Mirror

Creative Writing Ink Prompt April 9th 2015

http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

"So when I turned into Palace Street, there he was, waiting for me with his hands in his pockets and a bud on his lips. I just couldn't believe it! I mean, come on! It's been, like what, 10 years! And he just shows up as if he just went to get milk. To be honest I nearly had a heart attack!" Clara was tripping over her own breath, and Amy seized her chance.
"Well... You've been waiting for him for 10 years."
"So what? He thinks he can just pop round with no notice and I'll welcome him with open arms and a freshly made bed? Do you know what he said to me?..." She paused. "He said: 'Hey baby, the motel down the road has no vacancies.'!"
"Seriously?!"
"Oh yeah! Honestly! Can you imagine? I nearly dropped my keys... I'm pretty sure part of him just wanted to see me lose it. Well, I didn't."
"What did you do?" Amy inquired.
"I gave him directions to the Vacation Inn."
Amy bursted into laughter. That was so Clara. She could serve the funniest comebacks without so much as a shudder. The fact she was oblivious to them only made them better, in Amy's eyes.
"Oh Clara, I do love you!"
"Yeah yeah... Laugh all you want! But let me tell you, he wasn't laughing. He gave me a frowning look and I made for the front door. I just felt so angry inside! Furious! And that surprised me."
"Why?"
"Because I love him. Well I mean, I did. I do. I don't know. I never felt angry towards him before. All I ever felt until now was sadness and emptiness. I never realised how angry I was."
"So maybe it was what you needed?"
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe you can turn this anger into action, and finish with him once and for all. Look, 10 years is a long time. You built him up in your mind. You said so yourself, you've never had any other meaningful relationship because you're still hung up on him. And now he shows up and straight away he acts like the fool he is. You gotta read the sign when it's right in your face darling. Tell him to never darken your door again. Tell him to his face. Don't text him, don't email him. Tell it to his face."
"Yeah, I know, I know..."
"But?..."
"What?"
"I can feel there's a 'but'."
"Well..." Clara froze for a few long minutes. It was shooting out of her aorta, circulating up and down, bleeding into all her veins, until she could no longer restrain it. "I'm scared."
"Of course."
"I mean, I'm really scared. I'd rather avoid him, forget him, forget about him."
"Ah ha! You can't."
"I know."
"OK, this is hard for me to say because I love you and I don't want to hurt you, but.... yes, but you need to cut off from him in a literal way and that scares you because then you'll have to face yourself. He won't be the face of the enemy anymore. And you're scared that YOU will."

"After you left I couldn't go past this place. The same tape kept playing in my mind, over and over. You cooked me dinner, then we went out for drinks. Remember? I laughed and smiled. I had a good time. I thought you had too. Then in the morning you were gone. As always I hadn't heard you leave the house. You were at work. At 6pm you'd phone to ask if we had everything we needed for dinner. But you never called. Instead you texted. And that was it. That was the end of my world. Now, I don't want to hear what you have to say. I imagined it a hundred times over. I wondered how often you thought of me. I imagined that you loved me. I imagined that I loved you. None of it matters anymore. There is no you. There's only me."

"There was nothing I could have said."

"See you around Tommy."

<© asd – 2015>

Never Again

Creative Writing Ink Prompt May 7th 2015

http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

The skies darkened as they lowered the coffin.  Suddenly the evening birds stopped singing, the wind stopped blowing, the sun stopped shining.  Nature was skipping a beat.  He was waiting, in suspense.  He dared not draw a breath.

He, was lying there in that box.  He had loved him so much.  This morning he had walked to their favourite place.  Their imposing wooden confidant had welcomed him with gush and mutters, as it always had.  He had sat where they always sat, and rubbed the porous ash surface of his favourite bench like he always had.   It had all felt terribly right.  And now, as the frame of his soul stalled and froze, as the box hung between him and the end, all he could think of, like a child for whom Christmas has been spoiled, was how much he would miss this place!

He inspired, turned to the minister and said: "thank you".

<© asd – 2015>

Cave of Forgotten Dreams

A very moving documentary. Aside from the chance to discover and inspect something which you would not otherwise get to see, the thought that you are contemplating paintings made by our common ancestors thousands of years ago is transcending.

However much I enjoy Herzog's filmmaking, at times the narration is slightly overbearing and I wished I had been left to dream more freely. The 3D is not needed: it neither accentuates nor diminishes the beauty of the paintings, although you do understand why it was used. The texture and the relief of the cave walls are integrated parts of the works of art and the cavemen knew to utilise them to construct the scenes of animals fighting, galloping or gathering round a water hole. But either 3D technology needs to improve or the filming conditions in the cave were too challenging, because 3D really does not add much here.

Fortunately there is much going for this documentary without 3D. The wonderful music and the introduction of outsiders such as the old perfume maker all help to create an experience in which you can really take part. There is nothing passive about this watching: you are discovering a part of yourself you did not know before.

There is something mystical about the cave: it's not just a witness of the birth of humanity as we know it, it is truly a space where our common consciousness can be accessed.

It is bigger than each of us yet we're all in it. Our tools, our clothes, our very homes may have changed, but the raw beauty of those painted animals and of the nature surrounding the cave still touch us deeply to the core of our bodies. Our minds may have grown and our intellect may be able to rationalise our perceptions for the sole purpose of survival, but our hearts (for lack of a better word) and our souls are not so different from the cavemen's: they are still our primary catalysts to experience the world around us - that is when we let them.

Thank you Herzog and team for enabling us to remember that there is a cure for rational interpreting - that you do so with a camera is fitting and evocative!

I suppose that if you can't reverse time, your only solution is to turn it back on itself.

I've always felt that black holes hold the mystery to life. Herzog, you turned a black hole inside out!

© asd - 2011

Petit conte pour enfants

<© asd – 2011>

1

Laissez-moi vous conter une histoire. Installez-vous confortablement, dans un fauteuil, détendez-vous et lisez.

Il était une fois au pays des merveilles, celui-là même où Alice avait rencontré son destin, une adorable petite fille du nom de Muriel. Muriel était la fille cadette du roi et de la reine. Derrière de généreuses boucles rousses se dissimulaient les plus innocents yeux émeraude. Son sourire d’ange ravissait ses royaux parents, et n’eût-ce été son statut de cadette, elle aurait été élue favorite dans le cœur de tous.

Muriel avait dix ans. Dans son pays merveilleux elle ressemblait de caractère à toutes les gentilles petites filles. Ses jours s’écoulaient au rythme des jeux d’enfants, et jamais aucun nuage ne venait obscurcir l’horizon de son monde parfait. Le roi et la reine lui prodiguaient une affection sans limites, et elle vivait en paix avec sa sœur aînée. Cette dernière, aussi brune que Muriel était rousse, aimait guider leurs distractions et Muriel ne se lassait jamais de la suivre avec entrain. Et sa grande sœur lui était profondément attachée.

Un jour, la petite Muriel eut onze ans.

Le palais était en fête : de chaque plafond descendait une cascade de guirlandes illuminées ; des roses et des jonquilles ornaient chaque recoin de leurs couleurs chatoyantes, et ça et là des bougies de cristal venaient célébrer l’événement. C’était le plus beau jour de sa vie. Vers quatre heures on décida qu’il était temps de se rendre aux jardins pour partager le gâteau. Muriel aimait ses jardins plus que tout : ils étaient l’endroit privilégié de ses jeux puériles et naïfs. Excitée par l’idée de dévorer un gâteau qu’elle imaginait déjà haut et ruisselant de sucre, elle devança la Cour et s’empressa de rejoindre les extérieurs. La traversée du palais depuis la salle de réception jusqu’aux jardins se composait d'innombrables pièces reliées entre elles par de longs corridors d’apparat, et le cortège royal, avec toutes ces dames aux corsets lourds et aux robes rehaussées de pierres précieuses et de perles, avançait à la vitesse d'un défilé d'escargots.

Muriel fut dehors bien avant les autres.

Le soleil était de la fête, et invitait ses amis les oiseaux. On ne pouvait rêver tableau plus charmant. La petite fille souriait béatement. Elle sentait les rayons chauds lui caresser la joue, et elle se mit à danser sur la mélodie joyeuse improvisée par l’orchestre volant.

Mais brusquement les chants s’arrêtèrent. Une ombre fraîche ouvrit les yeux de Muriel. Elle n’était pas seule.

2

Une vieille femme l’observait. Et la vieille femme était venue accompagnée. A ses côtés, trop proche d’elle, sur son flanc, dans ses yeux, la Pauvreté souriait. Telles deux amies fidèles unies par de vieux souvenirs trop vivants, elles faisaient face à la petite fille. La vieille femme était envoutée ; une énergie inconnue avait comme paralysé son regard. Doucement son bras s’allongea vers la jeune princesse.

Mais le bras, dont les guenilles cachaient à grand peine le gris d’une peau usée, arrêta son mouvement. Quelque chose brillait. Quelque chose brillait d’un éclat sans pareil, étincelait avec la puissance d’une naissance douloureuse. Oui, le bras s’était arrêté, car les yeux émeraude connaissaient pour la première fois la peur des choses qu’on ne connaît pas.

Désormais Muriel aura toujours onze ans. La vieille femme ne vieillira plus.

Un point, parce que c’est la fin. Un point, parce qu’il n’y a pas de suite, parce qu’en fait voyez-vous, de votre grand fauteuil bientôt vous vous lèverez, et sans vous sur la page ces personnages et leur image ne prendront jamais d’âge.