lot. I find that in life I am constantly bombarded with information and peoples’ opinions and my brain running round in circles thinking about everything. When I’m upset or struggling to say something, for me the only way to express myself is by writing. There’s times when I've had a long day, surrounded by people who won’t shut up my head filled with stress and worry. I will actively go and sit somewhere quiet. Somewhere away from everything. Somewhere nothing matters. My head is like a barrel completely filled with water which keeps pouring in. I never get to release any of this, the barrel is always full. There are very few people that I am comfortable in saying anything around. Writing is the only release I have found which works.

I am always thinking about the future and worrying about how I will actually pay for things and participate in life. I know that in an ideal world I would become an author. I also know that’s very unlikely, but one of that maters when I’m writing. There’s two different types. There’s, like this, when it’s difficult, it’s challenging and it’ll come across as forced. But, when I’m really writing my brain bubbles, and it all pours out of my pen. I’m no longer with any of this world. I no longer have any worries. I am watching another world, far away.

Bridge

I am standing here. On this bridge. Looking around me I can see the spikes of tree tops struggling to reach. Trees are strange. It's as if the whole tree is just supporting that one leaf right at the top. All those leafs photosynthesizing. All that carbon dioxide being inhaled. Just for that one highest leaf. So often they just give up. So many trees just die when it get's too cold. Not enough sun. Not here. There are no seasons here. It is always hot, whether you like it or not.
Directly below me is a river. I will be in there later. I am unsure of when. But, today, I will jump from this bridge to that river, and after that I will do nothing at all.
Above me there is a clear sky. I hate that I have to do this on a day like today. Yes, it is always sunny, but it's not always so beautiful. This is my last chance to do this. If I don't do this today they will find out. They will take me away. They will lock me up. If I don't jump from this bridge I will be thrown from my life. It's okay. Its not difficult. Everyone can jump.

The time I kneed myself in the face.

The memories I have had from my cousins’ old house have become a jumbled, joyful mess. One of the first things to note is that there was a trampoline in their back garden. This was, at the age of eight, the source of all my envy. I have a vivid memory of my cousin, Mike (older), Maya (younger), and I (youngest) were putting together a routine. We'd jump off the shed onto the trampoline; we each did different types of jumps. Mike went first and his jump (at the time) was very impressive, then Maya jumped and it went well. My jump was some kind of a dry cannon ball, which, upon impact of the land, resulted in me kneeing myself in the face.

The Guardian.

Prologue

"We will have fifty thousand people living in fifty houses around the country. The guardians will live in the central. Each year one person from each house will be voted out. The individuals under the age of 16 cannot be voted out. At the age of 18 the individuals will gain Independence. The Independent will be considered responsible for themselves in the eyes of the guardians. The individuals voted will receive medical attention and will live in the surrounding village retrospective to their house. The Individuals within the houses will be lost at the age of 60."

Dear diary.

7am, November 17th 3040.

Today is my 18th birthday. My dad chose this gift for me; this diary. I have stolen a pencil from the studying room to write with. This is my first crime of my 18 years. Stealing is only one day in The Box so it should be fine. My name is Clover #M11Zxt daughter of Jeremiah #L11Zxt.

Everyone takes a test once they turn 18. We don't have to study extra for it; we just have to answer the questions honestly. It's to assess who is best for which jobs. The options are: a member of the justice board, there's kitchen duty, there's the horticulture team, or you can be part of the teaching and schooling team. The justice board choses who gets which job.

I have always wanted to be part of the horticultural team; they work in the sunlight area. Even the justice board know that. The real question is if they care or not. As a child I would play in the sunlight. I'd find it really fun to see the light stream through the glass and create shadows on the floor. The different shapes dancing beneath me.

Dear diary.

8pm, November 20th 3040.

I loved Anna for many years. We grew up as best friends and we shared everything. We fell in love as teenagers, and that was it. We got approved by the board as soon as we could, I was 20. She was petite and had similar golden, red hair to Clovers. She is the most beautiful person I've ever seen and I will always be in love with her. I was 26 when Clover was born. Anna had always wanted to be a mother. She would have had ten children if it would have been approved. Everyone here has a maximum of two children per family.

Anna passed justice board training much quicker than most people usually do. She was very smart. She always articulated her views very clearly. I was so proud to be with her and have her as the mother of my child.

When Clover was about two, Anna was stolen. I was very angry with the guardian for this. This theft was not expected. I fell asleep with her in my arms and when I woke she was gone.

It took me years to learn to deal with this. The only thing that got me through was knowing I had to take care of Clover. I realised that there was no sense in being angry with the guardian. I just had to carry on with my life the best I could. This is when I became more sceptical about the outside. I have hope.

Dear diary,

7pm, November 30th 3040.

I got my result from my 18^th year assessment today. Normally you get the results on the pocket-square. This is a type of device that everyone has. We have to have it with us at all times. The justice board can message us important information on this. It also has a built in microphone for the guardian. The guardian can hear and see everything.

It usually takes about a day for the results to come back, but today in the middle of P.C.W a man I didn't recognise walked straight into the lesson and handed me a red envelope.

‘Dear Clover,

I was very impressed by your answers for your 18 year assignment. You have been selected to join the justice board. As you may be aware, you would normally choose the job you wanted without regard to the result of this test. However, as the Guardian, I feel it is very important for you to join the justice board. For you, there is no other choice. I am sure you will succeed as a member, and have every faith in your ability as a future justice board leader.

Always watching,

The Guardian.’

Dear diary,

Clover has been accepted onto the justice board. I know I should be supportive and proud but it doesn’t add up. I can’t ignore the fact she doesn’t belong there. It makes no sense. The justice board would have never placed her with them. But, as we know, they didn’t. The guardian never intervenes with anything. He has no control over these matters. He just watches things happen. I have no idea why Clovers been handpicked to be on the team. She's a great girl, but her grades are no where near good enough to join the board. She was raised differently from those people. the people on the justice board are stuck up and distant and just horrible, she's not like that. Since her mum was taken I've done everything I can to support her and teach her its okay to be different. She's different from everyone here. She's absant minded and cares more about peoples feelings and how we express ourselves than anyone else here. She's so kind and so lovely. She makes me proud every day, but shes not like the other people here.

I suppose I'm just scared that she'll be taken away just as her mother was. I've never been great at making lots of friends or being close with loads of people. Especially since Annabella was taken. So clover is now not just my last family here but shes also the person I'm closest to. This unexpected news could mean that she will be taken aswell, and that I will have no one.

Bag.

A pink tote with a flower embarrassingly large on the front. The bag is well used. The bag is empty after a shop. Although it still has receipts. The oldest one is from 2009. This bag is covered in chocolate stains from Tommys happy hands after shopping with mummy.

Tanya reached into the boot. ''I really should get that door fixed,'' she muttered to herself. ''Tommy, I will never know how you manage to get everything covered in chocolate!'' She jokingly scolded. Tommy had just turned three and he always had a very playful disposition (which tends to leave everything really quite messy).

I don't think mummy is happy. She is cross. I don't know why. I am 3. At my birthday party we had lots of cake!  I liked it. I like chocolate and I like sugary icing. Everything around me is covered in chocolate. I don't know why. I am sat in mummy's old, red car. She has got out the car to get the shopping we just bought. It was a bits and pieces shop. There is a seat-belt on me and it feels itchy. mummy is talking but I don't know what shes saying. when I go inside I will have a ham sandwich and watch Thomas the tank engine. He has my name. I like ham.
Mummy opens the car door and undoes the seat belt for me and she smiles but still doesn't seem happy.
I walk into our small house. I stroke Dodge our dog. He is old. He walks into the living room. I sit on the stairs and wait for mummy to help me take my shoes off. These ones have laces. I am still learning how to do laces. I still get a bit fuddled. They are new. I was happy when my dad was showing me how to do laces. I don't see him much. He works. He is always tired. He needs peace. He drinks a lot of coffee. He argues with mummy about things like mortgages. I don't know what mortgages are but I don't want one.
Today is Saturday which means mummy doesn't have work and I don't have play group. She smiles a lot on Saturdays. Dad will be home at 4 o'clock. I don't know what time it is now but I don't think it will be long. It was sunny but now it's not.
Dad has just come through the door. He always says ''The man is home. Wheres the beer? Wheres my sandwich?'' Mummy always gets upset when he says this. I don't know why. He should stop. He always says ''I was joking''. I don't understand joking.
He came into the living room. He gave me a cuddle. ''Hows my little boy?''
''I'm okay dad''
''I'm okay too. Would you like a sandwich?''
''Ham?''
''Okay boss!'' He laughs ''love you!''
''Thanks dad''