The Road

Tuesday, 13 December 2011 00:16
apolla: (Queen Maeve)

Just something I've been thinking about for various reasons.


The narrow, empty rural road stretched and disappeared into the mountains of the far distance. I squared my shoulders, pulled my jacket closer to me and took the first step.

The wind was at my back and though I couldn't see it in the silvery sky, the sun was warm upon my face. The landscape, which was barren and empty at first glance, revealed itself to be made up of various shades of greens, browns and greys. Further on I could see light showers of rain slipping through the air at the point where the steel sky met the dark land.

I walked. The road rose and fell, twisted and turned and I walked. The skies were still much too thick to see the sun, but still I felt its vague warmth from above.

I walked and the road led along the edge of a dark lake. The waters were so still that the reflections there were almost exact renderings of the landscape above: the sparsely forested hills and stripped limestone mountains.

I walked endlessly but did not become weary. Night threatened to fall but it did not come. Though the waters stirred a little from their glassy stillness, it never become rough.

I walked, and although all was silence and solitude I did not feel alone. Where once I would have needed constant music in my ears, I missed it not.

I walked, but my feet did not turn sore. My bright magenta sneakers did not rub and my muscles did not burn, but I felt the distance even as I had no sense of time.

I walked and although I had no notion of a specific destination, I was not lost.

I walked, and I walked until I turned a final rising bend and found myself staring at a house.

The house was like scores I'd seen before on roads just like this one. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls were comforting in their familiarity. Thin smoke curled up from the chimney and I breathed deep the warm, earthy smell of a peat fire.

The stones underfoot crunched as I approached the front door, it a brilliant green and surrounded by wild roses. I paused at the door, and caught my reflection in the window. I looked more beautiful than I had ever seen myself before, but exactly the same as I had always been. I smiled at myself and opened the door.

It was snugly warm inside. The lights were on. The interior of the house was nothing special, just as it was nothing particularly interesting on the outside, but as the door closed behind me I knew what would be waiting for me further in. It was everything I had ever honestly wanted and needed, for the two were not so unalike. Music playing from somewhere nearby, the song I'd loved the best and closed my eyes to.


By the fire, I found a familiar face, smiling in welcome. 'I've been waiting for you.'

'Well, I've been waiting a long time to get here.'

The long walk was penance, I understood in that moment. Waiting was the punishment and always, always was. It is over and I am here.

The Road

Tuesday, 13 December 2011 00:16
apolla: (Queen Maeve)

Just something I've been thinking about for various reasons.


The narrow, empty rural road stretched and disappeared into the mountains of the far distance. I squared my shoulders, pulled my jacket closer to me and took the first step.

The wind was at my back and though I couldn't see it in the silvery sky, the sun was warm upon my face. The landscape, which was barren and empty at first glance, revealed itself to be made up of various shades of greens, browns and greys. Further on I could see light showers of rain slipping through the air at the point where the steel sky met the dark land.

I walked. The road rose and fell, twisted and turned and I walked. The skies were still much too thick to see the sun, but still I felt its vague warmth from above.

I walked and the road led along the edge of a dark lake. The waters were so still that the reflections there were almost exact renderings of the landscape above: the sparsely forested hills and stripped limestone mountains.

I walked endlessly but did not become weary. Night threatened to fall but it did not come. Though the waters stirred a little from their glassy stillness, it never become rough.

I walked, and although all was silence and solitude I did not feel alone. Where once I would have needed constant music in my ears, I missed it not.

I walked, but my feet did not turn sore. My bright magenta sneakers did not rub and my muscles did not burn, but I felt the distance even as I had no sense of time.

I walked and although I had no notion of a specific destination, I was not lost.

I walked, and I walked until I turned a final rising bend and found myself staring at a house.

The house was like scores I'd seen before on roads just like this one. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls were comforting in their familiarity. Thin smoke curled up from the chimney and I breathed deep the warm, earthy smell of a peat fire.

The stones underfoot crunched as I approached the front door, it a brilliant green and surrounded by wild roses. I paused at the door, and caught my reflection in the window. I looked more beautiful than I had ever seen myself before, but exactly the same as I had always been. I smiled at myself and opened the door.

It was snugly warm inside. The lights were on. The interior of the house was nothing special, just as it was nothing particularly interesting on the outside, but as the door closed behind me I knew what would be waiting for me further in. It was everything I had ever honestly wanted and needed, for the two were not so unalike. Music playing from somewhere nearby, the song I'd loved the best and closed my eyes to.


By the fire, I found a familiar face, smiling in welcome. 'I've been waiting for you.'

'Well, I've been waiting a long time to get here.'

The long walk was penance, I understood in that moment. Waiting was the punishment and always, always was. It is over and I am here.

apolla: (Percy)
Just something I spewed out instead of actually, er, writing....


I'm going to another creative writing class next week and the chosen book is a compilation of bits, pieces and essays by proper (ie, published, well received) writers about why and how they write. I flicked through it earlier, and this began to form in my brain.

 

I write for many reasons, some of which are silly and some of which are stupid.

 

  • I write to have an excuse to spend hours in Starbucks.

  • I write to have something to do.

  • I write because I really, really want to play God.

  • I write because I'm not much cop at anything else.

  • I write just in case my first plan of 'Become a Rock Star' falls through.

 

All of this is at least a little bit true. However:

 

  • I spend hours in Starbucks so that I might actually write. Otherwise I could just get take-out.

  • I can always find something to do, even if it's nothing. I'm a champion at 'busy doing nothing'.

  • I really, really want to be God. That one's totally true.

  • I probably show promise at other things, although what I couldn't say.

  • Actually, 'Be A Rock Star' is my Plan B. Writing is/was/should be Plan A.

 

I find ideas horrendously easy. Too easy. They come when I don't want them, when I'm already working on eleventy billion others. Actually sitting down and writing is another matter. I mean, I like doing it. I miss it when I can't, for whatever reason, but it's not easy.

 

For me, writing isn't a search for the divine, or for truth, or to shine a light in dark corners of the world. It's a battle between me and myself. It is the battle between Clare, who wants to be successful, who really just wants to finish something and her Evil Twin, who would much rather sit and watch the same repeats on Dave, or lie in bed.

 

Writing is the triumph over myself. As much as I would dearly love things to be published, to be successful even, and *gasp* to make money, for me there is almost a greater triumph in just getting something down on the page in the first place.

 

I can't really write at home anymore. I get too distracted by the TV or a DVD or stuff on the internet. My flowery dell is not designed for writing, it seems, and I rather like it like that. If I don't get better maybe I'll have to use Natasha/Rachel's Room as a study/office, and try and force myself to use it in that way... but I'm not convinced it would work.

 

When I'm at Starbucks, I get my frappucino and sit down to work. I have specific favourite places in each Starbucks I visit – there are many of them round here but not all of them have the right feeling for me – and I generally hope to get my favourite place. Right now, I'm in Starbucks at the crossroads of Old Street/Goswell Road/Aldersgate Street/Clerkenwell Road, downstairs on the sofa at the end, where the electricity sockets are. It's also one of the few spots down here I seem to get internet connection, which is important for the 'dicking about' section of the process.

 

I switch on my computer and sip at my frappucino, and here begins the battle. For two weeks out of four, I have Private Eye with me, and there is the battle between writing and just reading that to contend with before going any further. My little writing laptop is pretty slow, so I justify reading the Eye as something to do while it, and then OpenOffice, starts up. Quite how I justify still reading it when six Word files have opened and are waiting for me is another matter.

 

Then, there is the internet. I didn't realise at first that this laptop had wireless, but it does. I didn't realise at first, but Starbucks Card people (me, of course) get free WiFi in Starbuckses across the universe. Thus begins the second battle: to not give in and turn the wireless on... which generally fails at some point to kick off the third battle: to not just dick about online for a few hours. I can muck around online at home much faster without getting in the way of what I actually want to do, and yet this battle rages each and every time.

 

Writing is a fight, every bloody time. It is the quest to overcome my own weakness of character, and I don't win as often or as well as I would like. Even now, this could be considered a distraction from what I should be doing.

 

At least fanfic isn't the distraction it used to be. Indeed, a fanfic is the only long story I ever finished, and I'd put money on the ready audience with its feedback being a good reason for that. I'm not half so much into fic these days, mostly because I don't belong to a fandom... but I am writing a fic in a fandom not my own to see if I can write almost 'to demand'. I'm trying to write something which will please an audience and yet not disregard my own self... not sure how that's going to be honest, but I dip into it only when I run up against brick walls with everything else, so that's a small victory of sorts.

 

I said I find ideas horrendously easy, and it's quite true. I have around 140 word files in my My Documents folder... and most of them are barely even fragments of stories. Some of them are as much as a couple of pages long -

 

And even just now I got distracted from writing this by opening up some of the old bits and pieces: the dystopian future The True Story of How Roisin Dubh Saved The World, the bits of stuff for a story to be co-written with a friend about two different girls who are fans of the same pop star. I managed to create an entire career for this guy, Everett Valentine, right down to tracklistings for his records and setlists for his tours... and then failed to write much for the actual story.

 

This battle really is a slow, dull, tiring war of attrition. I manage to write a paragraph, or maybe a scene for Finest Kind, my graphic novel thing... and then I spend twenty minutes mucking around not writing. Then I write a smidgen more and still don't capture what was in my head.

 

I've been writing stories for about as long as I can remember. It was the bit of school I really loved. Mrs Porter told me off for swearing in one story – I was seven at the time – but otherwise it was the part of class that I looked forward to and wished there was more of. My mum taught me to type at much the same age so that I could write more. The epic, rambling, awful, just-as-well-its-lost Secret Diary of Dannii was the first child born from this new skill.

 

I write to kill time. I am generally a solitary creature, and they make good writers in one respect. I can quite happily cloister myself away for hours. When we had a computer tucked away in our spare bedroom, I would spend hours, literally hours, each day writing there. I had my cassette tape player in there and I remember sitting for hours writing stories while listening to the best of Peter Sellers. The writing reflected what was happening to me at the time while avoiding what was really happening – the number of stories I wrote about super-popular girls reflected the fact I was reading Sweet Valley High too much (ie, I was reading them) and yet also the fact that as far as I knew, everyone at school hated me. That nobody ever read these stories and they no longer exist is hardly a tragedy, but they were priceless to me at the time. At a time when it felt like I was absolutely powerless to do anything but just let time pass around me, writing was what made it go quicker.

 

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think I should make my spare room a proper study. There's already a desk in there. All I need is a chair to go with it and to clear all the rubbish out of the way. And I've got a CD/Cassette player that can go in there. Oh yes... it could even work.

 

I like playing God, too. It appeals to my ego, arrogant little shit that she is. I could never be God, of course. I have the imagination but not the absolute eye for details. I'd also end up going postal on all those horrid little humans and raining down sulphur on the ingrates. I saw someone on TV once say that the blank page is God's way of showing us how difficult his job is. Well, I don't see it that way, as it happens: the blank page is something to be filled, even if one fills it with total bollocks while waiting for something better to come along.

 

Actually, my eye for detail has improved. I've got my little map of Rushmead, the suburban town of my invention which is the setting for more than several of my unfinished stories. There are word files and family trees full of information for others. For The Girl Queen, there's five hundred years' worth of intertwined royal lines and I even know the official colours for each nation. For Empira (the island nation central to said story) there's even a list of ships that make up the navy. Not bad for someone with no eye for detail, I think, but hardly unique amongst writers. I mean, Tolkien...

 

I'm getting all inspired thinking about setting up my study, you know. There's a thrill in the back of my head from it, and remembering those happy times shut away in the suburban spare room of my parents, churning it out... happy days, except that it was all dross, dreck and toss. Maybe for me the battle is what makes it better (I don't claim to be good, that's for someone else to decide) and that being too quick is what makes it unreadable.

 

Perhaps I need the battle between the ambitious, eager, hardworking Clare and her workshy, lazy counterpart. If it were easy, maybe I wouldn't want to do it, or it would be bad. I mean, Barbara Cartland wrote eleventy billion books in her career and................................................................

 

But it might mean I finished something, and that would be nice.

 

I write because I don't really have a choice. I don't know how it is for other people, but if I get an idea, I can't just leave it. In fact, sometimes the act of writing it down is what kills it, which is useful. Isolde from Leaving Brigadoon, which I consider my best chance for finishing/publication right now, leapt into my head pretty much fully formed: six years old, scruffy, twinkling eyed, grinning, inquisitive. Bianca Saxon, on the other hand, really needs a new name. How white supremacist is that name? It wasn't at all intentional: Bianca for white/pure which is good and appropriate to her, but I only picked Saxon because I was watching that particular story arc on Doctor Who when I started. She needs a new surname, like woah. Any ideas gratefully received.

 

I write because they won't leave me alone. Do other people get this at all? Am I mad or is it normal? I really don't know. Maybe I need to read my new book to find out. Maybe it's a perfectly normal reaction for all those of us who, for whatever reason, like to write. I don't just mean plot bunnies that won't sod off, I mean the deep urge/desire to just write. I have a notebook that I carry around with me at all times so that if there's ever a moment where it's just me – on trains, buses, in coffee shops, sitting on a bench somewhere – I can pick up wherever I left off. I've even been known to scribble while sitting in a pub with people I know, which is awfully rude in some respects, but at least I wasn't also listening to my iPod at the time.

 

I write because it is impossible for me not to. That's really all there is to it.

apolla: (Percy)
Just something I spewed out instead of actually, er, writing....


I'm going to another creative writing class next week and the chosen book is a compilation of bits, pieces and essays by proper (ie, published, well received) writers about why and how they write. I flicked through it earlier, and this began to form in my brain.

 

I write for many reasons, some of which are silly and some of which are stupid.

 

  • I write to have an excuse to spend hours in Starbucks.

  • I write to have something to do.

  • I write because I really, really want to play God.

  • I write because I'm not much cop at anything else.

  • I write just in case my first plan of 'Become a Rock Star' falls through.

 

All of this is at least a little bit true. However:

 

  • I spend hours in Starbucks so that I might actually write. Otherwise I could just get take-out.

  • I can always find something to do, even if it's nothing. I'm a champion at 'busy doing nothing'.

  • I really, really want to be God. That one's totally true.

  • I probably show promise at other things, although what I couldn't say.

  • Actually, 'Be A Rock Star' is my Plan B. Writing is/was/should be Plan A.

 

I find ideas horrendously easy. Too easy. They come when I don't want them, when I'm already working on eleventy billion others. Actually sitting down and writing is another matter. I mean, I like doing it. I miss it when I can't, for whatever reason, but it's not easy.

 

For me, writing isn't a search for the divine, or for truth, or to shine a light in dark corners of the world. It's a battle between me and myself. It is the battle between Clare, who wants to be successful, who really just wants to finish something and her Evil Twin, who would much rather sit and watch the same repeats on Dave, or lie in bed.

 

Writing is the triumph over myself. As much as I would dearly love things to be published, to be successful even, and *gasp* to make money, for me there is almost a greater triumph in just getting something down on the page in the first place.

 

I can't really write at home anymore. I get too distracted by the TV or a DVD or stuff on the internet. My flowery dell is not designed for writing, it seems, and I rather like it like that. If I don't get better maybe I'll have to use Natasha/Rachel's Room as a study/office, and try and force myself to use it in that way... but I'm not convinced it would work.

 

When I'm at Starbucks, I get my frappucino and sit down to work. I have specific favourite places in each Starbucks I visit – there are many of them round here but not all of them have the right feeling for me – and I generally hope to get my favourite place. Right now, I'm in Starbucks at the crossroads of Old Street/Goswell Road/Aldersgate Street/Clerkenwell Road, downstairs on the sofa at the end, where the electricity sockets are. It's also one of the few spots down here I seem to get internet connection, which is important for the 'dicking about' section of the process.

 

I switch on my computer and sip at my frappucino, and here begins the battle. For two weeks out of four, I have Private Eye with me, and there is the battle between writing and just reading that to contend with before going any further. My little writing laptop is pretty slow, so I justify reading the Eye as something to do while it, and then OpenOffice, starts up. Quite how I justify still reading it when six Word files have opened and are waiting for me is another matter.

 

Then, there is the internet. I didn't realise at first that this laptop had wireless, but it does. I didn't realise at first, but Starbucks Card people (me, of course) get free WiFi in Starbuckses across the universe. Thus begins the second battle: to not give in and turn the wireless on... which generally fails at some point to kick off the third battle: to not just dick about online for a few hours. I can muck around online at home much faster without getting in the way of what I actually want to do, and yet this battle rages each and every time.

 

Writing is a fight, every bloody time. It is the quest to overcome my own weakness of character, and I don't win as often or as well as I would like. Even now, this could be considered a distraction from what I should be doing.

 

At least fanfic isn't the distraction it used to be. Indeed, a fanfic is the only long story I ever finished, and I'd put money on the ready audience with its feedback being a good reason for that. I'm not half so much into fic these days, mostly because I don't belong to a fandom... but I am writing a fic in a fandom not my own to see if I can write almost 'to demand'. I'm trying to write something which will please an audience and yet not disregard my own self... not sure how that's going to be honest, but I dip into it only when I run up against brick walls with everything else, so that's a small victory of sorts.

 

I said I find ideas horrendously easy, and it's quite true. I have around 140 word files in my My Documents folder... and most of them are barely even fragments of stories. Some of them are as much as a couple of pages long -

 

And even just now I got distracted from writing this by opening up some of the old bits and pieces: the dystopian future The True Story of How Roisin Dubh Saved The World, the bits of stuff for a story to be co-written with a friend about two different girls who are fans of the same pop star. I managed to create an entire career for this guy, Everett Valentine, right down to tracklistings for his records and setlists for his tours... and then failed to write much for the actual story.

 

This battle really is a slow, dull, tiring war of attrition. I manage to write a paragraph, or maybe a scene for Finest Kind, my graphic novel thing... and then I spend twenty minutes mucking around not writing. Then I write a smidgen more and still don't capture what was in my head.

 

I've been writing stories for about as long as I can remember. It was the bit of school I really loved. Mrs Porter told me off for swearing in one story – I was seven at the time – but otherwise it was the part of class that I looked forward to and wished there was more of. My mum taught me to type at much the same age so that I could write more. The epic, rambling, awful, just-as-well-its-lost Secret Diary of Dannii was the first child born from this new skill.

 

I write to kill time. I am generally a solitary creature, and they make good writers in one respect. I can quite happily cloister myself away for hours. When we had a computer tucked away in our spare bedroom, I would spend hours, literally hours, each day writing there. I had my cassette tape player in there and I remember sitting for hours writing stories while listening to the best of Peter Sellers. The writing reflected what was happening to me at the time while avoiding what was really happening – the number of stories I wrote about super-popular girls reflected the fact I was reading Sweet Valley High too much (ie, I was reading them) and yet also the fact that as far as I knew, everyone at school hated me. That nobody ever read these stories and they no longer exist is hardly a tragedy, but they were priceless to me at the time. At a time when it felt like I was absolutely powerless to do anything but just let time pass around me, writing was what made it go quicker.

 

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think I should make my spare room a proper study. There's already a desk in there. All I need is a chair to go with it and to clear all the rubbish out of the way. And I've got a CD/Cassette player that can go in there. Oh yes... it could even work.

 

I like playing God, too. It appeals to my ego, arrogant little shit that she is. I could never be God, of course. I have the imagination but not the absolute eye for details. I'd also end up going postal on all those horrid little humans and raining down sulphur on the ingrates. I saw someone on TV once say that the blank page is God's way of showing us how difficult his job is. Well, I don't see it that way, as it happens: the blank page is something to be filled, even if one fills it with total bollocks while waiting for something better to come along.

 

Actually, my eye for detail has improved. I've got my little map of Rushmead, the suburban town of my invention which is the setting for more than several of my unfinished stories. There are word files and family trees full of information for others. For The Girl Queen, there's five hundred years' worth of intertwined royal lines and I even know the official colours for each nation. For Empira (the island nation central to said story) there's even a list of ships that make up the navy. Not bad for someone with no eye for detail, I think, but hardly unique amongst writers. I mean, Tolkien...

 

I'm getting all inspired thinking about setting up my study, you know. There's a thrill in the back of my head from it, and remembering those happy times shut away in the suburban spare room of my parents, churning it out... happy days, except that it was all dross, dreck and toss. Maybe for me the battle is what makes it better (I don't claim to be good, that's for someone else to decide) and that being too quick is what makes it unreadable.

 

Perhaps I need the battle between the ambitious, eager, hardworking Clare and her workshy, lazy counterpart. If it were easy, maybe I wouldn't want to do it, or it would be bad. I mean, Barbara Cartland wrote eleventy billion books in her career and................................................................

 

But it might mean I finished something, and that would be nice.

 

I write because I don't really have a choice. I don't know how it is for other people, but if I get an idea, I can't just leave it. In fact, sometimes the act of writing it down is what kills it, which is useful. Isolde from Leaving Brigadoon, which I consider my best chance for finishing/publication right now, leapt into my head pretty much fully formed: six years old, scruffy, twinkling eyed, grinning, inquisitive. Bianca Saxon, on the other hand, really needs a new name. How white supremacist is that name? It wasn't at all intentional: Bianca for white/pure which is good and appropriate to her, but I only picked Saxon because I was watching that particular story arc on Doctor Who when I started. She needs a new surname, like woah. Any ideas gratefully received.

 

I write because they won't leave me alone. Do other people get this at all? Am I mad or is it normal? I really don't know. Maybe I need to read my new book to find out. Maybe it's a perfectly normal reaction for all those of us who, for whatever reason, like to write. I don't just mean plot bunnies that won't sod off, I mean the deep urge/desire to just write. I have a notebook that I carry around with me at all times so that if there's ever a moment where it's just me – on trains, buses, in coffee shops, sitting on a bench somewhere – I can pick up wherever I left off. I've even been known to scribble while sitting in a pub with people I know, which is awfully rude in some respects, but at least I wasn't also listening to my iPod at the time.

 

I write because it is impossible for me not to. That's really all there is to it.

apolla: (Default)

I had the idea to write the following after spending the last three days stuck to tvtropes.com. Every single thing here has really happened, and happened to me. They've been fictionalised in various ways but the basic point really happened.

Let me know what you think, please?

Coincidence, Fate and Probability )

 

apolla: (Default)

I had the idea to write the following after spending the last three days stuck to tvtropes.com. Every single thing here has really happened, and happened to me. They've been fictionalised in various ways but the basic point really happened.

Let me know what you think, please?

Coincidence, Fate and Probability )

 

Three Visitors

Wednesday, 18 March 2009 00:53
apolla: (Default)
Just something I scribbled down just now.

Three Visitors

I saw the young one first. He was stood on the other side of the road and I barely saw him as I crossed behind a parked blue van. I was listening to something that put a bounce in my step. I saw him again, I think, walking past the coffee shop window as I gazed out into the spring afternoon. He turned his head just enough that I caught the side of his face. It couldn’t have been any other face, but I didn’t believe it could be him. I assumed I was seeing things or going crazy: more plausible than what it therefore must have been.

It was when I saw the dashing one that I started to wonder what was up. He was leaning against a pillar in the supermarket and smiled that smile at me. There was only one person who ever had such a smile and I was so sure that he was there that I started to wonder what the fuck was going on. I still assumed I was in the wrong somehow.

When I saw the dark one, I knew what was going on. I could believe I’d imagined one dead man, and could just about believe I’d conjured two up in my fevered brain, but not three. Not those three.

“What do you want?” I snapped at the young one when I saw him across a crowded room. He smirked, a familiar curve of lip that I’d become accustomed to over the years. There was no cruelty there, nor mockery and that terrified me. He said nothing though, and I determined to ignore him if he was going to ignore me.

“What do you want?” I repeated when I saw the dashing one again. It was late and I was on my own walking down the street, still listening to music. He fell into step with me quite easily – much longer legs than mine – and we moved along in companionable silence, though he didn’t answer my question. Though I was glad to be with the hero of a hundred legends, he set me on edge. He was too unpredictable – you could only ever count on him to let you down – and I didn’t know why he was there.

“What do you want?” I sounded tired and I knew it. They’d been keeping me awake. Once I knew they were there, my three boys, I was consumed with the how and why of it and hadn’t slept. The dark one was so much taller than me on his long, thin legs and slung his arm around my shoulders like I was a warm shelf.

“What do you think?” His voice was exactly as I knew it would be: deep, warm, throaty and lacking the letter ‘h’.

“Don’t answer with a question, boyo.” The dark one laughed and shook his head. He did not answer the question.

I saw the young one for a third time. He was close enough to touch at last but dodged when I reached out.

“For the fourth naffing time, what do you want?” I sounded angrier than I was, because as frustrated and curious as I was, I was just glad that he was there.

“You’re not an idiot. You know what I want.”

“Yes...” I admitted it for the first time, “...but until you tell me which side you’re on, I’m not going anywhere.”

He cracked a smile.

“Which do you think?”

“Could go either way.”

“Which do you think?”

“Well...” I paused for drama only: I had known the answer to the question for years. “If you’re not there, it won’t be heaven.”

His smile broadened and he took my hand.

“Time to go.”

“You came for me after all. I wondered if you would.”

“Just a dream you once had. You have nothing to fear.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve always known.”

*

Three Visitors

Wednesday, 18 March 2009 00:53
apolla: (Default)
Just something I scribbled down just now.

Three Visitors

I saw the young one first. He was stood on the other side of the road and I barely saw him as I crossed behind a parked blue van. I was listening to something that put a bounce in my step. I saw him again, I think, walking past the coffee shop window as I gazed out into the spring afternoon. He turned his head just enough that I caught the side of his face. It couldn’t have been any other face, but I didn’t believe it could be him. I assumed I was seeing things or going crazy: more plausible than what it therefore must have been.

It was when I saw the dashing one that I started to wonder what was up. He was leaning against a pillar in the supermarket and smiled that smile at me. There was only one person who ever had such a smile and I was so sure that he was there that I started to wonder what the fuck was going on. I still assumed I was in the wrong somehow.

When I saw the dark one, I knew what was going on. I could believe I’d imagined one dead man, and could just about believe I’d conjured two up in my fevered brain, but not three. Not those three.

“What do you want?” I snapped at the young one when I saw him across a crowded room. He smirked, a familiar curve of lip that I’d become accustomed to over the years. There was no cruelty there, nor mockery and that terrified me. He said nothing though, and I determined to ignore him if he was going to ignore me.

“What do you want?” I repeated when I saw the dashing one again. It was late and I was on my own walking down the street, still listening to music. He fell into step with me quite easily – much longer legs than mine – and we moved along in companionable silence, though he didn’t answer my question. Though I was glad to be with the hero of a hundred legends, he set me on edge. He was too unpredictable – you could only ever count on him to let you down – and I didn’t know why he was there.

“What do you want?” I sounded tired and I knew it. They’d been keeping me awake. Once I knew they were there, my three boys, I was consumed with the how and why of it and hadn’t slept. The dark one was so much taller than me on his long, thin legs and slung his arm around my shoulders like I was a warm shelf.

“What do you think?” His voice was exactly as I knew it would be: deep, warm, throaty and lacking the letter ‘h’.

“Don’t answer with a question, boyo.” The dark one laughed and shook his head. He did not answer the question.

I saw the young one for a third time. He was close enough to touch at last but dodged when I reached out.

“For the fourth naffing time, what do you want?” I sounded angrier than I was, because as frustrated and curious as I was, I was just glad that he was there.

“You’re not an idiot. You know what I want.”

“Yes...” I admitted it for the first time, “...but until you tell me which side you’re on, I’m not going anywhere.”

He cracked a smile.

“Which do you think?”

“Could go either way.”

“Which do you think?”

“Well...” I paused for drama only: I had known the answer to the question for years. “If you’re not there, it won’t be heaven.”

His smile broadened and he took my hand.

“Time to go.”

“You came for me after all. I wondered if you would.”

“Just a dream you once had. You have nothing to fear.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve always known.”

*
apolla: (Smiler)

Lee Evans is too funny. I'm actually in pain from laughing at the moment.

I wrote this only today. I wanted to see if I could write something entirely made of dialogue. Don't know if it works. Don't know if it's interesting. One way to find out: ask you lot.

It's up to you who she is or what she does or, well, all of it. Fill in the blanks, maybe.

apolla: (Smiler)

Lee Evans is too funny. I'm actually in pain from laughing at the moment.

I wrote this only today. I wanted to see if I could write something entirely made of dialogue. Don't know if it works. Don't know if it's interesting. One way to find out: ask you lot.

It's up to you who she is or what she does or, well, all of it. Fill in the blanks, maybe.

apolla: (Percy)

Something occurred to me yesterday that has continued to fester in my brain and I must ask this question and I beg for your responses. Not all of you can take part, but I hope that those who can will leave me a comment:

If you were listening to music in the 60s/70s, what were you listening to? Who were you listening to? Who did you love and adore and worship and who did you hate? Who did you part with hard-earned cash to see live? Who did you watch on TV? Whose albums did you listen to until the vinyl wore out? Did your tastes and concert going practices change in the 70s to what they had been?

I also need to know if you're male or female when you answer the question, but that might be self-explanatory.

I'm not asking what 60s/70s bands are your favourites now, I'm asking what you were listening to at the time, who you liked at the time and who you hated at the time.

Please, if you think it might be relevant to people you know, pass this round your friendslists so I can get lots of responses so I can deduce whether I'm barking up the right tree or if Robert Plant's up it proclaiming rockiness is next to godliness.

In advance, I thank you all.

apolla: (Percy)

Something occurred to me yesterday that has continued to fester in my brain and I must ask this question and I beg for your responses. Not all of you can take part, but I hope that those who can will leave me a comment:

If you were listening to music in the 60s/70s, what were you listening to? Who were you listening to? Who did you love and adore and worship and who did you hate? Who did you part with hard-earned cash to see live? Who did you watch on TV? Whose albums did you listen to until the vinyl wore out? Did your tastes and concert going practices change in the 70s to what they had been?

I also need to know if you're male or female when you answer the question, but that might be self-explanatory.

I'm not asking what 60s/70s bands are your favourites now, I'm asking what you were listening to at the time, who you liked at the time and who you hated at the time.

Please, if you think it might be relevant to people you know, pass this round your friendslists so I can get lots of responses so I can deduce whether I'm barking up the right tree or if Robert Plant's up it proclaiming rockiness is next to godliness.

In advance, I thank you all.

Profile

apolla: (Default)
apolla

October 2012

S M T W T F S
 12 345 6
78910111213
14151617181920
21222324252627
28293031   

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Wednesday, 20 September 2017 12:45
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios