Still Life

It had not put up much of a fight before it died, but then, it was so tiny.  It wasn't a wren; it was a trifle bigger and the tail wasn't the stubby exclamation that is the wren's trademark but it had the same colouring. 

It was almost over before I'd had a chance to intervene.  My little Jack Russle had starled it from a patch of mottled undergrowth and it must have been too shocked to have got enough momentum to burst into flight.  She pawed at it and then, like a cat, toyed with it for some moments before I'd even realised what it was.  I shouted and ran towards them both.  The dog stood back to let me approach.  The bird cowered by a clump of grass.  I could see its chest rising and falling very lightly and slowly.  As I bent towards it, the chest stopped half way before rising fully and the tiny pointed beak slowly opened, as did the eyes, taking it's last look at the world before darkness fell.

I picked up the creature and, although it was all in the run of the wild, I felt choaked and angry that this timy life was taken so suddenly and violently.  It made me think about the arbitrary nature of all life and I felt the awfulness of the injustice that I mean very little in the scheme of things not better than the buddle of feathers in my hand. 

Looking back at my dog, she was ashamed.  I left her to feel the weight of what she had done.  I put the bird back very gently on the grass and pushed a tuft of the sweet green fronds over the dun feathers.


Time up.
Inspration:  I thought of an incident about a year ago. It happenend exactly as above and it has stuck in my mind and will do for some time.

Spontaneous

'Let's have some fun,' she said.
'O.K. what would you like to do?' he replied.
'I dunno. Let's just be spontaneous and do anything we fancy.'
'I'm not exactly sure what you mean.  What d'you wanna do?'
'Well, I'm not sure, but let's just do the first thing that comes into our minds.'
The first thing that came into his mind was a nap on the sofa but he didn't say that out loud.
'Alright,' he said.  'You go first.'
'Um, right, now.  Let's think. Hang on. Why do I have to go first?  Why don't you suggest something?' it came out a little more acerbic than she was expecting but she stood her ground.
'Because it wasn't my idea, that's why.'  he replied, rather piqued at her tone.
'Well, it's always me that thinks of the ideas and things to do.  It's about time you thought for us instead of me.'
He thought of all the times he'd tried to please her by organising or suggesting places only to see a look of boredom if he was lucky and down-right disgust if he was not.
'I'm happy to do anything,' he mumbled, tiredly.
'Oh for God's sake.  It's like talking to a brick wall.  I'm going into the bedroom to read.
He was relieved.  A nap on the sofa was beconing with open arms.

Time up
Inspiration: I missed two days due to work commitments so I'm catching up with whatever pops into my head.

Sitting Here, Listening

Here I sit, listening.  It is night and quiet.  With everything off, no television, no music or radio I can hear the buried sounds that have been masqued until now.  The continuous, but gentle whir of the fan on the laptop, a distant dog barking once or twice, the tick of the clock - that timeless sound that could easily be in a Victorian parlour as in my front room.  The indescribable sound of your own fingers running through your hair: a scratching echo that must only happen internally, resonating in the cavities in your skull. 

Then the unwelcome, vulgar sound of the door opening, a voice asking a question.  It seems intrusive and alien in the peace that has cocooned you for what has only been minutes but felt undefinable as if centuries could have passed in a moment.  Because peace brings its own timelessness.



Time up.
Inspiration: The Write Practice: Focus on your breathing while you create and listen for sounds that you may not usually notice: Pen noise against the paper, the sound of the keys as you type, birds chirping outside, quiet hum of the heater, etc.

Golden bubbles.

"Alright, Hels? How's the heart today?"
That's her nick-name, Hels.  Her real name is Helen.  So, I suppose it's not really a nick-name, just an abbreviation.  She is my sister.  We both know, too, that there's nothing wrong with her heart; it's a euphemism for her mind.  She's always been quite a ebullient person but there has always been the slight hint that the effervescence is the tiniest bit forced and that the golden bubbles on the surface are an attempt to hide a certain cloudiness below, even from herself.

For few months she has not acknowledged problems, she has surrounded herself with people that don't discuss important things with her or challenge her opinion, at all.  There have been massive family issues that we've all been trying the cope with and she just won't talk, just cuts the conversation off or leaves the room or cries so that we are forced to change the subject.  So much burying.

It didn't come to any good, avoiding things.  She had a panic attack at work, thought she was having some kind of seizure and now she can't stop shaking.  I know there is a clawing in the pit of her stomach, night and day, and the fear will not give her a moment's peace.  That is how it works, the fear: the feeling that she has lost control and can't see a way out of the void.



Time up.
Inspiration: I forgot to post this yesterday.  So this is my instalment for yesterday.  I hoped to capture the idea that bottling up problems is not good and the effect it can have on the mind.

The Cabin

This is my favourite place.  It is my home.  I bought it and I helped make it.  Many people think that this is a poor substitute for a real house or flat.  they come and admire it and comment on how quaint it is but, they go home and ask their husbands or wives how anyone could live in such a tiny place. They don't realise how lucky i feel to be here.  it may be cold in winter; I have to put on jumpers in the evening and a few winters back I even went to bed in a hat for a few freezing nights.  In the summer it can get boiling hot and stifling until you throw open the door and the double windows and the fresh breeze wanders through the house.

Yes, it might seem like a doll's house to many but I don't mind.  It fits me and there is no space wasted.  There is no guest room and I have to climb up a ladder to get to my own bed at night but this to me is joy, not deprivation.  I walk out on warm evenings feeling the grass underfoot and watch the midges dancing in the air.  I rest my back against the front door and feel the caress of the sun on my face.  

I watch the apple tree turn from bare, to blossom, to fruit and then watch as it weeps it's brown leaves to the ground.  I watch the blackbirds feasting on the fallers; pitted with disease and harbouring some maggots but such richness is still encased in those rosy orbs.

When I am at home, I feel that I can do or be anything I want and although the house is animate I can almost hear it's breath synchronised to mine.


Time up.
Inspiration:  I'm really rushed tonight I have loads of work to do so I wrote about a special place to me and this is the easiest one I've done.

Chekhov's Gun

Ellis wasn't an unattractive kid, he was just awkward and quiet.  Like so many teenagers, he spent too much time thinking, his black thoughts turning inwards, constantly tormenting himself over trivial inadequacies.  As a consequence, he was sullen and avoided the other students at school as much as possible.  All apart from one.  She was a golden girl, popular and beautiful but gentle and 

open, completely the opposite of himself: Jessica.  It was as if she existed for him in a permanent halo.  When she walked past, along the buzzing corridor, his gaze, although covert, devoured every single fragment of her.  He had been watching her like this for years and he was exhausted by the hollowness of his adoration.  He needed recognition.  He felt compelled to make some sort of connexion, he didn't care how small, he just wanted her to notice him, to witness in his eyes the awe in which he held her.  Ultimately, he wanted her to love him like he did her. 

He hadn't planned it exactly but he took his chance.  As she walked past on her pilgrimage to class, he allowed his books to tumble from his hand.  They slid like a wave breaking at her feet.  She looked at him and down at the floor, looked back, cocked her eyebrow at him, without the the hint of the gentle smile she used so readily for others, nearly everyone, he thought, and walked on. 

Time up.

Inspiration:  from The Write Practice, they suggest: Practice foreshadowing by writing a scene, early in the first act of a story, and slip in Chekhov’s gun. Don’t fire it yet.  Just make it present somehow.

She Wants

She passed him everyday.  He had exactly what she wanted. 

Anne had long felt a hollowness inside her; it had been growing for many months now until she almost felt that the core of nothingness had taken up nearly all of her being.  She felt too light: light enough to float away. She had begun to think more about things too.  What did she really want?  Did this new path she was taking really fulfil her?  Was it going to take away the feelings of self-loathing that she had been living with for so long and re-ignite the exhuberence of her youth? 

The determination that she had had at the beginning of the new epocha that she had envisaged for herself, and was trying to implement, had slowly started to seep away like a leaking pipe.  She had felt herself faltering many times only to catch a brief snap-shot of herself in the mirror and, with the stark reminder of the disgust with which she held herself, she had managed to crawl through those times when she felt like breaking the promise she had made to herself.

Now, however, watching him, she stopped and boldly peered at him through the glass.  Would he notice her? Would he be as disgusted with her as she was of herself?  Frankly, she no longer cared, her desire had reached such a pitch that her mind screamed her greatest need.  She pushed through the door screening him from her and holding his face in her gaze she marched up to the counter. "How much for that Raspberry Mille Feuille?" she purred.


Time up.

Inspiration: 
The Write Practice suggestion tonight was: Take fifteen minutes and come up with a MacGuffin scenario. You can either make your characters play the MacGuffin straight, or turn it on its head and have them start questioning what the significance of the MacGuffin is.
I chose the former without exactly playing it straight.

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.

Through his eyes

He watched her chestnut hair lay smooth on the pillow next to his. He let his lips drift over the apricot flesh.  He listened to her breathe and allowed his soul to wallow in it.  For a moment he was at peace. 
Her eyes flicked open and she flipped herself over like a fish on a hook. 
"What?" she barked.  Her eyes narrowed.  "You woke me up.  So, what is it?"
He began to stutter; mumbled something about just wanting to be as close to her as he could; enjoying watching her sleep.  It was the wrong thing to say.  It always was.
"Jesus, John," she hissed.  She swung her legs over the side of the bed.  Her dressing gown was hastily wrapped around her shoulders.  Then, with a glance which spat venom, she yanked the light in the bathroom and slammed the door.



Time Up.

Inspiration:  The Write Practice website provided the inspiration today.  They suggested trying beige prose.  They instructed to base it on the aftermath of Valentine's day.

Banish What Ifs

We can always look at the past and wonder what if we had acted differently; what might we have changed? What butterfly's wing might we have stilled to avoid the present tsunami? We could spend our entire days in the past, constantly in reverse, going over our memories like a film real and rehearsing different scenarios to achieve the finale that satisfies us. Only to come back to the reality of the now and find that we still have the pit of guilt, sorrow or anger living crouched within us and our fantasy was merely that.

It has to stop. We have to change. We cannot spend our lives in the past, as damaging as living in tomorrow. The 'what might be' as dangerous as the 'what if I had'. Leave it be. Slough it off like a old skin. Break free from the flagellation of regret. It is like poison, sucking at the happiness that we have right to. Do not turn back and perhaps, like Persephone, we might see as much light as darkness. At least we must try.


Time up.
Inspiration: just wrote about something I want to be free from.