My Words, My World

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

Archive for the tag “Hope”

Flash Fiction Friday 108: A Shrinking World by Christopher Farley

Thanks once again to Morgen Bailey.
Still can’t get the hang of this reblogging malarkey though…

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The greens and greys reflect on the surface of the lake. It’s almost 11pm and it’s still hot and humid. There may be another storm tonight.  More water.  At least the clouds will block out the sun, which won’t set, not this far north.  It’s like having a yellow moon in the night sky. Or what should be night.

You see, Greenland really is a green land now.  The glaciers turned into water quite a while ago.   This high up on the plateau we’re safe from the rising waters, for now.  Ice at the North Pole?  That’s a memory for some of us, for others, the kids, it’s just a myth, like dragons and hoards of gold.

Oh, the push on the boundaries of science.  Fools! In their search to prove or disprove something called Higgs Boson with their atom particle collider something went wrong, horribly.  They shrunk the planet.  Continents started sliding under or over each other and the world, as the old communications advert used to say, just got smaller.  All that water had to go somewhere and so it went up.

The world became estranged mountain communities; the Rockies, Andes, Himalayas.  I even heard there’s a small Alpine community but no one has ever returned to confirm this.  They want to and they try.  They leave in old, rusty ships from time-to-time.  People still insist on leaving, buoyed by hope but not by water.  The oceans are far too dangerous now.  The Earth has become one continuous stretch of water so when a storm hits there’s no longer any landmass to break up the huge waves that just continue to build and the wind continues to blow.  I’ve heard even the most massive ships wouldn’t have a chance out there.  My chance?  I’ll take it on the land under my feet, what remains of it, and hope.

At one time, the world worried about nuclear war and an atomic winter. Now the Earth’s crust is edging nearer to its core and it keeps getting hotter; they created an atomic-particle summer.

And the waters keep on rising.

 

morgenbailey's avatarMorgen 'with an E' Bailey

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and eighth piece in this series. This week’s is a 349-worder by Christopher Farley. This story will be podcasted in episode 34 (with two other stories and some 6-worders) on Sunday 1st December.

A Shrinking World

The greens and greys reflect on the surface of the lake. It’s almost 11pm and it’s still hot and humid. There may be another storm tonight.  More water.  At least the clouds will block out the sun, which won’t set, not this far north.  It’s like having a yellow moon in the night sky. Or what should be night.

You see, Greenland really is a green land now.  The glaciers turned into water quite a while ago.   This high up on the plateau we’re safe from the rising waters, for now.  Ice at the North Pole?  That’s a memory for some of us, for…

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+books =Peace (+libros=Paz)

El hombre con un grande corazon. Raul Lemesoff, you are indeed a hero.
A huge thank you also to Doris, for bringing this to my, and therefore your, attention.
Muchas gracias Doris.

Become

Here am I
Who am I
In the mirror
My eyes
The eyes of someone
I no longer know
The eyes of someone
Who no longer shows
A light
A smile
I revile, myself
And who I’ve become
No longer one
Who was someone
To care
To share
To bare his soul
Insomnia has left a hole
But hope will not desert me.

A Wing and a Prayer

Originally to be called Angel Wings when I wrote it yesterday, following a thunderstorm after work, just as I got on the motorbike…nice..  However at 4.30am this morning that title seemed like an old UK advert for a sanitary towel (Sorry Ladies…).

***

This has to be the quietest flight I’ve ever been on.  Even the kids have stopped squabbling.  Thank Heavens for small mercies.

The television screens are showing the ocean beneath, from the cockpit camera.  It’s very blue out there in the tropical sunshine.  Every now and again a ship, possible a huge oil tanker or bulk carrier will pass by, appearing tiny from this distance.  Have you ever looked, I mean really looked, at the ocean from a plane?  The way the sun creates 10,000 mirrors on the surface and how you can see the wave ridges, even from this height.

I’m stuck between members of the Ipod generation.  The skateboard guy to my left has Green Day blaring into his ears, he must be going deaf.  The girl on my other side has some awful rap stuff.  I don’t know what’s worse.  I’ll just go back to looking at the screen.  The book on my lap, The Outsider by Albert Camus, lies upside down and open.  I know it’ll ruin like that but I’m otherwise occupied.

My wife’s in the row behind with the kids.  Every now and again her hand reaches over and caresses my shoulder or my neck.  I reach over and put my hand on hers, giving it 3 squeezes. It means ‘I Love You’.  We’ve always done it.  I’d like to change places with one of my children but they want to stay close to Mum.  I can’t blame them.

An hour ago the pilot took us up to over 40,000 feet to avoid a storm.  40,000 feet!  That’s like sticking the Eiger on top of Everest.  We’re out of the thunderstorm as well, so I guess that’s another small mercy.

This has to be the quietest flight I’ve ever been on.  We were just under a hundred miles from Miami when the storm knocked out our engines.  The guidelines tell us our plane can glide that far.  I continue looking at the screen.  I hope they’re right.

Flash Fiction Friday 094: The Freedom Train by Christopher Farley

Thanks once again Morgen.

morgenbailey's avatarMorgen 'with an E' Bailey

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the ninety-fourth piece in this series. This week’s is a 580-worder (with an American theme – happy Independence Day yesterday everyone) by Christopher Farley.

This story will be podcasted in episode 31 (with three other stories) on Sunday 8th September.

The Freedom Train

He closed his eyes for a second.  He finally began to believe it really was over.  The mountain of lies and the rivers, even oceans, of deceit no longer mattered.  The affair was finally finished and could now be considered a thing of his past, where it should stay.  It had become like a tedious end-of-season football match; neither side wanting to lose but both would be content if the referee blew time.  Each had said their piece and each had gone their separate way.  The thought of returning to his old life before his spree as a shoplifter in the…

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The war, Baby.

The lines.  So many of them it seems, interconnected and weaving a spider’s web of expression (exhaustion) on my face.  My face.  My Insomnia.  My card.  I present me and myself to you, my expression (exhaustion) for you to see.  Is it not enough to just get through the day without having killed or been killed, to keep your job, to love your wife/partner/mistress/friends?  What does the world want from me at this hour – always?  Why does it not let me sleep?

We went through the war, Baby.  Almost 15 years, you and I.  Our war.  Troughs deep as trenches, trapping body, poison, blood but offering shelter.  A temporary escape?  Choose the sniper’s bullet or machine-gun mow-down.  The result’s the same.  Bleeding, twitching body on the ground.  Life-draining.

The war Baby.  Those truces. Those long (but not long forgotten) truces.  Not a trough or trench in sight.  Poppy-field sunrise.  Blackbird reveille.  No scars, bullet wounds or barbed-wire kisses. Just us: and the world.  When did you realise that Baby?  Just us.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

Damaged

Would you accept damaged goods?
Would you accept a damaged heart?
Not physically, at least I hope
But damaged in the wars of love

Could, or should I even offer such
What would you think of me?
If I tried to hide the pain and hurt
Pretending nothing ever happened

I’d be like the used-car salesman
Who filled the noisy transmission
with sawdust, to cover up
The damage done before

I’d try plug the radiator holes
But my pain would still seep out
The mileometer I’d try to rewind
But the miles done would remain

 

 

 

 

Grey sky, leave me

Monday morning, dingy grey

Rain and sleet, sleet and rain

My mood, my being cannot sustain

The will to weather the winter

I wonder whether

I will fade to grey

As will fade this winter’s day

But a ray of light, burning bright

Incandescent, infinite

Crosses the continental divide

Across the ocean, cold and wide

But wider is the chasm without love

When I look upon a grey cloud sky

I should see the blue above

A Time for Tea

“Does one ever learn to trust again after that trust has been abused and rejected?”  She was in one of her post-relationship moods.

“The matter of trust hangs on a knife-edge”, he said, sat squarely on the fence.

“I know that”, she replied, “I have been stabbed, deeply.”

“We live in fields of blades”, he sighed.

“Now you are being pessimist,” she retorted. “I think in the end our choices lead us to these fields you refer to as being filled with blades, or could they be filled roses?”

“Both may cut and scratch you.  Many times we sow the seeds of our own crop of blades”, he said.  “Others, unfortunately, wander too into these fields, time and again”.

“So we have experiences to avoid revisiting?”

“Sometimes it’s impossible to avoid wandering in,” he said, offering some comfort.  “From a distance these fields look beautiful, only once your inside do you realize the swaying, green stalks are really chrome blades, chopping.”

“Then the experience one had is defective as he still needs to learn further lessons.  He shall wander into these fields until he learns,” she sighed, despair creeping in.

“It’s not defective; unless you call hope a defect.  It’s hope that brings one again to the field.”

With relief that was tangible.  “Therefore I am doomed to wander the rough-made footpath and stray back into hurt, cuts and pain.  However seeing you start this conversation with pessimism and ending with a flirtation with optimism gives me strength to walk once more.”  She was warming to the idea.

“I never started a pessimist, as I have never looked upon this subject with pessimism.  Even blades have their uses, but only while they remain sharp.”  He responded, as pragmatic as ever.

“The only useful blunt utensil is a spoon,” she replied.

They exchanged glances.  He got up and put the kettle on.

 

Winter

Old, tall silver-sided Sycamore tree

Silhouette against the grey winter sky

Leaves fallen, now gone

No sign your summer ever existed

In this cold December air

No sign my summer ever existed

Gone.  Another year passing.

The longing for spring is already upon me

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Thank you NaNoWriMo

Well, the 30th November has come and gone.  How did I do?  Was it a success?

Let’s be frank.  I didn’t get 50’000 words down during the month; far from it, in fact I finished with under 20’000.  This was due, in part, to two factors.  One of which no-one could have foreseen and necessitated 3 weekends out of 4 away from home.  The other simply being that work commitments HAVE to come before my writing for pleasure as I’ve never earned a buck from my writing and I’m not in the position to do so now.  Bills must be paid and there were times during the month when I came home late and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in front of another computer.  I did force myself a few times, and it shows in what I wrote (I’m sure I’ll be murdering a fair few of THOSE darlings…).  Instead, the times when I felt at ease the words flowed, humour was easier to come by and the characters gelled and developed.

I returned from visiting my folks in England at the end of October and sat down (as I’ve previously mentioned on here) on 1st November with little idea what to do or where to go with it once I had it. I always thought it an exageration when I read that writers, or rather successful ones, don’t know what their characters are going to get up to when they sit at the keyboard.  “What a load of old tosh!” I said to myself.  However, now I’m a changed man.  It’s not tosh at all.  I started the beginning of the exercise with no plot whatsoever – none!  It developed and it is still developing and I love it.  It’s the first time this has happened to me and it’s a fantastic feeling.

So; what about my novel?  It’s there, it’s at early stages.  My characters are still sussing each other out.  I’m discovering traits in a couple of them that weren’t there at the start.  A couple of big-hitters are still yet to show their faces but they will, in time. I’ve been learning how to tell their story, I hope by the end I make at least a reasonable job of doing so.  I hope so.

Finally, I want to say a BIG THANK YOU to the NaNoWriMo team for uniting writers from all over the world for one cause; to write.  No more, no less.  In my 19’000 words you helped me become more of a writer than I was at the end of October.  There’s the possibility I may never earn a buck from my writing, but I do know I’ll enjoy it all the more for the experience during the last month. You see NaNoWriMo has given me the discipline to write, when I can.  One evening I turned out 2’000 words in one sitting.  I’ve never done that before and boy, what a feeling.

So, was it a success?  Personally, yes.

Thank you.

Companion For Life

This is the life, he thought.  Sat here in front of the big bay window with my love, side by side, the perfect married couple.  What can anyone else give me?

He sat on the brown, leather pouffe in front of the open door.  He smoked his cigarette, as he always did after his evening dinner.  He took his glass of wine and drew a sip.  He smoked and drank in silence, as he always did after his evening dinner.  He passed the cigarette from his right hand to his left hand and with the right patted the other brown, leather pouffe, to his side.

He continued smoking his cigarette.  He drank his wine.  He breathed in the cold winter air, tainted with his cigarette smoke, as he always did ater his evening dinner.  It wasn’t always cold.  It wasn’t always winter.  His right hand reached out for the reassuring touch, as it always did, every evening as he smoked his cigarette and drank his wine.

She was gone now, his love.  He touched the pouffe at his side to remind him, as he always did after his evening dinner.

NaNoWriMo

Considering I still wasn’t sure how to approach this until the evening of 01 November, I’m happy, nay, over the moon to share the fact that I have now put 4’375 words to paper, well, Microsoft Word anyway.  Only just over 45’000 to go…

That’s it, that’s the limit of my blogging, I’m all NaNoWriMo’d out – 1’200 words this evening.

 

The Road

I wandered listless but restless.

I walked in the shadows, defenceless.

I wandered thinking, without knowing.

My soul in pain, my self-doubt growing.

 

I lost my way, though the way was marked.

So I waited at the crossroads, wishing I’d asked

What do I do? How? What shall I give?

To find the way home; distant, elusive.

Niente di nuovo (as they say in Italy)

Nothing New – great song by one of the greatest bands ever to grace the stage – albeit till 1985 – Hanoi Rocks.

It sums me up at the moment.  Nothing new, nothing borrowed, nothing blue.  I’m on a creative non-wave.  It’s not writer’s block; I have flashes of inspiration all the time, I just can’t do anything with them, or rather I can’t sit my ass down and do anything with them, which is worse.  I blamed it on the summer – beautiful weather, drinks with friends on the lake, holiday in Ibiza etc. but now autumn is officially here (a week of rain proves it) I am still producing Nothing! Nada! Zilch! Niente! Rien!

A writer should be able to at least read when he’s not writing – I can’t even do that.  I’m sifting through (albeit pretty damn good) music biographies (Mötley Crüe, Led Zepppelin, New York Dolls, Johnny Cash).  I’ve hit a literary (literally) wall.  Aaaahhhh!!!  What do I have to do, wait till the snow arrives?  Become like Jack Torrance in The Shining (without axe-weilding tendencies obviously…)???

I’ve slept on it, I’ve drunk on it, I’ve partied on it, I’ve moped on it, I’ve meditated on it – I am a man without an answer.

What am I gonna do?  I’ll let you know.  I’ll be back…

Empty

I’m not a poet, and I rarely rhyme but today is different.

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A harsh word slipped and fell today

Between two friends

No further words exchanged this day

No way to make amends

I hoped to catch a glance or maybe

The return of a friendly smile

Instead my day empty remained

My evening too, defiled

Forgive

I walked over the broken earth

of a broken life

I swam through the stream clear,

a stream of tears

I fell twisted and scarred

into your arms, once again.

An Unfriendly Alien

I wanted to get away, run or even be put under, anything to get away from this jolting, numbing pain running through me. I didn’t know how long I’d been here, time became irrelevant. As I looked up I saw only a shape, fuzzy round the edges, not clear, just a silhouette. Alien. I could think only of the Cybermen on Dr. Who, way back when I was a kid. It was alien anyway, as was the hurt. It was less traumatic to break a bone in the body, I thought vaguely between white flashes of agony, the nerves in my face were standing on end, screaming at me, waving angry red flags at me. Half a second then another bolt of pain. I closed my eyes and my body went stiff, I felt my hands, back and legs soaked in sweat, I hadn’t even been laid out almost horizontal for more than a few minutes but the pain was becoming unbearable. I tried to move my head but to no avail, foolishly I thought it help me. My hands crossed themselves, twisting, sweating and entwining as the pain continued. Minutes passed.

A respite. I was unsure whether this pain had subsided or whether I was gradually getting used to it. However it had started to lessen, the flags went from red to orange, I had hoped for green but I guess that was asking too much. My face went from fingernail-on-blackboard nerve shredding torture to uncomfortably numb. My hands were sweating less and they stopped writhing like mating eels in a bucket. My shirt however was still soaked. I was breathing normally at least. Fearful the pain would start again I slowly opened my eyes once more.

A hand went up, the Cyberman’s head switched off and my dentist clapped me on the shoulder. “Smile”, he said, “you’re free to go.”

I

Under a yellow, sickening sky did I

Come from above, where once I

Led a strong legion, all powerful but I

Wanted more, much more so I

Employed temptation, persuasion for I

Used a woman to get at man and I

Have been ever present , beside you, I

Wanted followers too, however I

Misjudged your faith, I misjudged you.

 

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.

 

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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