Creative Writing

The light doth shine

It shines – reluctantly
Gold piping around edges
curved lines:softened by the glow
mesmerised red eyes
drawn like moths
to a wide open plain
visible and raw
for all the room to see
with a limited time
patches of rainbow fog
just another symptom
another reason
for aversion
A way not to see
the blindingly obvious

Wasted my young years

I am wasting my life

I know it, yet I cannot seem to stop it. I sit and I feel it slipping away from me. My get up and go has got up and gone and I have no idea how to find it again, or know if indeed it is still out there waiting to be found.

In my thoughts I am a pioneer, I swoop and soar and plan all things which I could do, list all the things I should do, hide from the things I need to do – yet still I lie.
Curled up in a fortress of quilt whenever I can get the chance, if ever I need not to be at work and sometimes when I should be somewhere else – i lie. Hidden behind walls and I lie, in bed waiting, waiting for something unknown.

I am tired

My bones do not want to move today or ever. I do not want to drag my carcass out into the unfriendly world where it has no relevance, no meaning, no joy. I feel guilt for all of the things I am missing out on, feel bad for those I am letting down, constantly but still I cannot seem to force myself out. I dont know what I want but I know it isnt this – I am a waste of life in this state. Not living but simply existing.

The only thing that brings solace is sleep. I feel I could sleep forever and feel happier lost in dreams for life only brings cruelty and sadness.

Please just let me sleep.

 

Thrill of the chase

He was never mine not really, not where it mattered.

For the most part, I am a shareholder. A greedy coveter grasping a ticket, a little piece of him that I believe is mine, until the next time. The next spin of the wheel, eagerly watching the bounce, wondering where the white ball will land, wondering if my time is near. Alas, lady luck was never a friend to me. And so shall he be, forever more on the move,free to roam to whichever ever table he pleases. I can but sit and watch agog whilst the women sigh and feign over him. My stomach knotting to see blood red fingertips brush his skin. My scorn rises as perfumed beauties fawn and blush to see him pass by, they even lean in to smell his sweet scent at times. my discontent clearly shown, I cannot help it.
He is not mine any more yet once he was and I am loathe to forget. The night we shared on the poker table, I recall the revelry in his caress. How I would pull him to my lips with each jubilant squeal. I remember the fire of anticipation before we touched, our first meeting of indecency, our indiscretion of sorts.

Our last meeting was so long ago yet still I yearn for you, still I sit and watch you work your magic on others, hoping one day your delights will come back to me. praying for a day you will return so I can love you better, and not let you slip so easily through my fingertips..
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50 Word story: An Expensive Kiss

 

An Expensive Kiss

He leapt from her arms, conscious of time fading. He took one last look at her smiling face between his palms before planting a soft kiss, then he ran. He didn’t look back: a clear image in mind. He ran towards his scowling fiancé who was waiting, tickets in hand.

 

It will all work out

This isn’t working for me. Isn’t working in the setting of the sun or the waking of the dawn when the birds croak out a morning chorus to wake the tree. It isn’t working in the drops of the rain that fall in the middle of the night calling out names to people who can no longer hear them. It doesn’t work for me that every time I see a small glimpse of hope flickering between the pebbles and the cliff tops that you tell me it’s just an illusion that there is nothing really there: just maybe a firefly breathing his final breathe.

This no longer works for me

The soft insinuation that things will be ok, that I will be ok, at sometime and some point. The dull thudding in my heart when I hear what you don’t say and know that you couldn’t, only to be able to hear it ten times louder than any other constant noise. It’s the slow droning that nags my earlobes and pulls the despair out of my mind and onto the paper. That sheer expression of nonsensical love and what it means to have it, to recognise and hold onto it for dear life.

This isn’t working out for me

To be able to dance in the autumn light of a harvest moon but never truly taste the bounty. To steal a grape from the great cornucopia of life yet never be able to let it reach my lips and feel it’s cool skin pressed against mine. To allow the acorns to nestle in safe pockets of earth protected from harm yet never to see them rise into strong reliant Oaks. To never feel the rush of the wind filter through my hair yet watch it blow the leaves into submission. To have the sea air cling to my lips yet never allow my aching tongue to taste it.

These are things that don’t work out for me

You don’t work out for me

Mornings… ugh

Just a start of something more perhaps…

 

The alarm screamed into her ears to wake her violently from her dream. An arm jutted out from under the sheets and aimlessly patted the side table in an effort to find the source of the noise. After a minute of useless fumbling the sheets were thrown off and she grabbed the clock with both hands, hitting it into quiet submission.

‘I hate you!’

She screamed at the clock as she slammed it to the floor. Stumbling into her slippers she cursed at the cold air and having to get up so early, she hated mornings anyway but Monday was always the worst. Grabbing her robe for warmth she made her way to the bathroom in a sleepy haze, luckily she managed to navigate the route on auto pilot most mornings.

Turning the tap on she pondered her tired face in the mirror as she waited for the water to heat up. Poking her tongue out at her reflection she thought about how nice it would be to just go back to sleep and ignore the world but she knew that wasn’t an option. So instead she splashed her face with tepid water until her eyes were fully open and brushed her teeth begrudgingly

The Late Request

It begins with a clear cylinder

The telltale chink of  a miniature iceberg

Responding defiantly: with a thick “CRACK”

Upon first meeting of its soul mate

Shuddering against the caress,

Attempting to fight the inevitability

Rising without consent

Orifices filed with thick creamy nectar

Until they bob, on the surface

subdued and compliant

No longer resisting

Just the quiet vibration of submittal

Slowly but surely melting

into my mouth

You wait until I swallow the last drop

My lips coated in a sticky delight

Only then do you ask to taste my Baileys