Writing Folio 1A First Draft by Jess Knight



Sirens sounded in the twilight and abused the smoggy air.
She wiped her blade on her tight black jeans, with confidence and flare.
It was almost other worldly, the way she simply stood there.
It was alright, because she never expected to get away
and standing amongst the bleeding bodies, the police could hear her say.

”Indie boys, indie boys,
you’d better get away.
Indie boys, indie boys,
there’s nothing you can say.
Indie boy, indie boy,
the blood bath’s here, HOORAY!”



He sat in the crowded booth of the bar, which he and his work mates frequented.

His shoulders were slumped with deep concentration.

The people chattered around him. His beer sat lonely and unloved beside his green cigarette lighter and open pack of cigarettes. With long lashed eyes down cast, he stared at these items without seeing them. All he saw was the prospect of an errand, hard to carry out.  Seemingly impossible but truly needed to.


Dante, his well built friend, was double the young mans age.


”If you are not happy” He commented, pausing to swipe a cigarette from the open pack on the table top. Dante was prone to stealing his young friend’s smokes when the opportunity arose.


“Then you should not delay or desist in carrying out the required processes.

Besides, there is a blonde girl I know who has been watching you with interest for the past few weeks. You are not a man void of options.”


Dante watched his young companion, with his silky dark hair and broad strong looking shoulders shrouded in a well fitted black knitted jumper.  He watched with a sense of nostalgia. How long had it been since he himself had gotten all up in arms over a small, feisty cutie?  That familiar heart twist. He could remember it distantly but no longer felt the full brunt of it.


 “You are not a man without particular charms.” Dante finally said.


He pushed the untouched beer closer to the young man’s hands. The subtle hint worked. The beer was lifted and sculled slowly. On placing the empty beer down, he finally looked up into Dante’s distinguished face.


“I think I need another one.”



The potatoes were boiling and she peered into the bubbling water, allowing the hot steam to hit her face. On a lark she decided to see how long she could keep her face there. The steam hurt her eyes and on closing them the sweat began to appear on her for head. Super hot steam stinging her cheeks. A drop of boiling water popped up and hit her in the eyelid.




She squealed and lurched her head away from the intense heat with a little hop and a jump. Whilst rubbing her eyes, she stood in the large and open kitchen of the town house whom she shared with her boyfriend and two of his friends. The house was empty. Where is he? She wondered looking at the clock above the fridge. It was 7:30. He had no mobile so calling was impossible. She toyed with calling one of his new work mates. There had been a few numbers put into her phone since he started at the call centre. But she did not want to seem clingy or desperate. She trusted him.


The dinner plates were taken from the cupboard below the bench top.   The smell of perfectly roasted chicken wafted out and danced into her nostrils as she carefully removed the heavy pan from the oven. 


Two dinner plates were loaded with chicken, mashed potatoes, carrots and beans. One covered with aluminium foil and placed back in the oven, which was no longer on but still hot inside. 



She ran into the living room to put a Jay Retard album in the stereo. The opening title track, Blood Visions, filled the room. The large stain in front of the salmon pink armchair caught her eye for a moment. On the blue carpet was a dark greyish stain which immediately triggered a mental throw back to one drunken evening. She had accidentally knocked over the homemade bucket bong. Murky water had spread and soaked into the carpet fibres quickly. Everyone had spent too much time staring at the spill and laughing helplessly, to adequately clean the mess.


The turbo charged, scuzzy guitars and Jay’s world weary vocals yelling with gusto.

These things will change
These things will change
These things will change.”


  The garage punk music blared through into every corner of the empty house. She sat at the kitchen table and ate her dinner without saying a word. But they formed and flowed like a current through the river of her brain.  With the last tasty portion of chicken breast slowly digesting within her stomach, she directed her bright blue eyes at each of the empty seats around the table, placed in judgement of her solitary state.


When she went upstairs to bed. When she brushed her teeth. When she finally climbed into their bed. When she finally closed her eyes. He was still absent. 


The pocketknife had been a gift from her father, the Christmas she turned twelve.  It was to this object her mind did wander, as he told her in softest tones that it was over.


‘’I love you but it has turned to shit.’’


 His voice was demure and low like distant thunder. Explanations too boring to relay. What would it matter anyway? 


Lovers get rejected every day.


She had tried to stay awake for him so he could see how forlorn she became in his absence.
He was no golden archer, he never drank water and when he did, he pissed it out like wine. He simply knew how to place his hand on the skin above her jeans. a gesture oh so natural, it was as if it had always been.

 It was with the most minimal of lamentations, that she knew just what to do.  It’s simple; oh so simple, once logic chooses to leave you.
 The purpose of the unused blade formed in her mind and was trapped in the amber of resolve. It was a wonder that more fathers do not present their daughters with such violently useful things.

Of course there are laws against it. Of course she thought “its wrong”
Yes, the halo was slipping and soon it would be gone for good

”Indie boy, indie boy,
you’d better get away.
Indie boy, indie boy,
there’s nothing you can say.
Indie boy, indie boy,
the blood bath starts, HOORAY!”

How dare he send her off like Moses, alone into the murky reeds.
He may as well have held the blade. He sowed the tortured seeds.
The pocket knife, held in hand, with nails cracked and bitten.
She wiped away a salty tear and stabbed him while still sitting.
 A yelp followed by a whimper. He tried to call out her name.
 She cut him to the quick. Into his stomach, the blade, she did stick.
His blood on her fingers, his bare arm she did caress.  Making patterns reminiscent of sacred tribal ink, before she began to sing with her everything.

”Indie boy, indie boy,
you’d better get away.
Indie boy, indie boy,
there’s nothing you can say.
Indie boy, indie boy,
the blood bath starts, HOORAY!”

It’s not her fault, she cannot be to blame. They are free to waltz up and down Brunswick Street. As though bohemian royalty inhabited each of their molecules. Hair falling over one soulful eye.
Gazes constantly drawn towards their shoes.  So proud of their vinyl record collections.


“Is that an original first pressing?”


“You have to hear it, dude. So much more texture to the sound when played on record.”


Checkered shirts under cardigans and jeans all spray-on tight.  Makes it impossible for a girl to forget just one, when they are everywhere in sight! Every time she sees one.  Memories of hand holding, through dark shortcuts home in the middle of the night. Reading music magazines in bed on rainy afternoons.

So as her former sweetheart fell to the floor, his treacherous blood flowing out. She pulled on her leather jacket and made her way to leave. With his last breath using lungs in the process of a last stand, he did hear her shout:

”Indie boy, indie boy,
you’d better get away.
Indie boy, indie boy,
there’s nothing you can say.
Indie boy, indie boy,
the blood bath starts, HOORAY!”

With beloved blade, she took to the street. Nobody noticed, she was discreet.  A leather jacketed little girl.  Brain of darkness, a dirty whirl.
It had become apparent, that the affection of a lover was thin and transient as air.  Amongst the tangle of her thoughts, one stayed crisp and clear,
the words of her brother.


”Crazy beats big, sister dear.”

She stealthily followed four more boys into their favourite record store,
and as the first one looked her up and down. He smiled without fear.
She procures her trusty little blade and stabs him in the rear.  Before the friend had any time in which to comprehend, our tiny spiteful little sprite, had got him in the ear. The clerk phones for the police. The long fingers of a talented musician. The final two customers got run through.
A blade in the lower back makes a sound like thick mud, and causes a lanky body to fall with a heavy thud.


Take heed all you hipster boys with angular jawlines and long limbed swagger. Do not be careless with the hearts and grey matter held within the figures of girls you wish to bed and extend the empty promise of endless tomorrows. You can be assured that some disarmingly, sweet faced damsel may be in possession of a dagger.


Indie boy, indie boy,
you’d better get away.
Indie boy, indie boy,
There’s nothing you can say.
Indie boy, indie boy.

Think before you play.