Saturday, November 6, 2010

Weekly prompts

Here are the pieces I have written over the past week. A week is too long - must be since my writing's picked up so from tomorrow I will start posting my pieces on a daily basis. I might even expand on some of them as I go along. So here they are - most recent first:

One way or another

The lyrics to that old Blondie song kept coming back and now the tune was playing in her head – over and over – in the background to the thoughts gripping her, like elevator music. It was enough to drive her insane, especially with the long drive ahead and with the fog, it would take even longer to get home. She fumbled with the radio dial while trying to keep her eyes on the road until suddenly she stopped at the song playing: One way or another, I’m gonna find ya I’m gonna getcha getcha getcha... She pursed her lips momentarily and started humming along while all she thought about was that she would get home – one way or another.

The widow maker

A raging fire that showed no mercy stopped at nothing in its way. The flames danced and multiplied disproportionately as the wind fed their fury. It was a manifestation of an arsonist’s vision: to devour land by the hectares. Many days passed before the fire was smothered. Now the area would never be the same again. Fire fighters saw it as a monster in the making. But Gladys, standing in the spot where her house had been, thought of it as a widow maker.


Holding the piece of paper in her hand, she looked down at it again. There was only one word on it: Resigned. It was scribbled with a paintbrush on ribbed, white and heavy paper. It almost felt like a sophisticated piece of artwork and looked like a signature. The layers of soft paper that she could see beneath the surface gave way at the edges. She could tell that it was torn from a sketchbook, perhaps in a hurry. The black paint was fresh and intensely dark. Rounded and soft letters took away the impact of the exclamation mark at the end of the word. She turned the piece of paper over then back again but there was nothing else to give any other indication.
The phone rang, suddenly jerking her out of her thoughts. She dropped the paper on the coffee table and reached across from the armchair.


“Oh good, you’re there! Did you get my note?” He sounded excited as he yelled through the receiver above the din that she could hear coming from the background.

“Note? Aah.. note..”

“Yeah I left it on the coffee table.”

She flicked a glance at the piece of paper that she had dropped. It all started to make sense now. She looked at the word again and got a different notion this time. She felt uneasy.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes yes, here. Where are you? What happened?” The music in the background was getting louder and she could hardly hear him.

“I did it!! I finally did it! I resigned and I’m down with the gang celebrating. Listen I’ll be home as soon as I can. We must celebrate!” There was a slight pause before he said, “Honey? I promise I’ll make it up to you this time. We’re free now,” he laughed, “free to do whatever we will, just trust me this time. Gotta go, will be home soon.”

“You resigned?” but her voice trailed off as she heard the click on the other side. He had hung up. Her legs gave way and she sank in the armchair. He had been talking about this for a while but she never thought he would have the courage to go through with it after all the threats they were receiving. A dark void started filling with a mixture of panic and fear inside of her. She dared not think of what would happen next. It was too late to persuade him to take it back and she knew that the threats were serious. They had to leave. There was no other way out.

Left Behind

An ode to being,
For those who are left behind.


Sweet and mellow
Freedom hit by fear –
Left behind.

Autumn in the orchard

A field of green is starting to tinge
with hues of colour.
Leaves that cringe give in to a fall
in fiery red honour.
It subdues a chill in the air,
a thrill to kill any jolly trace of summer.
Deep crimson, yes sir,
but only just
in mounting mellowness,
the sun sends a dust of rust,
and bittersweet brown and amber.
Look up to a blue that sails over
a change of season