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We want to echo Sophie's comment and thank you all again for your hard work and contributions - keep them coming! It has been an absolute pleasure to get involved with the project and we hope you enjoyed it as much as we did.

~ Miss Fletcher and Miss Dolphin

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From Sophie Laurie:')

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Outwardly, Mr Blake did not appear an odd man.  Not strange, not unusual, not in any way out of the ordinary. A simple minded man. Amiable, however exceedingly mundane.  No-one would suspect the twisted thoughts that tormented his mind day and night. Everyone was blissfully aware of the horrific cognitions that poisoned his very existence. His putrid desires, his terrible secret…

…Mr Blake was a murderer…

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Nine PM. Such an insignificant time of the day, normally I didn’t even bother to check the time, but today I did. Strolling through the deserted streets at such a time does not seem a very innocent thing
to do, and it was something rather secret that was my reason for doing so. The glaring street lamps lead my path towards Thornton Drive, though I was in no means happy, some distant corner of my mind excited itself with the prospect of persuading him.

I scampered down the long lane, my thoughts and fears entwining into one great monster of greed, but fear. I kept a low profile as I made my way towards his gloomy dwelling. A dark mansion, just like him, he could afford anything.

I knocked on his large wooden door and slightly heard the sound echoing through the walls. His long waited reply was ‘You are two minutes late. An ill man cannot afford to lose any of his time by waiting.’ I muttered an apology and followed him through to his candle lit table.

‘So, Miss Adams, this offer with my will. You are only a friend of my late daughter; do not expect a mention in a will. I may be ill but hoping I’ll take sympathy doesn’t work.’

I took a deep breath. ‘As a dying man, Mr Harolds, you have to consider your grandson.
With his mother dead, and you going that way he needs a new carer.’

‘Don’t be sympathetic then, will you, go straight into “you’re dying what about your grandson.”’

I wasn’t being sympathetic; I hadn’t come here to be. I had come here to secure Toby’s future, and mine.

‘What I am saying is, he needs looking after when you’re gone, and I need the money to look after him.'

He laughed in a patronising way. ‘You expect me to give you money to look after Toby?’

‘Please, I don’t have enough money to support myself, and as I can’t have children I can look after Toby.’

He gave me a dirty look that spelt out ‘no’. With no way to persuade him I sat there staring at my feet.

‘Now are you just going to sit there or should I bring you a nice meal or something because you’re sad you can’t get your own way?’ He said sarcastically, mimicking the voice of a caring person. But at this moment in time I didn’t care, about his sarcasm.

‘A wine would be lovely.’  Alcohol cheered me up better than anything. This was obviously not his intent; he was being patronising to try to get me to go away.

The house was so gothic, my imagination started to run away with gothic horror. But I was interrupted almost immediately by the drinks being brought back in.

Though there was something a little different about him, his tone of voice sounded a little nervous and he was very watchful. At the time I little noticed his strange manner, I reached out for a drink, clasping my hands around the patterned glass, until he snatched it from me.

“That just happens to be my favourite glass.” He gave me a hard look and thrust the dirty, dull glass into my hands. “This just happens to be my least favourite glass, it’s more than you deserve.”

I sipped, not caring about the glass; I controlled my drinking carefully, so as to keep a clear head. I thought that if maybe if he had too much without realising he might end up drunk and agree to what I said. What a forlorn hope! It turned out the amount he drunk was barely enough to fill a teaspoon.

Soon, I was looking in awe the magnificent sculptures looming above my head, a beast with so much emotion it was almost alive. My eyes fluttered over to Mr Harolds' side of the table, and a horrific sound startled me. The monster of greed and fear inside me was now totally engulfed with fear as I watched Mr Harolds choke.

“Mr Harolds? Can you hear me?”

He let out another ear splitting scream of pain, as he started spitting and vomiting. I was frozen with fear, but I have the luck of being a person who can keep a cool head in these situations.

“I’m going to call an ambulance!” I sprinted to the hall to pick up the phone, the image of his horrified face to every thought that came into my mind.

No sooner had the ambulance arrived, so had a long black car, accompanied by a wave of tearful friends and relatives. I didn’t cry, I didn’t like him or know him. This made me feel more heartless than I can describe.

The next few days of my life were filled with anticipation, a post mortem was being carried out, and of course I was the prime suspect. I told the truth, that I hadn’t done it, but as my fingerprints were on the glass, I was put in a lonely cell until evidence against could unlock me from my chasm of fear.

“Madeline Adams, you were there when he choked to death, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You rung the ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“The post-mortem revealed that Mr Harolds was killed by a large proportion of cyanide in the wine he drunk. You touched the drink minutes before his death, why?”

“I was going to drink from that glass, and then he wanted me to use his least favourite.”

“Do you think that he realised that it was poisoned and wanted to save you?”

“No, if he knew it was poisoned he would throw it away wouldn’t he? Nobody needed to
drink it if it would kill them.”

”Did anything seem unusual about his behaviour before he died?”

“When he came back with the drinks he seemed a little wary.”

“Do you think he could have seen anything when he went to the kitchen to make him wary?”

I fiddled with my long black hair impatiently; I had already heard most of these questions.

"I don’t know, he wasn’t there long, I didn’t hear anyone come in."

“Do you think there could have been a way of someone entering the house unseen?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only ever been to his house that time.”

“Why were you at his house?”

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell him about the will otherwise it would seem almost certain it was me.  “I had come to visit him in his illness, as a friend of his late daughter.”

“Anything else you would like to tell us?”

I swallowed, they would never find out I was there about the will. “No.”

The police didn’t know that I had try to get myself in Harolds’ will, he was secretive about his will before he died, he didn’t let anyone know what it included, he also had requested it was read a week after his death, which meant it wouldn’t have been looked at yet. Suppose that I was to change it, suppose
that even though Harolds had forbidden it, I was to give myself mention in the will. It wasn’t like he was here to say anything.

There was only one thing concerning me about changing his will. I thought that something was just was a little weird, the fact that everything just fitted me murdering him so perfectly, the motive, the fingerprints and the fact that I was there at the time. Was it possible that someone was trying to frame me for murder? Had someone killed him at a time when it looked like I must have done it? And if I had been framed, wouldn’t sneaking into his office to change his will condemn me even further?

I got out of the prison easily. Setting off the fire alarm, then sneaking off in the chaos of it is the oldest trick in the book. Within minutes I had arrived at Harolds’ house. As luck might have it, there was a fancy dress shop nearby, where I stole a police officer’s uniform. Everything seemed to be going
swimmingly, almost as it was made to be, as if the will had to have me included in it.

The police’s stupidity astounded me, could they not see through my ‘perfect for parties’ disguise? It was all too easy, they were so easily foiled, I could have picked out that will, unnoticed blindfolded, not that I was.

The worst I had to do was pretend to interview neighbours, finding out that they had access to the house. Their words were engraved in my skull, I would not let any clue get away if it meant I was accused of being guilty. After that it was simple, I took the will whilst no one was looking, took it home where I mimicked everything on the computer, and tried five times to get his signature perfect. ‘Madeline Adams inherits £50,000, looks after Toby with that money, she also inherits my mansion after my sister, Jenny.’ I smiled smugly, who said evil is never rewarded?

I froze. There was significance in that phrase. What if evil is not rewarded? What if when you try to do something it turns back on you? What if Harolds was wary because he meant to murder me? It would make sense, he took the wrong glass, meaning to get me out the way? It would all fit. It seems that your bad deeds never go unnoticed. I had changed the will. Would anything happen to me?

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Dark. Cold. Alone. It was nearly dawn. Officially, I’d finished work at midnight, but had volunteered to cover a colleague’s shift. Still, I was only meant to stay until the wedding party finished, and the guests left, at around 3am. The castle was totally deserted now, and I was just locking up. As I turned the rusty key unwillingly in the iron lock, I caught a small movement out of the corner of my eye. I pivoted around and realised what had grasped my attention; a shy candle flickered in the shadows. Relief rushed through my soul; I had just forgotten to extinguish one of the many original lights. There was nothing scary or unusual here. I worked within these stone walls every day, for Heaven’s sake! I could walk around the historic fortress with my eyes closed if I wanted, not that I did, but I could if  I wanted.

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I have uploaded bits from this already, so I'm not going to post anymore of it. But here is the full thing. Short, yes, and probably unfinished. ~ TeaAddict

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDDCc03vlPo&feature=youtu.be

Make sure to subscribe.

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I have uploaded snippetsa of this earlier broken bonds and outside but here's the whole thing so read it if you likje or not whatever floats your respective boat  it's about a guy who livers in a cave with a bird thingy called Fathermother but the he eescapes into the outside world and stuff happens adn there lot's of leaping around stuff and a vertical fightscene which happens in this massive tunnel so read it already doood

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When I got the notice, I knew that things would be different. I had heard of wives receiving them before, little pieces of paper that make a great change. I knew that he would be different, that I would be different, because of it – we would not be able to return to how we were before. It was something I was always scared of, alone on those dark nights whilst he was away, but somehow it seems as though it was a distant thought, a fiction, something that would never be. We would be home, together, safe…always.

But that little piece of paper. The solemn face at the door. The cold hard floor that rushed to greet me as I fell. The news. The words. The change.

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mwahahahaah

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As the moon looked down upon
the streets of York, casting its faint glow on the dark alleys and the wet cobbles that made the pavement, a lone figure gazed back. The figure was less of a man and more of a shadow, blending in with the void of night. Its long legs and far reaching arms flowed with the sharp winter breeze. Its fingers twisted and coiled, so thin that they were barely there at all. Its slanted shoulders, those of a weak man but with hidden strength locked away for some unimaginable use. Its creepily long neck rose from its body like a broken bone protruding from the skin. But none of this mattered if you saw its face. If you looked at its small head and its piercing features, its permanent expression and its near transparent skin, its sunken eyes with the sad truth locked inside. The sad truth that told you where it came from and how angry and sad it had become.
So when the moon gazed down upon the streets of York and saw the figure gazing back, it simply vanished into the night.

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Sunlight faded and licked the top church tiles in a final farewell for the evening. Figures of shadow lengthened in silence and flexed their secret strength in the darkening air. Heavy clouds became rolling charioteers of the sunset, gathering in the final hours of light as they raced the tendrils of crepuscular rays. Pools of gloom flocked around aching tombstones and green grass lost its lustre, sickened as the disease greedily snatches for more, more, and more. Darkness fell. The sun vanished, all light blown away in a split second like a final pale candle, extinguished. Bleary lights in the houses began their defence in the twilight. The church bells are silent in the dead of night, but the old lamp by the church door stays brightly lit. Flames dance and flicker with the curves of night, taunting and teasing and never, never getting caught. Fearless… It has to be, continually fighting for hope as the moon waxes and wanes. Midnight. The witching hour arrives.

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Fathermother was now level with me on the other side of the tunnel he was leaning outwards
preparing to leap straight at me claws bared. He leapt and I did the same like knights at a tournament we jousted through thin air. I twisted round to avoid his claws and swung my climbing spike at him as we passed in mid-air he parried it with one hand sparks flying around us he threw a kick at me his razor claws aimed for my throat I got my gauntlet in the way barely in time and was knocked off balance. The whole exchange took less than half a second. I hit the opposite wall hard and almost fell barely keeping my balance Fathermother had no such problems and was already flying back towards me I did something desperate using my spike as a lever I flicked myself upwards onto a higher section of wall almost dislocating my arm Fathermother hit the empty wall a split second ago I had inhabited. I catapulted myself downwards again shoulder first straight into Fathermother and empty air I connected with him like a bullet aided by both gravity and the force of my own arm. We both fell lost in
a furious melee sparks raining downwards like tiny suns. Seeing an opening I swung my spike straight for his mask and whatever lay beneath it he rolled in the air and brought his arm up my spike cut straight through it like it was soft clay and it fell away down the tunnel in a crimson bloody geyser which covered the two of us. I kicked off his body and back to the wall planting my spike firmly in it I watched Fathermother tumble down the tunnel He landed easily grasping the bloody mutilated stump of his arm he hissed and ran off into the shadows.

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It was circling me. Around my feet, then my ankles. I tried to move. But I was stuck; frozen stiff with the fear. My chest grew tight as I began to panic. There was nowhere for me to go. Everywhere I looked, I saw huge monsters willing to attack me if I gave them the chance. I was too weak and afraid to fight them all. So, I listened to each insult and degrading word they spat at me, until my soul was thoroughly worn down.

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When I saw him again, it became real. My eyes traced the outlines of his face - the hallowed, dark circles under his eyes, the scars that ran across his pale skin like frozen moments, locking in the screams; the pain. His lips, slightly parted, were rough and chapped and his cheeks were flushed with no colour. He was almost a different man, not here somehow. I could see in the clouded look that hazed over his beautiful blue eyes that behind the façade, the pearly exterior, the forced on smile that part of him was missing. Whatever it was, those words on the little piece of paper had taken it away and left him open, venerable, scared.

I didn’t quite know how to cope. My body did not react in the way that it had prepared, so desperate to see him after all this longing; all this time. Instead, it was left hanging off the edge by a thread, so ready
but stopped at the last moment. My heart raced, but not in the way it longed to and my cheeks flushed, but not because I was flattered, but because I too, was scared. The hands at the side of his body locked into defence, his body rigid, fixed by the taught way in which he had fixed himself – it all scared me. He
looked as though still, now, he was standing to attention, lined up for battle in the khaki green that, as he had walked away, was woven with threads of promise and aspiration. Now, unravelled as though it had been worn for generations, it was stained with blood, crimson echoes of the horrors that were
past, but present also.

My body did not allow me to step forward and take his hand, to be the wife that he needed me to be, to be the comfort, the rock. Instead it made me turn away and walk, my legs suppressing the run, the gallop that they wanted to explode into, to escape the change, to run back in time, to make it all go away. As I walked and he followed, his pace echoing slowly, cautiously, I could not stomach it any longer and I allowed a single tear to roll down my check. I did not usually indicate my emotions, but that single tear said it all.

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Out of nowhere the figure appeared. Not too far away from Raven herself. It was creeping closer. She could see what the figure actually looked like now. She was wearing a worn out red shawl which had various holes all in it. A top which had stains all down it, it’s original colour probably being white but now a deep grey colour. A dark green skirt which had been ripped at the knee which also had many stains on it. All her or its clothes looked distraught as though they had been through so much. It was definitely a woman or girl, her hair was long and dark brown, it was frizzy, it probably hadn’t been brushed but it had a beautiful flower in it, a sparkling pink colour.

It was the only thing which looked as though it had been cared for. Her eyes, there was something about her eyes. They looked so innocent but they also looked as though they had been traumatized. They were green, dark green. She was carrying a bunch of flowers but the flowers were dead. There was no life to be seen with in those flowers. Their life had been betrayed, as though they had been promised a beautiful life with someone who cared for them but ended up with a poor girl who can barely look after herself.

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The row of candles stood unburned, their sallow wax yellowed with age. Their wicks curled over, crumbling under the weight of parishioners’ unanswered prayers. Six candles – clustered together.

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The next few days of my life were filled with anticipation, a post mortem was being carried out, and of course I was the prime suspect. I told the truth, that I hadn’t done it, but as my fingerprints were on the glass, I was put in a lonely cell until evidence against could unlock me from my chasm of fear.

“Madeline Adams, you were there when he choked to death, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You rung the ambulance?”

“Yes.”

“The post mortem revealed that Mr Harolds was killed by a large proportion of cyanide in the wine he drunk. You touched the drink minutes before his death, why?”

“I was going to drink from that glass, and then he wanted me to use his least favourite.”

“Do you think that he realised that it was poisoned and wanted to save you?”

“No, if he knew it was poisoned he would throw it away wouldn’t he? Nobody needed to drink it if it would kill them.”

”Did anything seem unusual about his behaviour before he died?”

“When he came back with the drinks he seemed a little wary.”

“Do you think he could have seen anything when he went to the kitchen to make him wary?”

I fiddled with my long black hair impatiently; I had already heard most of these questions. “I don’t know, he wasn’t there long, I didn’t hear anyone come in.

“Do you think there could have been a way of someone entering the house unseen?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only ever been to his house that time.”

“Why were you at his house?”

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell him about the will otherwise it would seem almost certain it was me. “I had come to visit him in his illness, as a friend of his late daughter.”

“Anything else you would like to tell us?”

I swallowed, they would never find out I was there about the will.

“No.”

Consequently, I was left alone with only my thoughts for company. Though my thoughts were in an evil form, after they had convinced me to do something sneaky, I wished they has left me alone.

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This was based on my ideas for the button activity...

He would always regret it. It was late, a Friday night; Sarah had taken his children to stay with their Grandmother in the country, Jacob had stayed on the farm. Sat by the unlit fire, he was shivering from loneliness, exhaustion, the bitter cold of a late August evening. He was dozing off, his breathing keeping pace with the steady drip of a water pipe. BANG! What was that? He heard a shout. Running through the door, he grabbed his shotgun. It had hung by the door for as long as he could remember, been kept to protect the sheep from foxes but in Jacob’s memory, it had never been used.

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Something close to ecstasy washes over you  as you feel the blade slip through the collar bone, and you keep pushing down until the full length of the blade is embedded in this mans’ flesh. With a gasp, he collapses to the floor, and takes you with him. He isn’t moving, but a dead weight is heavy, and you struggle to get him off of you. With a swift movement, you pull the blade out of the man’s body and
watch silently as his blood spills over, black in the night. It covers everything, soaking into his clothing and running onto your hands. You hold one up to the light and watch as the red liquid seems to shimmer on your skin.

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And then a hand broke the surface of one of the graves, a pale, wet, hand, wrapped in chains of ivy. But still it pushed upwards, and now an arm had followed, then a shoulder, then a head. The head was terrifying. Half of the skin on its face had gone, either by rotting or worms, meaning I could see straight to its skull, and the bits of brain lodged inside. But the other half still had an eye staring madly outwards seeking its prey.  Then as if it was in slow motion,  the body began to turn, its head turning with it. I could see the recognition dawning on its face, that I was at once to it both alien and yet familiar. But above all to it I was prey. Prey that needed to be caught. It began to move towards me.

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In between the folds of sleep,

When one is not quite awake, but not quite dreaming,

You visit a place, make the skeletons weep.

You visit the Midnight Tea Party.

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Slowly and swiftly, you strip him of any possessions that may or may not be worth a few pennies, until there is nothing left to take. You believe you are finished. Stepping back, you look down once more at the pitiful sight of the bleeding man in the street, before crossing yourself, and walking away.

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Outwardly, Mr Blake did not appear an odd man. Not strange, not unusual, not in any way out of the ordinary. A simple minded man. Amiable, however exceedingly mundane.  No-one would suspect the twisted thoughts that tormented his mind day and night. Everyone was blissfully aware of the horrific cognitions that poisoned his very existence. His putrid desires, his terrible secret…

…Mr Blake was a murderer…

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The castle stood solid, looming over the village, casting its stony glare over the resident’s daily life. It had an aura about it, a movement, even though it was so solid, it was like it was alive not alive with life but with memoires; memories of the past, bad memories. It was not a positive aura. If it had been visible it would have been black and thick like coal dust, showering the castle in its metaphorical glare.

They arrived at the castle at 10am- the storm clouds were gathering- low, skimming the turrets ready to strike. Miss Sanderson led the way up the heavy stone steps, her gaggle of kids following loosely behind. They got to the top of the steps and were stood in front of huge wooden doors, decorated with wrought iron shaped into beautiful but eerily indistinguishable patterns.

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All through our childhood we are warned about monsters. Nameless, faceless, soulless monsters.
Monsters with claws and snouts and tails and glowing yellow eyes. But what if the real monsters had brown eyes? Or blue, or green? What if the monsters had a face; two eyes, a mouth and a nose. What if it had 2 arms, 2 legs, a body, a soul and a brain?

What if the real monsters looked like you and me?

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I was gripped by terror at the strange alieness of what was around me instead of the comfort of a ceiling there was this great empty expanse with all light coming from one great orb high above me. The air moved against me ruffling my hair and chilling me though I was still confront by these afronts to what was natural and right I broke down and wept hoping to wake from this nightmare but I knew if
I was too return only the cruel gaze of Fathermother and his false protection...

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And it didn’t take long at all for the doctors to realise that something was dreadfully wrong. My cheek, for all in the world not normal at the time in its rent and open state, was taking on a state of abnormality that widened the tanned, cool man’s eyes from a sense that this could be cared for, and treated, to something akin to horror. The buccinators muscle, a somewhat dominating muscle in the cheek, was beginning to ossify. This is how it was described to my father, who in a state of confusion, looked at me as if to find proof in the doctor’s diagnosis. All he found, once more, was hate. But this was no longer the focus point for anyone but me. What everyone in that room, from doctors to the now crowding nurses and other medical staff, was now staring at, was what was beginning to knit back in place instead of muscle in my cheek. It was obvious to see. The red flesh gave way to white bone, clean, and pure, new to the world and new to this location on my face, like a small child born not from the womb of a woman, but from her chest, bursting and flowering in all its oddity, all its abnormality. And all its horror. Even as I glared at my father, the pain was not leaving me. This was no longer because of the cut though, nor was it from the simple reaction of a child’s mind to the loss of an idol. In this case, it was the bone that now grew on my visage, and began to stiffen my jaw, in preparation for an existence of pain.