Tag Writing

Interlude – A Dash of Sunny Prompt Night

freyathewriter 16 Comments

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‘to sleep, perchance to dream’

– about all the things I want to do

‘aye, there’s the rub,

for in that sleep of death,

what dreams may come’

– after i’ve done all the things I need to do

‘but, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

it is the east and Juliet is the sun’

rays streaming down on

– the books to read

– the pen to scribe with

– the paints, the pencils

– the image I am desperate, so desperate

to magically transfer from my inner mind to paper

this is rest for me?

– the poem running round my head like a tantrum

– the story banging its fists on the back of my eyes

– the protagonist telling me I’ve got her clothes all wrong and

WTF?! that’s not the car she’d drive and

WTF?! she’d never say WTF?!

this is rest for me?

why, yes.

this is rest for me.

it feeds my soul.

 

Here’s my entry into A Dash of Sunny’s ‘On Popular Demand’ series of Prompt Nights. I’m new to Sunny’s prompts and blog, so this is my first ‘On Popular Demand’ entry!

I had real fun writing this… Picture this, it’s Saturday morning, I’m sitting on the sofa half-watching a new favourite YouTube channel by a Chilean illustrator, Frannerd, I’m in my dressing gown and slippers, sipping coffee and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Glamour puss I am most definitely not! And here’s Sunny’s prompt which perfectly reflects my Saturday morning mindset.

Don’t get me wrong, I can sit around and do nothing – but not for too long. I have an urge to create, or read others’ creativity, watch and learn about how to be creative… You know how it goes.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy my unrestful poem about rest – my kind of rest! Do head on over to Sunny’s place, have a read, be inspired, take part – you know you want to!

Luft

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They burned books in the hallways. I could smell it, the pain, the anger, the protest as the words scurried out of the open windows, sucked out into the great, black yonder by the treacherous summer wind.

I had expected more of Nature. After all, She had suffered enough over the millennia, as Man chewed Her up and spat Her out. But no, here She was, aiding the destroyers of the only beautiful thing that we had managed to create without destroying Her.

But. Maybe that was the point.

Helping Man wreak his own destruction.

Checkmate.

 

XOXO

freyathewriter 2 Comments

Joy, from the rock band The Carburettors, appears to be a real rock chick. Yes, she looks the part with her neon pink curly hair that can only be  described as dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards-scruffy, black kohl eyeliner, cleavage-revealing vest top, a biker jacket several sizes too large and actually ancient rather than artfully so, a barely there black skirt and tights with runs that speak of hard and long use rather than attacked with a kitchen knife. She is all that a fan would want and more.

Sadly for her band mates though, her heart isn’t really in it, not any more. She’s had enough of groupies and drugs and sex – always the wrong kind of fans, always the saddest of sex. She wants, at the grand old age of 27, to write the Great American Novel. She reads them all, any time she gets the chance and has even been known to read Allen Ginsberg over a hairy shoulder whilst the latest enthusiastic almost-twenty-something guy is doing his best to protract his painfully sweaty three minute performance into something more meaningful and long-lasting, man.

And then she meets the bartender from Seattle. She is stunning, Amazonian, and knows exactly who she is and where she’s at. Disturbingly and more importantly, she has the measure of Joy in moments. She plays her far better than Joy plays her electric guitar, which to be fair, is certainly saying something.

Joy knows she is in thrall to this woman. She knows that if she lets go completely, her Great American Novel will just become another shattered Great American Dream. She has to get away, and fast. But it takes months – hardly fast, at all. Because, unlike most people of her background, she doesn’t own a car, never had. She’d run away to the band at the tender age of 14, before her doting parents could fund her teenage future and her rite of passage of Drivers’ Ed and all that goes with it could grant her freedom. So, she learns to drive, painfully slowly. And all the while, her lover locks all the doors, pins her down and makes Joy hers. Completely.

Joy is 29 now. Still in the band. Still aching to write. Still nothing more than the words ‘Chapter One’ at the front of her notebook. Still in thrall to sex and luv and come to bed eyes.

Ex Oh. Ex Oh-what the fuck…