“This is wrong.” Hannah said, aiming a kick at an especially infuriated column of white cloud. “I know this is all a shock,” said her Grandmother, “but you will get used to it. We were all surprised by the aneurism, none of your lot saw it coming and even I thought you’d have a month or two more.” “But this cannot be it!” shrieked Hannah, her voice coming out as a whisper despite her vocal chords straining; why would anyone need the ability to scream where she was? “An eternity of bliss will send me mad; its just too peaceful!”
Conrad taught us to distrust our own minds. Caught up in the spin of some imaginary turmoil; he forgot that the rest of us were placed within his reach, waiting for some reassurance that this was not how it ended. Confirmation was never his strong point. Convinced we were the enemy, it became locked doors and unanswered phone calls. Coleen visited once a week only to find the casseroles she baked still cling-filmed at the back of the refrigerator. Considering it was twenty years before the funeral summons; I didn’t expect to cry when we carried him into the church. (Prompt: Each line must begin with ‘C’)
(Copyright for picture: Douglas M. Macllroy) The Right Height? “How high?” he asked. “High enough.” she replied dropping the rucksack to the ground. “High enough for us. For this.” “You think so?” He shuffled forward, sending pebbles skittering towards edge. “Don’t.” she said. “You’ll spoil the surface. We want this to be perfect.” “Perfect.” he repeated, holding fast where he was. “You want this to be perfect.” “We want this.” she insisted. “We’re doing this for us. Not me.” “For us.” he nodded. “Have you got the camera?” She muttered something and dived into the rucksack, rummaging around until she pulled free the Victorian style camera. “Ready?” he asked. In Love We Are Immortal “Aphrodite.” he called, hands loose at his sides as he saw her standing near the edge once again. You could not see the mortal world from here, but she could pretend that they felt her watching. “The others are waiting.” he told her. “Artemis and Apollo are already at each other’s throats; we need you to keep the places from going …
“Busy?” he asked when her voice finally answered, breathless and distorted through pen caps. “Just a bit.” she mumbled, phone pinned between her ear and neck as she juggled ring-binders, manila folders, notepads and tea-cups. “Deadlines.” she told him, throwing back her tea and scowling when she swallowed. “Urg, stone cold tea, definitely not the right mug.” she said, “but never mind that, what is it you need doing?”
Joanna (Sister) Beware. Of high speed projectiles, drought worthy wit and the ability to terrify by being nice. Ba (Great Grandmother) Clouded by cobwebs these days you tell the same stories and ask for news forgotten by the next clock stroke. You are no longer the apple peeler whose hands never faltered in wielding blade or teacup, whichever was needed to cater for me. Though I bare your name the syllables slip and you must grasp at faces I resemble in the hope you’ll catch a memory before it fades for good. You were seventy-seven at my birth and yet you stood in photos with me, constant in attention and love. I do not know, a world without.
This week Eccentric Chai set a fantastic writing challenge. Think of someone you know, take their age and use it as a word limit for a piece of writing about them. I’ve written a couple so far but I think I may have a go at writing a few more since I really am enjoying this prompt. Antonia We do insanity well. Eccentricity is an art-form we long since mastered and balanced out against each other’s minds. You I’m waiting for a fragment of me to stick in your throat and choke us. I’ve never had commitment to catch me. Alice We forged our friendship in distance and demoted time to change only appearance and leave connections as they were.
A punch from her was similar to getting kicked in the head by a wild horse; but that comparison was made later, after the whining noise in my ears had ceased and the world didn’t lurch quite so sickeningly whenever I swallowed. Afterwards I spoke to the guy still trying to plug the nosebleed she’d caused with one crack from her forehead. At five foot three she had to stand on her toes to reach, but the bouncer had gone down like a tonne of bricks. “This happen before?” he asked watching them handcuff her wrists. I nodded. “Blimey.” he whistled. “Can’t be worth it.” “It is.” I said. “It bloody well is!”
My dearest Felicity, I have given up on Wisdom. Strange as it may seem; Wisdom and I are simply incompatible and my apologies- But you must choose. I would advise you to choose wisely but I am far too selfish to mean such a thing. Yours in foolishness and nonsense Geoffrey.
In December I thought I might attempt the December Form Challenge. Unfortunately I only managed to complete three poems for the month, due mainly to a title wave of university assignment. So for anyone who is interested. Here are my three fixed formed poems all the way from December. Lost in Wishing I took my dream and threw it down the well, Where I had tossed coins and wishes for you, Poured my hope in the silence as it fell… When I once thought that fairy tales were true. I wanted silver knights on proud horses, Godmothers, white mice and pumpkin coaches… But then you wanted to fight the dragon, And what was our future became fiction. (A Rispetto) Make Me Mistress of Lies and Goddess of Chaos My brightly burning ice giant; god of fire, My silver tongued lie-smith with weighted whispers— Will you still love me on Ragnarök’s byre? When your children wage war on their elders? For the nine realms will be nothing but chaos, And each will sit back to watch the destruction …
I am loving my creative writing course at university! I have encountered a few problems when it comes to having ideas mid-lecture. My laptop being a ten minute walk and an awkward lecture-room shuffle through the seats away. This means that the ideas must be pinned down by mental ninjas that live in my brain, their job: ‘To keep ideas inside the mind long enough that the writer can- “Oh shiny thing!” – what was the idea again?’ This can get a little infuriating at times but for the most part my writing is doing better than ever. My absolute favourite part of the creative writing course comes every other Thursday, under the title of a plenary session. The lecturers have used it to bring in published writers, allowing them to hurl their writing at us and for us to hurl questions back at them. Such fun has never been seen. Tonight’s lecture was graced with the presence of the wonderful Tania Hershman who wrote ‘The White Road and Other Stories’ and ‘My Mother Was …