Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Outback Rogue; A Delightfully Dreary Afternoon.

I was thinking about things whilst working today.

I thought about my stories, how they were progressing, what I wanted to write next. I realised that they are always there to fall back on - on good days, bad days, to help me sleep, to stop tears, all those sorts of things.

I thought about the poems that I've writtern, not so many, but still. Way back in year 12 we had to write some in Lit, and I wrote one that I found the other day. I'd forgotten it, but when I saw it the memories of the poem came rushing back to me. It was a poem for a peaceful dreary day, like today. Inspired by the ballad The Highwayman.

As she walks through haunted hallways,
she ponders of her strife.
The memories are like always,
torn by wrong and right.

He trotted down the bush-track,
his face obscured by tin.
His eyes peered through a flap,
a needled wouldn't slip in.

His men all rode beside him,
smiles on their bearded faces.
She watched them on a curious whim,
these rebels of green races.

When darkness loomed,
he urged his horse onwards to her home.
She welcomed him with one small boon,
her kindness a silent repose.

She watched him go, that benevolent Rogue,
her heart went for the ride.
His rebellious spirit seemed to show,
that he was on their side.

So as she walks through haunted hallways,
she knows her choice was right.
It seems we'll all remember always,
our Outback Robin and his fight. 

It's an old poem, from my writing years ago which I've resisted changing. I thought that belonged on here today, on this delightful, peaceful dreary afternoon.


Monday, August 30, 2010

Teaser: The Avenger


Can you ever imagine a moment so awful you wish you were anywhere but here? That you wish you were having a nightmare and beg yourself to wake up, when deep down you know it’s real. Well, hell, it wouldn’t hurt so much if it wasn’t real, would it?
            I stared down the street at the smoking wreckage before me. I couldn’t speak, could hardly think about anything except what I had just witnessed. The screeching of the tyres, the deafening sound of smashing glass, the splash of red on the dark gravel. And I couldn’t look away. 
I saw the car moments before it hit. I saw her step onto the road, and I ran, I yelled, but it was already too late. And I just couldn’t look away.

You can call me Ave. It’s not my real name, but it’s what they called me now.
I don’t really remember much about the days before I came here; they’ve done their best to make me forget. I’ve done my best to forget. But sometimes when I’m still here between jobs I watch the young Catholic schoolgirls in their ridiculous straw hats with the bows, and wonder what it was like to be one of them. I wasn’t always this way: cold and emotionless. I was a normal girl once, when it mattered. Before they tore me away from it all.
I thought of the day they found me in the rain, huddled in a ball protecting myself from the onslaught of the icy needle-like shards of water that pounded against my bare arms. I’d had my legs brought up against my chest, with my arms on my knees, my head resting atop them. The tears dried up, only to be replaced by the cold London rain that drew my hair out of its delicate coiffure and down my back in sodden clumps.
It was winter, I think. But in London it was always winter, the sky ever grey, just the way I liked it. That day the sky had only reflected the emptiness that I felt, having lost everything that ever mattered to me. My family, my friends, everything: Gone. And it had hurt like a bitch.
“Are ya alone, luv?” The voice broke me from my memory.
“No”, I replied striding past the Bald cockney, who leered at me, his greasy black and yellow teeth glinting in the lamplight.
“Yer look like ya might need some company there, darlin’.” He pressed on, following close behind me.
I stopped and turned to survey him pityingly. He was a dreadful sight with his ragged old trousers and shirt covered in dirt and mud, his scarf fraying at the ends. He was a typical Whitechapel dweller of the 1880’s. I almost would have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t been trained to restrain such emotions years ago. They only got in the way.
I flipped him a gold coin. “Tell me where Mary Kelly is and you’ll get another.”
The cockney caught it, putting it between his teeth untrustingly. He found it genuine and grinned, pocketing his meager wealth. “Follow me, yer highness.”

Procastination.

Every one has moments like this.

You don't want to study, although you know you should. You don't want to work, all you want to do is read, or write perhaps.

I feel like that now. But what to do?

I guess the starting point would be what I'm feeling:

I hate him. I do. The way he made me feel, the way he makes me feel now. I hate that I ever saw something in him, that I ever thought he was good. I can't stand that he chose her over me and doesn't even seem to notice how I felt, what I feel now. How much I suffered. I just wish I could take back those days, knowing then what I know now. How much every single one of those moments wasn't worth the grief.

I think that's what hurts the most. Knowing that every tear, every sob, every painful memory was for nothing.

How could you? How could I?

You'll never make me that vulnerable again.

Welcome

I thought that every inspired writer should have a blog. At least that's the way it seems online.

So, I thought, if I'm an inspired writer too then maybe I should create one. Now, in the internet world, my persona as a writer exists.


Welcome to my world.