That me in the mirror
Prompt from http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/ . Happy Christmas to all who celebrate!
Not sure I know this person. She’s wearing the same clothes and has the same hairstyle, the same face, the same figure but she seems different. Looking back at me imitating my every move.. this is the only time I see that me in the mirror. What do others see when they look at me? Do they see the same? It’s just a mask, can they see through it? I don’t know me in the mirror, the dark eyes, the pale skin, the rings, the creases, chapped lips. It has to be restored, painted over, that’s the real me, isn’t it? I never knew the tired, worn person; I’m sure I grew up with this new person I have to recreate every day before I leave the house. I don’t know when she left or where she went but now I can only call her back by painting her, then I feel like me again. That was the real me. That IS the real me, it’s not a mask, I’m just restoring myself, I always looked like this.. didn’t I? Or did I?
Endless
Sliding, slithering, bobbing along, in a hurry but nowhere to go except around and around. The sun breaking through the clouds that had once been home, now this is home, down on earth. A glimpse of a luminous shape in the distance, getting closer revealing itself to be a castle of stone standing empty and cold. A bridge leading to it – or away from it – still sturdy, still in use by one or two of the adventurous kind. Trees swaying in the breeze, they witnessed everything. Picking up speed now, running, rushing. Gravity pulls, feels heavy. The end is within sight, sharp edges jutting out into the large open space. Getting closer and no way back and noise like thunder echoing in the air. The castle looks on, as do the trees. Unstoppable speed as the edge of the cliff arrives.
A moment of suspension, then hurtling.. falling…
Bobbing along, rushing then slowing down with the dying currents, aimless flowing. Waiting to be picked up again by the rays shining from the gap in the clouds, back home. Then it begins again.
Stranger
Long time no story! One word: university.
And as always this is a prompt from Creative Writing Ink - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/ . I wanted to participate in NaNoWriMo this year, even if I have to make my own personal goal that is lower than 50k words.. so I might use this blog to post sections of my writing aswell. Anyway on to the story; this one is a little more lighthearted this time.
I was another creepy late afternoon on the moors – yes creepy, with mist veiling the distance, dark trees looming and oh yes! That solitary figure that wandered the moors with his little dog, every day at the same time except Sundays. Trudging through the mud – good old England, always seemed to rain – boots caked in the sludge, the end of the ragged long coat getting dirty aswell. Nobody really knew why he had to take that route, straight up the middle of the field, when there were stone paths around the outside that would easily have helped him avoid getting wet feet. The sun seeping through the broken clouds was not helping drying up the dampness – too cold at this time of the year. Still that didn’t stop the figure from going on his daily-except-Sunday walks. What was so special about Sunday? No one knew. Nobody knew why he dressed up in a dark hooded coat. Or why he chose that field, a long way from his home. Why he went out, whatever the weather. Plodding on, just him and his dog. Well, nobody except me. For I am that dark figure. And my “dog” is in fact a floor mop.
Trees
Photo prompt from – http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/ . Another short one today!
The trees peered down into the water, staring at its fiery surface and at their reflections beyond. Wondered how long they would be there, how long the lake would be there. Who would outlive the other? The trees, they died eventually. But the sun was eating at the water, getting hotter every year. A ripple ran through the surface, breaking the reflections playfully, as if to tell the trees to stop being so serious. The trees grinned and swayed in the breeze. Looking down, waiting for their shadows to come back. Basking in the sun, thankful for the lakeside quenching their thirst. In the background, the rolling hills, rolling with laughter, at the trees that seemed so vain watching their reflections. But it was all play. Who could stand still the longest. Whose reflection would be disturbed first. Which tree had more birds! Which hill could laugh the loudest, which ripple became the largest. Subtle games, silent laughter.
Your grave
Photo prompt from Creative Writing Ink - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/ – unfortunately as the site was down, all my images were broken links, so what have I learned? Save to hard disk and upload! 
It had happened so suddenly, one minute there and the next gone, while around them people were screaming, but in that moment they had seemed so far away. It was like in a film, everything had slowed down, she had thought she could hear the seconds ticking away. Just a moment earlier and it would have been her lying there, shaking, eyes glazed over and distant. But it wasn’t. Now it was calm, smoke rising still from the city and birds circling over the area where it had happened. Suddenly, no warning. A deafening boom, crashing, shrieks, commotion and confusion. The sight of it hurtling towards her. She couldn’t remember what happened after that. Just remembered the body. The gravestone should have been hers but here she was, sat in front of it and not lying in its shadow.
And they wait
A prompt from Creative Writing Ink - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/
Rumbling in the distance, not that of thunder but that of footsteps, hundreds of pairs of feet breaking into a run. A gradual roar of angry voices rising up from clouds of dust and smoke. Signs with handwritten or printed slogans bobbing up and down above the sea of heads. Whistles blowing, horns beeping, doors slamming, windows smashing, continuous chanting, beating of batons against heavy shields, shouts of abuse or warnings. A snake of colour weaving through the streets, growing as it went. More and more people joining the mob, while others shrank back in fear, hiding behind curtains or fences or walls. Anger spilled over; hatred between two forces in a country, the ones with legal power and the ones with determined power. A third force, with flashing cameras and hurried jotters, feeding and fuelling them both, urging them on. Running between the two sides as if to rat either one out, then sitting back as they clash and bring each other to ruins.
It comes to a halt, two parties standing across from one another, glaring eyes and beaming headlights, men with machines and men without. Silence as they assess one another, fingers itching, hearts pumping, creased foreheads wet with sweat. The flashing continues, shadows sneaking about between the lines like imps, a dangerous situation, highly alert and ready to bolt at the first sign of any sudden movement. And they wait.
Autumn
From Creative Writing Ink: http://creativewriting.ie
Leaning over the fence onto what used to be a little green pasture, now covered in autumn leaves, she thought how much it seemed like a fiery sea; the stone planters were boats bobbing up and down against the fence in the waves, the water all shades of red and orange and yellow. Wondered what it would be like to jump into that sea and swim to a boat, clamber up and huddle up in the middle, watching the currents around her. The tree was like a huge sea monster, rising up from the deep, spraying up the orangey water as it broke the surface. Long tentacles covered in the spray reaching out all around, towards her. She had to escape! Heart beating, she looked around for something to row herself away – that old piece of driftwood perhaps, floating on the waves. She grabbed it and pushed into the sea, paddling away as fast as she could. But looking back, the monster seemed closer, the tentacles reaching out for her! Throwing the useless oar aside, she stood up and made a lunge for some posts that protruded from the sea. Balancing on one, she hopped to the next, then the next. It was a groyne! She could see the beach already, and she jumped again. But this time she slipped, her foot unable to catch hold on the slippery wood, and she fell into the sea. Spluttering, she started swimming as fast as she could in the direction of the beach. The monster was still there, looming up behind her, sending more drops of water tumbling down around her. She herself sent some back as her hands and feet thrashed around in the sea. Finally! She felt hard sand underneath her feet. Standing up, she began to wade back to the shore, picking up speed as the water level around her dropped. At last she reached the shore, safe from the horrendous sea monster of the fiery ocean.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the green pasture covered in autumn leaves. With a sigh, she straightened up and turned to go, a single red leaf falling from her coat as she left.
Running
Story based on a prompt from Creative Writing Ink - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/ . I seem to be unable to comment on people’s work who post on Blogspot/Blogger – sorry! 
Will have to try again tomorrow.
Panting, sweating, legs tumbling, lungs burning. Feet hammering the ground, the sound echoing up into his ears, thundering in his head. High pitched rasps coming from his mouth as he gasps for precious air. He is surrounded by it yet seems unable to fill his lungs with what they desire. He is afraid of falling, his legs feel like they are slowing down, yet his body is driving on, causing him to lose balance. His foot twists, he stumbles, but manages to catch himself, reaching out to the stone wall to sturdy himself and give himself another push forward. Tiny specks of blood appear on his skin where the rugged bricks scraped his palm. The tunnel was long. Too long. He had entered it a long time ago. Where was the end? He had walked for a long time, through the empty echoing half-cylinder, strangely lit by a number of lamps on the ceiling. He could see quite far down, but no end in sight. Now and again he thought he saw a set of two lights, headlights, in hope a car was passing that could take him out of this tunnel. But they always blurred, and when he blinked, they disappeared. After what seemed like an eternity, he had turned around to find the entrance, anything to get out of the claustrophobic mess. But that had been a long time ago. A VERY long time ago. He had been running for a few minutes now, he should have reached the entrance. But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the distance. It wasn’t behind him, or in front of him. Panic was bubbling in his heart, making it beat faster, making him run faster, but he was getting weary. His legs burned, his feet ached, his lungs were bursting. Finally he fell, shaking, and hit the ground with a sudden thud that echoed throughout the silent tunnel. Stunned, he rolled over and looked up in despair. There.. a light shining.. was it..?
***
I recently had a dream where I was running from a wild animal. At a certain point, the same point every time, I would find myself at the beginning again, so I was running in an endless loop until I woke up. When I was writing this, it reminded me of my dream.
Fade
Writing exercise taken from a prompt at Creative Writing Ink - http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/. Didn’t take part in the last two so high time to post again!
The fading sun was just a memory now, the last of the colours she saw when she closed her eyes, leaning against a stubborn dark tree. Everything around her looked like dreary streaks of grey, black, and occasionally a dirty white from where the moon’s rays managed to find it’s way through the shapes that blocked its path.
She tried to hold onto that memory as long as she could, closing her eyes against the darkness that surrounded her, fighting to keep that bright orangey red colour of the sinking sun; but it was mixing with the greys, a dirty orange left with a faded spot where the sun had been. She was helpless against the clouds overcoming her, fogging her mind, tugging at her insides, and she bowed her head as if giving in to the weight upon it. Feeling a chill, she wrapped her arms around herself and curled her toes. The sun had nearly vanished now, the memory disappearing. Nothing to be done except wait for it to come back, and the cycle would start again.
Path
Photo prompt from Creative Writing Ink: http://creativewriting.ie/writing-exercises/
Wandering down a dirt track, leading nowhere, or somewhere or anywhere, who’s to know when you can’t see it. Approaching a tree, the last living thing as far as you can see, though it looks pretty dead with all its bare branches. Bird’s nests up high but no birds to be found, all flown away. Even the clouds aren’t wanting to stay in this desolate place for long, hurrying past as the wind carries them, ominous rolling banks ready to rain on someone else. Your small footsteps barely leave tracks in the dirt, but are enough to break the silence, the only sound to be heard for miles; well, apart from the occasional creak from the moaning tree in the wind. The bag on your back is light, nothing in it, waiting to be filled with things you find on your way. You often wonder how long this path is, how long it will be until you pass the storm clouds and find sunnier skies and greener grass and trees in bloom and animals scurrying about? You are young now, will you be old? Is it such a long way that you cannot see it, or will it appear sooner than you think? Do you have to reach that place or will it come to you? You zip up your coat against the cold, head bowed, little tired legs keep walking.
