My Words, My World

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

Archive for the tag “Despair”

02 Jul 2012
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Ice

Tamara felt the ice beneath her.  It took her.  She was moving too fast to think of stopping, she gave in to the slide, unsure where she would end up.

She saw the wall grow rapidly in her sight, there was no way she was going to avoid it.  Realising her options were decreasing with every passing second she attempted a turn to the left, away from the looming barrier, to at least minimalise the impact with the encircling obstruction.  She was now regretting going all out, hell for leather.  The ice has wrested all hope of control from her.

The lights played across the ice, danced in her vision.  She started to spin.

Tamara dug her heels in and fell to the floor in a heap.  Legs splayed, she merely sat, skirt around her thighs, feeling the ice sting her skin.  Getting up gingerly, she placed a hand on her backside.  That’ll be bruised later, she thought.  She kept her head down, avoiding the watching people around the perimeter wall and headed for the exit as she counted the years since she’d last been ice-skating.

 

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24 Jun 2012
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Jump!

Danny edged himself closer to the edge, on his hands and knees.  He’d been thinking about this moment for a while now; thinking that at the end it would be easy but here, now, it was so different.

It seemed he could hear the water far below him, calling to him.  He knew that it was too late to turn back; how could he face the shame?  Inching himself backwards, away from the edge he stood up, his liquid knees barely keeping him upright, his heart beating a military march.  The palms of his hands were wet with sweat and he shivered as nerves took hold of his stomach and knotted it.

He decided he didn’t want to look down again, the only thing to do would just be to run and jump, eyes closed.  He took a few deep breaths, his eyes fixed upon the horizon.  This is it; he thought to himself, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.  He ran.

Young Danny, 6 years old, entered the water with a splash.  When he surfaced he looked up at the high-board, raised his fist in the air, and swam to the side of the swimming pool.

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18 May 2012

Writer’s Unblock, day 1

Those few days away had done him the world of good.  Not only did he come up with some unbelievable story to write on his 6 hour train ride (as well as a sore arse…), he also returned to discover he has been published online, for which he was extremely grateful.  Now it was off to the fridge for a bottle of Forst…

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10 May 2012

Writer’s Block, day 5

Why did I go out on a Wednesday? he thought. There was no-one about, the streets were empty, as were his cigarette packet, wallet and Moleskin. So much for alcohol, his head still thumping from the bottle of Tuscan red. No overheard conversations to give him that one-liner inspiration. No incidents of any note to give him material. He was at a loss. “At least it’s Friday tomorrow”, he said out loud to no-one in particular. ” I’ll rest my weary head, lungs and wallet and see what the weekend brings.”

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09 May 2012

Writer’s Block, day 4

“Bugger this for a game of soldiers” he said, “I’m going to get some air and have a drink, after all it worked for Dylan Thomas”. This new found wisdom was short of a few truths, like a pickled liver for one. Anyway, he took the jacket from the wardrobe, armed himself with his wallet, a packet of Chesterfields and his trusty but almost empty Moleskin and headed to the nearest watering hole.

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08 May 2012

Writer’s Block, day 3

He made a cup of tea. He took the teaspoon and started stirring, continuously, as if searching for a magic phrase or inspirational word that would sweeten his world like the newly dissolved sugar cube had sweetened the tea in his cup. He went in search of the biscuit tin, thinking a Digestive might be in order. The tin was empty, as was the page staring back at him from the screen.

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07 May 2012

Writer’s Block, day 2

So, the experts told him to place his desk against a blank wall, away from a window which could distract him. Distraction is at least use of the brain, he reasoned, as he looked up at the smooth white face in front of him, his eyes searching for some minor blemish in the paint, hoping a slight deformity in the painting and decorating department might aleviate him of his numbness and provide the meerest spark of creativity.

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06 May 2012

Writer’s Block

“Rip, crunch, crunch…tic, tic, tic”
“Rip, crunch, crunch…tic, tic, tic”

The 300 page spiral bound notebook, its grey cover an array of swirls and patterns more carved than drawn with a Bic biro, was slowly disappearing into roughly squashed balls of paper, aimed with no conviction at the waste paper bin as its owner fretted over the keyboard.

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