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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jan 17, 2013 16:25:39 GMT -5
Might as well post the first attempt in here. Written last night before I realised there was a restriction on the JanFeb comp!
"Terminal … terminal. Ah, here we go! 'Terminal: Of, forming, or situated at the end or extremity of something: "the terminal tip of the probe", "the terminal to a computer", "a ferry/bus terminal". ' See! It's not always a bad thing." Darren brandishes the dictionary like he's just picked up the largest gem on the planet and has transformed into Indian Jones
Sally tosses a slipper at him but he ducks it pretty easily. "I'm sure I didn't need you to Webster-define it, Dar. I know what it is and I know what it means, thank you very much."
They're both sprawled out over the futon which has been transformed in to a bed for the night. Sally's mum and dad invited Darren over to try and cheer her up but she's been distracted all night. First it had been a book, then Facebook, followed closely by Eastenders; anything to avoid it.
The doctor had told her two days ago, the nurses had talked to her about it, a psychiatrist had visited, and even her aunt had called. Darren was the last resort for sunny-side-up smiles… or at least that was how Sally viewed it. Her parents hated him and now that she thought about it, she hated him too! Hated him for being so bloody cheerful about the whole bloody thing. Wasn't everybody supposed to be despairing or upset? Nobody had cried. Not even a tear. Did she mean nothing to them?
"Tell you what! Why don't we make hot chocolate with marshmallows and drink it through straws again? Just like we did when we were little, yeah?" Darren sounds patronising.
"No, thanks," the short and curt reply; another verbal brick wall.
"Then what do you fancy doing?"
There's no reply. Sally's eyes are focused away and on the television.
"I came all this way from London, where I should be studying for my exams, to visit you – not watch Eastenders and be ignored!" With a humph he slumps back into the futon, his eyes fixedly staring at the screen. "You know you've ignored me since I got here."
"You wouldn't get it," a half mumble and another grump.
Darren realises he's said too much but it's too late to turn back now. He knows he's never been too good at tact and has royally put his foot in it already. "Oooo, don't be such a drama queen for heavens sakes. That's so bloody Tropes. 'You wouldn't understand', please! Maybe you should be on Eastenders."
Silence settles.
"Bitch," another mumble.
Darren smirks. "Made you smile though, right?"
"No," Sally's voice gives away the smile.
Darren lets the moment last, saying nothing and doing nothing. The light from the television is the only change in the room as it bounces off the walls and their faces in vivid colours. The latest chav on the block in Eastenders is wailing at her next-door neighbour. Sally thinks she's lost the plot somewhere and missed Wednesday's episode because she had to spend a couple of hours on the phone to her aunt.
"At least you didn't change. Still pig-headed idiot." Eventually Sally breaks the quiet again. "Just want things to be normal. Like, truly normal. No more talking. No forced smiles or real smiles and no impending doom." Her voice is emotionless. "Pretend."
"Now that I understand. Could have said so in the first place!" He always has to get the last word in but this time Sally lets him.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 9, 2013 10:22:59 GMT -5
The Job Interview
Standing on the precipice; sweaty hands smoothing out the creases. Butterflies fly free around my coiled guts and frogs hug my tonsils. Will I ask the right questions? Will they?
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 10, 2013 17:41:27 GMT -5
Frustrations of Procrastination
I want to write. I want to write books, novels, flash, micro, poetry, and more. I want to make good art. I want many things … but the light is too bright, and my nose itches, and my head hurts. Frustratingly the page remains blank; fingers dormant next to the keyboard. While I'm here: maybe there's a post on Facebook? Did my friend respond to my e-mail? A funny picture pulls my attention; which inevitably leads to more funny pictures, then recipes, then other stories, then more random interactions. Each new click, link, or page another step further from the blank document and a new universe. The words, unwritten, clank around aimlessly in my head, each not destined for the page today, tomorrow, or the next day. Gone soon after. Forgotten. Deceased and lost to procrastination.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jun 2, 2013 12:55:28 GMT -5
More flashies ... got v. bored and fancied stretching fingers!
Proposal?
He checked out the housing market yesterday. When prompted he explained he was considering moving; a mortgage with both of us on it.
My only available response, "I do ..."
He said, she said
They had nothing left to say to each other. A lifetime had already been uttered; young love, children, news, food, arguments, and peace. Now only silence remained akin to a soft blanket covering an old grand piano.
The Cage
Glassy, watering eyes peered in. The jail was empty. Tweety twittered no more; yellow claws skyward pointing.
The Empty Cage {Short version}
Tweety twittered no more; claws skyward.
The One
Valentines never arrived; years of regret.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jun 3, 2013 7:43:02 GMT -5
Little liar
Obsessed with my wobbly tooth in the mirror, I never saw him approach. “Don't you know? The tooth-fairy isn't real.” The words stung but not as much as his cheek did afterwards.
My Idol
“The truth is,” he slurred, “the truth is ...”
His breath stunk of alcohol and tobacco but I hung on tenterhooks. My idol for ever and always. “The truth ...” He stopped, quietly. Asleep mid-sentence.
“Time to go, Dad.” I walked him home this time.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jun 5, 2013 8:34:17 GMT -5
Park Goings
Every day he's there; grey slacks, paper bag, and old leather-like hands tossing crumbs to the pigeons. The only bench in the small park taken by his tush.
Critics
If art could talk then this painting would've puked on people passing by; a vibrant messy of dayglo colours splatted across the poor attempt at a canvas. The crowd of snobbery stood, sipping their cocktails, to discuss it's deeper meaning, while I stood and tried not to look at it.
Reality Check
I didn't think Arch Nemesis's existed outside of films. That was until my new next-door neighbour moved in.
Stinking Cold
My mum used to call it a stinking cold. I never understood what that meant until I sneezed so hard I farted.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jun 6, 2013 11:44:03 GMT -5
WIP:
The year I found Santa he was drunk and high off his head. I'm not sure what my family were trying to teach me but it didn't work. Being the only sensible person at the party I walked him home.
When the ice-cream van exploded it wasn't as exciting as I thought it would be; twisted metal mixed with the milky substance and broken wafer cones. No ice-cream streaming down from the sky.
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Post by ARSmith ((Wolfeh)) on Jun 6, 2013 21:11:35 GMT -5
Heya, Reff. Not sure if I post my thoughts on the thing itself, but I figure I can delete it if not.  So, your little tidbits! I really, thoroughly enjoy them. I love the shortness of it all and the point/thought it gets across in so few words. I especially enjoy how it leaves room to interpretation, sort of like a teaser. On of my favorites so far is "Critics." Nothing bad to say at all, personally! |
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jun 7, 2013 3:30:17 GMT -5
Ha! Really? You liked Critics? That's one of the stories I wasn't sure on. It's more a thought (or teaser, as you put it) than a hidden story. Thanks Wolfeh! <3
Psst: did you want me to review something you've written? I'm doing a like for like offer on reviews!
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Post by ARSmith ((Wolfeh)) on Jun 7, 2013 18:14:30 GMT -5
Ha! Really? You liked Critics? That's one of the stories I wasn't sure on. It's more a thought (or teaser, as you put it) than a hidden story. Thanks Wolfeh! <3 Psst: did you want me to review something you've written? I'm doing a like for like offer on reviews! You can review my "Roman's End" if you'd like, but it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Nothing I really care for, haha. |
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Jun 25, 2013 9:21:20 GMT -5
Goodbye Is Never Easy
Watery eyes, behind bottle thick glasses, peer in through the bars. His creased hand shakily opens the cage to his only friend. Her thin, yellow claws point skyward; Tweety twittered no more.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Oct 28, 2013 9:16:17 GMT -5
The Empty Cage {Short version}
Claws skyward: Tweety twittered no more.
{Saving it in here while NaNo is on. May even replace it with another afterwards!}
The Photographer
We dressed Charlotte in the traditional family Christening gown and allowed the photographer in. It was a sombre occasion; she looked small and fragile. I clasped my husband's hand as tears coursed down my face. She looked asleep. I hoped nobody would be able to tell that she'd never wake up.
Damn That Kitchen
I fell in love at first sight: glossy cream finish, silent closing doors, and complete with a proving drawer. Placing the order was easy but arrival took ages and cowboys installed it. Now my bread never rises and a door's already fallen off. Who knew a kitchen could break my heart?
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Nov 21, 2013 8:38:58 GMT -5
These were all written during my NaNo-Rilla adventure around London. I didn't write my novel on that escapade (I'd already done the daily minimum that day and didn't want to take my laptop around London) and I didn't count these words for my NaNo-achievement. Now sharing them with AWR because why not! The Crypt
Beneath the cold crypt a café clinks with activity. Hot tea and cool stones; people pass the time surrounded by those with no time left.
The Great City
Amongst four lions, two fountains, one Nelson’s column, and a big blue cock, pigeons fight for seed. Mangy vermin or British symbol still left to be decided.
The Unexpected Flash Mob
The flash crowd took over Trafalgar square but instead of dancing or a musical band, they sat and wrote of fictional lands.
The Birds
Fighting the man with a handful of bread to feed the Trafalgar square pigeons; ignorant of the signs.
Appreciation at The National Gallery
Each painting took years of hard-work, expensive paint, and ill-health to create; appreciated in seconds of polite hush by millions from around the world. Silently the seconds combine to be endless.
Charing Cross Theatre Drama
The right-hook broke his nose, the left send him sailing out the door. He screamed as he went, “I regret nothing!” She’d get the flowers after the show, her number one stalker.
Warning: Peanuts
The warning always worried me. A tin labelled “Peanuts” should contain exactly that! The foul who brought it expecting dates should feel ashamed. Heaven forbid you find a walnut.
Embankment Bridge
Cold stones dig into the bones of my bum. The Thames swells beneath the bridge. Footfall is constant; people pass, most disrespectful, others curious. My stomach lurches as I place an old hat at my feet. I don’t care; I’m hungry.
The Christmas Market
Sugar-coated, deep-fried, goodness; the Christmas market came to London; with it left my wallet, phone, and keys. Some things never change!
The Flock in Grey
They swooped in, suits of grey with furious brows, each on a quest. All fought to be the front runner, the biggest winner, and the highest paid. None of them are aware of their surroundings or how the quest is.
The National Theatre (triptych)
Ladies in plunge-line, floor-length, and bedazzled dresses swamped the red carpet. It’s release night.
Behind them a man, middle fifties at least, pushes a rectangle box that sweeps up dropped crumbs from the canapes. He’s humming a tune. He pays no attention to the celebrities. Happiness personified.
He wears old, battered shoes.
~
The lights come up. My heart-beat is a thunderstorm. Actors are on the stage; excited guests in the seats.
My entrance is soon. All the words flee from my brain, afraid of the pounding. Hands adjust my costume and make-up artists powder my nose, again! Nobody knows the words are gone.
I’m pushed on stage: time to face the music … or improvise.
~
Champagne fizzles over the glass. “A toast! To a wonderful night.”
Others echo the praise. It was a success but with a few things to iron out.
The actors leave for a pub in the city. The old man stays behind to clean-up back-stage as well.
NaNo-Rilla
Great friendships formed by a creativity bond over one day well spent; not frivolously wasted. Sadness blooms in my heart as it comes to an end. Thoughts turn to home and writing but my mind frames the memories.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Dec 2, 2013 8:08:08 GMT -5
{NOT for reviewing} These are written for my benefit and do not want reviewing.
Mourning Mother
She who was never there is now gone by my choice alone. Dead but still breathing; cut away like gangrenous flesh. Somethings cannot be forgiven. Somethings cannot be undone. Lies, manipulation, and muttered apologies, do not heal wounds bone deep.
The Eldest
Nobody gives you a manual on how to do it right. Suddenly you're not the only one any more. Some take to it like ducks to water; others less so. I'm sorry I am the latter. I could have, I should have, I would have protected you. I failed.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Dec 3, 2013 8:29:12 GMT -5
I feel this could be a something and not just a flashy but I'm not 100% sure?
The Train
Feeling drained from the busy day, Ian leaned his head against the window of the train for some brief shut-eye. He didn’t want to fall asleep but the gentle knocking and rocking of the train was lulling him away. It was pitch dark outside save for the occasional orange light that zipped by.
He snapped his head up as another train passed in the other direction. The noise was deafening. Outwardly it looked like any other South-West train. It was what was inside the train carriages that had disturbed him. Each compartment was a sinful red, filled with what looked like body-parts hanging from hooks, and other unidentifiable shapes; they all moved in a jerky fashion.
As soon as it had shown up the train was gone, clacking and rumbling as it went. Hurriedly Ian looked around his carriage; nobody else appeared to have seen the horrific sight. He wondered if maybe he’d imagined the train, doubting his own eyes.
Whatever it was, he wrote it off to dreaming. Sometimes it was better not to know.
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