My Words, My World
First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing
Archive for the category “words”
Uncertain Horizon
I ambled, unsteady,
towards an uncertain horizon,
hands sunk deep into pockets
that held nothing for company,
while the rain soaked through the hole in my shoe,
where the last of my hope had seeped out.
99-word story: The book
He closed the door and stood with his back against it. His head thumped as the voices on the other side became muffled, as had so much recently. He crossed to the table and sat down.
The book lay flat on the table, its thick binding rising off the surface like a construction. His trembling hands paused before they stroked the cover. He took a deep breath before his fingers gripped the cover and turned.
His fingers hovered over the photograph on the first page. His head dropped as he sat, staring, and the silence pressed closer around him.
Another attempt at minimal, using Hemingway’s iceberg-theory.
Dry
Low black clouds gather
and tower one upon the other
lightning flashes flicker on the edge of sight
the wind rises to a banshee’s scream
and tears the leaves and limbs from trees
the deluge begins
a biblical alluvion
to wash away all sins.
And yet I stand here dry
in this arid, torrid air
with heat-cracked lips
and parched-dry throat
alone, on this sun-scorched knoll
and look with lust and longing
at rain that will never dampen
the desolate desert of my soul.
99-word story: The Stranger – episode 14
The lights of the all-night petrol station flashed by.
Her car was no longer following. He thought she’d stopped for gas.
The cops drove on.
His days of collecting for The Mob were over. So were hers. And now she wanted his cut.
He parked outside his apartment, raced in and took the envelope. And the ammunition.
Back outside, he scanned the street. Nothing. Relieved, he slid into the driver’s seat, key in hand. Cold steel touched the back of his head.
The woman’s voice was low.
‘Just take it slowly. Give me the gun, the envelope. And drive.’
If you haven’t read the previous episodes, you can find them here:
99-word fiction: The Stranger – part VIII
In the light of the open door, two men shook hands, turned up their collars, and ran for their cars. The rain was unforgiving, but the opportunity wasn’t.
The Stranger waited, then slipped between the two cars, lights off. Now she would have to move.
Brakelights flashed as the first car sounded its horn. Her engine idled, smoke curling from the exhaust.
Then the third car blared — longer, impatient. For the moment, he was hidden.
With a screech of tyres, she reversed back into the car park — just as the three cars peeled away into the dark wet night.
If you haven’t read the previous stories, you can find them here:
99-word fiction: The Stranger – part VII
99-word fiction: The Stranger – part VI
99-word fiction: The stranger – part V
99-word fiction: The stranger – part IV | My Words, My World
99-word fiction: The stranger – part III | My Words, My World
99-word fiction: The stranger – part II | My Words, My World
99-word fiction: A day of rest
“What do you mean you have no words? You’re a writer. Find some. 99 to be exact.”
I’d made it difficult for myself. A week of 99-word stories and now the muse demanded more.
He sat there tapping his fingers on the desk, his face and neck red. It was Sunday. I said I wanted a day off.
“A … day … off?”
He slammed his hand on the desk and his fountain pen jumped. I grabbed it and stabbed down on his hand. He screamed.
“Ouch! Ouch!”
“I’m going for a drink,” I said. “99 words on Monday.”
99-word fiction: Waiting for Friday
Waiting. I hate waiting; for anything.
On Monday I have to wait for Friday. Five long days, so slow you can hear them crawl by. Then, finally, it’s Friday. I’ve waited all week for Friday and now it’s here I get to the end of the day and I just feel tired; of waiting.
Waiting. I ignore the people around me. I ignore my vibrating phone in my pocket, like me it has to wait. I stand and stare.
Waiting. The darkness becomes lighter. Movement, a liquid dance, the light becomes white.
Waiting: for the perfect pint of Guinness.
Replace
99-word fiction – Voices
I sit down on a stool at the bar. I order a beer. I watch the barmaid tilt her head as she tilts the glass.
Voices getting louder. Behind me, to the side of me but not in front where I can see where they’re coming from. I’m trying to understand if they’re talking about me.
They are, I can hear them. Now they’re trying to whisper but it’s too late for that. They’re provoking me. This happens everywhere I go and it always ends the same way.
I turn on my stool and look around an empty bar.
Me and cats and owls
Another early morning
eyes closed open
my 4am default
it’s no-one’s fault
it’s just that time (again)
I welcome the new day early,
that’s all
while the stars revolve overhead
and thoughts run clear in my head
Darkness, peace and quiet
and the chill before dawn
before the day is born
before the TV chatter
and other people’s natter
You see,
it’s just me and cats and owls
as I write in these early hours
I sweat
Sticky, humid summer heat
Things can only get better
or wetter
I breathe, I sweat
I stand, I sweat,
I sleep, I sweat
I shower, I sweat
But at least it’s not winter cold
and winter grey
with rain on a winter’s day
Sunshine, suntan
shorts and short-sleeves
and sleep uncovered
Sleep?
What’s sleep in this heat?
Instead I write
I write, I sweat
Ice water in my veins
Moka Shock
Coffee taste in the morning
bitter and black
the caffeine zing
Awake yet?
The mocking moka sits
bubbling and tempting
Do you want some more?
Like Oliver Twist
Try the sugar buzz this time
Oh, but I really shouldn’t
black but not bitter
caffeine in the bloodstream
caffeine in my body’s machine
leaving me wired
and no longer tired.
Rain, finally
The hiss of the constant rain,
at last.
The patter of raindrops
against the glass.
Windows, tiny windows of clear water
shatter as they hit the ground.
The air becomes water
and the water, air.
I stand, I breathe
and the skies open.
Water washes away the withered spring;
rivers on the road
rivulets on the window
and the trees raise their branches
and give their thanks to the rain.
Two till six
Watching the twos, threes and fours
of the morning clock.
The sixty second minutes, as they
count the hours off.
Sleep eludes me,
sleep deludes me.
Five is here,
in its cold, dark hour,
Five now passing into six
and still I sit,
unsleeping.
My insomnia wakes me,
my insomnia hates me.
Rise
I bleed, I breathe,
I sleep.
Sometimes.
I wake, I walk,
I see
the signs
I go, I stop,
I wait.
For what?
I feel, I fall,
I kneel
beneath the sky
I rise, I try
to stand
my shoulders back
my strength in hand.
Breathe and look and listen
At 4 am when the world’s at rest and the only ones awake are those that should be and those that don’t want to be. I step out onto the balcony, breathe in the deep pine scent which flows down from the mountain. In the clear air the black sheet of night is bejewelled by a thousand diamonds and the planets are visible without the need for technology (except for my glasses). I sit and breathe and look and then I listen to a distant owl, in my usual waking hour before the hooligan cries of the crows begin.
Lungs
I woke up the next morning,
mouthful of strong cigarettes and bad whisky.
My lungs felt like lead weights.
I coughed;
it sounded like Tom Waits, singing in the gutter,
so I knew there was hope.
Time
The sun rises
I sit
It rolls over me
I sit
It goes down and disappears
I sit
in the sultry, inert air
that moves not leaf nor hair
like the breath of the dead
or the sigh of angels.
The moon follows sun
I sit
The planets align
I sit
The stars wheel overhead
I sit
In the night’s darkest hour
when time slows down
to the separation of continents
or to the beat of broken wings.
Twisted long dark hours
Twisted long dark hours
suffocating
skin drip and turn, turn
over and back
the weight of air
shallow,
lung heavy
sleep evades me
as does the slightest night breeze
sheets adhere to me
as does the vaguest night dream;
now forgotten
the first birds call
in the sticky summer night heat
in the twisted long dark hours
suffocating.
Motorcycle
The road keeps rolling under two spinning wheels
and your eyes are peeled;
for anything and everything
and the heat of the engine burns your knees
as the cool air kisses your skin
and with the visor down you can see the bugs hit your face
while the wind plucks at your jacket with its airy fingers
as you change up and change down
and your ankle stiffens like a rusty bolt
and you sweat; you sweat
and the inside of your crash helmet smells like a wet dog
but it’s all OK because that’s a motorcycle;
that’s my motorcycle.
Pavement
I walk the pavement,
Why would I walk anywhere else,
when I can avoid the chewing gum,
the discarded face masks,
the cracks and the dogshit?
I breathe in the petrol,
the diesel,
the LPG,
and the hum of electric cars.
Two-stroke scooters battle big-engined cars
as they vie for the same space,
for their little piece of road.
Everyone’s going somewhere,
everyone’s got a destination,
home to their evening:
the nagging wife,
the bottle of wine,
the TV sound,
the steak dinner.
A thousand thoughts in a thousand cars,
a thousand distracted minds
all wanting to get where they’re going…
or maybe not.
A thousand different things to do,
but no one’s doing what I’m doing:
walking,
while avoiding the chewing gum,
the discarded face masks,
the cracks and the dogshit.
Cat
Cat walks freely,
independent,
Cat sees who he wants to see
and hides from those he doesn’t.
Cat takes a stroll through the garden;
not his, obviously.
Cat goes where he likes,
where and when and why.
Cat sees things in the dark
he sees things we can’t
Cat sees spirits of the departed
and he doesn’t let it worry him.
Cat could hunt;
but decides not to.
It’s in his nature
but not his character.
Cat snarls at the birds
twittering in the trees
why should he climb up,
when he’s found a place in the sun instead?
Cat decides he’s hungry
and moves from his sunny spot,
in through the catflap
and into the kitchen.
Cat looks at the empty bowl
and thinks he should have learned to hunt.
Two hours
A two hour lie-in or two hours wasted?
Head afuzz with insufficient sleep
At least that’s how it felt when I woke up
flicking on the little alarm clock light
with a dry mouth, warm pillow, cold nose
Who turned the heating off anyway?
A two hour lie-in on a dark winter’s morning
Not exactly an incentive to get up
A reading light under the covers,
A well-thumbed copy of Factotum in hand
Bukowski going from drink to drink, job to job, hole to hole
And me thinking it’s time to get up now anyway.
A Wednesday stream of consciousness
An on-off night and a mosquito in my ear and I fumble in the dark and then it disappeared but now the night has gone for good for me as I lay there and think of what I have to do, what I probably should do and what I’d like to do and all the while a soundtrack is playing in my head and it’s Manfred Mann’s version of The Mighty Quinn which is not a bad song at 5.30 in the morning, although I’m yawning but now I really want to hear it but that means getting up and using technology and 5.30’s far too early for technology, after all, I’d only check the news and see big, fat Mike Pompeo bully another sick and twisted little country with sanctions, sanctions and, ah! stick your sanctions up your ass, fatty, so it’s no technology for me, like a smoker avoiding his first cigarette to let his lungs breathe, you see, and now I’d love a coffee now I’m up with the birds but I guess putting on the kettle is still technology but I could really use that coffee while my pencil scrawls my morning scribble across an unwritten page.
Whereabouts
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My Words, My World 