Pressing, softly through the cracks Fragments of consciousness Piston hissing speckled the dead-night
Moving electricity aside She slips in like butter Melting and reforming to what I once knew
She was melancholy like my heart Sullen of soul My scion mirror
The tunnel formed Attuning the station Between pre and post mortem A hollow in this verse A meeting place
We spoke about mortality Not with words It was all there, though Moths fluttering in the air It’s been a while…
Since we shared space Since we shared time She keeps reminding me, though Those are figments...
Of faux comfort Fool’s restraints Flimsy, weak cortex It’s not everything Not even close
The cat’s body is in the next room Upon the pink bedspread His marbled fur of coppers and black Still as the void I can look if I want, she tells me He won’t stir yet But I can’t leave Paralysed in the serenity Permeating from her form
There’s so much more to that cat
The sun seeps in Glimmers strain against the sides Dagger sharp Fragments tear the space asunder
This year, my first attempt at NaNoWriMo didn’t hit the goal. Winter always seems to be a time of heightened drama, in opposition to the slower, warmer, more reflective side I long for at years end. Quieten the noise, slow down the pace. It doesn’t seem to matter the ingredients placed in the cauldron; there’s no slow and steady blending and simmer, it’s a sporadically exploding bomb — spewing shrapnel into the eyeballs and the roof, and right now it’s barely holding up. With that my focus was and still is in tatters, December may be more about finding all the pieces again and trying to fuse some sanity and peace. Anyway, my Backyard Asylum novel project only reached 14k – quite a distance from the 50k goal! I beat myself up throughout November with exhaustion and lack of creative time to drive into it. That’s been quite prevalent this entire year more than just the month, but it did feel more saturated. Such is life; she likes her curveballs and depression likes to wrap her fingers around my throat for periods of total torment. She’s a cruel demon indeed. So, it’s been a case of prioritising basic practical needs over desire. Although creativity is certainly a need, when it’s embedded deep, which fuels desire — without the sparks of passion there is little will to trudge through the more mundane, life has to be more than that — the fight continues. I’m rambling now, this slump shall pass! So, while Backyard Asylum is written in my head, I have to sacrifice some sleep, muster some energy from the ether and hit the keys — though maybe without the daily word-count pressure, which did me no good this first time around. Regardless, I am happy with what’s down for this WIP novel — its bones are horrific in a promising way. There’s a lot to work through and develop, but I’m confident it will in time progress so I can nail this first draft and go deep into sculpting and editing through the rough edges. The characters have meat, and there’s some strong scenes pinned already. I spiralled off into research more than physical writing a little more than planned, such is the ‘panster’ way. As much as I tried to avoid the temptation, I have my eye on a few open-calls for short stories. Nothing new and substantial has been written on the front yet, but there are some ideas stewing, so I’ve some snippets of poetry to go back to and work on to develop into a full-blown piece.
In summary, my first NaNoWriMo died in week two. But, the story itself will come into being, I am pleased with what’s been written so far, it’ll just take a little longer to get there. It’ll be a priority for 2021.
The Snow is not done with us yet. Not enough of you have been out to feel it and allowed it to creep close. It will return day after day until it is satisfied and like almost everything else in the world, satisfaction is not a state reached quickly. Few exceptions exist, but their acquisition is painful and consuming. You cannot have one without the other.
Time is an awful mistress and she will bend for nothing on this earth. Work is an expression of life, whatever you occupy yourself with. Everything is corruptible and you only have to look at the coast line for a good example; nothing stands the test of time. Values, cultures and beliefs change, die out, are reborn, become a shadow of themselves and disappear. Things take the place of other things. You change your furniture, change your clothes, rearrange your desk, realign your point of view, forget something, cheat yourself, hurt somebody, hurt yourself, swear you’ll never do it again, make a resolution, break a promise, fall down, pick yourself back up, gaze at the reflection in the mirror and think, “Am I……………?” Forget it and let the water rush in.
A beach is a beautiful thing, the canyons under the oceans are said to be some of the most wonderous mountain ranges on earth and the oceans themselves are as yet vastly uncharted. Who doesn’t like a mystery?
From, ‘The Whiskey Stories…A few years on it and still going, a drunk love story’
About the Author;
Glasgow based writer who began fictional writing while studying Sociology as a way to merge learning and art. Themes of “work,” general distaste for society and a dystopian world prevail. Andrew finished Uni over 10 years ago and let writing fall away, but has recently began engaging in it again. A fan of the current “flash fiction” genre as well as short stories. His favourite writer is Charles Bukowski and he’s tried reading Hemingway on several occasions, love it but just cant seem to finish. Burroughs is another favourite and he enjoys the cut up work.