Beautiful People

Vincent Peters Photography

"Oh, God, yeah, completely.  I know exactly what you mean."

"He really gets it, you know?  He really capture what's going on in the mind.  You know?"

"Oh, yeah, totally.  He really gets that." Christina had completely forgotten who or what they were talking about.  It didn't matter though, she'd worked with Javier on a couple of shoots now and he was always the same: completely focused on himself and the jobs he'd been on, who he'd worked with and for, and how he really wanted to break into acting.  Reflecting on the echoes of his last sentence she concluded that he must have been speaking about a photographer but she couldn't remember which one.

She was so unbelievably bored.  She was hungry too and the stench of the cigarettes they'd been using as props had started to turn her stomach.  It felt like the tar was permeating her every pore.  Her neck was sore from the ridiculously hackneyed position she'd been asked to hold, a rip-off of the 1950s Hollywood publicity shots - done a million times before - and she was freezing cold.  What was worse, Javier, the self-centred idiot, didn't seem to notice or mind the inconveniences of the shoot, he just kept on taking regardless.  She really just wanted to yell at him to shut up but satisfied herself with the mental image of stubbing the lit end of her cigarette out in his eye.



Time up.
Inspiration:  The photo.  I wanted to image an interaction from a given image and imagine what was going on beneath the gloss.

Clock watching

Do you ever have that feeling that the clock beating inside you is permanently telling you that you're late for something? Well, that's me. Right now.

My skin is alive to every sensation but heightened to a ridiculous degree. Sounds, especially are abhorrent; loud sounds unbearable.  If there was a door that opened into my body you wouldn't find pulsing red organs, oh no.  There would be a sheen of metal and the black ooze of the oil needed to drive cogs, which would be grinding away relentlessly like some Victorian treadmill.

If my mind were personified it would resemble some snarling beast backed into a corner, froth hanging in ribbons from its yellow fangs, one front paw poised in front of it's body as defence or leaverage for it's next pounce.  The one thing that can barely be seen in the eyes of the creature there, muscles taught like spun steel, is not the rage but the fear.


Time up.
Inspiration: the anger at obliging myself to write every day.  I'm stressed and angry. I don't want to write this but I want to keep my promise to myself.

Heal

  Jessica had always felt embattled.  The stresses of work had got so much that she had taken far too many days off sick and her family had begun to shove as many of her concerns under the carpet as possible.  They said dismissive things, such as: she should go and see someone, she needed to take the pills that the doctor prescribed, perhaps she should think about a retreat to really relax her mind, she should take up yoga; it would really help her mind and body.  The fact is, Jessica would have gladly taken on any of this advice if she felt that it had been even remotely well meant, but she knew that everyone just wanted her to be normal again.  They didn't want her to cause them any problems or embarrass them or make them have to do anything outside of their routines. 

She didn't want to follow any of their advice because she knew it would just be plastering over the cracks that were far too deep rooted.  She didn't understand where the cracks had started or how deep they actually went but she knew doctors couldn't help her.  Luckily, she had her own treatment.  It was secret as no-one would believe her.  It had begun when she had started to take walks during her time off sick.  At first it was a way of relaxing and exercising, but mostly just to get out of the four walls that oppressed her so.  It was on such a walk on a bitterly cold and blustery day that she heard them first.  Merely whispers.  She thought at first it was her imagination, but then they became more distinct.  When she recognised certain words she was petrified; she thought she had gone completely mad but, when her heart had stopped roaring in her chest and she had taken her hands from her ears, the voices were so calm and relaxing she had listened. 

Now she went out everyday onto the hill.  Whether the rain beat down or the sun burned, she would stride into the midst of the weather, because she knew they were there, waiting for her, to heal her.  They were far too shy yet to show themselves but she knew if she was patient and followed their advice they would reveal themselves to her.  Although, whether they showed themselves or not she was already reaping the rewards of their ancient wisdom.  She was getting better, she knew it.



Time was well up but I wanted to finish the section.

Inspiration:  The Write Practice site suggested thinking about how to 'incorporate magic, or fantasy elements into your fiction'.  As this is something I haven't really done  thought I'd give it a go.

The Walrus

Jutting belly, under a glossy nylon shirt, his profile like an enormous D, he watched the screen with one hand gripping an amber brew. His hair was shorn (what was left of it) and speckled the rolls of fat with clustered where the nape of his neck should have been.  There was clear pitting on his cheeks: the result of acne as a youth - hormonal, or was it the result of poor nutrition self-indulged or otherwise indulged?  Probably the latter.

His clothes looked clean but there was a distinct smell of fermentation.  I could say cheese but that would not account for the squalid sourness of the sweat which must have oozed from between crevices despite the top notes of deodorant and a musky cologne. 

When he moved, witnesses might be hypnotised by the undulation.  there was a sinuosity to the flesh which moved independently to his core structure which was almost balletic.  But was female could possibly be drawn to this?

Time up:
Inspiration: I happened to be looking at the title of one of Lewis Carroll's poems, 'The Walrus and The Carpenter' and I used the title to start me off.

The Night Before

She was trying to piece together the events of the night before.  They were there, the memories, but in fragments, not in order.  More like a patchwork quilt, all over the place, a mess. 

Very clear, bright even, was the euphoria of getting ready.  Reflections in mirrors.  Singing along to tunes.  Chucking dresses, tops, skirts all ahoo over the bed until she'd got the picture that she'd made of herself in her head.  Teetering heels.  Slap, on.  Pouting and dropping an A-bomb of perfume.

The noise of pub was there in a pocket in her mind.  Bright but rippling like a shiny pebble dropped in a stream.  The movement of people jostling, rushing, slouching, gesticulating.  The sound. Those bits, they were in her mind, there or there abouts.

Drinks.  Yeah, there were plenty of those.  Chasers.  Laughing really loudly, scarlet mouth stretched in a permanent O.  Swearing and arguing was flitting about in there somewhere but the memory was getting darker, less secure.  Was there drink slicked? Sick? Why did her heart hurt?



Time up.
Inspiration:   It just came out tonight.  I just thought of an image and wrote.

The difference the sun makes

We drag ourselves through the gloom of winter, our steps splashing through pooled water and splattering mud. The clouds crowd round us and drape us in grey, our winter mourning. Sometimes, chilling mists might creep along the roads, wind around the naked branches of trees and envelop chimneys and roof tops. The world becomes a mystery but only for a while. Those crisp, cold days we long for are few and act as the merest gulp of air before we sink into the murk again.

But when the shoots start to poke their thin fingers through the sodden ground and the days no longer last for moments it is then you might start to dream of summer days, and, as if to confirm your hope, the sun might burst open your inward turned mind and send an unexpected warmth onto your upturned face. A reminder. Be patient. Wait. I will come again and perhaps for longer next time.


Time up.
I don't know what you think but this is just seems god awful writing tonight. I'm in a sad frame of mind and I just can't get my head round ideas tonight.
Inspiration was the sun which was warm for the first time this winter.