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.”