Abandoned Stories (Part 5/6)
In case you somehow missed last weeks post, I am tackling old abandoned short stories of mine in an attempt to feel more accomplished as a writer…despite most of these being from 2018. I’d like to think that means I completed the ideas I thought of from 2020 onward (since I was in short story courses, it is highly probable).
Here are several short stories that I came up with at various times, whether it be the first paragraph or the first page, I want to finish them. So this will be part 1 in a continued series. These are taken from my laptop, but there will be some from my phone as well because I am a devil-may-care writer with very little self-discipline.
The original portions of the stories I will make purple (or #7600FF) and the new additions will be traditional black. I will also put notes at the top and bottom in bold and bracketed off.
The first two are from October 2018:
“Servitude”
Being a royal member of the Vanir had its appeals. You got to wield magic freely, thus escaping a tragic death at trying to subdue it. You were given free reign of authority over the king in matters of war, telling him who to hurt and who not to. And if the royal family liked you enough, you could become royalty yourself. The only downside? The punishments.
Being a Vanir (no matter the skill-set or volume of power) meant eternal servitude to the ruling family in the form of a shock collar. If you act in any way to defy the king or his family, you were starved and beaten with the collar continuously on until you “learned”. Coming from a family of Vanirs, it wasn’t such a shock. But others weren’t so lucky. Agatha, a former member of the admiral council who had every need catered to, was now restricted to serving others. Or Salem, who was the king’s son, inheritor to the throne, lost his privileges along with his father’s respect. Vanirs were considered important during times of crisis or strife, but we were still slaves. Property to be ordered around.
Acting out was punishable, but dreaming of crushing your collar and putting one around the king’s neck was not, or I’d have been dead. The worst thing about the arrangement was that most of the Vanirs were…well, they were children. Barely three or four, an alarm goes off and you are whisked away from your family to live in a cellar underground. There is mostly children here, over 60, and 3 adults (myself included). Since I experienced nothing other than this life, I often forget what it does to normal people, taking away their hope.
I was born into servitude, I do not have a proper name only 70 as an identifier. 70th prisoner. I often wonder about my life and how it could have been. I’d have a small cottage outside of any kingdom’s territory, or maybe I’d start an inn for the same reason. A sanctuary from this life, I’d need others to help find the children; but, the is not a long term solution. the king would simply raid our inn, it’s not as though we have strength. I used to think that is why the king stole us, because he was afraid of what we would grow into. Though, if I grew up without any knowledge of the king, I wouldn’t seek to revolt—maybe I would, but If he didn’t steal children, what is the worst thing he could do?
The worst thing he could do is to bond his citizens against him, like now. We all have a sole cause, to bring him down. The next in line is his wife (an ex-slave turned royalty) who is currently muzzled by his highness. She knew servitude, before so I imagine she would put a stop to this. It’s not like the household actually needs slaves, it houses a hundred or so volunteer staff. The only reason for servitude is power—if we took down the king, no one would challenge us. No other kingdom poses as big a threat as the monster within.
“70, it’s your turn to cook the royal tables’ dinner. Get moving!" The head butler yells, “You know how he gets without food.” I did know, slaves often came back with deep scars on their necks if they were a few minutes late. I run to the kitchens.
“Please tell me you got the ingredients ready?” I ask, out of breathe. Thankfully, slaves are expected to do a lot of labour. Shoveling shit in the stables, rearranging rooms, cleaning chamber-pots, lugging the mounds of food into the cellar, sharpen swords and restring bows, most jobs that don’t require talking. The collar makes our voices gravelly, and not at all aristocratic. Most times, the children are forced to do all of those chores in the same day, whereas us adults are expected to see to the king’s needs. Bring hot water for baths, cleaning his armor (despite him never using it), re-building his throne slightly larger or to the left, stitching a new red carpet to lay at his feet, scrubbing the dirt from his feet after a long hunt, and our very low priority is to make the queen happy. She never asks for anything, she knows how quickly power becomes greed. Or so she’s told me.
“Of course, you just need to plate the potatoes and garnish the meat. Use the large silver platter to take both, he likes to eat both portions.” The head chef rolls their eyes as they leave to start the staff dinner. I look at the potatoes, green beans, and ham. Slaves and staff are not allowed meat in our meals, probably scared we would get too strong. Little does he know, he basically trains us to be strong. Perhaps not physically, but emotionally. Anyone who is tortured would know how the mind protects itself by distraction. I’ve thought of several thousands of ways on how to end the king’s reign. It would be so easy…
I look to his dinner…it would be so easy. I couldn’t…but why not. He would blame the head chef…no, not necessarily, not if I told him it was me. I giggle, imagine the look on his grizzled face when I tell him to die. I enter the pantry still laughing and grab the very innocent looking package. I sprinkle it all over his food and place the dome over it. I walk up the steps with more glee than the first time I saw the castle and thought I was to be made a princess. I’ll need to take the collar remote, I have faith in the queen but anyone would think I’d try to kill her as well. I’ll have to be quick though, his guards move a bit farther away from the table when his highness is eating, something about not wanting an audience. If I pull this off, I will be dead in the next twenty minutes, but I will have freed those poor little boys and girls downstairs.
I climb forty or so sets of stairs before I walk through hallway after hallway to the private quarters of their majesties. The room is rectangular with several entrance ways, I’d have to run the way I came if escape is an option. Guards will pour in…will they? Are they not sick of working for this slob of a man who does not let them see their families? But they are paid, and that type of loyalty is strong. I can’t worry about that now. I walk up to his highness and place the plate in front of him. “I am to take the plate afterwords, my king.”
“Good, good, now move away.” The king says with half of the ham in his mouth. How long does it take I wonder? I’d rather not sit through the entire meal, watching him eat like he was starved all day and not recently feed a large serving of cheese and wine before dinner, makes me sick. I instead glance around the room. It is one of the least decorated, something I think the queen asked for. It is less to clean up…no, she couldn’t have wished for…but she was once like me. Perhaps she too dreamed of killing him in this room, or that someone would poison him as I have. I look toward her, but she is already looking at me. Her eyes are desperate.
“Such a lovely meal you have prepared for us, my dear.” She is a woman of forty, the oldest living slave.
“Yes, my lady. The chef had most of it prepared before I plated it.”
“Still so lovely…” The queen looks to her husband, I wonder if she too is counting the minutes. It’s been fifteen so far. She reaches into his vest for something I can’t see.
It happens gradually, a cough and then another and soon he is vomiting the ham and potatoes. The queen nods at the guards and they leave and lock the doors. “Oh no, it seems my husband is choking on his food—such a sloppy eater, it’s a shame I never learned how to help him.” Before she is done speaking, the king’s heavy body crashes onto the table. She pats his back twice and looks at me. “What the fuck took you so long, I had that rat poison placed as soon as I was appointed queen.”
I stare at her in wonder, “It’s hard to think with this large chunk of metal on my neck.”
“Oh, of course, how foolish of me.” She lifts her hand and the remote beeps when clicked. There is a hiss as the metal unlocks from my neck. It rubs along the scar tissue and makes my eyes weep. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help sooner, I thought the rest of you were fueled by the same hatred I am. I convinced the rest of the staff to let any attempt on his stupid life happen, to build his character. Thank you for risking your life to save them. But you have to leave, I only have some of the guard on my side.”
We hear a commotion in the hall, “I’ll have to go south, where his territory ends…” The queen rises to greet the commotion. “Wait!” She turns. “Do you…do you know who my parents are?”
She smiles, “If you go south, you will currently find out. I believe they own a small portion of land there.”
“Send the others there then, I don’t want something like this to ever happen again and if it does…I will be back.”
“I’m counting on it. Now go!” The doors open and guards swarm in as I take the staff exit to the kitchens and out into the forest. My bare feet catch on the pine needles on the ground and the sharp rocks, as I hop on one foot to soothe the pain I wonder, “Is this what freedom feels like, because it hurts a little.”
(I’m gonna end it there, I’ve always thought that freedom (maybe not in this exact sense) would be bittersweet because it’s not as though everything rights itself when you remove the big bad, but rather ti takes a long time for things and the person who saved everyone might not even see it. It is also hard to take action because the consequences are death, and it is hard to justify giving your life for something when you have no idea if it will work or not)
“Assigned at Birth”
(it appears with this story and the first in this post, I really liked the Vanir and the name Seraph…This story is almost 1200 words so I’m not sure why I didn’t think it was complete but maybe we will understand by the end?)
Meirtha was taken on her 18th birthday to marry an old king for their kingdoms alliance. It was and is a loveless marriage, king Erivan did not know how to be compassionate, but he needed an heir, Meirtha complied. Not unwilling but reluctant, though she knows what was expected. So, when the midwife announced she was with child, she was not surprised. Meirtha didn’t like to remember the times she spent with Erivan in the candlelight, but she had no say in the matter, this was all decided before she was born. If Meirtha didn’t agree out of duty, her naïve younger sister Arabella would have had to. That was the turning point in her decision, while she wanted to fight the obligations of the crown, she also had more important obligations as a sister. It was thanks to her decision that Arabella will be able to decide her own husband.
“I hear the news is fortunate?” the king asked as the midwife left.
“Yes, she seems to think it will be a boy, though it is far too early to tell.” Meirtha replied, fixing her gown and opening the curtains to the window. She was met with silence, turning to face him, but he had already left.
Meirtha sighed, she had told her mother that the match was unwelcome by both parties, obligation aside. If she was being honest with herself, she knew that he child she bore would never know a father’s love to this king. Perhaps the marriage was hasty and unloving but Meirtha wanted a child, though not from these circumstances, she would cherish her baby.
Or rather she was told a baby would make her life better, give her purpose, so she sought that feeling of understanding. In her society, it is the one thing a woman should want. It wasn’t all bad either.
Her own parents were arranged, she had not known a family who had real love being the reason for a union, her mother was fierce and challenged Meirtha in her education but she was not maternal. Her father trained her to interpret sayings in royal meetings, to see what was not being said to gain an advantage over rivals, but he did not love her. Just as Meirtha had an obligation, so did her parents. Though it did fill her childhood with doubt and loneliness, she understood as an adult. The fault isn’t with her parents but rather the system of royal duty that ruins children and love.
Meirtha rubbed her stomach, “No one will know more love that you my little champion.”
The first three months were tense for Meirtha and Erivan. The pregnancy was easy so far for Meirtha, she didn’t have any morning sickness or fatigue, it was the midwife that was the problem. For the most part, their marriage could be lived out with the two in separate bedrooms, but since the pregnancy, the midwife insisted they sleep together in one room. Erivan agreed but refused to share a bed, Meirtha couldn’t help but agree, it was a nonverbal agreement that they wouldn’t spend more time together than necessary. It was easier, but circumstances called for them to be near each other, which was relatively easy.
But when Meirtha was seven months pregnant, she was in a constant state of exhaustion and it made her easily irritable. She could barely walk without the baby pushing on her bladder, so she was also uncomfortable. She wouldn’t ask Erivan for any help, but she did ask the midwife if there was an aid that could be given.
“Surely your husband would have no problem massaging your feet or providing comfort in a loving embrace?” the midwife had asked her, upon her visit.
“Of course, but I do not wish to bother him. He is terribly busy with the negotiations of peace with our Northern countries.” Which in hindsight was a complete lie, but often Erivan had been in bed before Meirtha had waddled in.
The midwife gave her a questioning stare, “Is your husband too busy for his pregnant wife? The giver of an heir?”
Devil’s tomb. How could she answer that without sounding odd, but after a moment she decided on, “I believe the negotiations to be more important, and have urged him to spend more time with it. I do not want my child to grow in a war-torn country.”
This seemed to appease the midwife, as Meirtha rubbed her stomach lovingly. Truthfully, the negotiations hadn’t taken long, the Northerners had come to visit and had prepared to argue when Meirtha had walked into the room, fully pregnant. They had quieted and flocked around her. It was simple to get a treaty after that, but the midwife needn’t know that.
“I will talk with him nevertheless, he should not be neglecting his wife so close to birth.” The midwife had placed a hand on her cheek, shit.
“That won’t be necessary, I can ask him myself, he is my husband.” That was not going to happen, but heavens above if midwife Seraph talked to him.
“If you are sure?”
Meirtha nodded, she would just need to soak in the bath for longer. Maybe she would pick some herbs from her garden to put in. That is when she feels it for the first time, the kick so hard it knocks the breath out of her lungs. Throughout the pregnancy, much of her worry came from how silent and still her baby was. Before she knew it, the tears were falling.
Seraph clapped excitedly, wiping the tears from her cheeks, “this is a joyous day, your husband should be here,” and got up to find Erivan. Meirtha didn’t think twice about her, her sole focus on the life within her stomach. When a very confused Erivan entered, Meirtha was softly cooing to her stomach, she looked up making eye contact with him, “Thank you.”
Erivan looked at her with more confusion until Meirtha looked back down to her stomach, he nodded feeling uncomfortable with the rare praise before leaving the room again. Meirtha couldn’t help but feel disappointed, though she knew nothing would change, but she was still grateful. Erivan didn’t want children, but that was no problem for her. It wasn’t like the relationship was built on anything lasting.
However, in the next week Meirtha was continually and constantly drained. The baby had been identified as a boy, (like Seraph had said early on) but now that Meirtha had felt his kicks, he wouldn’t stop. If she wasn’t entirely fascinated and enthralled, it would be an annoyance as it often went on into the night till the early morning. And that was not her only problem, as part of the alliance meant undergoing diplomatic deals with their parents, as duty and formality had to be upheld; meaning hand-holding and close contact between Meirtha and Erivan to ensure the alliance was strong. This was one of those sordid events, Meirtha was heavily pregnant, incredibly tired, and sore. Wanting nothing more than to fall asleep, her formality and the illusion had started to fade from her mind.
Erivan had shifted closer to her after she had dropped his hand and she glared down at her empty plate. “My darling, are you alright? Are you in pain?” Erivan’s father, Samson, had asked her. The table’s attention now turned to her, she inhaled deeply.
“It is nothing of concern I assure you…” Meirtha replied shortly as she rubbed her now sore ribs, she felt too warm and…wet? Meirtha looked down and saw the blood slowly staining her dress, she roughly grabbed Erivan’s arm, “I think I need—”
Meirtha had lost consciousness by the table as she stood to get up. Erivan had caught her, though he had never truly cared for his wife, she was still a woman and he was a gentleman. He lifted his wife into his arms, despite the blood staining his arm and swept out of the room towards the servants’ tower. As he continued up the stairs the blood left spots all the way up the cobblestone stairs, he hurried to the midwife’s room and barged in. Seraph was startled but saw Meirtha and how pale she looked, motioning for Erivan to place her on the bed.
"Careful now, grab the towels from tht chair,”Seraph ordered, the only person who had power over the king. Erivan grabbed three towels and moved aside to let her work.
“What happened?”
Seraph lifted Meirtha’s dress and gasped, “She must have been in quite a bit of pain, she’s in labour.”
“What?”
“She complained of pain yesterday and I told her to have a soak, her water must have broken in the tub. I’m surprised you didn’t feel her moving in her sleep.”
Erivan paled, “I am a very heavy sleeper, even if she kicked me I would’ve slept through it, why was there so much blood?”
“That, I’m afraid of. Other fluids are natural, even some blood is to be expected but this volume? It means there is a complication.”
“Complication? For whom?”
“For both of them, the child should be fine but if Meirtha cannot push him out, he will die. I will need to wake her up.” Seraph grabbed a glass of cold water and splashed it on Meirtha’s paling face. “Come on, girl. I don’t want to remove this child without you.” With another splash Meirtha’s head rolled and her eyelids cracked open.
“Is the baby coming?” Meirtha rasped.
“Yes, my girl. So I need you to push.” Seraph grabbed both her legs and bent them to her stomach. “Hold her legs up for me Erivan.” He immediately came to press the legs up. Meirtha groaned. “I know sweet girl, just push for me.”
Meirtha gripped the edges of the straw mattrass and push with all her strength.
“That’s good dear, two more and he’ll be here!” Seraph held her hands near the infants head as Meirtha’s efforts pushed him out into her awaiting hands. “Look my dear,” Seraph held him in front of Meirtha, “Look at your baby boy.” The infant screamed as Seraph cut the cord, she handed him to Meirtha, who started to cry.
“Hey there little champion, we made it.” The infant slowly ceased crying as he felt his mother’s warmth. Erivan put her legs down and stood by her head. It was no secret that Erivan didn’t want a child, he thought them loud and messy. But seeing his own, no one told him he could still think that and love his own. Suddenly, the baby started to wail again and those thoughts flew out of Erivan’s mind. Seraph walked over with a damp cloth and sponged at the baby’s head, removing the blood. She glanced down at Meirtha and noticed her skin was white.
“Meirtha?” Seraph plced a hand on Meirtha’s forehead and it was ice-cold. She bent her head down to Meirtha’s chest to listen for a heartbeat and found none. “Oh, poor girl.” Seraph gently placed the baby into Erivan’s arms and covered Meirtha’s body with the sheet.
Erivan looked shocked, “She’s…she’s dead? But she was awake moments ago!”
Seraph let out silent tears as she went to investigate, she pulled the sheet near Meirtha’s legs and saw too much blood, more than had been present before she gave birth. “I’m afraid she bled out.”
Erivan held the baby close to his body to shield him from this news, “What do I tell her family, they wanted their daughter alive with this baby.”
Seraph hugged both of them softly, “I will tell her family, you raise that boy as Meirtha would.” Erivan looked down, and the baby had nestled into his neck for warmth.
A breeze came from the open window as Seraph left the room, Erivan went to go close it when he heard, “Take care of him for me?” whispered into his ear.
(Okay, I think that’s a good point to end it. I do not care for babies or childbirth but I must have watched Call the Midwife or something close to it that sparked this short story. Let me know in the comments what you think, obviously it is probably not very accurate—though I did base Meirtha’s sudden death on Preeclampsia which i know from that show and Downtown Abbey!)
This one is from November 2018:
“Tic Toc…Flop”
(Haha, oh…there is nothing funnier to me than an immortal person absolutely hating that they are immortal. Just something about how most YA novels will compare immortality to the highest level of achievement so a character will become immortal and everyone is like “wow that’s so great” despite the fact that unless your loved ones are immortal you will lose them. So I remember coming up with this silly little idea about a true experience of someone who has had enough of long-life.)
You know what’s really irritating? TIME. Not the clock that tells it, the concept. It’s completely fabricated, yet, as a species, we adhere to it like we are caught in a circle. Inescapable. It causes stress as it is non-existent entity we have created to guilt us into submission.
IT binds us to its will; at 25 you must have a career, 35 is when your biological clock is ticking away, better have kids. Complete nonsense. If you happen to be one of those outliers who adopts a kid or lives forever, you are at fault.
As if I asked to be cursed with eternal life? Do you think I asked to be told every 40 years or so that I need to start making my way in life: “Where are the little ones?”, “Have you found someone yet, they won’t wait for you forever, y’know?”
I get it, I look like I’m 35 but if they knew I had outlived their great-great-great-great-grandparents I doubt they would be preaching this drivel. Can’t a woman get an century of peace?
I mean after the first 200 years I stopped making friends, and by then my family had all died out, but somehow strangers on the street get one look at me and know that I have nothing of a legacy. As If that’s what I’m here for. I certainly don’t.
If I saw the person that cursed me all those years ago I would have been out of here by now; do you know how hard it is to kill an immortal when you know nothing of the curse itself? The normal things don’t work because they are suddenly harmless?
No stabbing the heart, no poison, no dismemberment (though that seems to work for the longest), and burying yourself alive? Oh, would you look at that, I suddenly no longer need to breathe. And the coffin starts to stink, it’s not a good time. And it’s not like there’s hunters or anything looking for an immortal, pop culture got that wrong. I’ve read and learned everything that has been discovered, so now I’m stuck to another century of boredom until some scientist or writer creates something new. Who knows how long that’ll be, so that’s how I find myself in this situation; at the bottom of the ocean with cinder blocks tied to my ankles. Bored out of my mind, I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a shark or some killer whales coming along to eat me, but I guess eternal bitterness is not the best seasoning for an immortal.
I mean the worst part of this whole thing is the explanations. The time I was flagged by the federal government about buying excessive fertilizer; how do you explain to a human that while I look young I am in fact a cursed individual with immortality? Without the necessity for tests and experimentation? Thankfully, I have evaded them, it comes down to waiting until the team set after you dies or assumes you died, I wish.
Another problem is that there seems to be no other like myself, no mermaid or mythological creature to keep me company. Where are all the witches and angels and things of the like that society likes to think exist? The time-travelling actors that are rumoured to be immortal?
All I wanted was to finally reach the end of my long suffering story, I mean how long can you pretend that you haven’t seen the world evolve over the years? That you didn’t see that war coming?
I’ve found at certain moments in my long, long, life advance my age, only a few years. It as though whoever cursed me with immortality knew I had to gain experiences or remain stuck forever, mind you I didn’t know this until forty-two years ago. I stayed 15 years old for decades just because I—-well, it doesn’t matter. I can fix this! I plan to experience everything I can do rapidly increase the process of aging. I talking about doing a two hour hike, cooking a souffle, eat an entire ice cream pint with chocolate drizzle, and doing at least three pull-ups. Those four things seem manageable for now, as you also understand I am still recovering from living so long.
The easiest experience to try, is obviously…the two hour hike. I’ve packed a cooler with ice cream and chocolate, two birds y’know? I lounge on the floor for a large portion of the day, but around 2 o’clock in the afternoon I find the motivation to get dressed. I feel drawn to a khaki shirt and shorts with my hiking boots and look up the hardest trial: Half Dome Mountain. Why not almost die up a very tall mountain and eat some ice cream, it seems easy enough. Walking up the small field to the domed mountain nearly ends me, my calves are on fire from muscle strain. I probably should have stretched this morning.
I take a short break, what is time really if not measuring life by pain, at the foot of the mountain. Gosh, this mountain is pretty steep, I just had to pick the hardest one…who am I trying to stunt for? Myself, I doubt it, I gave up seventy years ago. I am insane, talking to myself as though I am on a realtiy TV show… Actually thinking about it, I am The Survivor. I could totally win that show, I stumble up the trial, I’ve spent a lot of time eating random herbs and beries that I know which are edible. Maybe my social skills are a little rusty, people still talk about the development of airplanes, right? No matter, I’d totally win that show, it’s mostly about survival (hence the name right?)
My right ankle popped as I reached the half-way mark, I collaspe on a large boulder. Here’s a good point as any, as it’ll probably take me two hours to get down this bloody mountain with my foot all messed up. I reach for the cooler strapped to my back and pull out the pint of ice cream and the drizzle. I pop the lid, without worry of death by bear, and squeeze a large dollop of chocolate. I’m going to feel so sick after this, oh well, bottoms up! I scoop a large spoonful into my mouth and continue until my stomach protests and my body is cold. I shiver on my last bite and pass out.
I wake up at the bottom of the mountain in the field. I try to sit up and realize that as I passed out I must have rolled all the way down with how battered my body feels. Hopefully, my ankle isn’t too sore to walk to my car. I move in slow and steady movements until I am crouched. My ankle regained its strength from my ice cream coma and I limped to my car. Once the car door closes, I sighed as I thought about my next experience. I honestly do not know how to cook a souffle, other than there is a brief period of time where it can flop in the oven and be terrible. But if I read somewhere that exercise can help aid thoughts and studying, and cooking is a type of studying.
I go to the supermarket first, I don’t have things to make custard, and empty the bags out onto the counter when I get home. I opneed the tablet to youtube and clicked the first video on souffle. I watch and gather the ingredients: condensed mushroom soup, cheddar, 2 eggs but need to separate the yolks from the whites, and bread crumbs. Really? I always thought that souffle’s were sweet not savory…oh well! I get to measuring, whisking, and pouring. I pre-heat the oven and when it beeps I place the fancy quiche in the oven for forty-five minutes. I set up the pull-up bar in the kitchen doorway so I can still watch the oven. I tightened the bar and tested it with my weight. It held so I started to do a pull-up. I lift my body off the ground for one full pull-up and as I lift my body for the second, the bar pops off the wall and hits my shin. I gasped in pain and waddle to the oven, fuck exercise.
I wait and watch the oven as the small thing starts to rise, I scroll back in the video and theirs is not raising as fast…Okay, don’t panic, it’s probably too hot, I’ll take it out earlier. I watch as the souffle bubbles over the container I had put it in and try not to be disheartened. It’s my first souffle, t’’l be weird looking but it’ll taste good, right? I put it out before it burns and let it cool. I look at my disgusting, almost black, souffle and compare it too the video. The colour’s off but I think I got the flavours right. I blow on it and take a bite. I sobbed, it’s tastes like a mushroom omelet…Fuck. Check that off the list, I will never make another one.
How do people live their lives like this everyday, I plan on sleeping for five years and then maybe doing four more.
(I don’t think I had a full plan for this one, so it might seem very quick and rushed but I just tried something and I’m not too happy with it but that’s fine. Not all ideas are going to be good.)
