My Words, My World

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

Archive for the tag “Writer”

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.

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Just words?

One recent lunchtime I was sitting, waiting for my quesadilla, with every intention of jotting down some potential copywriting ideas – I completed a course not too long ago and I really want to pursue that direction on a professional level.  Anyway, it just wouldn’t happen; nothing came when I put pencil to paper except the opening two lines of this.  Between waiting for and eating the aforementioned quesadilla, the rest of the piece followed.  I suppose you could call it a reluctant poem, as it certainly wasn’t my intention to write it, but as nothing else came I gave in to the flow.

The book is open, the pencil in hand
The eyes stare at black lines on white,
waiting for the muse to turn on the light
What to write? What to write?
Perched over a fissure, under pressure
An abyss awaits, mind contemplates

I did not intend to write this,
this poem, this rhyme
This scribbled tribute to the sublime
Gift of words; the words we use
To communicate
Our love, our hate
Pleasure, displeasure
How are you my treasure?

Spoken words may be forgotten
From the written word may be begotten
A declaration; of love, of war
Of the suffering who can take no more.

Letters by sages
Indented onto pages
A permanent reminder
Of words that can bind you
That seek and find you
And you lay open the page
As you lay open your heart
With thoughts transmitted and thoughts transcribed
As into your book you care to confide
All that you feel, and can’t keep inside

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.

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