My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

28 Dec 2015

Broadsheet

I looked up from my phone.  My girlfriend had texted me.  She’d changed her mind and decided to go for a drink with the girls from the office so could I get something for myself?  Yep, I thought, I’ll also pass the off licence for a bottle of Australian red.

I started people watching, something I never do.  I’d never taken much notice of how much people now walk around in their own world, without passing a word between them.  People passed each other like unlit ships on a foggy night, unaware of each other and in danger of colliding.  Heads tilted, eyes down and in total ignorance of their surroundings.  I guess once upon a time people used to wander along with paperbacks or something.  I can’t remember.

A man stepped out into the middle of the pavement, a newspaper (a newspaper?) under one arm, an umbrella under the other.  With his Bowler Hat, he gave me the impression of a Magritte painting.  He looked around at the tide of people ebbing and flowing around him, smiling and amazed as they avoided walking into him.

“Excuse me?”, he said.

Screen-lit faces continued to shine briefly then they were gone.

“Excuse me?”

Palm-held virtual reality maintained its silence.

The man looked around once more, coughed politely and took the newspaper from under his arm.

“Very well.”

He unfolded it and shook out the creases.  Looking around once again he opened it, arms wide, and stood in the middle of the pavement.

Two lines of people opened up, one going east, the other west.  I watched him stand like a beacon in the middle of it all.  A low hum of voices murmured.  He watched their faces, gently lit in the phone-glow, as they approached him, an unwanted distraction as they tried to avoid him.

“Can’t you move?”

“Mind out!”

“Do you have to just stand there?”

A gust of wind rustled the paper in the man’s hands. He ignored it and continued to stand there, arms wide, as an army of new-age hunchbacks flowed around him.  I laughed.  The other people at the bus-stop looked at me, now distracted from their own telephones.  Smiling, I left my place in the queue, forgetting all about the number 38 that would take me home.

I took an Evening Standard from the rack and walked up to the man.  Standing in front of him I opened the newspaper.  I heard his paper shuffle as people continued to tut and moan their way around us.  A face peered round his newspaper.  He raised one eyebrow, disappeared behind his paper and cleared his throat.

“Shares due to plummet.”

Smiling, I scanned the pages.

“Sex scandal secretary wants top job”, I replied.

“Do you have to bloody well stand there?”, asked someone as they almost collided with us, his sappy smartphone face a picture of indignation.  He went back to his phone and moved on.  The man behind the paper coughed.

“Environment minister to quit over unethical shareholdings”

I took up the game.

“Woman jailed for manhood attack.”

“Price of oil to continue dropping.”

“Actress in no-underwear shocker.”

It continued to and fro as we worked our way through the papers, ignoring the protests of passers-by.  Finally, we’d finished.

He doffed his hat to me as he folded the newspaper and stuck it under his arm.

“Same time next week,” he said, “but next time, bring a broadsheet.”

Posted in Dialogue, Fiction, Flash Fiction, imagination, Short Fiction Stories, stories, story, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
24 Nov 2015
4 Comments

Contradictions

Love is a stroll in a sunlit garden, under a perfect blue sky

Love is the lurching axeman, blood dripping and stumbling through corridors hard and white

Love is the warm sun and a light summer rain

Love is the vise-grip of ice, the cold that rips the breath from your lungs and tears from your eyes

Love is the warm bed, as sunlight drifts through the gaps in the blinds

Love is the sword on which we commit the ritual of Seppuku: and give all.

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, relationships, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
21 Nov 2015
4 Comments

No going back

‘So, who do you write like?’

‘Bukowski.’

‘Bukowski? You write like Bukowski? Ha!’

‘No, I drink like Bukowski.’

‘That’s why I’m here. So who do you write like?’

The doctor unzipped his black bag and raked around inside.

‘Why do I have to write like anyone? Why can’t I write like me?’

‘Everyone has influences. I aspire to attain the heights of some notable surgeons, in time.’

‘Hemingway.’

‘Hemingway? You write like Hemingway? Don’t kid yourself.’

‘No, I drink and fight like Hemingway.’

I coughed as the stethoscope was placed at various points around my back. I looked at the cigarettes on the table.

‘What about your poetry?’

‘Rimbaud.’

‘Rimbaud? You …’

‘No, I drink like Rimbaud but I’m not French or gay.’

‘You’re going to die like Rimbaud.’

‘There is a heaven after all.’

‘No, seriously. The alcohol is killing you. You’ll have to stop.’

‘No going back.’

‘I can’t make you but as your doctor I’m telling you, you’re going to die, and soon if you don’t stop.’

‘How long?’

‘If you don’t stop? Weeks, months. I can’t tell unless we open you up.’

‘I’ll stop.’

‘You’ll stop? Really? Just like that?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘No, not unless you want to die. However, you still haven’t been published so it wouldn’t even be a very good career move.’

‘Well, I sold a story and one article.’

‘That’s good but you’ll have to do more and to do more you’ll have to stop killing yourself.’

‘Doc, take that bottle of grappa. It’s a good grappa and I don’t want it.’

‘Sure, I’ll take it. Thanks.’

‘Doc, there’s some good wine in the kitchen, take it, give it to your wife or your secretary.’

‘OK, thanks. Remember, there’s no going back. Falling off the wagon is not an option, you’ll die.’

‘No going back. Sure doc.’

He got his things together, wrote out an illegible prescription and told me to get my ass down the pharmacy. I passed him a bag with the bottles as we stepped out and I shaded my eyes from the low winter sun. He clanked his way to his car. I pulled a couple of envelopes from the mailbox.

‘No going back,’ he reminded me as his car coughed blue exhaust smoke into the cold air.

Back in the kitchen I tore open the post. My head swam from the hangover.  For once it wasn’t a bill. It was the agency, they’d found a publisher, a real publisher who wanted to publish me. Me.

I opened the cupboard under the sink, reached behind the bin and pulled out a bottle.

‘No going back,’ I said, to no-one in particular as I toasted myself.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction Stories, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
06 Sep 2015

Leaving

The hand moved across the table, casting a shadow under the glare of the uncovered light bulb, now dull with dust. There was still strength in the hand, and a life of hard work and physical activity showed in the knots of vein and muscle as it moved.

A muscular forefinger which had shot and killed men in war, under orders and without hesitation, now lifted, paused then started to tap, without rhythm, on the plastic table. The window rattled as the wind picked up snow and threw it against the glass, a draught blowing past the single pane. The finger stopped while a deep, chesty cough ripped the silence and echoed in the room devoid of furniture except the table and two chairs.  A car horn beeped twice outside

“It’s time,” said the voice, finding breath once again.

“Yes love, it’s time to go.”

“They’ll look after us Eve.”

The hand reached out across the table and grasped one no less young but smaller and softer and cold to the touch. A sob broke the brief silence.

“54 years in this house George. We raised children who’ve raised their children and all the while we’ve stayed here. It breaks my heart to leave it yet…”

Another gust of frigid air escaped from the rattling window pane.

“At least we’ll be warm my love, and we’ll have company our own age.”

The smaller hand gave another squeeze.

“You’re right George, I guess we have to go.”

The hand, cold and white at the fingertips, helped Eve to her feet and into her coat. It reached for the light switch, and hesitated, as it touched away a solitary tear from a wrinkled cheek. Wind tore past the loose window pane.

“At least we’ll be warm, Eve.”

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Love, Old age, relationships, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
28 Aug 2015
6 Comments

So you keep writing

So you keep writing. At least, you try.

You lie awake in the darkness waiting for the morning sounds; the crows in the fir tree, the far-too-early church bells, the Harley Davidson that surely must have an illegal exhaust system stuck on it. And so you lie awake and you write, except it’s all in your head. You know you should get it down on paper lest you forget (and you will) but you don’t want to disturb the part of the bed whose soft breathing confirms she has finally found sleep, so you continue writing in your head.

Enough! You ignore the hour, you defy the fact the crows are not yet even moving, let alone crowing in the treetops. You’ve anticipated the church bells and the (no doubt fat, short-legged) Harley Davidson owner is probably still tucked up in bed, riding noisy dreams.

The pen and paper await you like dogs waiting for their morning walk. You ignore the need for coffee as you rush to put on paper that which was rushing through your mind, lest you forget.

Sat at the table on the balcony breathing in the cool morning air with pen-scrawl for company. A pink-blue sky crawls out from under a dark cloak. A small bank of cloud above Mount Tamaro resembles the first huffs and puffs of a volcano, cars hiss along the distant road and birds chatter their morning stories.

The words on paper reveal themselves to you in the cool, blue light of day and have taken on an aspect and meaning different to that which came to mind, lying there in the darkness. The words that ran like liquid silver now seem lead-filled, dull and heavy.

So you keep writing. At least, you try.

Posted in imagination, Non fiction, words, Writing and tagged , , , ,
19 Jul 2015
6 Comments

The night, the chemical night

Every now and again my long-term sleep problems find their way onto the written page; it’s how I feel when I pick up the pencil. I can’t tell of flowers when I see monsters.

***

The night;
star-less, aimless.
Fitful twists and turns and sweat on the pillow
tempted by sleep, made
hidden in foil
just within reach,
enticing, seducing.

The night;
I give in,
because I’m damned if I do
and I’m damned if I don’t.
Irrationality becomes normality
as sleep descends:
a benzodiazepine dream

Daydream
The day is for dreaming
What you could be
or want to be
What you could have been
or will be

The night
I avoided its darkest depths
lest from my pharmaceutical dreams
I returned; empty.
Trapped
in their batwing-leather embrace
to wander alone.

The night,
the chemical night.

Posted in insomnia, Madness, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
30 Jun 2015
1 Comment

Sounds of morning

The summer sun sighs through the strains of a morning

So humid

I open a window;

to sounds that fill my space

 

The unwinding of the blinds on another day

A car coughs

and a motorcycle

screams down the motorway

 

Birds wittering and nattering in an air

thick with heat

a fly whines, a bee hums

as a cat pads through grass

 

No breeze murmurs in this sultry morning,

just scratching

as my pen rolls across the page

like a bead of sweat between the shoulder blades

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
20 Jun 2015
2 Comments

Bonds

She haunts my dreams

And waking hours

She is gold and silver

And ringed with flowers

Her presence stills me

Her words enthral me

I am hers

And she is mine

Posted in Love, Micropoetry, poesia, poet, Poetry, relationships, words and tagged , , , , , , , ,
05 Jun 2015
4 Comments

Ink

I’m currently trying to work my way through the minefield of novel writing.  Now my teaching course is finished I try to dedicate at least an hour every day before life enters my world.  This doesn’t mean however that I’ve lost my love for the short story, in fact I’m using word limits of late as a writing exercise, to get the brain moving if you like.  Here’s another one of them, this time I gave myself 200 words.  It’s inspired by the black paint peeling off the gate – I just changed place and perspective.  Over to you.

__________________________

 

A hesitant scribble with the last stub of a pencil, trying to make it last.  Where would the next one come from?  He’d tried scraping the walls, adding saliva, hoping to make primitive ink but it dried and faded, a metaphor for life, he thought.  Like a rose, it bursts into bloom then slowly the ground is covered with a silken duvet.

The pencil was his saviour, his sanity.  He wrote to no-one but the words he scrawled were his words, his truth.  He held the stub of the pencil and wondered how many more words he could write before the lead finally gave way and became nothing.

As he lay on his bunk, listening to the night sounds, he heard a faint patter.  His thumbnail struck the match, expecting a cockroach or maybe a mouse for company.  He saw nothing except shavings from the ancient black bars, which he now held the match to.  The paint was peeling.  Before his fingers burnt he scratched the black paint and spat on it.  Salvation. The writer, with another six years to serve, lay smiling on his bunk.  Tonight he could sleep without worrying about his pencil.  He had found his ink.

Posted in Creation, Fiction, Flash Fiction, hope, imagination, Short Fiction Stories, stories, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
31 May 2015
2 Comments

99-word fiction – The face

She lay on the bed and he kissed her again.  She was beautiful.  Her face, that face, as smooth as morning ice, her complexion airbrush perfect and those eyes, deep and black as mineshafts, stalked him around the room. He was reduced to switching off the light before undressing and only when he was under the duvet would he turn the light back on, and there she was, a remote smile always on her face. He couldn’t go on like this, she had to go, permanently.

He bent down and kissed the cover of Vanity Fair one last time.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, images, imagination, relationships, Short Fiction Stories, stories, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , ,
30 Apr 2015
18 Comments

A train, and Ernest

The train leaves Milan Central station and heaves over the tracks in the rain which streaks the dirty windows; its carriages are packed with steaming rush-hour tiredness and anger.

The young man sits in the corner up against the window, as the rain beats time, with Hemingway’s words falling off the pages as he tries to concentrate but can’t.  For Whom the Bell Tolls?  The bell was tolling for people who want peace and quiet on a train carriage to allow them to read, he thinks.

A fat man who’d possibly eaten only garlic for lunch sits opposite, hand wrapped around his phone in some strange death-grip as he seethes and steams, letting the person on the other end know as well as the other three occupied seats around him that, Cazzo! the fucking contract has to be there by Friday or it’s not just his balls on the line, understand?.  He doesn’t say which line, which is OK; the less he talks the better, the young man thinks, his own anger rising.

Through the red mist that descends before his eyes the young man looks up and sees her, in the opposite seat across the aisle.  Her silky, shoulder-length hair is dark, and her hazel eyes strike out from her face which seems to have had the benefit of a tan recently.  In her jeans and blue sweater with white stripes (a little French he thinks: oui mademoiselle, oui), she becomes his calm in a storm-tossed sea.  He watches from a distance, as her forehead wrinkles and she glares at the woman opposite her.

This woman opposite has her tablet on her lap and has wires and a mike stuck to her head as she babbles continuously, her voice rising, informing everyone that didn’t want to know that Cazzo! how the hell is she supposed to fit in another meeting on Thursday, she isn’t a fucking machine you know.  Sat there looking like Robo-Queen that could be debated, the girl thinks, as she lowers her head and raises her book in an attempt to block out the irritation. As she does so the young man opposite gasps.  A Farewell to Arms – Hemingway; she’s reading Hemingway!

Mr Garlic is making another call but its wafting anger slips into the background as the young man looks only at the young woman across the aisle, his book held up to his chest, now half-forgotten.  The train starts to slow.

Robo-Queen finishes her call and transforms into e-bitch as she proceeds to beat the hell out of her tablet, with two fingers having some maniacal life of their own as she sends an email, probably shouting Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!

The fat garlic man wheezes his bulk into an overcoat big enough to protect a small car from winter frost and grabs his briefcase, stuffed full, as its leather creaks for mercy, and he makes his way to the door.

The young woman looks up.  She sees the young man looking at her and her eyes drop to his chest.  She sees.  Fine lines around her eyes appear and she gives him a smile.  He returns it just as e-bitch starts to make another phone call.  He waves her over to the now-vacated seat opposite him and they whisper words of Ernest, in earnest, as the train takes them home.

Posted in books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Italy, relationships, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
12 Apr 2015

Balcony

Balcony

The cat, bird stalking,

early morning dog walking,

the sun rises over the eastern hill

behind the fir trees.

Spring morning chill

meets

spring sun warmth.

It is still early.

The plants, freshly watered,

drip and gleam in the light.

Geraniums, pink and red

and rosemary lifts her violet head,

the lavender flowers, purple

while bees flit, feeling Provençal.

Sarracenia, the fly catcher, lies

and dreams of catching flies.

Posted in peace, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
07 Apr 2015

Dawn

The brevity
of morning’s clarity
Crystal-crusted peaks
standing sentinel

A sheer-sided cliff
black against blue
hides the sky above me
Its sides thick
with winter’s skeletons
stalking stick shadows,
stark
against night’s incandescence
which chases up the sun

A once waterfall
in winter suspension
and, like us all,
awaits the sun.

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
06 Apr 2015
5 Comments

Blocked?

Every letter lingers,

and every word wrings,

while the stubborn sentence stabs

the pained paragraph.

***

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Creation, Micropoetry, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , ,
28 Mar 2015

Ernesto, has the sun risen?

The sun also rises.

Donde esta la fiesta Ernesto?

The sun also rises. It rises on a new day, in a new way, earlier than yesterday and later than tomorrow, when the sun also rises.

The sun also rises in a cloak of washed pink, when the blue finally lets go and after the black has given up the ghost.  Eventually it will shine a light on the eastern-facing peaks 5,000 feet above my right shoulder as I sit.

The sun also rises on new hopes and old fears.  Hopes are always new, even if they’re the same hopes you had yesterday, last week or even last year. Hopes are renewable, and like solar power, and are renewed with the coming sun.

The sun also rises on the birds that sing in the new day. Each voice different, discernible from the others.  If I was a cat I’d be at my wits end figuring ways to go and catch one. A swift bite to the neck and it would sing no more. But I’m no more cat than I am prehistoric Auroch, and the birds fill me with pleasure. I can leave them to their song. What do they sing anyway?

The sun also rises on a short night of discarded dreams. Dreams, and drugs to make you sleep, but don’t. The sun also rises on tiredness, which I fight with everything I have to hand; my 2H pencil and notebook. I write.

Posted in insomnia, Non fiction, words, Writing and tagged , , , , | Leave a comment
19 Mar 2015

White bulletproof shroud

White bulletproof shroud
Head to toe protection,
salvation
while fishermen in storm-tossed seas
knee deep and needing
breaking bread
taking water, taking wine
as you walk unhindered
undisturbed
stone rolled, risen
given
to man
to remember
to forget
to honour
to regret
White bulletproof shroud
lies in tatters
at your feet
as women weep
and men wander
and wonder
Wander, wonder

Posted in images, poesia, poet, Poetry, Religion, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment
10 Mar 2015
2 Comments

Bleach dilutes

Heart
stopped
Sliced by razor
made hollow
bleached with sorrow
Hung out to dry
to die
Then I
saw your smile,
felt your kiss
The razor’s wound
internal, infernal
but never eternal
As the heart beats once again

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, relationships, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
09 Mar 2015
6 Comments

Drown me

Walking
waves breaking
white foam
flying
gulls crying
as the wind whips their voices

Behind closed eyes
salt sting
breathing
as the sea sighs its song
And laps and slaps the strand

Fickle mistress!
Ever moving
ever changing
From a shallow sigh this ocean roars
as the gull soars
lighter than the air
that carries its story
on the wings of the wind

Posted in poesia, poet, Poetry, Sea, Sounds, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
08 Mar 2015
2 Comments

Like the passing of wind…or was it air?

The heavy, oak door slid on hinges oiled better than a Neapolitan donut-seller’s hair and Gaum heard it. Well, he sensed the liquorice black room slip into a shade of night slightly less gloomy, but still far darker than charcoal, jet or even coal. He stopped breathing. Well, he’d actually done so 14 years previously and just never got back into the habit. What a waste of energy, he thought, and carried on living his life in apnoea, oblivious to the need for ins and outs of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Ah yes, the door.

He had to hide and moved with so light a presence that the dust under his feet, which had last been swept around the time Gaum still breathed, failed to raise a speck. He heard giggles as light flooded into the room for the first time since the floor had last been cleaned. Bollocks! he thought, Kids! What are they doing in here? It had been some time since Guam last laid eyes on children, in fact probably around the last time a dim light rolled in from behind the heavy oak door which swung on an oiled hinge, but they’d never been in this room, ever.

The giggling got louder and the light lighter. Gaum kept still behind the ancient teak desk, as the giggles became murmurs. Dust kicked up, swirling and dancing in the shaft of light from the open door and a heavy scraping sound made Gaum’s heart leap. The chair, its cracked and faded burgundy leather billowed more dust.

“I thought of it first.”

“Get off; I got us in here didn’t I?”

“Yeah but I thought of it.”

“Only because I told you about it.”

The tussling continued, dust was thrown up everywhere. Gaum wanted to sneeze but then remembered he’d stopped breathing, so sneezing seemed irrelevant. A loud, metallic ringing followed by a series of taps told Gaum they had knocked a pen off the desk. Still they pushed and grunted and still the dust flew.
A heavy groaning sound was followed by a grinding crash. He looked out from behind the desk. Busted, bent keys lie about like dead soldiers, the ribbon strewn across the floor in a last bid for freedom and the carriage return lever lay twisted under the bulk of the old Remington like a broken leg.

“Look what you did.”

“It wasn’t me, you pushed it.”

“Let’s get out of here before someone comes.” Two shadows leapt through the open door.

As their footfalls faded, a light shone down on the remains of the typewriter. Gaum felt strange and light, so light in fact he could feel himself floating as he looked down on the senseless mess.

Then, with a shake of his head and something resembling a sigh, or maybe the passing of wind, or a breath of air, the ghost of the muse of the long-dead writer was finally free.

Posted in Blog, Creation, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction Stories, stories, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
01 Mar 2015
4 Comments

Love thy neighbour…give me space.

Enclosed space behavioural patterns, what’s it called, lift behaviour? The doors close on two people who only seconds before were having a friendly chat over an espresso in the hotel bar. Now they shut up shop and silence ensues when the doors close like a pair of folded arms. The will to wish the lift to rise is strong and the relief is almost tangiable when it arrives. It seems like the lift and its occupants are holding their breath and finally let it out when the doors open, when those arms unfold. It’s a unique situation; it doesn’t happen when four people are squashed into a car. Space.

Then we have train space conservation; we do, so bear with me.

Four seats and only one of them occupied, their occupant relaxed and probably reading, playing Candy Crush or possibly, Heaven forbid, writing, with a pen and paper don’t you know. A second person arrives and sits down diagonally opposite. A shuffling of feet and space, reluctantly, is conceded. This is still bearable. The first occupant continues as before; reading, Candy Crushing or maybe writing. The new arrival starts to rummage in his bag and out comes a book, a phone or maybe, just maybe, a pen and paper. Two people sitting diagonally can share the same space comfortably; they may even swap greetings – sometimes it still happens, it really does. This sense of conviviality continues, each to their own doing what they’re doing with possibly the occasional glance out the window, looking at the black and white cows in the fields. Why are all the cows black and white when seen from the window of a train? Where are the other cow colours? Is there a law that says only black and white cows can graze near railway lines?

Then the train pulls into the next station. Both occupants look up from what they’re doing, look at the seats next to them, move their bags half an inch nearer their feet and wait. They hold their breath. Time doesn’t stand still but they wish it would; they want to remain with an empty seat next to them forever. They don’t want their space encroached upon but they know it’s going to happen, it has to.

The doors of the train open with a swoosh and people file in, looking for a seat, any seat. It doesn’t matter next to who, they just want to sit down, to have their own place where they can sit and read a book, play the telephone or possibly write. The two original occupants frown, engage in more feet shuffling and move their bags another half an inch to see if that is enough. If not they will sigh, sometimes audibly, and rearrange their space; four seats, four people. With space dramatically reduced the original occupants will have to get used to it. The two new arrivals on the other hand are as happy as Larry. They have their seat and now they can relax, coat off and a big, happy sigh of relief and then out come the books, phones or pen and paper (all four of them?  Oh come on…). They’re on holiday these newcomers, look at them! Any more relaxed and they’d put their feet up (well, if the seat opposite wasn’t occupied) and ask the ticket inspector for a pina colada. The two original occupants are most definitely NOT on Holiday.  Their winter has returned; it’s darker now the light from the windows has diminished in the crowded carriage. The book has become harder to read, Candy harder to crush and the thoughts transmitted from pen to paper are harder to come by.  Frowns indent foreheads and half-hidden glares stared.  Goodwill to all men, except those sitting next to you.

Love thy neighbour, but only if you have the space to do so.

Posted in Blog, Dialogue, Non fiction, relationships, Travel, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
20 Feb 2015

We

We sit,
we look,
we stare.
I know you’re there
You know I care, and
I’ll always be here

We.

Posted in Blog, Creation, Love, Micropoetry, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
12 Feb 2015

Fear the night

Sleep eludes me, deserts me
It skirts my nighttime like a seige
Sleep seized from the grasp of the sleeper
Who should now be in deep slumber
As I fumble for words
(I write)

“Sleep sir, sleep!” I hear
As once again I fear
To go to bed
Lest nightmares awaken me
Awaken me?
And dreams haunt me
Dreams? Ha!
You have to sleep to dream

Sleeps eludes me, deserts me
My night perched on a precipice
A night-borne orifice
Black and deep
Like the narcotic sleep
(I crave)

Posted in Blog, insomnia, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment
05 Feb 2015

Keep her well hid

They were sitting in the corner, I guess looking for a little privacy but they came to the wrong place if they wanted that. The tables were too close together for one thing, and besides, everyone had to pass by that table to go to the toilet.

She was angry, upset, pissed off. Choose any adjective you want; she looked ready to stick her cocktail stick and untouched olive where the sun don’t shine, his sun at least.

I arrived after being dragged around the shops for two hours and I’d run out of patience and my credit card out of, well…credit. I put Lucy in a cab, with bags, they were all hers anyway, and made my way down to the King’s Head. Football was on the TV and I wanted, no, I needed a pint or two and anyway, I was busting for a lash. I nodded to the barman, asked for a pint of ale and made my way to the Gents. That’s when I noticed them.

He had his hands out in front of him when I passed, and, relieved at being relieved, I made my way back with less haste and he still had his hands in front of him, like he was praying or testing for rain or something. Whatever he was doing was having no positive effect whatsoever; maybe he’d run out of credit too. I got my pint and made my way to a little table, a little way off to the right of them, with one of those retro Heineken mirrors on the wall next to me and I could see them in action, as well as hear them.

“You were a twat Paul.”

“I know love, I don’t know what happened, it just happened.”

He’d chatted up, touched up or ballsed up by the sounds of things. Typical bloke, I know how you feel mate, I thought. I went back to the football, trying to concentrate on the game which was slower settling than a pint of Guinness. The ball was pinging about all over the place, no fun to watch but I watched it anyway, it certainly beat the hell out of shopping. A free kick got my attention but not for long.

“Where is she? Where did you put her?” Her? This made my ears pick up a bit. I pretended to watch the football.

“Behind the allotments near the railway embankment. There’s some old garages there and I left her there.”

“You f…”.

“Do you want some more drinks?” It was the barmaid, taking their empties from their table. He said yes, she said nothing so I guess she either nodded or shook her head, there are only so many things you can communicate without words. The barmaid plonked the glasses on the bar and poured a lager.

“It won’t be for long, it was like a temporary measure, you know. I didn’t have the time.”

“You could have done better than that. She’ll be found in no time Paul. What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

“Shh…, she’s coming back.”

The mirror told me she’d folded her arms, a frown that looked furrowed with a hand-plough creasing her forehead. She looked at her phone, he looked at her. The barmaid put two glasses down, it was a nod then.

“I’ll go now, after this drink, alright?”

“Yeah? Well, I suppose it will be dark in half an hour, won’t it?”

“Yeah, it’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

Who was she? What had she done? What had he done to her? I had a hundred questions and didn’t know what to do with the information I’d heard.

“I hope you’re right Paul, she’s been in the family for years.”

“She’ll be alright Trish, really. Who’d want an old car like that anyway?”

************

I entered a competition recently where I had half an hour to write on one of three subjects given.  I chose “a conversation” and out came the above.  While I was writing I didn’t know who “she” was but as the minutes ticked away I decided I wanted to write something that didn’t involve death or murder, and as we English-speakers have a penchant for talking about our cars as feminine, the little ending came to me.  I submitted with one minute left and received a ‘commended’ so it was ok. 

Hemingway once said “write drunk, edit sober” – when you only have half an hour to do both, which do you chose? 

Posted in Blog, Blog, Wordpress, Creation, Dialogue, Fiction, Flash Fiction, murder, Short Fiction Stories, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
30 Jan 2015
2 Comments

The last long day

Today I left my place of employment after more than 11 years.  The big hole that has been left by such an absence will be filled however, as  I am now studying the Cambridge CELTA course to teach English as a foreign Language.  As one door closes…

*********

The last long day

I’m left static and still

and I must keep moving

just keep going

never slowing.

 

But now, but now

a halt has been called.

Time to take the time that’s mine,

to use, shape and mould

As a new life chapter unfolds.

 

I won’t be lead blindly

as I carve and scythe

and make my way

with my destiny

in my hands.

Posted in Blog, poesia, poet, Poetry, relationships, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
27 Jan 2015

Over yonder

Do not step into yonder pasture,

however the grass may be greener.

Do not follow the grass-flattened footsteps

of another,

who will lead you tither.

For the fickle will change

and though you may rage

and cry against your injustice

and spill tears that are useless.

 

To whom will you turn

when the wild winter wind burns

your face and tears your eyes,

as you stumble and chastise

your decision taken,

your intention mistaken.

 

For however that distant green field

may taunt you,

do not stray across those borders,

entrapped by those hoarders,

who will suck your soul

and bleed you dry and left to lie;

choked and broken

Posted in Blog, Creation, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
20 Jan 2015
2 Comments

Hours

The hours slip through time,

as time seeps through the hours;

and flowers

mark the beginning

and the end of time.

Celebration of life and death;

eyes open for the first time

or close for the last,

and tears tear the heart.

A new life now grows

for time never slows

but seeps through the hours.

Posted in Blog, Creation, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , ,
18 Jan 2015
2 Comments

Splinter deep

The old year slipped into the new

While yesterday’s pain

is swept with a broom

Hard bristle scratch

My thoughts, my face

Dust choking

Acid soaking

The handle hands the hand a splinter

Through nail and skin

Deeper and deeper

Poisoning and malevolent

Burrowing and diving

Septicaemic

I can feel it

Arrow sharp

But not enough

To pierce my heart

So it turns on me

and burns in me

But spurs me

On.

Posted in Creation, hope, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
12 Jan 2015
2 Comments

Keeping track on the tracks

To kickstart some creative juice flowing I decided on this little travel piece as I roll in motion with this train.

Posted in Writing
30 Dec 2014
6 Comments

2014: a brief writing year in review

Well, here we are at the end (well, here in Switzerland anyway) of the penultimate day of the year and a chance to look back over the last twelve months, from a writer’s perspective, or a writing perspective: delete as applicable.

Firstly this blog.  My 2014 review informs me that this little piece of internet interaction was viewed in 65 countries. I find that pretty damn amazing that I’ve had views from Saudi Arabia and South Africa, China and Chile. Thank you to all of you who have checked in and had a look around; I really appreciate it.

The ever-busy and always approachable Morgen Bailey gets my first mention, simply because it was she who gave me encouragement from the start and has continued to entertain my pieces (flash fiction and note plural…naughty, naughty!) whenever I send them.  Thank you Morgen!  She built my blog by the way, ultra-professional and exceedingly patient (Panic?  Me?) from start to finish.

2014 started with nudgings and words in my ear from my dear friend, Alex Dorici, who persuaded me to grow some balls and put myself forward for the annual 3-day poetry festival here in Lugano, Poestate.  There I stood in front of a hundred people, biting my lip as I was introduced and mumbling my opening lines until my confidence grew and my 10 minute reading was met with applause and a return request for 2015.  Thanks Alex!  Sorry, both websites are in Italian but hey; I do live in Italian-speaking Switzerland.

A short, 20 hour teaching course followed Poestate and then I put everything aside for a month or so and just chilled baby, chilled.  This cooling off didn’t last long as in August I was contacted by Accenti magazine, a Canadian publication on all things Italian, and they duly published an article I’d written on two wine-growing regions of Piemonte; Gavi and Casale Monferrato.

Upon the author’s copy landing in my postbox, I then received news that I’d won 1st placing in the monthly Writer’s Forum short story competition, which was published in the October issue.  Having my story critiqued by Sue Moorcroft was almost satisfying as seeing my name in print.

Now the rest of the winter lies ahead and I intend to put some of those long, cold, dark days to use.  I do have plans for 2015 but I’m reluctant to lay them down here in case they go pear-shaped.  Life is like that.  My NaNoWriMo was a NaNoNoGo – it happens.

Thank you to each and every one of you who has visited and contributed over the last year, I appreciate each and every one.

Happy New Year to you all.

 

 

Posted in Blog, Blog, Wordpress, Flash Fiction, italian language, Italy, Morgen Bailey, NaNoWriMo, poet, Poetry, Short Fiction Stories, stories, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
07 Dec 2014
4 Comments

Goodbye, my sun

As the leaves burn brown
and rage in a riot of red
The low, winter light losing colour
looking tired and stretched
The sun’s early rising all but forgotten
another life, another time

The soltice shroud of darkness covers all
and the frost fingers;
hard and cold
grip the earth
And its frigid breath
bites the air

As the year ends in a flurry of colour

As the year ends in a flurry of colour

Posted in Blog, poesia, poet, Poetry, Winter, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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