About
Okay... Where to start?

My name is Kitty Taylor, or at least that's what you can call me, and I'm 18 years old. I live somewhere in the middle of England, and yes it does nearly always rain here.

Loves: Musical theatre, nice people, the creator of this profile *winkwink*, writing, reading, art and photography, walking in the rain (but only in summer), snow, rainbows, ponies, butterflies and anything sparkly, music (especially listening to it for inspiration). The movie Rent, any other musicals, and Disney. Actually, I love most things, so just get to know me if you want to find out any more...

Dislikes: Waking up early, Monday mornings, Wednesdays, stupidly hot weather, writer's block, art/literature thieves and plagiarists. Hmm... Ignorant people, people who judge me before they know me, and having to do things that I don't want to do. :]
I take part in NaNoWriMo every year (have done since 2005), and have completed successfully ever since 2006. I also take part in the Gaian SuWriMos and 2008 was my second year. ;]
NaNo06: Delicate Temptation (104,810 words).
SuWriMos07: (100,000/100,000 words) on selected novels.
NaNo07: Balancing Act (76,000 words) and Portellan- A Love Story (24,000 words). Overall total - (102,420 words).
SuWriMos08: Purple Mist (140,000/100,000 words). Also, Black Hour (50,000 words). 200k over the summer!
Black Hour: (124,005/100,000)
NaNo08: The Art of Misdirection (116,697 words).
NaNo09: Selected novels (71,198 words)
Winter09/10: Gunmetal and Lace. Current progress: (82,600/60,000)

My name is Kitty Taylor, or at least that's what you can call me, and I'm 18 years old. I live somewhere in the middle of England, and yes it does nearly always rain here.

Loves: Musical theatre, nice people, the creator of this profile *winkwink*, writing, reading, art and photography, walking in the rain (but only in summer), snow, rainbows, ponies, butterflies and anything sparkly, music (especially listening to it for inspiration). The movie Rent, any other musicals, and Disney. Actually, I love most things, so just get to know me if you want to find out any more...

Dislikes: Waking up early, Monday mornings, Wednesdays, stupidly hot weather, writer's block, art/literature thieves and plagiarists. Hmm... Ignorant people, people who judge me before they know me, and having to do things that I don't want to do. :]
I take part in NaNoWriMo every year (have done since 2005), and have completed successfully ever since 2006. I also take part in the Gaian SuWriMos and 2008 was my second year. ;]
NaNo06: Delicate Temptation (104,810 words).
SuWriMos07: (100,000/100,000 words) on selected novels.
NaNo07: Balancing Act (76,000 words) and Portellan- A Love Story (24,000 words). Overall total - (102,420 words).
SuWriMos08: Purple Mist (140,000/100,000 words). Also, Black Hour (50,000 words). 200k over the summer!
Black Hour: (124,005/100,000)
NaNo08: The Art of Misdirection (116,697 words).
NaNo09: Selected novels (71,198 words)
Winter09/10: Gunmetal and Lace. Current progress: (82,600/60,000)
Gunmetal and Lace
Prologue
The scariest thing about waking to darkness is the sudden, rather unexpected inability to see anything. It is not terrifying because you need to see - for you have been sleeping without seeing, after all - but because you cannot see even if you want to. When there is darkness unforeseen as this, you find yourself reliant on your other senses: touch, sound, smell; this is perhaps equally scary. Especially when these things are not as you consider they should be.
I wake from nothingness. My head feels like lead and my tongue like freshly waxed leather, and much to my sleepy dismay I find nothing. Reaching into the new darkness, the one I am not accustomed to - nor do I wish to be accustomed to, in all honesty - I grasp the emptiness of cool air. Groggily I stretch my body, limbs moving in all directions with a stiffness I didn’t know they could possess; I can’t quite think right. I can’t really think at all.
It takes some time for my brain to begin to work as it should. My eyes grow used to the darkness, at least a little, and my nose is unblocked enough that I can smell the faint trace of musty damp that surrounds me. I try to sit up, straighten my back, and to my surprise despite the cramped feeling that is wrapped into the very core of my body, I am able to do so easily. With a vision of grey swimming before my eyes, I realise I am in a room bigger than I had originally imagined. The strange thing, though, is not the smell of antiquity, nor is it the fact that I am in a room I am not acquainted with: it is the queer idea that I should be lying on the floor, the stone cold and wet against my skin, with nothing but a piece of material draped across my torso. Underneath this, I am quite naked.
It is a shocking revelation to find oneself without clothing, especially in such a situation as this one. At least if I were by a roadside, one prone to highwaymen and vagabonds, I should be able to justify my condition, but as it stands I am unable to comprehend myself, or the world around me. I peer into the greyness, desperately trying to distinguish what is real from the shadows of my imagination. It is not as easy as it appears because everything seems to be moving. I close my eyes and shake my head; the ringing in my ears is a surprising comfort.
“Hello?” I figure the easiest way to confirm my loneliness is to call out, but the voice that croaks into the darkness is not my own. It is rusty, not smooth, and particularly unused. This is perhaps the queerest thing since waking. In any case, I am met with silence.
In some respects this is reassuring as it means that by climbing to my feet I am not exposing myself to any poor inhabitant. The only problem with this isolation, then, is the general predicament that it leaves me in. I still cannot see very well, and by feeling my way around the room (which is large, square and seemingly empty of everything but an old wooden trunk) I discover that the only door is locked. From the outside. My legs feel like jelly, and before long I have to sit down again.
“Hello?” This time I can honestly say that I would welcome anybody coming to my rescue, naked or not. However, again there is no response and I am left trying to tell the sound of my echoing call from the persistent dripping of water somewhere in the background.
I can almost see, now. At least that is something, and it gives me an excuse to explore the room in search of clothing that may have been hidden during my first search. To my dismay I find nothing but the material that was draped across my chest. It is an old piece of clothing, I think, made of something cheap and relatively long-lasting. It is damp to the touch, perforated with little bobbles and small jagged holes where the fabric has begun to degrade. It occurs to me that I must have been in here for a very long time. It then occurs to me that I don’t even know where I am: inside a house? Maybe I am in a cellar somewhere. That isn’t very reassuring, and I soon begin to feel an unfamiliar swelling balloon of panic deep in my chest.
Wrapping what is left of the clothing around my chest, hoping that it covers more than it feels like it does, I frantically trot over to the wooden trunk in the far corner of the room. My legs are stiff, hard to use after so long lying down - and even though I do not know how long it has been, I know it can’t have been a normal evening nap. I throw open the lid. It swings back with a loud clang, clattering against the wall behind it. Inside the trunk I find very little: a notebook with only two pages, both empty; a shard of broken glass which I identify quickly, and push aside to avoid injury; and there at the bottom of the thing there is a piece of jewellery. Like everything in this room it is old, tainted with rust or some such thing which I can feel with my fingers. It feels like it was engraved once, but the darkness of the room is repressive and I cannot read it.
There is nothing in this box that will help me get out of here. No key, no bell to ring, nothing.
With a wail of despair I slam my hand against the lid of the trunk, almost enjoying the pain that sears through my arm in response. I then run back to the door, feeling my way blindly through hot, salty tears. I cry out again, calling for somebody, anybody to let me out. Modesty is in the back of my mind, if it is in my mind at all, and all I want now is to get outside. It is suddenly stuffy in here, not cold and damp, and the air seems to drip down my throat reluctantly, like treacle.
Before long I am exhausted, barely able to stand, and I fall to my knees. The stone bites into the skin, but I am beyond caring now. Nobody is out there, nobody can hear me. The water droplets are all I can hear, drip-drip-dripping against the harsh unaffectionate ground, and I can think of little else. Still crying, I allow myself to fall entirely to the floor, folding in on myself and hoping that this is nothing but a bad dream.
I am only half-conscious when the drip-drip-dripping becomes louder, more like the sound of metal on metal, or metal on stone. It is then replaced steadily by a grating, grinding noise close to my head. I cry again believing it to be nothing but a trick of the darkness willing me to believe that I am about to be saved. I hide my face in my hands; unfamiliar face, unfamiliar hands. Nothing is as is should be.
Especially not my rescuer.
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Journal
Kitty's Journal
Diary of the last quest; among other things ;]
Signature
A novel in progress.
Gunmetal and Lace: 80,205 / ???






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