A blush of pink

My story for next week. I'm quite happy with the first sentence. I think I did a good first sentence. ^_^ But the topic was hard. Susan, why do you always give hard topics?

Christopher was too sick to go to school that day, and while his throat may have been stinging and raw, and his nose clogged, and his ears filled with chirping crickets and that horrible itching sensation that you have to click your tongue to try to get rid of, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph over parents, teachers and school in general. What’s more, more had gotten sick on a Monday, which meant, he knew, that he could remain “sick” until Friday, even though he may in fact have gotten better several days earlier. On Thursday he would proclaim that he felt a little better, and then Friday he still wouldn’t go to school, because his mother would insist on at least one days recovery. On Saturday, lo and behold, he would be ready to go to Pete’s house, or maybe Shamus’s, depending on the availability of either. He could already envisage the games they would play, and Pete had said on Sunday that his dad was buying him a new toy after work, so he’d be able to play with that, as well. He had it all planned out.

He lay in bed, snuggled up beneath his Harry Potter duna, with his plastic pop-top bottle of water on his bedside table, which he emptied out the window every half-hour or so. After all, when you’re sick you should act as sick as possible in order to milk it for as much as you can, and if that means sacrificing your throat so that you can talk in a raspy, whispered croak, then so be it. Anyway, there was no way he could drink as much water as his mother was trying to pour down his throat- he often wondered why she didn’t give him something he’d actually drink, like lemonade- and this way he would remain in her good books by seeming to drink everything she gave him, and also her flowers were flourishing even in this hot weather- what with water restrictions she could hardly water them very often- so that kept her in quite a good mood, as well. He just hoped that she wouldn’t notice that it was only the flowers outside his window, but then, she might not be so mad. She’d probably think he was doing her a favor.

Christopher stared up at the ceiling, and shifted in his bed. There was, of course, one disadvantage to being sick, aside from the obvious unpleasantness of it all, and that was the boredom. He’d already watched his favourite movie, and done a puzzle, and now all that was left was staring, either out the window to the garden and his swingset, or up at the pale blue ceiling, patchy from moisture and cracked diagonally from the bottom right corner. He’d learnt his left and right from the ceiling, which, while it meant he’d learned them quickly, had caused him some embarrassment on his first day of school, when his teacher had asked him which side was the right side, and he had unthinkingly answered:  “The one with the crack in.” 

A soft blush crept up his face at the memory. It wasn’t just the teachers trying to teach him stuff he didn’t care about that made him dislike school, but the other kids. The slightest mistake, the smallest slip in your composure, could set you up for being called names the rest of the year. He’d been a prime candidate from day one, after his mother had cried and hugged him on the first time she’d taken him to class. He couldn’t possibly explain to her the torment she’d managed to set him up for, she wouldn’t understand. And as for his dad, he’d dismiss it as a “part of becoming a man”, a phrase he never ceased to use regarding Christopher. He always spoke regarding Christopher, if he spoke about him at all, never to him. Or if he did speak to him, it was either an order (“Christopher, go away, I’m busy”), or a half-hearted question (“How was school?”).

Not that Christopher particularly cared, of course. It just might be nice if his dad would do something with him some time. Or at least talk to him properly. But really, he didn’t care, and it was stupid to even think about it.

Christopher pulled his duna over the top of his head, and, lying in the cavernous warm darkness, he began to cry.

Green

Okay, so this was a ten minute exercise. And all it has to do with green is the first sentence.  ^_^ I don't know how I managed to get from "green" to what I ended up doing.  But then again, the topic for that day was "wool", and a few members ended up in this huge contraversial conversation that came off from it. So I don't know, I guess it was just a weird day. ^_~

He glanced out his window at the greenery of his garden. It was a look of longing. How much more he’d prefer to be out there, rather than cooped up in here, trying to write an essay on humanity in inhuman conditions.

He sighed, and turned to his computer.

“June 1st 2007” He typed, “Stuffed if I can write essay.”

He shook himself, and deleted the rebellious sentence. Come on, he thought, just a sentence, a word, anything to jump off from.

“What is humanity?” He typed. At least it was a start.

“The simple answer is this: We, as the human race, are.

But are we?”

And error popped up on screen. 

Microsoft Word has encountered an error and has to close. Would you like to send a bug report?

He clicked the “No” button, and watched as the application closed. 

“Stupid thing. Why’d you have to stuff up on me?” he muttered under his breath, and paused, a strange expression on his face.

Picking up pen and paper, he proceeded to rewrite what he had typed, and begin again.

“As our technology has progressed, we have integrated it into our lives. Society in the first world demands that everyone has access to the Internet, everyone has a mobile phone, everyone has a car. It is virtually inconceivable that anyone should go without.”

“We are the only race on the planet that has behaved so strangely. Apes will use sticks as tools, but they do not rely solely upon those sticks. Nor is it necessary to have a stick with them at any given time, as with mobile phones.”

“Technology has everything to do with how we perceive ourselves today. The progression of the human race is not really based on the progression of humans individually or as a whole, but on the progression of technology. In fact, in these times, humanity without technology really isn’t considered to be humanity at all.”

“Given this observation, can you strip a someone of all their technology and beliefs, and still call them human? Or has that technology, and those beliefs, become the humanity?”

“This is not such a ridiculous idea as it may seem. Not our habits of projecting our thoughts and feelings onto things that could not possibly consider them, and humanizing machines. A car is tired, a computer stubborn, our boats, and now, to a lesser extent perhaps, our cars, are referred to as “she”.”

“Perhaps this all seems harmless and irrelevant, but language is as much, perhaps even more, a part of humanity as technology, and thus it affects the way we perceive ourselves and the world around us. Think of how many feminists have change the spelling of the word ‘woman’, substituting the ‘a’ for a ‘y’.”

He paused, and chewed the end on his pen. Where was he going with this? What was he trying to say?

In order to avert the temporary writer’s block, he kept writing without bothering to think about it.

“So perhaps, for all our talk of artificial intelligence and robots that can think for themselves, we have already created artificial life- albeit on a different level- by projecting life onto our current technology?”

He smiled to himself, remembering how, only recently, a friend of his had told her ancient washing to “stop whining and get on with it”, and then shake her head and say “I swear that thing has a mind of it’s own.”

“It has been said,” He continued, “that when a loved one dies they live on in our hearts. Maybe our technology lives in our minds?"

He put down his pen and shivered. Not a nice prospect.

bananas

Okay, so this is very light, and fun to write. You can't expect something dark and morose with "Bananas" as a topic. Or if you think you can, good luck writing it!

Maria had not talked to her flat-mate for three months, and she did not plan on doing so for a long time yet.

It began when he went into her studio without her permission, and ate one of her models, and from then onwards their friendship, such as it had ever been, had escalated into an outright war. If she had wanted to she could have seen it from his point of view: After all, you walk into a room, feel hungry, see a bowl of fruit... But, as is often the case when you are annoyed with someone, seeing it from his perspective was not something she wanted to do.

The bananas had been her favorite part. She had applied wash after wash of paint, building up the colours in a painstakingly slow fashion, towards a goal she was sure would have been so vibrant, so perfect, that it would have done that which she had been striving for years to achieve, that is, in her own words, to “put the ‘Life’ back into Still-Life.” She had the perfect title for the piece, too:

“Tropical fantasy held in a wooden bowl.”

None of that boring “bowl of fruit on a table” nonsense. That belonged to the age of the old masters. No, she was a new artist! New ways of going about the same idea! Modern art in an old form!

But now Pedro had eaten one of her precious bananas, and all her ambitions and desires had plunged down the drain. How could fate have been so heartless? She felt as if the fire of her artistic passions had been douse, and now all that remained were pitiful wisps of steam.

She would never speak to him again. Of that much, she was certain.

She sighed, and glanced over yet again at her beautiful, ruined painting. The voluptuous purple grapes, the dimple skinned oranges, the spiny golden pineapples, and. She could hardly bear to look, the pale, crescent-moon shapes of her never to be completed bananas. Why, Pedro may as well have bombed the Eiffel Tower, or trampled Van Goph’s Sunflowers, for all the desecration he had committed. 

There was a tentative knock on the studio door.

“Maria?” came That Man’s voice through the wood, “Can I come in?”

She did not deign to reply. He was below her, and thus did not deserve the faintest grunt of acknowledgement. 

The door creaked slowly open. Maria rounded on him. How she would berate him! Flood him with such a tide of anger and hatred that he would be left a quivering, emotional mess on the floor!

He grinned sheepishly, and held out a box wrapped in gift paper. How dare he try to placate her so obviously!

She snatched it away from him, and tore the paper off in such a way that showed she cared nothing for its contents. She would throw whatever it was in his face.

She opened the box, and paused, hand quivering. Inside lay a long, perfect banana, and a tube of yellow paint.

Maria looked up at Pedro, and down at the box, then at Pedro again. She took up the piece of fruit, and turned towards the bowl she had used as her model. She arranged the banana carefully within, and stood back to look at it. Perfection.

Pedro was watching her in the was you might look at a bomb after having cut a wire, unsure as to whether you’d defused it or simply shortened the time until explosion. He looked so comical that she began to laugh. He joined in, cautiously at first, and then they both lapsed into hysteria, tears- of laughter or sadness? - Running down their faces.

And so ended the Great Banana War, in tears and laughter. Wouldn’t it be nice if our bomb wars ended the same way?

 

A town, somewhere

O_O I adored this topic. Absolutely adored it. And I sure had fun writing it.

I was sitting at a table by myself, as close to the fire as I could get without sitting inside the hearth, when a gust of cold air announced the stranger. He pulled the oak door open with a dramatic gesture, and stood for a moment, silhouetted against the gray sky and snow covered ground. 

His arrival alone caused a considerable stir, as it was a small pub, on the outskirts of town, and rarely saw any more than four or five people at a time, each of which knew one another.

Once he seemed to decide that his pause had been long enough, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut. His appearance was that of a hitchhiker. Upon his back he carried a dark green and blue pack, of the kind that professional hikers wear, which he slung down by the stool he had chosen for himself at the bar. His hair was shoulder-length, and dread locked, brown matted tangles that swung around his head as he moved. His clothes were crumpled, his boots scuffed. In fact, the only part of him that didn’t look the worse for wear were his eyes. They glinted in the light from the fire, darting from side to side as he took in his surroundings.

Such a man, I decided, could not possibly fail to be interesting. And so, being the inquisitive person that I am, I strode over to him and offered to buy him a drink.

He glanced at me for a moment, as if trying to figure out what manner of person I was, before giving me a quick smile and replying that yes, he’d like that, and his name was Kimberly. Jackson- Jack- Kimberly.

I, in turn, gave my name, before ordering our respective beverages from the barkeeper. Drink in hand, I questioned him as to where he was from, and he waved a hand in a vague direction.

“Oh, just a town, somewhere.” He said, “But that was a long time ago.” 

He took a sip of his drink, and continued. 

“Better to say that I’ve come from New York, and Hong Kong, and London, and Paris. I come from Iceland, and Africa, and India. I come from all the four corners of the world, and everything in between them.”

I thought on this, before inquiring whether he traveled a lot.

He laughed. “How could I travel if motion is impossible? How could I have been to any of those places is every time I looked up from the road I had halved the distance between myself and my destination? No,” He gave me another of his quick smiles, “I traveled between.”

I wondered if I had perhaps chosen a lunatic as a drinking companion. I tried to think of something to say, but he started to speak again.

“I mean, really.” He took another sip, “Where do any of us come from? Do we come from where we were born? From where we live? Is where we come from where we have our house? If so, then where do the homeless come from? I said I come from a town somewhere, but I might as well have said that I come from outside, or from the road, or even from the chair on which I sit now!”

He gave the stool a pat.

“For that matter, where do you come from? I’ll tell you where you come from.”

He grinned, and in those eyes I imagined I saw sparks of insanity.

“You come from that table over there.” He gestured at the table I had been sitting at before.

“Don’t you see? That is where you were before, that is where you come from! You don’t come from America, or England, you come,” he downed the rest of his drink and pointed yet again at the table, “from over there.”

He gave me another quick smile, stood, and slung his pack onto his shoulders. Thanking me for the drink, he walked over to the door, pulled it open, stepped outside and waited a moment so that we could all see his silhouette. Then he slammed it shut, and walked off into the snow.

His exit was every bit as dramatic as his entrance.

It couldn't possibly happen, could it?

Well, once again it's been a while.  However, I am finally updating again... So that's a good thing. 

The topic was, as is always the case, very hard to write... Until I actually wrote about it. ^_^ I guess I'm one for procrastinating.

The prospect of Uncle’s death had been a ghostly presence at the back of their minds for the past year. It lingered, transparent, never specifically thought about but still most definitely there. It was only in the months leading up to his illness that it had started to become more substantial, and they began to realise it’s inevitability. They started noticing references to death everywhere, in newspapers, on television, even in the graffiti that coated the brick walls and concrete that they passed in the street. Though still they never broached the subject, not until the very end, when Uncle was hospitalized, and even then not really speaking of it, but rather circling around it, the meaning of their words being found not in what they said, but what they didn’t say. Even as he lay on his deathbed, it had a vague, it-couldn’t-possibly-happen feel to it,

The times when it became hard reality differed for each of them.

For the eldest, squinting through the rain as the coffin was lowered into the ground, and pondering the cliché of rain at a funeral, it was when his wife sighed, and said “Well, that’s it then”, and he thought with some surprise, “Yes, I suppose it is”, that he truly understood that the uncle was dead, and his mind turned immediately to thoughts of inheritance, money and property.

For the middle child, it was in bed the night after the funeral, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of the times she had spent with the Uncle, all those unpleasant family dinners and his snide, richer-than-thou mannerisms, and she whispered “Oh, thank God that’s over.”

For the youngest, sitting with his wife, wondering when to broach the subject of divorce, and her asking him about inheritance, and he hating her and hating her and hating her for thinking only of the money when she should be mourning, it was when he realised that he wasn’t mourning either, and how much he had hated the Uncle in life, and feeling glad that he wouldn’t have to enjoy his company any more, and hating and hating and hating himself for feeling glad about death.

Through each of their realizations of the Uncle’s death, they found themselves confronted with yet another ghostly presence, another niggling it-couldn’t-possibly-happen feeling in the back of their minds. They were confronted with the reality of their own deaths, and once again, they could not possibly comprehend it as being real until it was actually upon them. 

In Flight

My topic, chosen because I couldn't think of anything else and that's the name of a piece of music I composed. Unlike the usual fiction, I've done a ramble.

The ambition to fly has been inherent in the human race for as long as we have been able to dream. Mythology is full of it, whether it be little people that have wings or romanticizing those creatures that naturally do, as in the saying “As free as a bird.” Our obsession with flight is such that we have even projected it onto other animals, such as the winged horse, Pegasus. 

The dream of flying seems to contradict our vertigo and fear of falling, and yet the longing grows.

Given that we have fulfilled our dream, with airplanes and hot air balloons, it is rather strange that so many people who dream of white feathered wings and clear blue skies, have a profound hatred of flight in the conventional sense: airplanes. Perhaps it is not the vehicle in itself, but the tedious wait in the departure lounge beforehand. Or maybe it is the fact that so much weight is being propelled off the ground that it seems liable to crash, as they so often do. A Boeing 747 weighs around 400 tons at take off, including cargo and passengers. Such a prospect is enough to scare anyone.

 Either way, it is rather a pity that our romanticizing of flight has manifested itself in such a dreary form of technology. 

Notice also the amount of figures of speech that have to do with flight. Feelings soar, you feel uplifted, to soar on wings of love. 

Could it be that our love of flying comes from a longing to be closer to Heaven, our eventual goal? The need to be closer to the Divine? It seems logical that it should be so, given that religions of all kinds see divinity in the stars, and religions make up a considerable part of our past and present. 

But why does it take up so much of our life? Why does it dominate so? I don’t think there is anyone on this earth who has not wished they could fly. Perhaps it is human nature to long for the unattainable, and destroy that which they’ve got in order to try to achieve it.

Flirting

Well, I have to say that I certainly enjoyed this topic, once I got around to writing it. It was chosen from a fantastic new book I've got called "The Writers Block": A tiny, cube shaped book full of inspirations and tidbits about writing.  

Also, I think my style of writing (in the beginning at least) was slightly influenced and changed by a combination of Francine Prose's book "Read Like A Writer", yet another new and brilliant addition to my bookshelf, and Anton Chekhov. Not that I think this is anywhere near either writer's abilities, but it changed the way I wrote nonetheless.

Please note that all place names are just made up on the spot, so don't try to look them up on a map. If there are any places with those names (And they are fairly generic, so I wouldn't be surprised) They have absolutely nothing to do with the story.

Statistics had been Jonathan Harrier's greatest pleasure in life for as long as he could remember. He hoarded them, collected them with the same fervour as a musician might collect his repetoir, the same obsessive fervour as a teenage girl might collect photos of her favorite celebrities. He loved the harsh truths of the numbers, the way you could calculate your life according to them.

Given his obsession, it is not surprising that his greatest ambition as a child was to become an insurance salesman, and indeed, later on in life he had applied. But, unfortunately, he had been fund wanting in perhaps the most vital aspect of the job. That is, that ability to smooth-talk. Or, in fact, communicate in any shape or form. He was the kind of man that, when confronted with the nessecity to actually converse with someone,  has an urge to hide under the table until they go away.

This had never posed him much trouble, however, aside from his regretful job application,  as he didn't care much for social gatherings  and prefered to stay in the company of his precious statistics. Never posed him much trouble at all, that is, until he met Marie-Louise Appleby.

He had become a bank teller in the Commonwealth Bank, a job he enjoyed well enough, as all that was asked of him was to do as the customer asked, and mabe make a comment about the weather  or the traffic should the need arise.

Every year there would be a mandatory Christmas Party for the employees of the bank. Mandatory, that is, for those who wiished to remain in favour with their boss. During these gatherings Jonathan would stand in the corner, sip a glass of cheap wine, and mournfully wait until he would be able to leave, which would usually be early morning sometime.

This time, though he noticed Miss Appleby dancing in the centre of the room. She was laughing, flicking her short brown hair back as she moved. She was wearing a Santa hat, as was everyone else in the room, but unlike the rest of the employees, she wore it with style. When she wore it, you somehow forgot that it was meant to symbolise a fat red-cheeked man, and instead noticed the way it brought out the blue in her eyes. Or at least, that was how it seemed to Jonathan.

Eventually she stopped dancing, and swayed over to his side of the room. Just as he was wondering whether he should attempt the impossible and try to talk to her, she introduced herself.

He really couldn't bear to remember the details of the conversation, such as it was, but he did know that he had managed to stutter, mumble, and, heaven forbid, whisper something about the weather.

Which was why, on the bus home the next day, he hoped beyond all hope that he would never have to see her again.

But destiny can be rather obstinate when it comes to such matters. And so, twelve or so stops before he reached the safety of his home, Marie-Louise got on the bus. She glanced around for an empty seat, sat down opposite the mortifed Jonathan, and started to flick though a book titled The Gambler. 

She hadn't even glanced at him.

Jonathan's mind whirled. What to do? What to say? Finally he came to a descision. He would take the risk. He would say hello.

He squeaked at her, and she glanced up in surprise. He could feel the blush marching steadily up his face. he waited for her to ignore him and keep reading- after all, she probably didn't remember him, and who could blame her?- but instead she grinned, and put her book down.

"Oh, hello Jonathan. Sorry I didn't notice you there."

Jonathan grinned back, hoping that he didn't look like a twit.

"Hi." He croaked.

"What did you think of the party? It's a bit of fun, isn't it?"

He nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth it would somehow betray him.

"Music's a little off, though."

"Yeah."

"Kind of like something you'd hear in Chickenfeed, eh?"

He grunted an affirmative.

There was a blissful moment of sileence, during which the bus stopped and several passengers got off, but it didn't last.

"So, where are you going?"

"Uh, Maryvale." He muttered. "Live there."

"Oh yeah. I'm at Brookton. Maryvale's a pretty nice place to live."

"S' Okay."

She seemed to struggle for something else to say. Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. He knew he wasn't helping much. 

In a leap of intuition, he spoke.

"What are you reading?"

She smiled, relieved that he was actually talking.

"The Gambler, by Dostoevsky. You read his stuff?"

"Uh, no." He replied.

"Really? Wow. You should look him up in the dictionary. He's a genius."

"Okay." He agreed, though he kknew he wouldn't be able to remember the name, let alone spell it.

D-O-S-T-O-Y-E-F...

"So, what do you read?"

He started, and felt the telltale urge to sink under his chair. This was a question that would reply an explanation he was not entirely willing to give.

"I, uh, don't. Not really."

She nodded, and when she spoke her voice had a hint of disdain.

"You more of a movie person?"

"No. I don't watch movies."

She frowned, bemused.

"Do you write, then?"

He shook his head, conscious that he must seeem like an idiot.

"Well, what do you do?"

His blush deepened.

"Statistics." He murmured.

"What?"

"I... Collect statistics."

"Oh. Really?" She was obviously struggling to sound interested.

The bus stopped again. Jonathan quickly calculated that, statistically, according to his life experience so far, if he stayed in the same space as her for much longer he was liable to make an even worse ass of himself than he already has. Therefore, with a hurried "Gotta go. My stop," he left the bus before she had a chance to say "But this isn't Maryvale!", and proceeded to walk the rest of the way home.

Haunting Sounds

This one is my first written piece for a while, because the group was too busy organising an event for living writers week that was held in Dover, on the 24th of August. It went very well, I'm happy to say, and because of it we have received a new member with a great talent!
Welcome, Robyn!
Anyway, I enjoyed this topic very much, but I am slightly put out to find that no spell check accepts the word "Busks". For these that know as much as the spell check, that means to play music in a market or on a corner, or wherever, so long as it's legal, with a hat or case out to collect money. Well, even if it's illegal, really.
No, that doesn't mean that you can just play your Walkman really loud on portable speakers and hope.
Anyway, on with the story.

There is a blind man who sits at the corner, day after day. He is old, hands worn and face weatherbeaten. And he just sits, and listens to the rest of the world go by.

There is a boy that busks in the market every Saturday, fingers caressing melodies from wooden flutes. Time slows, and the sound of coins falling into his case is like the ringing of chimes to accompany his music.

There is a bird in a cage that never sings. It sits on its' perch by the window, and stares with dazed eyes. So close to the sky, never to spread its wings.

There is a song with no notes sung by a girl who cannot hear. A wordless, raw, tuneless chant which haunts you long after you walk away.

There is the sound of piano music that echoes from a house with windows flung wide, no matter the weather. A composers gift to the world.

There is a world within a snow-globe, a tiny village full of life. And when you shake it, the snow falls in chaotic swirls that spiral downwards, and you feel as if you are spiraling as well, down into new land. A world filled with music and laughter. Until the sounds of screaming pull you away, and you are flung back into reality.

And, like the snow, these sounds and moments spiral onwards, until they fall back to where they dwelled before, to be shaken again by the hand of time. And I wonder, can a sound come back to haunt you?

The World Is Now Open For Business

This was my topic, as well as the one below "When the Winds change". I have a habit of offering up several topics at once. But I am proud to say that from it sprung my very first working poem that actually rhymes!

The world is now open for business,
It will do quite well, I'm sure,
Fast food, real estate and stock markets,
All that, oh yes, and much more.

The world is now open for business,
Dope, cocaine and all the rest
Illegal or not, we don't particularly care,
So long as the coppers stay off of our chest.

The world is now open for business,
Neon lights and corporate ads
Now we've started, none can resist us,
Look out for all the new fads.

The world is now open for business
We're scooping the cash up real fast,
But oil has peaked,
And the havoc we've wreaked,
Has ensured that it could never last.



.

When The Winds Change

A poem based on an excercise that one of the members of my group set. She brought in a photocopied sheet from a book about the convicts who came to Dover and Southport. The sheet listed all the convicts who came, their ages, crimes and marital status. We were instructed to choose one of these convicts, and write their story.

The subject of my story, a seventeen year old boy whose crime was stealing money for clothes, dwelled in my mind  for some time afterwards. And so I wrote this.

Seven years are my sentence
But my lifetime I shall serve
For though the jury may say otherwise
'Tis a death sentence I have earned.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

My mother, she is dead,
My father disappeared,
It was only you and I, my sister
And now, for you I fear.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

Two men and a child have died,
The others have taken their clothes
Their deaths are kept quiet, the bodies unmoved,
So their food ration keeps coming round.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.

I'm bound for a new world,
The Southern Land, Australia,
So far from our life, together
And yet so near to our deaths, apart.

And when the winds change
When they whisper of home
I think only of you
My sister.


When the winds change,
I can hear your sweet voice,
uplifted in song
Despite all misery.

When the winds change,
I think only of you,
When the winds change,
my sister.

From the Ashes 2

There are two pieces for this topic, prose and poem.

A fire

Caged by human hands
dances and frolics to unearthly music
Ever unheard by mortal ears
The circle of stones
That mark its boundaries
flickering in the orange light
Sparks fly
A blade of grass joins the dance
A tree, a forest
leap and prance to the song of the flames
The harsh cry of human sirens
Slice the song in two
killing the flames
destroying the dance
Leaving only ashes and charcoal
Silence prevails
Ages pass
Until, from the ashes
The green forest returns.

Just Don't Make It too Complicated

A writers block story. I'm only glad that Calliope eventually got around to me, otherwise I'd have been staring at that blank screen for a very long time.

Just don't make it too complicated. 

Just don't make it too complicated.

The phrase circled round and round in Eliza's head as she glared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. She gripped her pen tighter, fingers whitening and threatening to give herself writers cramp before she even written a single word.
Three times she'd touched the pen to the paper, and three times she'd lifted it up again, shaking her head in frustration.
How could she possibly write in conditions like this?
She sank her head down onto the wood of the desk at which she sat, and shut her eyes, hoping for some kind of inspiration that would get her writing with her usual vigor. None came.

She sat in her studio, technically the attic, of her house in Newford. It was a small room, and brightly lit from the enormous window in the far wall. Through it she could see the branches of the oak tree that grew in her front garden, and, in the distance, the bay, glinting in the midday sun, and the numerous yachts and fishing boats that bobbed gently on the waves.

Unnoticed by the frustrated writer, the muse Calliope tapped frantically on the window. She sat in a fork in the oak tree, glaring into the house through the pane of glass that separated them. Her long blond hair was unkempt, the Greek robe which her superiors insisted that she wore, despite the changing of the times, tattered and grass-stained. 
'Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid!' She hissed under her breath as she banged on the glass. 'Stupid stupid woman!' 
Then she amended herself, for she knew that it wasn't completely Eliza's fault. Eliza had been Limited, and that was a horrible thing to have to deal with, especially for someone who expressed herself with words like she did.
'Stupid publisher. Stupid stupid publisher.'
Normally a muse can pass through any barrier, thick or thin, to get to their designated writer. But when a writer has been limited, frustrated and annoyed, there is a kind of mental box that is put up around them, that the muse can't get into, and the writer can't get out of.

Eliza was the best writer of all Calliope's clients, she wrote such beautiful prose, and such amazing plots that it astounded even Calliope, who'd seen so many great writers.
Edgar Allan Poe was her work, and she was rather proud of it.
But Eliza had her manuscript sent back to her, with a short note saying 'Nice, but try again, and just don't make it too complicated this time.'

The problem with that bit of advice is this response: "What on earth is that supposed to mean? What is complicated? I don't see any complications. Should I strip down the prose? Drop all my adjectives? Pull out some characters? Put them in? Change the end, the beginning, the middle?"

And this was precisely the pit that Eliza had fallen into.

Eventually Calliope gave up, and continued down to her next client, who had, to the muse's amusement, been staring at a blank computer screen, trying to think of something to write about the topic "Just don't make it too complicated."
 

The Secret To Happiness.

It really didn't take me long to write this one.  I really loved the topic. After all, it practically begged for one of my weird, fragmented, present-tense stories.

Today she decides to write a list. On the right of the page she will write all the things that make her happy, and on the left everything that makes her unhappy.
She thinks for a moment, then writes “Sunny Days” on the right of the paper. And stops.
Tears roll down her cheeks as the left side fills up, spilling over into the right column and onto the other side of the page.

Today he turns on the television, and stares dumbly at the screen. He flicks through the channels, not really paying any attention to anything.
He stays there the whole day.

Today she doesn't get out of bed, just listens to the sounds of her parents shouting at each other downstairs. Reaching for the knife on her bedside table, she cuts into the skin on her arm. A silent symbol of rebellion.

Today he ties off the upper part of his arm, needle in hand. With a faint sigh, he injects himself with the drug. Then everything's great again, and he laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

Today she wanders through the mall again, looking for the next fantastic bargain. The next item that will soon end up in the closet, with all the others. All those shiny new things that she knows she doesn't need.

Today he reaches for yet another box of chocolates, throwing the wrapper of the last one into the overflowing bin. Shovelling them into his mouth three at a time, he gazes into nothing.

Today she sits in the park, in her fashionable clothing, and her hair done just so. And for no particular reason, she starts to sob into her hands. It begins to rain, and she just sits there, clothes soaked and hair completely ruined, crying.

Today he buys the lotto ticket that he is so sure will win this time. He sits hunched before the telly, ticket held tight in his fists.

Today she thinks.“I don't know what the secret to happiness is,” she writes “But I know what it is not. It is not what this culture is turning us into. It is not this way of life. It is not the next drug fix, it is not the next fantastic buy, it is not the next box of chocolates. If there is indeed a secret, we forgot it long ago.”

From The Ashes

When I found this story on my computer, it took a long time for me to remember what the topic for it actually was. I guess that's just evidence of how long it's been since I've done anything to this blog...

It was a loud silence, the kind that makes every second seem to last an age. It was broken only by the slow 'tick... tick...' of the clock on the wall, which only accentuated how awkward we had become in one another's company.

It had been so long since we'd been able to talk together properly. Not since the funeral...
"So..." He was the one who spoke first, tapping his fingers self consciously on the kitchen table at which we sat. "How have you been?"
"You asked me that already, Dad."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
I spooned some more soup into my mouth, trying not to grimace at the foul taste. His cooking still hadn't improved.
"Dad..." I began, unsure how to frame this question. He glanced up from his bowl, glad that I had taken the initiative. 
"Yes?"
"Dad, what did you do with..." I took a deep breath, and steadied myself.
"What did you do with her ashes?"
He actually flinched. It was the first time we'd mentioned her in three years. But I had to ask.
"Wh... Why do you ask?"
I found myself hating him. 
"Goddammit, Dad!" I yelled. "We haven't spoken about her for years! Why do you insist on forgetting about her? I'm her son, just as I'm yours, and I want to know what you did with her ashes! Is that too much to ask?"
My onslaught trailed off as I saw the tears spilling down his cheeks and into his soup. 
"I've still got them." He whispered. "I couldn't bear to throw them away."

It was a long drive to the bush from Dad's house. We were silent the whole way, and I cradled the box in my arms as we sat.
He kept on casting me nervous glances, as though afraid I would explode again. I detested him for it. He was such a coward.
Finally we arrived. I opened the door and got out of the car, starting the walk through the bush without waiting for him. I heard him running after me, and when he reached my side he was panting slightly. I didn't even look at him.
Then we were out of the bush, and into our clearing. Our clearing: funny how I called it that. Even though technically we never owned the place, it was our secret. Our camping spot.
Her favourite place. It had changed a bit since we had last come here. it was more overgrown; bracken and shrubs had taken over the otherwise clear ground, and it seemed smaller.
But it was still ours, still full of memories. All three of us would sit around the fire, laughing and talking, telling stories... It seemed so long ago.
There were the ashes and stones where we used to have the fire, there was that tree that I always used to climb when I was younger. I could see where I carved my name into it with my pocket knife.
Dad looked at me, and I found I wasn't angry any more.
"Here." I said decisively, and opened the box. Together, we scattered her ashes to the wind.

Gathering Storm

This topic was chosen  as a tribute to Rosie Dubb's book, Gathering Storm. As I haven't read it, this story bears absolutely no relation to it.

Rain has not fallen on these plains for many years now. Where once there was grass and lush green gardens, dust and brittle twigs give evidence of the starvation of the land.
For, like a man deprived of food, the earth, without the sustenance given by water, withers and dies until only her bare bones are visible, bleached white by the harsh light of the sun.
A single man walks barefoot through this once-fertile desert, though he knows not that it was ever green. He has wandered this land for twenty-three years now, as did his father and grandfather before him, and even within three generations not one of them has seen rain fall on this parched soil.
His name is Nantill, and today he hunts a lizard.
He had seen its' footprints two days previously- huge, three toed marks bigger than his hand with a stride longer than his arm- and had been tracking it ever since.
After living on moths and sand-snake eggs for over three weeks, lizard will make a welcome change.
And now it is close. Very close. 
Nantill pulls the spear from its' holder on his back, and takes one of the leather pouches from his belt. Opening the pouch, a strong scent of rotten meat wafts into the air, and he places it on the ground.
He crouches in the scrub, spear at the ready, and waits.
He does not know how long he sits there, but soon there is a crunching of dry twigs and a snorting of breath, and the lizard comes into view.
It is enormous, far bigger than anything he could possibly kill or eat on his own, and he is only too aware that he does not pose the same problem for it.

The lizards' scaled flanks heave as it sniffs at the bait, snorting in frustration when it finds nothing that would make a half-decent meal.
Then it turns it head, slowly, to where Nantill sits.
The lizard is a sandy color, its' back covered in large spikes that stick out at odd angles.
Though all creatures of its kind look slow and plodding, they are capable of bursts of speed that no human could ever hope to outrun.

Nantill knows this, as he slowly rises to his feet so that his head is now level with the lizards.
He knows it even as he points his spear at the things snout.
And he knows that he is going to die as it begins to charge.

He throws the spear as hard as he can, hoping to buy some time, though it could not possibly pass through the scaly hide, before turning and, without even checking to see if it hits or not, he runs.
He runs like he has never ran before, feet pounding against the dry dust, sweat pouring from his face, not looking where he's going, not caring where he's going, as long as it is far away.

And now he's falling, tumbling almost vertically downwards, sand entering his nose and mouth as he struggles for breath even as it is knocked from his body.

Finally it stops, and he lies face down in the sand, waiting for those crushing jaws to snatch his life away.

Nothing happens.
He staggers to his feet, and stares.
He fell from the top of a steep hill into a basin, of sorts, surrounded on all sides by similar sand-dunes.

The lizard is nowhere in sight.

It is like he's fallen into another world.
Before him is a gigantic structure rising out of the sand, of a material he has never seen before. It is not rock, nor is it bone, but something that glints in the sun like stars that have fallen from the sky. Scattered around it is debris of the same luster.
The place stinks of death.
Nantill walks cautiously over to the structure, and, when it makes no move to hurt him, he gingerly touches it. It is smooth, and so hot that he snatches his hand away with a yelp.
And he knows, suddenly and without doubt, that people lived here once, long ago. He can feel it. Though how they died, he does not know.
He hears a rumbling sound from somewhere far away, and glances up, startled. The hairs rise on the back of his neck as he gazes at the horizon.
Clouds, huge, swirling black clouds roll across the sky, swallowing up the light of day as they do so.
Nantill shivers as a cold wind strikes up, bringing with it an unfamiliar scent that no living creature has smelled for an age.


And while Nantill does not know what this means, I do. And I will tell you.
Just as the storm came to take away the lives and homes of the people who destroyed the land so many years ago, it comes again. 

But this time, it gives life back.

Something Strange

This topic I  was one I couldn't help but take as an order, rather than an actual subject

The door of the tavern swung open, letting in a gust of freezing air. A figure stood at the entrance, silhouetted against the bright neon lights from outside, and the warm firelight inside.
The tavern was the exact image of one of those cliched inns that you read about in every fantasy or historical novel. The wooden crudely painted sign hanging from the bar out the front creaked ominously, the stone walls were grimy and stained, and the thatched roof looked as if it would fall in at any moment. Inside, the firelight cast eerie shadows across the faces of shady looking men.
And these shady men were all watching the newcomer with hostility in their gaze. It was rare that anyone new came in, and even rarer that they came from the city. 
The stranger stepped into the room, and shut the door to the modern sounds of the city outside. He glanced over to the bartender, a portly man in an apron, and spoke in a voice that carried throughout the room.
"They say that if a man looks hard enough, and long enough, he shall find whatsoever he searches for."
The bartender nodded to himself, and gestured for the man to come closer. The other men returned to their drinks and their pipes, some smirking slightly.
The stranger strode over to the bar, and the bartender leaned closer.
"They also say to be careful what you wish for," he said, "It might just come true. The same applies to looking for things that have nothing to do with you, Searcher."
The man addressed as Searcher shook his head. 
"What I am searching for has everything to do with me, as it also has everything to do with everything. You cannot deny me, I know you cannot."

The barkeeper looked steadily into the determined eyes of the Searcher.
"How long have you been looking?" He asked.

"10 years, thirty days, and 12 hours." Came the prompt answer.

"How long have you known?"

"The same."

"They say that curiosity killed the cat, you know." The bartender warned.

The Searcher laughed.
"But I am not a cat."

"No-one has ever returned, what makes you think you are any different?"

"I don't."

The portly man bowed his head, whether in mourning or in acknowledgment that the other man had won it was unsure.

"Very well. Continue." 
He swung open a gate in the side of the bar, allowing the searcher to step through and revealing a set of stairs that continued downwards into darkness.

The inhabitants of the tavern watched as one as the Searcher descended. When he had disappeared from view, the barkeeper returned to polishing a dirty glass with an equally dirty rag, and it was as if nothing had happened.

Meanwhile underneath the inn- though underneath was not perhaps the right word, as it was under the inn, and yet so far above the earth that it was incomprehensible- The Searcher strode steadily downward, or upward, if you prefer.
It was dark, pitch black, but this hardly impeded him, as he was traveling in an exact straight line. Eventually, perhaps a couple of seconds, a century, or forever, later, the darkness became light, and he knew.
He didn't know anything in particular, he just knew. He could see Them. The ones that say. The ones that Are.

They say You found us.

They say- for he can no longer tell where he begins and They end- Yes.

They say Why?

They say Because we had to.

They say We understand.

And then They are silent.


They are God, They are Allah, They are women, they are men.
They are demons, They are angels, they are us, and they are Them.

Resolution

Resolution.

You're dreaming. You know that from the blurriness of your surroundings, like a camera that just won't focus. You're in a park, deserted but for a man asleep on a wooden bench nearby. You try to walk, but realise that you aren't there. At least, not in a body. You are the park. You are the trees, the grass, the sky. The man awakens, and you see his eyes, the only things in focus, a glittering blue. You feel yourself being drawn into them, until they are all you can see, they fill your vision, so bright as to be unbearable.
And the dream ends. You awaken with a start, and try to recall what the dream had been about. But the images fade into the dark recesses of your mind before you can grasp them.
The golden light of early morning struggles to reach through the slit of your drawn curtains, the thin sliver that manages to pass crossing over your bed, a golden line through the centre of your room.
You get up, and draw the curtains apart, the light floods the room, the sheer strength of it sending flashes of colour across your eyes. The sun is rising over the tips of buildings, the cars on the street below glinting brightly from its radiance. Across the road your neighbours are getting ready for work, a car door slams, and they're gone.
You turn away from the window, and pull on the clothing you left on the floor last night.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the car, going to work, talking to your boss, blue eyes.
Now you're in the park. You come to it every night, after work. It helps you to relax. It is deserted, but for a man asleep on the park bench. Somehow it all seems familiar, but you can't figure out why. A plane roars overhead, and the man awakens...
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... Getting in the plane, flying out from Sydney, stopping at Fiji, Canton Island and Honolulu, blue eyes...
Now you're in the plane. Something is nagging at you, something not quite right. You're on flight 304, on the Douglas DC-6 aircraft called “Resolution.” You're headed for San Francisco, a work trip. A man sits beside you, bright blue eyes looking into yours with such intensity that you immediately look away.
Then everything fades... Fragments of pictures flit around your mind... The park, the man on the bench, a fortune teller, blue eyes...
You are back in the park. The man is awake, and calls you over. You step forwards, as if in a dream. He smiles gently at you.
“You will die soon. Your flight is doomed. Do not board the Resolution.”
You stagger back. You do not believe in the psychic. The man is mad, insane.
Then everything comes into focus... The crash, pain, darkness.
The blue-eyed man stands before you.
“I warned you.”
Then you are falling backwards, everything is rushing away from you. The blue-eyed man raises his hand in farewell.

Drifting

I observe the passing of the ages
I see you
I hear you
I smell you
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I can feel your anger
Your hope
Your love
Your sorrow
I watch you from the shadowed places
I'm not dead
I gaze on as your life unfolds
Each beat of your heart
Each breath you take
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Every time you dream I'm there
Calling
Pleading
Screaming
I'm not dead
Not yet
Just drifting
I loved you, you destroyed me
You hurt me
You shunned me
You tore me away
I watch you from the shadowed places
Just drifting
Just dreaming
Just waiting
I watch you