Friday, 18 November 2016

Just Some Things #7 : Emma Petfield.

This is the latest instalment in my feature Just Some Things!
In case you don't know, here's how it works...
I send a writer an individual email with a series of prompts from the '642 Things to Write About' book – chosen entirely at random most of the time – and then when I get the responses, I dedicate a post to them and their piece. It could be short, long, backwards, in another language, I don't mind. It'll be an adventure whatever happens! And they can use or ignore however many of the prompts they wish. 



When published on the blog, their piece will be put in first and then I'll add in a little piece beneath it, my response to the same prompt. I will always ensure mine is shorter and less prominent, obviously. It's all about featuring my fave writers.

Today my guest writer is Emma Petfield of Howling Reviewsthe place to go online for succinct, fair and generally lovely book reviews. Emma recently became Comms Exec for John Murray Ltd, which obvs means I can now visit her in the gorgeous Carmelite House for lunch dates...
She and I actually have a writing date set up this very evening, and I cannot wait. 

Their prompt was: Write the first line of your memoir. Then the second.

   The change was never something I anticipated. It just happened one night.

   It was kind of like an out of body experience. One moment I was sitting on my bed flipping through a bio-analytics textbook, the next my skin began to bubble, my bones shifted and my muscles burned spasmodically. There’s nothing quite like the sound of your own bone cracking. I’ve come to decipher between a clean break, an egregious snap, and the crunch of the irreversible. And yet, my body always bounced right back.

   The nights were the worst. Not knowing if I was going to get my regular hours or if I’d spend the time writhing in pure agony and wake up with gaps in my memory. But then those breaks disappeared; I wished they hadn’t.

   Vivid flashes of pounding against the ground; waking up to find leaves in my hair. None of it made sense, until it did. Then the shedding began. At that point, I really couldn’t deny it anymore. I still didn’t want to believe it.

   It was getting more frequent and I didn’t know how to control it. I watched as my skin flecked with fur, a periwinkle grey. If it wasn’t for the fact that the entire experience was terrifying, I’d be mesmerised by the sublime beauty of my other form. The only bonus was that my legs had never looked so athletic.

   I took up running, became pretty good at it, actually. One day I was jogging home, about a mile away. It was still light outside despite the rain, so I thought it was safe. It had never happened in the day before. So when the ache ran from the tip of my spine to my feet, I knew I wasn’t going to make it home. The cracking began, my heart thudded in my ears. I dropped to the pavement, thrashing against wet curb. Bones re-aligned. Skin morphed. I emerged on my feet – all four of them. A pair of yellow eyes staring back at me. My own eyes.

   Which leads me to this. My recount of becoming a wolf. 


Emma's blog : Twitter : Instagram


And here is my response to the same prompt...


   The cheeky Ms Fate once said to her unusual suitor, Sir Coincidence: 'I feel we were meant to be.' 
   The entranced man held his tongue, when really he knew deep in his soul that it was just a lucky break, that their paths had happened to cross, nothing more to it than that. 
   As he watched her victoriously sip her drink, smirking to herself, he knew he couldn't ruin this perfect moment, this happenstance, by shining a light on the truth.    So he kept quiet, and let her have this one. And they were happily together from then on, until forever. 


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If you'd like to be involved in one of these Just Some Things posts, email me at grace.latter@gmail.com.

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