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Posts Tagged ‘Sailor’

Some writing

Excuses

You wouldn’t believe how busy I am at the moment. I don’t believe how busy I am. I haven’t even got a job… I sent myself a tenner, and there still aren’t 28 hours in the day. I am such a charlatan.

I’m going away for the weekend, and have got a ton of stuff to do before I go to bed tonight, so I don’t have time for a proper blog post before Sunday. So, I thought I’d share some of my writing. Hope you don’t mind.

Any comments/crits welcome. They’re both works in progress, Ghosts more so than Sailor.

Sailor

I wake to the call of seagulls circling,
creep to the bow, cling to sodden ropes,
surrender fear and allow dark visions
to pierce senses that reason denies.

Polished wood glows softly in moon’s light,
sails swell, breaking waves on the wide sea
of night. The ship fades around me, wind
untangles my thoughts and weaves me away.

A whale shoots an arrow’s path, skims
the rough ocean’s surface, target unseen.
Fixed to glistening silver skin, the black stain
of a raven perches like royalty, urging haste.

Salt-laden water seeps into my boots,
subtle currents tease me with a promise
of an island home, where my wife’s dreams
roam free, riding whales through reflections of stars.

Postcard used as a prompt for Sailor

Postcard used as a prompt for Sailor

Ghosts

Do I live here?
Concrete stairs circle above and below. Bright colours on rough brick walls tell me where to go. I don’t understand the language of the spray can. Dismal passages march off in unlikely directions. Everything smells of piss.
Maybe…
I look down at my feet, tell them to take me home.
That works. They seem to know where they’re going.
I’m at the door. It is a tongue fitting snugly into the mouth of a narrow damp tunnel. There isn’t enough light for me to be able to tell what colour it is. The walls and ceiling are moving inwards, saliva dripping.

I’m in the hall, about to answer the door. I’m terrified. I don’t know why.
A man pushes the door so hard the chain breaks. He has a knife.
I scream at my children to hide in the living room, and run through the kitchen. There is a French window leading onto a balcony. I sit on a dark green plastic chair and wait.

That pot plant needs watering.

The man runs towards me, knife lifted high, blood dripping. I dive for his legs and tip him over the balcony.
He falls, tumbling over and over. Violent bloody spirals stream from the tip of the blade.

The boys run into the kitchen, laughing.
We hid, like you said,’ says Simon.
‘Has the man gone?’ says Blake.
‘Yes, darlings, you’re safe now.’ I kneel down to clasp them to me, I want to hold them so tightly they become part of me again, safe within my womb.

Then I look at them, properly look at them.
Blake’s blond hair is matted with blood. His cheek is ripped open and he has been stabbed several times. Simon’s throat has been cut and he has a dark red apron-stain down his front.

I can see through them.

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