Sound of Memories

A piece of flash fiction I wrote for a visual writing prompt as part of Short Story Day Africa. 

Sounds are like memories, they fade so fast.

A sharp, clear note you feel you will remember all your life, leaves you lost come morning, reaching for the threads of a tune you once knew so well.

That was all she left me: a yellow rose on the piano.

A rose, my favourite flower. Yellow, my least favourite colour.

She was telling me that she loved me, but she was saying ‘let me go.’ Reminding me that beneath all of that beauty rested a sense of disgust. You could never wash those petals clean, their silk was stained with salt and sweat, their thorns de-barbed.

I placed my finger on the lowest key and pressed. Ivory white offered no resistance as it swallowed the silence with thick, resonant guilt.

As the sound faded, I closed my eyes but couldn’t breathe.

She was gone.

If I smashed my fist against the notes, would my memories break?

No. My memories were no longer made, they were contained.

Opening my mouth, I willed them to rise, to strip the back of my throat as I vomited sound.

Let all of my thoughts fly, let them fade, and let them be forgotten.

Reflective Writing

There's a nice series starting on Idealist exploring how reflective writing can help maintain a better work-home balance:

As a kid, I never understood why my father only had enough energy to eat dinner and sit in front of the television every evening when he got home from work. Now I get it. He just wanted to circumvent the vicious circle that is ruminating at home about the things going wrong at work with something mind numbing and benign like 60 Minutes. When everything is overwhelming in our work lives the repercussions are inevitably felt in every other part of our lives. 

What happens to so-called work life balance when you are unemployed and looking for work, or in a job where you are struggling with demands, stress, office politics, or a particularly unpleasant boss? How does deadening ourselves with Netflix marathons night after night to avoid thinking in circles about our troubles at work count as “life”? 

The trouble with watching entire seasons of Gilmore Girls back to back is that, although it will take our mind off our troubles, it’s passive. We’re just immersing ourselves in white noise and spoon-fed fictitious worlds to escape our own reality. Unfortunately, passivity breeds passivity.

For the next few weeks, poet and professional writer Dr. Tara Mokhtari will be offering up a series of short reflective writing exercises. 

Writing Prompt: Woods

It's been a while, but I've finally joined in with another writing prompt. When you're focused on a novel it's sometimes a bit of a relief to write about something entirely different.

The theme this time was: How did you end up in these woods?

I could only ever hear her in winter, when the mist clung to the branches of the trees like a funerary veil. In summer her voice was drowned by the thousand-mouthed life-force of the birds and the rutting stags. I listened, but she was never among them. 

Perhaps it also made her sad, to see such joy and energy when she herself had lain cold amongst the crushed leaves for so long.

I would sit, my back pressed against bark until the damp seeped through my jeans. Some evenings I would sit until I shook with cold, until I could no longer feel the extremities of myself.

“Come back,” I’d whisper. 

A crow cried overhead, jolting me from those frozen thoughts.

Through the eerie whiteness I saw a shadow move. I knew it could only be a mirage, a trick of my over-tired, grieving mind, yet it looked so much like her. That shape, that slim waist, that dark, knee-length coat that flared out like a frock.

“Emma!” I called. “Emma, wait!”

I cried her name but only echoes answered.

Suddenly the scent of decay and rot was overwhelming.

Let her go, my heart said.

Follow, urged my feet.

“Emma, I’m sorry! I didn’t know. I never knew—”

I tripped on the knotted root of a tree, grazing my hand as I fell. There in that nothing, that void of existence, I held it to my eyes and watched as my garish red life flowed through the grit on my palm.

I had to go home. I had to stop this. No amount of guilt could change history. I had to pull myself together, move on, move away if necessary.

Pushing myself shakily to my feet, I turned to retrace my steps. 

Which way had I come? All of the trees looked alike: tall, slim, hardly stable enough to support themselves, like me. Between the thick ground mist and the chill clouds above, they looked like poles – prison bars – solid and unforgiving on either side. For the briefest of moments I wondered whether I was standing on my head, for I could no longer tell my up from down.

Panic started to rise.

“Emma,” I whispered.

“Yes?” she replied.

Writer's Block 365

Do you suffer from writer's block?

Check out this collection of Writer's Block Workbooks by Morgan Bailey (@morgenwriteruk).

Writing Prompt: Castle

Electronics Diq Org Fantasy Art Scenery By Chen Wei

I help to moderate a writing page and occasionally we post writing prompts. I thought I might start to join in and share the prompts with a wider audience. So, I'm starting a new tab for them: Writing Prompts (unoriginally). 

When I do them, I'll include the picture (above), the prompt, and then whatever I came up with. If you click the picture above, it should enlarge.

Please feel free to have a go yourself and post your stories in the comments below. It's just a bit of fun, and a useful way to inspire new writing ideas whilst avoiding brain drain.

The prompt for this one was: In under 500 words, tell us about this kingdom.

Nobody knows the true origins of the Kingdom of Galliah. Legend has it that it simply melted out of the retreating ice when the last great winter ended.

The first record was made by the explorer Avemann Drithk, almost three hundred years ago. He was travelling with his companion, Gilbert Dankrisin, a distinguished geologist. They were attempting to trek to the ice-line, hoping to find fertile grazing land where water was still plentiful.

Drithk kept his records on cowhide, scratched with a worn quill. Scholars have since translated his diaries into something more legible, and the first description of Galliah is widely considered to be the finest given of any new land.

To quote directly: “The sky towered behind it. Everything was blue, to the point where neither the clouds nor the snow-capped mountains could be separated.”

He went on to describe how the closer they came to the palace, the more the clouds began to resemble dragons, drifting and swooping around the turrets as though keeping a watchful eye for intruders.

They stayed for three nights at the base of the palace, unable to enter due to a large section missing in the approaching road. The paths down to the lower bridges were rendered completely impassable by ice, which clung to the sides of the cliffs in sheets, reflecting back their own astonishment.

The buildings around the sides of the mountain were all empty. Not just empty of people, but empty of food, of furniture, of any sign that life had ever existed there at all. Dankrisin, in a discussion related by Drithk, asserts that the temperature within the houses seemed to plummet by five or six degrees, causing the explorers to abandon sleeping there in favour of their elk-skin tents.

Three hundred years later and very little has changed. Drithk and Dankrisin’s onward journey, supported by several expeditions thereafter, found no paradise of pastoral lands, so there has never been an incentive for tribes to move this far North. It is one thing to be hungry, and another to be cold and hungry.

I came here for the only reason anybody now does: to conduct scientific research. We are cataloguing new species of heliun bugs, which secrete coloured liquids used in fabric dye. They are quite sought after in the South, and our research is funded by a wealthy cloth merchant who is hoping to capitalise on any finds.

I find it hard to concentrate, though. Whereas I can’t say that I’ve noticed a significant drop in temperature in the buildings, or dragons in the clouds, I can certainly attest to the sheer, magnificent beauty of Galliah, and the way in which light plays tricks with her.

Only yesterday, I swear that I saw a woman standing at one of the balconies.

Moon Music

Just returned from a fun writing workshop across town. Needed the mental break. I have been completely unproductive recently. Bit crud. This was a lovely, casual workshop run by my friend Morgen. If you're in the Northants area and fancy joining a creative writing group, she's the lady to talk to. Everyone welcome.

We undertook three exercises.

The first was a word association prompt. You start with a word - in this case 'hot'. From that, you write down word associations.

(click to enlarge)

So, in my case:

Hot - dog - food - drink
                - bread - butter
                - eat - drink
Hot - cold - snow - winter
Hot - sun - newspaper - print
                - moon
Hot - shower - water - rain
                      - soap - clean
Hot - good looking - woman - man - modern monkey [NB: Placebo song]
                                - sexy - sex - rude
                                - cooking (what you got?) - oven
                                                                          - microwave
Hot - mama (red hot) - papa
                                  - jive - music
Hot - damn - swear
Hot - or not - no
                   - isn't - won't

You get the idea?

Then you pick five: sexy, moon, winter, music, woman

And write a story in ten minutes or under, including all five words:

Moon Music

The first sip of summer wine, sweet against my tongue. A woman's shadow falls across the Havana moon, swaying softly to the sound of salsa. The maracas, crisp like rain against the auburn, dust-lit streets.

For one second, I am there.

One second.

Stretched into a hundred, million more. An infinity of balmy, sweat-drenched hours beneath those cotton sheets.

The music fades. My blood cools like an ice cube dropped into a drink. The paper umbrella closes and I open my eyes to see that it is winter.

It was winter before I closed them, why would it be anything but winter after?

Yet still I find it hard to comprehend.

A faint ghost sounds against my ear as though a string quartet were hiding behind the crescent moon.

Of her - nothing remains.

The air smells of dank leaves and oak moss. The sweat of her skin melts to silver dew on the lawn, and a shiver runs through me.

No everlasting nights, no sexy samba, no more moon music.

Instead my memories goad me, like menacing Mardi Gras masks. They sneer through teeth sharp enough to draw tears.

*

The second activity involved picking two photos from a folder. One picture of a man, one of a woman. Haven't got those to hand, but you could do the same with a Google Image search. You then fill out a character sheet for each. Mine ran:

Name: Josianne                                                                                      Nick
Nick Name: Josie                                                                                   Nick
Nationality: Polish                                                                                 British
Age/Job: 21, works in a bar                                                                   32/pianist
Hair Colour: Brown                                                                              Brown
Height/Weight: 5'6/10st                                                                         6'/13st
Favourite Music: Eclectic                                                                     Jerry Lee Lewis
Favourite Food: Pierogi                                                                        Fish & chips
Regular Saying: For Heaven's sake!                                                      Sound as a pound
Relationship (to other character):                                                    Work in the same bar          
Children: 0                                                                                        Estranged 9 y.o. son
Siblings: Two older sisters                                                        Older brother, younger sis
Religion: Christian - not practicing                                                       None
Aspirations: To go to the US                                                                 To fall in love
Quirks: Stalks her ex on Facebook                                      Has to flick light switch twice

That in itself is helpful if you're having a tough time getting a character rolling.

The next bit involved picking a couple of prompts - just one-liners like 'His mother doesn't speak to him' or 'she ran over next door's dog'. You can then pick one, or both, of the prompts and try to contrive a situation for the characters.

My story ran:

"Nick, you have to help me!"

He finished playing the piano with a flourish. "Ah, you're on your own there. Two left feet me, always dropping glasses."

"No! Not with the bar. I've been invited to go to one of those... what do you call it?"

"Quiz shows?"

"Oh! For Heaven's sake - no. You know. It's a party, before you get married."

"Oh. Who invited you?"

"Leslie. The one who does crossword at end of bar."

"So, what's the problem?"

"Well, I don't know what you supposed to do. How you act."

"Don't they have hen parties in Poland?"

"Hen party?"

"You know - party before marriage. I thought we sent enough of ours over?"

"Oh. Sort of, yes. But I don't know what to do. What they expect."

"Ah, you'll be sound as a pound."

"As a pound?"

"You'll be fine. Just enjoy yourself. Don't drink too much, and don't go home with any men you don't know. For my sake, please."

She slapped him playfully.

"But that is just it."

"What?"

"The men."

"Eh?"

"They are all men."

"At the hen do?"

"Yes. Leslie said I would 'make their night'."

"Hold up a second, love. This Leslie - what does she look like?"

"She? For Heaven's sake, no! Leslie, he is a man. You know - this tall," she held up her hand, "blond."

Nick's face darkened.

"You mean a stag do? Think I'd better have a word with this Leslie."

Prompt: She has been invited to a stag party

*

Finally, a good ol' traditional line prompt. This is where someone starts a sentence, and you write a story from it.

Prompt: As Claire finished tying the bow on the present...

...she was proud of herself - hip mother, down with the kids.

Condoms weren't the only thing she'd bought her son for his sixteenth birthday, but she felt it was a good in-joke. He'd probably blush and go 'aw, muuum,' but he'd understand it was her way of saying 'you're a man now - just be safe.'

If he managed to make his way through that pack of six, he'd hopefully be over the novel embarrassment of the act and feel adult enough to buy the next pack himself.

Right. That was Joe's birthday taken care of. Now to deliver the cufflinks to the Vicar, to say 'thank you' for feeding the cats last week whilst they sucked up the sun in Alicante.

*

The morning of Joe's birthday she had an early shift at the Cash n Carry. By the time she got home he was already out with his mates. She didn't see him until the following day.

As usual he'd left his washing in a pile by the machine. She smiled at the familiar routine. On any other day she would have had words about it - but hey, it was his birthday.

She picked them up and shovelled them into the washer.

Something caught her eye.

The cufflinks glinted in the morning sun.

*

So, three pieces of flash fiction - not bad. Haven't done anything like that in a long time. Rough around the edges, but that's all part of the fun. It's not meant to be polished, it's meant to break through the barriers of procrastination and force you to write something. Anything.

Really enjoyed myself. Nice build-up to the lit fest this weekend.