Tag: Creative writing

Tranquil – from Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt.

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Funny how the light shines in this glade she thought. The trees and the beach look pink and purple. It must be the weather. Then she looked up to where the sun should be, but the star she saw  was red, like the sun when you see it through thick clouds on the horizon. But this star was small and high up in the sky. She could tell it wasn’t her sun. You could actually look at it without being blinded.

She tried to remember how she had got here, what had happened to her? All she could think of was the lights in the sky the night before. Not meteors but green flashes, like falling fireworks. Yes, then something had lifted her up and everything had gone dark and silent….

Where am I? Where have I been brought to? she thought, this place is so peaceful, so quiet. Then she realised what was missing, birdsong, insects churring, the everyday sound of traffic… Wherever she was she knew now it was alien. It could not be Earth.

Written in response to Sue Vincent’s Thursday #writephoto prompt here

Giant metal frog

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Am I on Earth or an alien planet? I thought. I was walking around the lake, the ground was wet. In the distance I could see a metal spike rising up from the ground, with something sticking out, attached to it.

I got closer, the thing was clearly metallic, greenish copper coloured.

It was a sculpture of a frog, feet wrapped around the spike. It seemed to be looking at me? How? Its metal isn’t it?

Then it moved! One arm came up, it rubbed its eye in that odd way frogs do. It opened its mouth. .. The last thing I remember was its tongue flashing out, catching me round the neck. . The world faded.

A lesson

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The old school walls were damp and the paint was peeling off them. There were holes where ceiling tiles had fallen down and sunshine had broken through the roof.

She walked between discarded chairs, the tables were stacked against the walls. At the front of the classroom stood one of those rotating chalkboards. Grey with layers of chalk.

She reached out and pulled on the join between the boards but the thing was jammed up, no movement.

She remembered the first day she had taught here. Registration followed by the history of the celts. Teaching about Boudicca and the ancient Britons.

Nowadays children didn’t come to school. They were all home schooled, isolated, plugged in. Teaching was easy. Link to the local computer by an imput in the cranium. Download all the information, sit in a chair and learn the curriculum.

She remembered the sweet feeling of imparting knowledge  The look of wonder when a pupil understood a new concept. Ideas flying from lips to ears to brains.

No more, no enthusiasm, just imput, data, no fun.

She sighed, closed the door to the classroom. She walked home.

Almost midnight

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The green glow outside had intensified and was visible in her living room now. It was almost midnight and she knew if anything was going to happen it would be soon. He heart was pounding and she felt sweat trickle down the side of her nose. All she could do was hide.

She stepped into the old oak cupboard, pulled the door shut and hung on to the catch.

Suddenly the rushing noise outside was everywhere. She stuffed her hand in her mouth to stop screaming.

Gradually the noise calmed down, it quietened  there was a moment of a shrill scream and then silence.

In the morning it was on the news, her neighbour dead of a heart attack.

She never saw the green glow again…..

 

Sweets

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I just chose a random photo from last year and I’m going to use it to base a very short story on.

Sandra was looking for a gift for her friend. Something simple to add to a birthday card and a bottle of wine.

Ornate wooden corkscrews, crocheted scarves, silver jewellery, pots of chutney. There was lots on offer. Then she saw a sign which simply said sweets. The woman standing behind the stall had clearly decided to dress in harmony with her confections. A multi coloured tee shirt with a rainbow silk scarf round her neck. The woman’s hair was striped green and red. On her head was a straw hat painted with stencils of flowers.

She looked at the stand of sweets.. Blue hornet gobstoppers, orange nectar jems, cherry and liquorice twists. Burnt toffee with walnuts, pear and apple drops. Marshmallow wrapped in rice paper. They looked delicious.

Try one? Asked the stall holder.. She chose a caramel fizz bomb. Just hold onto the handle, said the woman and Sandra saw one attached to the top of the stall. She grasped the metal handle.

Suddenly a tingle went from her mouth to her brain, her arm went rigid and a heavy weight seemed to descend on her shoulders. Then her head cleared, she could smell lilac scent. Her ears started to foam! After that the fizz bomb gradually eased to a sweet caramel gently tickling her tongue.

I’ll have some of that she said, thinking of how her friend would react!

 

First and last through the gates. #writephoto

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Image copyright Sue Vincent. From Sue’s #writephoto photo prompt.

This is my first ever ping back so I hope it works……

The stone gateway was imposing, the heavy gates looked too big to push open easily. The first time I walked through the gates I was 10 years old and very nervous. My grandma lived in the big house, but as we had only just moved back after several years abroad I had never met her. Seeing the gates and the stone gateposts made me think that someone very important lived there.

I remembered the long tree lined drive. The dappled sunlight warming the golden gravel. I wanted to know how far it was to the front door so I started counting steps, but lost track around 300. As I turned a bend in the path I saw  short, grey haired lady in horn rimmed glasses, she didn’t look as scary as I imagined her. She was waiting at the top of three steps made of grey stone. I wanted to run up to her, but mom had told me to be polite. So I walked up slowly and quietly said hello.

That had been 40 years ago. My gran must have been about 50 but I had thought she was very old. I remembered her putting a record on for me, a Beatles song. ” Help ” I think it was? From then on she would always play music when I arrived, some pop music, other times classical music like Stravinsky or Rachmaninov. Sometimes we danced together and laughed at each other.

Today was a sad day. The last time I would walk through those gates. I remembered all the happy times I had spent there. Afternoons after school always seemed sunny. Gran would give me a snack and Mom would pick me up when she finished work.

Now both of them were gone. Today I had to lock up grans house and hand over the keys to the estate agent. The funeral had been a week ago. I had her favourite music played at the ceremony.

As I left I shut the gates gently, knowing I would never walk there again…..

You said

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You said she was having an affair.

Did I?? I don’t remember..  .

Yes, about 10 minutes ago, you told me, you said she was seeing him.

Well I might have been wrong.

So? Is she or isn’t she?

Well I’m not sure now…..

Oh come on, I missed half of it…. John rang and I had to answer, then you went off on one about trains. And you tell me half a story.

Well it’s complicated.

Complicated? Oh you must know….

Do you think it’s going to rain later?

What? What’s that got to do with it? Just TELL me what is going on, please.

No, I can’t remember, sorry. Anyway it’s only a soap opera.

Oh for goodness sake!

Playing with writing a duolog. I didn’t want to describe the people talking or to add details of their landscape.

In my mind one is male and the other female  Could you tell which is which?

I didn’t want it to be clear at the start that they were talking about a TV programme so I left it until the end of the discussion to mention a soap opera. I don’t know if this sort of squabbling is anyone else’s experience.

Blah blah blah

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My head is spinning, I can’t think. Why? Because he keeps talking, on and on and onandonandonand……argh!

He keeps listing things, this and that and the other. ..more and more. Muttering, talking under his breath. It’s not a duolog, it’s a monolog. The pretence of listening  trying to turn a blind ear to it. Please shut up! I scream over and over in my head, my aching ears, every tv programme is spoken over , every speech or argument is submerged by the verbal spewing of the same things, same ideas ad nauseam.

I try not to say anything. I did not want to start an argument. I’m polite, patient, trying to be caring. It makes my mind bend, trying to placate whilst trying to hear my own thoughts.  Misery is close to love, partnered with it, shackled till bedtime brings blessed quiet.

Tinnitus waits when silence decends, whistling, high pitched, fracturing my mind even more, sometimes I switch on the radio, quiet words, only just audible either sooth, or I catch their meaning, and listen into sleep, leaning my thoughts into their soft pillow.

I know in the morning I will start again. I try and stay in the haven of quiet peace in the dawning of day’s, lingering in bed, hiding my thoughts under the duvet. Sometimes I want to escape, to talk to someone who will listen to Me, let Me be, let me be, let me be, my brain stumbles….

Selective hearing is treacherous, what did he say? What meaning did he put in that phrase?  My off switch is too strong now. Like listening to a weather forecast that I never fully hear, only noticing a storm is coming at the end, but not hearing where…

Got to sleep, but the talking mutter is still going on….. no rest for the wicked……

No freedom, till death do we, in sickness, for poorer….where did the positives go? Where is there solace. Why do we change. Why does despair outlast joy?

But there is some joy, as a bird starts to sing into the dawn, as rays of light shine through the window and warm me, I know that I will carry on, calm down, face the future. Buy some ear plugs!

What day would I go back to?

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All the days in our lives,

Stretch out at first, then shrink,

Behind us, gone.

No rewind button for life,

No voicemail recording our every word.

Gone, long ago,  barely remembered. ..

What day would I go back to?

To hear parents voices again, and tell them

How much I loved them?

Or the first day at school, tell myself not to be so shy?

Trying to make perfume from rose petals as a child

Or older, wiser, learning to drive.

Time travel is a one way street, into the future.

If I could go back I would be pleased to meet you again.

Maybe visit a few less railways,

And see the sea a few more times.

Go back to holidays in Devon.

If I could go back I would say,

Don’t take that awful job,

Stay safe and well.

Don’t waste your life for a pay packet,

Let’s live and love.