Something of great importance to me happened two nights ago

Jennifer is hosting Write on Wednesdays this week and our prompt is a line (above) from Alex Miller's "Autumn Laing". So the challenge is "Set your timer for 5 minutes or write about 500 words. If you’re looking for specific feedback, please let us know. Otherwise – enjoy the writing."

I've done a 5 minute flow of consciousness, not quite sure where it came from!

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to grow up not knowing the truth about your mother? When you are a shiny smily child you believe that you do know all about her, that she is an angel in heaven (well that is what they told you). But then, when the adults deem the time is right, they tell you their new version of the truth. This, of course, is only their perception, the story that fits best with the reality they live with, the truth that they believe to be the right thing to say. What do you say to a teen who thinks their mother is dead?

“Your mother had some problems”, they said, “she was never the same after what happened, she just couldn’t cope, so she went away”. It never really gelled, it never fitted the photos, the smiling face gazing at a babe in arms.

And then the years of wondering, the watching of faces in crowds for a glimmer of familiarity. Somehow I thought I would “ just know” when she was near me, but that feeling never came. With the arrival of my own child, her absence was more acute, more poignant and more painful. How to be a mother-less mother?

And then, just two nights ago, there was a knock at my door.

Fear

WoW for this week  - Think back to when you were very young. Try to recall one of your first fears. A shadow on the wall, a ghost in the closet, a person, a scene from a movie or book. Write about that fear. Try to remember the feeling it gave you, what that fear would make you do and how you were comforted. Write a real life story or a piece of fiction. Wherever the prompt takes you. Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links. Oh, and enjoy!

She sits in front of the flickering screen, thoughts elsewhere as screenbound Heidi flicks her platinum plaits and runs up snowcapped mountains. She loves the story of Heidi, but not today.

Her mind is firmly across the road at home.

Sprinklers on the roof, gutters full of water, down pipes clogged with ragbag clothes. Dad had swept leaves away, closed all the windows and doors before leaving her at the neighbours’ to play.

But play is not for her today, as smiles and chatter will not come easily. Her tummy feels tingly and slightly sick, her heart beats quickly in her chest. Her sticky hands screw her hanky into knots in her lap. The acrid smell of smoke is everywhere, the daylight weirdly orange as the temperature rises further. Her breath comes faster as a sob rises. She wants her Mum, her Dad, she wants them here and she wants everything to be all right. Now.

Memories of a headless man – a collector or a hoarder?

Gill @ Write on Wednesdays has given us the task of writing on collections, or collectors this week. Pop by and look at other people's offerings!

He had lived in the neat house on the inner suburban street for well over 60 years. He moved in with his wife, then brought up his sons and as they moved on, one by one, he lived alone. He had a cat for company from time to time.

He was the ideal quiet neighbour, his loss of hearing a comfort to us on our sleepless nights with crying babies. Sociable when engaged, but innately insular, he kept to his home. He never had visitors, apart from the home care lady and his sons. As he became older and needed more help, we were invited by necessity into his home to help him in the aftermath of falls and leg injuries.  Terrible osteoporosis had rendered him bent at the waist, his head invisible from behind.

He had a secret life, collecting, well, everything! Jars of screws, nails, bolts, cottonballs, washed margarine containers, icecream tubs, cotton spools, used matches, newspapers, and magazines – all were neatly labelled and collated. He knew exactly where everything was. Anything with a purpose was put away in case it was needed.

His house was jammed with collections of all descriptions, mainly household hardware and haberdashery. And data…weather data. Millions of pieces of plain paper, with sunrise and sunset, minimum and maximum temperature and rainfall documented for every day of the previous 60 years. All in tiny writing, never a day missed.

I always wondered if the house had been like this when his wife was alive, whether she tolerated (or encouraged?) his obsessiveness. Was he always like this or had he learnt it through hard times – he had seen 2 wars and The Great Depression.  What had his children thought of it? Did he find it a satisfying comfort or a distressing compulsion?

Thinking back, I never asked him why. I guess it was none of my business, it was just what he did.

The beached tree

First Write on Wednesday for 2012 and I'm feeling a bit rusty! I did manage to get a few pieces written over the holidays, you can scroll to these on my blog if you like.

Thankyou Gill for your ongoing hosting, support and inspiration for WoW.

from Story

As he gazed at the tree he wondered at the majesty and strength of nature. How could this massive tree, have just appeared, stricken and lifeless, on the beach? He turned and gazed toward the horizon as thoughts of storms, waves and the boat trip swelled back into his consciousness. The breeze rising, her face slid unbidden into his mind as he felt the gentle kiss linger on his cheek.

The idea of a weekend away had been hers, a time for them to take a breath from the shop and her studies. The cabin had been perfect, they’d slept and laughed and loved. Weather checked, the grizzled sea dog had reassured them that it was the right day and that to leave it any longer would be risking missing out completely. So off they sailed into the bay, to find the legendary lover’s beach.

And stunning it had been, just as they had been told. As they drowsed under the palms, he realised gradually that something had changed, that the birds had quietened. He stretched and stood looking seaward, and saw the gathering threat. Waking her quickly, he grabbed her by the hand as they raced to their craft and set the engine roaring. The waves mounted and the walls of water became harder to scale. Their faces pale and pinched, the wind whipped their hair slickly against their greening skin. And then it came – the monster wave to which he had forfeited all. One moment, one dreadful moment, and she was gone.

And as he looked back to the tree, battered, beached and powerless, he understood how it come to be so.

Yamba

This piece is loosely using the prompts of "sit under a tree" and "in my neighbourhood", and inspired by my love of voyeurism.

They’d come a long way for this, seduced by the promised bliss of sun and surf and not a bit deterred by the alarm of shark attacks or backpacker murderers. Two years of thrift and now they were here, the land theirs to explore for six long months.

Sydney had been fun, though the drinking and anger on the streets had daunted them and so they headed north.

Today, their playground was Yamba, a surfer’s mecca, a sun-kissed place of blue and gold. They’d swum till their legs ached and their skin hummed from the salt and sun.

Together they lay their towels on the scrubby grass and set up the camp stove. Water to boil, he pours in the pasta and waits. ‘One last swim!” – she kisses him lightly then darts down the path and out of sight.

He gazes at the outline of the trees above, perhaps dreaming , perhaps pummelled by the waves he is now devoid of thought?

Pouring water off into the scrub he shakes the pasta dry and sits to add the jar of red sauce. Poking idly at the meal, he glances down the sand path. He flicks an ant from the leghairs above his ankle and waits. And waits.

Minutes lengthen, forehead creased in concern, he stands to walk to the scrubby rise, shaking the sand from his shorts. He vanishes around the bend and all is quiet. A kookaburra swoops to investigate the meal, but decides against plundering.

He returns and sits again, hand tapping thigh, on alert, agitation spreading through him like caffeine. The food in front of him cools and gels. The light softening, the shadows lengthening as his panic heightens.

He stands yet again, distress screaming from every part of him. He looks around, wishing her back, not sure what to do, how to get help.

A flick of blonde hair catches the corner of his vision, his head snaps to focus. She calls his name and runs to him as his body slumps in relief. They embrace, his face wetly pressed to her salted neck. 

http://i218.photobucket.com/albums/cc255/wphenco/Trips/Canada/Okanagan/Waterfront-Couple.jpg

One liner

And I had so many plans to write, write, write over the Christmas break, but too much "stuff"  got in the way!

But I'm back on track, starting slowly!

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 13 - A Great One Liner...This week you need to come up with one good line to describe a part of your day. It can be 'real life' or fiction. But it must tell us 'who did what'. It has to be an amazing line, like a tiny little paper plane that must travel a big distance (figuratively speaking) with only a few folds ... Every word in that line must earn its place, or be cut as excess baggage. Let's get thinking about each sentence as though every word counts, like working one group of muscles to show how much weight they can carry.

Caught mid-snarl by the bleep of her i-phone she turned from her tired mother, and reading the message, a glow of delight shone from her gold-blue eyes.

WoW - Notre Dame de Paris

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 26 - Look at the photo at the top of this post. What does it inspire in you? Set your timer for 5 minutes. With the photo in mind, write the first words that come into your head until the buzzer rings. If you aren't a visual person, you could try lighting a few candles and writing by candlelight. Different sensory experiences can be useful for inspiring creative writing so please play around to make the prompt suit your writing needs. If you do try writing by candlelight, let us know. I'd love to know how it works for you!


Link here for this week's WoW Notre Dame de Paris

I don't know why such a grim story came to mind...

She slid into her head, dredging memories from her past as she gazed at the flickering flames . The thick sandstone walls were cold and still, she shivered slightly and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. The world had changed – what had once been condoned by silence was no longer ignored, but that was of little consolation to her. As she knelt, she wondered why she had – kneeling felt like what she should do in such a place, but prayer would not come to her.

She saw her young self, innocent earnest face above white robes as she followed the holy man, walking in his footsteps and self opened in trust. She fleetingly felt the confusion again, before she closed down the memory.

She stood slowly and turned toward the back of the church. For the last time, she gazed at the beautiful glass windows, bathed in candlelight. She thought of the implications of her next move, of the telling and the consequences. Wondering if she had the courage to go through with it, she knew that she must.

WoW - in my neighbourhood

I'm in another city at a conference this week which has been crazy busy, but stimulating and interesting. But I HAD to make time to do my writing!

Her mind was a jungle, a jumble of past and present, of real and imagined.  Living as she did, in her tiny unit on a busy street, life was confusing, to say the least.

She thought of herself as a queen, her throne the bus seat on the main road, her crown a faded carroty halo, roots all grey. People either ignored her, eyed her suspiciously and took wide berth, or (only the very brave ones) said hello.

Some days were orange and filled with irritability, others were blue and quieter. On these days, when the voices were just mumbles, she would sit by the water and keep the seagulls company, smoke in hand.

On orange days, all sorts of chaos could ensue. One day, when the cacophony in her head was all too much, the men in blue had taken her to hospital. Whilst the food was good, it was a bad mad place to be and she had promised to behave if she could just go home.

Now that the nice girl comes and gives her a monthly jab, the noises are mere murmurs, and she can get on with chatting to friendly voices. She may not fit in, but this is her home.

We are learning to make fire

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 23 - Write the words of Margaret Atwood at the top of your page "We are learning to make fire". Set your timer to 5 minutes. Write the first words that come into your head after the prompt. Stop when the buzzer rings.

“And then we will learn to put it out” declared Sid, the new OH and S officer, as he confidently piled papers high. “Fire training is compulsory, you know”.

Snickers in the back row  - “sounds like Boy Scouts”, “ nah, Girl Guides” “aren’t we a bit old for that?” as elbows nudged and eyes rolled.

“C’mon guys” sighed Sarah, “you know we have to sign the whole group off or the boss won’t subsidise the Christmas Party, lets just get on with it”.

“OK then Sarah, you can be my helper” Sid smirked as he handed her the matches and beckoned her close. He did like a pretty girl in panty hose. His chest puffed with importance, as he splashed petrol over the papery tower. “Nothing like a fire-starter”.

Sarah hesitated as she opened the box and slid out a match, “are you sure this is safe?”

“I’m the Safety Officer, sweetheart, of course it’s safe” were the last words he uttered as the flames lept skywards.

High and dry

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 22 - Select a piece of music that reflects the mood of writing you'd like to aim for. Press play. Start free writing. Write the first words that come into your head. When the music's over, so is the writing.


Whoa, 4 minutes isn't very long! I love pretty well everything Radiohead, but this one is just beautiful.
PS  Friday - I posted on Wednesday, but felt the piece incomplete, so have added to it today!


High and Dry

Away from it all, away from the city, an unplanned flight from the mundane. I cling to his back as we speed up the motorway, cares floating behind as lightly as the wind takes them. My heart strains against the curve of his back as the road winds ahead.

A chance meeting, a night to remember and then this leap. He asked me to fly with him, fly away and I have. Brief thoughts of responsibility, of the risk I’m taking are merely snatched from me as what I know slides behind.

A flashback to the surprise on mother’s face, a hint of sadness or was it fear?

Am I mad going with my impulse and trusting him? Echoes of news reports shudder through my brain, images of missing persons, of tearful families, of taped bushland scenes.

A sucker for a bad boy, Jack was right up my alley - bearded , brash and free of spirit. I brush away a loose hair from my lips and recall his mouth on mine, sure and intent.

No, this felt right. I’d thrown my question to the skies just 3 weeks ago, and he was my answer. Yes, this was right. I take a breath and snuggle in tightly.

I thought I saw

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 20 - Write the words " I thought I saw" at the top of your page. Set a timer for 5 minutes. Write the first words that come into your head after the prompt. Don't take you pen off the page (or fingers off the keyboard). Stop only when the buzzer rings! Do this exercise over and over if you wish. Write beyond 5 minutes if you like, you can link it up as an extra post.


I tried this twice - strictly timed to the 5 mins, with limited editing - I might play around with this as a rewrite sometime. Sort of inspired by the dreamy feel in The Slap last night - Connie's story...

I Thought I saw…

1)

They say it will come when you least expect it. He walked into my life and took up residence as if he’d always been there.

Hey baby, come be with me

Hey baby come lie down beside me, let me kiss you

Hey baby we’ll have such a wonderful life together, you and me

Hey baby you are my love, my only one, my forever…

I though I saw love in his eyes

Silken months of joy, love and desire, happy like never before

As summer faded and leaves grew wizened, promises now lost

I realized I had been mistaken.

2)

Summer sun, steamy breezes, breaths of love and desire

You are my beautiful you are my only

You are my only one

In those eyes, I thought I saw love

Autumn chill, leaves turn golden and sadly fall

No more, summer’s passion passed, now gone

In those eyes, I thought I saw love

Mistaken

Sit under a tree and write..WoW Exercise 17

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 17: This week, we are going with Karen's idea for an open choice week. So take a look at the old writing exercises (you can find them listed in my sidebar: WoW Writing Exercises), find one you'd like to try (or retry!) and link it up to the linky below.
5 minutes inspired by a picture.
I can't work out how to copy it, but you can see it here. http://inkpaperpen.blogspot.com/2011/07/sit-under-tree-and-writeits-write-on.html

No-one knew of course. She could never let them know or too many would be at risk. The warnings had been rumbles of mumbles and murmurs, but none had heeded them. Not in their land, not in their homes.

Of course, the political word had been out, that there would be change when the new regime took over, but the extremes that it would go to were never envisaged. As the daughter of a city academic, life had been comfortable, never the sunburnt toil of the country folk. School, enough to eat, a pretty home, space of their own.

And then the trucks and the soldiers, the dictation of enforced poverty and an agrarian state.  Just yesterday the neighbours were taken, told that their new life would be in service of the better good. The screams of the children still echoed in her ears.

She ran to the tree, in the green glade, a special place, her special place. Checking over her shoulder, she made sure she had not been seen. A tear dropped as she slipped her treasures into the rootspace.

WoW - Songbird - Into my arms

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 16:

Hadge says:  Take a favorite (or even random play) song and write the story behind the lyrics, not something inspired by the lyric, but the flesh on the bones of the story. It gives lots of scope for interpretative writing. Use the lyrics or theme of a song  for a piece of flash fiction (50 to 200 words). To clarify, write your version of the story behind the lyrics in a song 

Nick Cave is an Australian musical legend and I adore his musical poetry. My piece is not his meaning of the song, but it is the interpretation I have taken from it. This song has special meaning for me so I've written a (true) fairytale with an unhappy ending.
Listen here whilst you read......
Into my arms

A blue eyed angel, just one, lived with her parents in the sandstone house on the narrow street. A good child became a beautiful woman who fell in and out of love. She studied hard, she partied hard, she laughed a lot, she loved deeply.

As she grew to know her destiny (to work for others, to have a family) fate (or God?) stepped in.

This was not to be. The cells had spoken. For her, a battle royal, a disintegration of body, a struggle of mind, a gentle swell of time before the end.

Last days spent above the perfumed garden in the arms of those who adored her, final breaths as carols chimed.

A comfort of angels fill the candle-lit sandstone house on the narrow street.

WoW - the problem

The brief

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 15 - Give yourself some time to notice the people around you. The people who may cross your path each day. The lady in front of you at the supermarket, the man who helps the school kids cross the road, a neighbour, a waitress in a cafe, a librarian, anyone at all. Choose one person, someone you don't know, and this person will become the basis of the week's writing exercise. Describe this person as you see them, describe their surroundings. Then imagine a problem, create conflict for this person. Describe the conflict. Describe how your character deals with the problem. The conflict might resolve itself, it might not. It is up to you. Perhaps, the lady in the supermarket has forgotten her wallet. Does she bursts into tears? Maybe the librarian finds a lost child. The aim is to show how your character responds to conflict and in the process, reveal something about that character. Tell us their story.


Let's aim for around 200 words, keeping with the theme of the last few weeks (to make each word count).

This was fun! I had a few characters in mind, but this guy intrigues me every time I see him.

His eyes snap open. The hydraulic hum, the distant smash of glass a far away call to duty. Feet to floor, he dresses quickly, buttons one two three four five, a compulsory sixth tightens his neck. High waisted jeans, longitudinal creases precisely pressed. Hair parted and combed slickly.

His pulse quickens as the noises come closer, anxiety presses in as he anticipates the disruption ahead. Socks, then shoes, laces left over right, under, looped then tightly snapped. Sugared tea stirred, exactly thrice.

He stands outside tense and waiting.  His block runs from Shipley St to Windy Parade and he must keep it right.

‘G’day, mate!!” shouts the garbo over the cacophony of rubbish and recycling. An annoyed dismissal – how dare this troublesome invader expect response?

Machines lift and lower, coloured-lidded bins crash landing spreadeagled in gutters and grass. As the truck moves off, he scuttles into action, dragging them back into place, perfectly lined.

Down the street, house after house, (the units are the biggest anxiety), order is regained. Sweaty palms pocketed, his breathing slows as he surveys his morning’s work.

Another Tuesday morning.

Would love your feedback, positive or negative!

Rewrite...The God of Small things

Write on Wednesday Exercise 14 - The Mighty Mighty Rewrite...

Zanni: I did a workshop with literary author Mj Hyland, who teachers Masters in Creative Writing at Manchester University. She asked us to choose our favourite book, take the first paragraph and then write our own content into the paragraph, keeping the structure, tone, language etc. It's really helpful!

Here's my first go at WoW, I don't think I've attempted creative writing since school days! 

I love the God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. I've tried to keep the tone and language, but change the context and weather.

Original

"May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees. Red bananas ripen. Jackfruits burst. Dissolute bluebottles hum vacuously in the fruity air. Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled in the sun. The nights are clear but suffused with sloth and sullen expectation."

Rewrite

"February in Bourke is a hot hellish month. The days are long and tortured. Dust blows and seeps slickly into the crevices of cars and homes and families. Mirrored light shimmers a mirage. Black crows gorge on the battle-losers and blowies hum their hypnotic drone.

The nights are cooler but instilled with lethargic anticipation."


Comments welcome!