writing

SoCS – My Precious

OK so my stream of consciousness Saturday became a stream of consciousness Sunday but I think it still works πŸ˜€

If you want to check out the rules or read some other great blogs turn please check the link to see Linda G Hill

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‘My precious, my precious.’

His bony fingers turned the gold band over and over as he rocked back and forth happy in the knowledge that his true love was back in his hands once again.

I always felt that Smeagol or Gollum whichever face you choose to bestow upon him received a bad rap for his outwardly creepy exterior. Perhaps if he were the handsome hero and the ring had been his female counterpart then being so blindly obsessed would have been considered sweet or endearing for his persistence. If he were the guy who fought for his true love and never gave up, the one in the film that had been deserted, rebuffed yet got himself back together to fight for the girl. If he had been the knight in shining armour, fighting through wild forests and battling the dragon to get that princess back in his arms again then they would have all loved him unconditionally.

Yet because the source of affection is just a placid lump of metal the whole passions of the creature becomes trivial and humorous. So funny in fact that in a cinema when the scene between Smeagol and Gollum came on and he had an argument with himself over his precious, a huge wave of laughter began and made everyone turn and stare.

Except myself who was too busy shrinking down in my seat trying to pretend I wasn’t with that date!

Timing is so precious!

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SoCS – The Card

It lay there – relentless.

It’s wide open face trying to lure me in with fake promises of innocence and plausible deniability. Yet I could sense the danger; see the evil glint in it’s googly eye.

Every so often I came across it, usually in the big grand clear out of hoarded cupboards, of drawers, of boxes, of past lives. Yet every year it survives. The single birthday card destined to be sent out yet never quite reaching it’s full potential.Β  Instead it lingers, ticking away at my mind and forcing me to recall memories of things past and left unsaid.

Oh, I know I could throw it in the dustbin or send it off to someone else to save the waste yet I just can’t bring myself to do it. The stupid humour on it was perfect for our little ‘in jokes’ that nobody else could understand and I knew you would appreciate the line of the poem I’d picked out and inserted especially for you – nobody else would have made the connection.

And yet I can’t send it now either.

Instead I clear it away, packed back into a shoebox, left to fester amongst the half burned candles and dried out roses. Left in the box of memories that mean the whole world and yet nothing at all.

……..

 

This piece was written using the ‘card’ prompt by Linda G Hill as inspiration. If you want to join in or just check out some inspired writing then please check out her blog for rules and more.

lindaghill.com

Another Time, Another Place

Β 

I could have loved you,

but you didn’t see the magnitude of my request.

You were not able to feel the weight

pressed into every word

scribbled, on tear stained paper.

Β 

I would have loved you,

if, after careful consideration

you’d told me,

it was too much – I was too much.

You just couldn’t comprehend the change,

not just of lovers, but whole lives too.

Perhaps, being apprehensive, you were scared,

unsure of your feelings, where they lay,

and who with.

I could have loved you

for wanting time to contemplate.

Β 

I could have forgiven you,

of being unaware of loaded pressure,

for not sharing the burden

of the ticking bomb I held in the dark.

I would have forgiven you

for not understanding my clumsy plea.

Not seeing through the flimsy charade of subtext

that was so easily dismissed.

I accept this fault as my own

Β 

I would have loved you

with your words recanted.

After nights of indecision,Β 

If your voice had only offered emotion

rather than indifference.

I could have loved you.

Even after the painful walk home,

of shame, of sadness, of anger.

Devoid of affection,

or admission.

Β 

But when days and nights pass

into weeks, then months,

and eventually she leaves you

for another man, another baby.

If after all avenues have been scoured,

options weighed up,

and my offer of love is recalled

from the depths of its ashes.

When you want me to love you

and wonder where the fire has gone.

Remember

Β 

I could have loved you completely

Only the timing was wrong.

Β 

A Dark bit for Dewin

She heard the screams before she realised: it was her own throat producing them. Instead her mind was firmly fixed on the heat, and the rope, and the searing pain behind her eyeballs as her flesh melted into the hemp. Closing her eyes tightly to block out the acrid smoke, she tried to gather her last bit of energy in a struggle to get free. The flames licking at her heels were no longer the biggest threat, if she couldn’t get her wrists free from the knots, she knew it was game over. She had always been a fighter but failure seemed inevitable.

He knew this as he threw the lighter into the carefully prepared bonfire, she had set his heart aflame and then torn away any hope he had for the future. He said he would return the favour as he said his goodbyes.

WIP – Wednesday Morning Writing

Her bare feet slapped against the hard concrete as she ran down the stairs of her building, she hadn’t even bothered to lock the door, but she didn’t really think anyone would want anything from her place anyhow, unless they were collecting empty bottles and self pity.
Reaching the bottom door and swinging it wide open, she was greeted with the early morning chorus from the family of starlings awaiting the first rays of light. She stepped out into the clammy air and ignored the wet gravel beneath her feet.

My Muse

 

It’s as if you make my fingers type somehow
Lure thoughts from my lips, staining the paper
– with inspiration
There are days when you tire me
Incessantly driving my mind forward
Creating strings of words ,that take form
Just a line or two at first
Then suddenly a whole cacophony
Of symphonies: the muse in triumph
And unbeknownst to most, you sit
Perched firmly in my chest
Your voice at the forefront of my mind

Go on, you say
Write it – write it all out
Write it for me

A Nostalgic Farewell

I watch from my window, as you prepare to leave me. The streetlight

illuminates you in a hazy orange gloom, as you banish frost from your windscreen

My window, smirched from warm breath saves me from seeing that look you wear

Fumbling with your keys whilst you wrestle with your overnight bag

Your Caribbean blue charger snorts impatiently at the charade.

I press my hand against the cold glass; you wave goodbye.