Fictional Fiction

Exclusive material from unreleased and abandoned Twilight novel - 'Midday'

2011-09-02T15:06:00.000-07:00

I went to school that morning and knew that something wasn't right. Initially, I was going to wear my black jeans and striped grey and navy top with a dark grey cardigan, but something inside me told me that I should wear my dark grey jeans and striped black and navy top instead, so I did. When I got into the classroom I sat down at my desk as usual, but still I felt that there was something I needed to address. I surveyed the classroom; it was full of chairs and desks, and bookshelves that had books in them, and windows that showed the outside in comparison to inside, where I was situated.
I suddenly had the urge to spin round dramatically, and when I did I saw Edward staring at me.
"I think you're beautiful, Bella."
"Good morning to you, too." I smiled, blushing. I tried to think of something complimentary to say to him, seeing as he was always saying such flattering things to me, which was sweet but also kind of creepy - but I'd never tell him that, because he'd probably stop saying things like that and lose interest in me. "Er....congratulations on that C+ in your essay, that's really good."
"I'm not proud of it. A C+ is average, and I never want to be average, Bella. I want to be brilliant, I want to brilliant with you."
Lindsey, who sits at the desk next to Edward, rolled her eyes when she overheard him say that, but I thought it was beautiful - I mean, here's this brilliant, brooding, murderous guy who is interested in me, and says the nicest things, plus Lindsey's a stuck-up cow anyway and she's probably jealous.
"I...I just don't know, Edward. I mean, you shower me with all this affection and you can sometimes be kind of a dick, which for some reason makes me more attracted to you, but there's this other guy who's half-dog and he's been cracking onto me too. He's really nice to me and our families go way back, plus he's got abs you could grate cheese on. I'm so confused, and I've got a feeling my confusion is going to cause you both to compete for me on dangerous levels, and despite me giving you both the run-around you'll probably keep coming back for more. I should just pick so that one of you can go and get on with your lives, but I just can't pick. I can't do it, Eddie."
"I've told you, I don't like it when you call me Eddie."
"I know, I know, and even when I call you Eddie I'm thinking 'I know he hates this' but I do it anyway. I'm so confused and awkward, Ed."
"Don't call me Ed, either." Ed had that look in his eye, the one that said 'If I didn't love you, I'd tear your throat out and walk away while you die'. I could see his hands ball up into a fist, and I think it's a bit sexy when he gets all angry and moody. It's good to pursue men like that, because if you can change them then it means that they really love you.
"Sowwwwy," I said, fluttering my eyelashes and looking up at Edward - except that we're more or less the same height when we're sitting down, so I had to kind of lean my head forward and then look up through my hair. "Can we be fwwwwends?"
Edward didn't smile, but I knew he wanted to. For a moment, I thought I saw his eyes do that weird red vampire thing, but I knew that couldn't be true because he only gets that look when he gets his bloodlust, and he couldn't get bloodlust around me because he's so infatuated with me.
"Come ooooon Edward" I figured that using his name the way he likes might make him smile. But still nothing. He didn't even glisten - I still haven't figured out how that works even those he's explained it about 50 times. Then I had a genius idea.
"How about this then?" I whispered, and leaned forward. I pulled the neckline of my top down and squashed my boobs together, and then made the V-sign and stuck my tongue between my fingers. Boys love it when girls do that, because it shows they're game. I thought to myself, "I'm well in, here."
I thought he was laughing, but it was actual more of a growl. The way he leapt across his desk and pinned me to the ground reminded me of the time he showed me how high he could jump, and I remember thinking that even though he was super hot and totally wanted me, it was kind of a smug thing to show someone who's just hurt their knee because they're shit at netball.
I thought he'd leapt on me because he was feeling a bit randy after seeing my squashed cleavage, but I soon realised after the fourth or fifth swipe he made at my throat that he might be actually be a bit annoyed.
"Eddie, stop it, that hurts." I said. I didn't scream it though, because I'm not overly keen on emotional outbursts. This just made him angrier, and he continued to slash at my throat and head. As I lay there, being torn apart like a love-letter by a jilted teen, I couldn't help but wonder whether Eddie was not as nice as I had initially thought. But I was still so confused, even when Jacob came in and rescued me from what was almost a fatal attack and spent six weeks nursing me back to health because my family couldn't afford the medical insurance - is he the right one for me, or am I destined by the stars to be with Edward? That is, when he completes his 6 year jail sentence for attempted murder. I just don't know. I still just don't know.

Opening scenes from forthcoming Bridget Jones sequel - EXCLUSIVE

2011-08-29T08:25:00.000-07:00

INT. SHOT BRIDGET'S BEDROOM

Bridget is lying in bed as the alarm bleeps with '7:00' flashing. The curtains are drawn. She is clearly hungover and is still in her pyjamas with her hair in a topknot. She hits the top of the alarm to turn it off and sits up, rubbing her eyes and then peeking out of the curtains before shielding her eyes from the sunlight.

BRIDGET

SHIT. BLOODY HELL. OH BLOODY SHIT HELL.

She tries once more to look out of the window but the light is too bright for her in this state. She tentatively stands up and shuffles into the bathroom.

INT. BRIDGET'S BATHROOM

Bridget sits on the toilet while brushing her teeth. She starts to nod off but blinks herself awake again

BRIDGET

OH BOLLOCKS. OH POO. OH SHIT BOLLOCKS.

INT. BRIDGET'S KITCHEN

Bridget sits at her small table, eating cereal. Pan out to reveal she has poured the milk into the cereal box. The phone rings and she ignores it.

GARETH (ANSWERING MACHINE MESSAGE)

HI BRIDGET, IT'S GARETH HERE. JUST WANTED TO SAY THANKS FOR LAST NIGHT AND, ER, SORRY ABOUT YOUR FRONT DOOR.

Bridget looks up from the cereal box.

BRIDGET

MY FRONT DOOR?!

INT. SHOT BRIDGET'S STAIRS

Bridget runs down the stairs

EXT SHOT. BRIDGET'S HOUSE

The front door is missing and we can see right into bridget's house as she comes down the stairs, which are covered in random bits of rubbish. She slows down as she reaches the bottom and sits on the bottom step. A man with a briefcase walks past and turns his head to look at bridget's house. Bridget gives a sheepish wave and a forced smile.

BRIDGET V.O.

OH DEAR. WELL I SUPPOSE THAT'S WHAT I GET FOR INVITING THE ENTIRE OFFICE ROUND FOR A PARTY IN MY TEENY TINY HOUSE.. SILLY ME!

INT. SHOT BRIDGET'S STAIRS

Bridget ascends the stairs, picking up bits of paper, plastic cups and wine glasses as she goes.

INT. SHOT BRIDGET'S LIVING ROOM

Bridget sits on the couch and surveys the damage. There are plastic cups, wine glasses, crisps and streamers strewn across the floor.

BRIDGET V.O.

MAYBE I SHOULDN'T BOTHER CLEANING. THIS LOOKS BETTER THAN MOST DAYS WHEN IT'S JUST ME HEAR BY MYSELF. MY LIFE IS SO BLOODY PATHETIC, I'M 30-ODD YEARS OLD AND I JUST CAN'T GET IT TOGETHER. BLOODY HELL!

She looks around the room and with a horrified look on her face grabs the remote control and uses it to pick up a pair of knickers from the arm rest of the sofa.

BRIDGET V.O.

THESE AREN'T EVEN MINE!

she flicks the knickers over her shoulder and slumps down in the sofa.

BRIDGET V.O.

OH WHAT'S THE POINT ANYWAY? ALL I WANT IS A MAN. THAT'S WHAT I NEED. I MEAN, I'M A BLOODY FEMINIST, BUT EVERYTHING I DO IN MY LIFE IS DETERMINED BY HOW I CAN IMPRESS A BLOKE THAT I FANCY AND BAG A MAN TO MARRY. I'M JUST OBSESSED, BLOODY HELL BLOODY.

O.S. THE SOUND OF DRIPPING

Bridget gets up to investigate, and heads into the kitchen

INT. SHOT BRIDGET'S KITCHEN

She walks over the sink and reaches to turn off the tap, but she hears the drip again while the tap remains dry. She follows the dripping noise back into her bedroom.

INT. SHOT BRIDGET'S BEDROOM

She takes slow steps into the bedroom, peeks into the bathroom and sees that the tap is also not dripping here.

O.S. DRIPPING CONTINUES

She kneels down to look under her bed and then sits up with a look of realisation on her face, then goes over to the window

BRIDGET

OH BRIDGET, YOU MUST GET ROUND TO CLEARING OUT THOSE GUTTERS ONE OF THESE DAYS. ADD THAT TO THE THOUSAND OTHER TASKS ON THE TO-DO LIST THEN! I'M JUST SO BLOODY SCATTY, I CAN'T BLOODY ORGANISE MY LIFE! IF I HAD A MAN AND WAS THIN, I WOULDN'T HAVE THESE PROBLEMS, THAT'S FOR SURE. TOTALLY HAVE A CRAVING FOR CHOCOLATE AND WINE RIGHT NOW, AND MAYBE SOME CHEESY POP MUSIC TO DANCE AROUND ALONE IN MY HOUSE.

Bridget sticks her head out of the window and looks down onto the street. A drop of liquid falls onto her head, and then another one. It is red. Bridget cannot see this, however, and wipes it away. Another drop and she wipes it away again, this time looking at her hands.

BRIDGET

OH BLOODY SHIT. OH BLOODY BALLBAGS. BLOODY HELL. BLOODY BLOODY BLOOD.

She slowly raises her head.

EXT. SHOT FRONT OF BRIDGET'S HOUSE

O.S. A PIERCING SCREAM IS HEARD

A woman with a pram and a couple walking hand in hand stop in their tracks. The scream continues.

The title appears on the screen:

"BRIDGET JONES 3: DEATH BY CHOCOLATE...AND ALSO STABBING"

Exclusive chapter draft from 'Oliver Twist - The Parish Boy's Revenge'

2011-08-25T18:15:00.000-07:00

The rain fell in sheets as the man in black stepped off the curb and crossed the unusually quiet street, avoiding the glow from the street-lamps and turning up his collar against the downpour. The note he held in his clenched fist had long since faded and run out in the rain, but that no longer mattered; he had committed that address to memory over 20 years ago, and unless Bumble had come into a great deal of money in that time this was the only place he would be. His stride was long and fast, and even with his shoulders hunched and head bowed, his 6' 4" frame still drew attention from the handful of other people out on the street at this time of night. It was not a safe place to be at night, he knew that all too well - street urchins lurking around every corner just waiting for some unsuspecting fool to walk past and provide them with jewellery, wallets, mobile phones and anything else that they might hand over at knife-point. The rain was never enough to deter them, and within the 50m between him and his destination there were two separate shrines, with cards in cursive and flowers that no longer bloomed, tied to lampposts to commemorate the ones who tried in vain to defend themselves. But he was a man with a purpose, and a man with a purpose walks with confidence, and a man who walks with confidence walks with a shield. He gave no thought to the idea that he might be attacked; even he had considered it possibility he would hardly be at a disadvantage in that situation, having spent time in his youth on the streets himself. The things he had seen in his time - the anguish, the suffering, the violence - these were the things he had been pleased to escape, yet they were also the elements of street-life which had scarred him so much so that his new life of comfort and wealth could not reverse the damage. He had lasted two years with his new-found family before ending up in a detention centre.

Now, standing before the modest terraced house with his hand on the gate, he hesitated momentarily. Proceeding with the plan would mean possibly spending the rest of his life on the run, a fate that he had once been saved from, a fate which would surely satisfy the man he was about to confront. But that no longer mattered. He was here now, here in the place he had spent fifteen years picturing in his mind and he was not about to walk away. A firm push on the gate and he was charging up the path to the front door where he ignored the knocker and the bell to thump three times firmly on the door.

Being 2.15am, he expected to wait a while before getting a response from inside. But it took only a few seconds before shuffling footsteps approached from the other side, and their owner cleared his throat. He was also expecting to be interrogated through the door; the street was fairly dimly lit and the windowless front door appeared to have no peephole. Instead, the door opened a few inches, still secured by the chain.
"Well? Who is it?"
"They call me Twist."
A solitary car passed on the street, and in the second that the headlights lit up the front of the house, the two men saw each other. Short, balding Mr Bumble cowered behind his door in a stained string vest with a few days stubble covering the best part of his face and neck, his green eyes widening at the sight of his visitor.
"Twist..."
For a brief moment, Bumble stared at the man who had interrupted his 2am drinking session and could hardly believe that this drenched giant was once the orphan he had neglected and sold. That moment of recognition had passed however, and Bumble blinked the thought away. Twist leant against the door-frame with his head still bowed as it had been all the way there, and he didn't even raise his eyes as he began to talk again.
"Don't-" Bumble cut him off by attempting to slam the door, but Twist jammed his foot in the door and pushed hard. The door came right off of its hinges effortlessly, and as Bumble slithered down the hall and into the kitchen, Twist stepped out of the rain and immediately noticed the smell, a mixture of whiskey, burnt matches and dust. He followed Bumble into the kitchen, where he had crawled under the dining table and now lay hugging his knees.
"Y-you can't do a-a-anything to me, Twist. You should l-leave right now, if you're lucky I won't call the p-police!"
"If I'm lucky?" Twist sneered, "Don't make me laugh." He looked around at Bumble's kitchen; the green walls could have been mouldy or intentionally that colour, the dim light made it difficult to see clearly, but he could make out a humble stove and two cupboards, one without a door revealing the contents inside of a solitary plate and tumbler. A picture perfect portrayal of a pathetic life if ever there was, he thought. He noticed a well-stocked knife rack next to the sink but he had no use for that - not he, not Oliver Twist, the boy who had made a name for himself at Moorfield's Correctional Centre for Wayward Youths as the purveyor and producer of the sharpest shivs money or cigarettes could buy.
He took a step towards the pathetic figure under the table, when he heard very faint footsteps and fast, heavy panting behind him. He spun round to see Bumble's dog take a few steps toward him and the sit, head cocked to one side and tongue hanging out of his mouth, panting loudly and staring at him as if he presented no danger. Bumble scrambled out of his foetal position and now lay on his gut, and beckoned the dog. "Sic him, boy. Come on, sic him." Twist shook his head, mildly amused by the dog's apathy. "SIC HIM! Come on, boy. Fagin, come. ATTACK. FAGIN, ATTACK!"
Twist froze for a minute, and then let out a loud, bellowing laugh. Neither Bumble nor his dog knew how to interpret this.
"You named your dog...oh my..." he struggled to get the words out between gasping for breath and continuing to laugh. The dog turned tail and trotted off, leaving Bumble lying on the floor underneath the table while this lofty threat loomed over him, laughing and gasping like a lunatic. The laughter subsided though, and Twist looked around the room and started to mutter to himself. "So high and mighty. And how they fall." With this, he looked at Bumble cowering under the table, and was filled with the rage - that rage that occasionally reared its ugly head and got him into trouble. He leant forward and with one swift movement picked the table up and pushed it up away from Bumble. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a long, thin blade. Bumble let out a high-pitched squeak and started to crawl towards the door, but Twist stepped on his fingers, feeling at least one of them crack under his considerable weight, and brought the blade down across Bumble's back - not deep enough to damage any organs, but substantial enough to leave a gash between his shoulder blades that quickly filled and overflowed with blood. Bumble screamed again, and Twist brought his foot off from his mangled hand and in the same movement kicked the fat man in his jaw, knocking him onto his back.
"What do you want from me?" He was tearful, his voice trembled and he had given up his attempts to escape.
"You know what I want, Bumble." Twist glared at him, and Bumble noticed the man's grey eyes bore almost fully dilated pupils, making them almost entirely black. He remembered those eyes had looked so weak, so mournful when he had led that boy to the streets and sold him to the first person who would take him. The boy he had given up on and sent into a life that had led to a series of events nobody could have foreseen, and all because he had -
Bumble knew now what Twist wanted, and Twist knew it by the way Bumble's expression changed. He knelt down on the floor, and towered over the bleeding man.
"Say it."
"I can't. Please. Don't do this."
"Say it."
He started to cry harder now, and Twist leaned in with his blade, and whispered once more.
"Say it."
Bumble closed his eyes.
"P-p-please, s-s-s-sir. I want s-s-some m-m-more..."