two to a muse
Nov. 26th, 2011 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wytchcroft written to a 5 word prompt: chill suitcase tire boarding heel
one:
It was playing static out over the debris of the room, buzzing cathode
white-noise as if a sea of sound was seeking to bury the wreckage.
maybe something here would in the years to come surface anew, lathed
and polished and transformed to be found by a child or an old man some
interested beach comber of the violent new age, maybe it would be art,
the enigma of unknown objects, new meanings sought for and revealed in
the cryptic pieces of a life held in suspension now, re-framed,
revisited and once more in dialogue; a suitcase with its corners
rounded and the lock long rusted, a shoe heel like the fossil tooth of
a mammoth, a station ticket welded to the bed-frame and a boarding
pass frosted by the white-noise and its winter chill.
sometimes the tide can lie as much as any story teller - we are so
easily beguiled.
sometimes the white-noise of a tv and the cold pixelated light, covers
the sound of quick fleet footsteps and a quiet true self in a hammock
somewhere, or swinging in an old tire in the afternoon sun spinning st
christopher with her fingers and privately laughing.
..................
two:
Jesus was a heel, she decided. The moment crystallizing into hardness
as the sunlight slashed back and forth across the white stucco walling
splayed itself wantonly across steps like an old cat and brought forth
the petrochemical stench from pools of oil and abandoned tires.
A heel, definitely; the first one to duck out from this fucking place
she had thrown herself at. A crisis in faith? She liked to choose her
words carefully – so… no, that would not be the precise description,
not the one she would use. Oh she knew damn well he’d be down the road
someplace, waiting, nodding his shaggy head calmly and pointing at the
map and smiling in that half sad, half amused way. But right now – he
had cut and run. Cowardice.
And for why? Because of the violent sunlight, the sounds beyond the
alley that could be firecrackers, could be bullets, because there was
no place of certain security to fling down a heavy suitcase and just
fucking sleep?
Because…
She liked to choose her words carefully – that didn’t mean anyone
understood her. THAT was why she’d come on this hot wired road-trip to
nowhere; to land up some place where no-one spoke her language. There
was an honesty to that she had been missing so badly. No-one had to
pretend to understand anyone.
But she had not planned on being entirely alone – no, Jesus had just
plain wimped out on his part of the deal.
Men!
Despite the heat she shivered, underneath everything there was always
a chill. Dammit. Adjusting her bubble shades and fixing her mouth into
a tight line she decided it was time for a drink.
Step by deliberate step, broad round shoulders forward like a boxer
and into the nearest rooming house. The next bus would be boarding in
the morning.
one:
It was playing static out over the debris of the room, buzzing cathode
white-noise as if a sea of sound was seeking to bury the wreckage.
maybe something here would in the years to come surface anew, lathed
and polished and transformed to be found by a child or an old man some
interested beach comber of the violent new age, maybe it would be art,
the enigma of unknown objects, new meanings sought for and revealed in
the cryptic pieces of a life held in suspension now, re-framed,
revisited and once more in dialogue; a suitcase with its corners
rounded and the lock long rusted, a shoe heel like the fossil tooth of
a mammoth, a station ticket welded to the bed-frame and a boarding
pass frosted by the white-noise and its winter chill.
sometimes the tide can lie as much as any story teller - we are so
easily beguiled.
sometimes the white-noise of a tv and the cold pixelated light, covers
the sound of quick fleet footsteps and a quiet true self in a hammock
somewhere, or swinging in an old tire in the afternoon sun spinning st
christopher with her fingers and privately laughing.
..................
two:
Jesus was a heel, she decided. The moment crystallizing into hardness
as the sunlight slashed back and forth across the white stucco walling
splayed itself wantonly across steps like an old cat and brought forth
the petrochemical stench from pools of oil and abandoned tires.
A heel, definitely; the first one to duck out from this fucking place
she had thrown herself at. A crisis in faith? She liked to choose her
words carefully – so… no, that would not be the precise description,
not the one she would use. Oh she knew damn well he’d be down the road
someplace, waiting, nodding his shaggy head calmly and pointing at the
map and smiling in that half sad, half amused way. But right now – he
had cut and run. Cowardice.
And for why? Because of the violent sunlight, the sounds beyond the
alley that could be firecrackers, could be bullets, because there was
no place of certain security to fling down a heavy suitcase and just
fucking sleep?
Because…
She liked to choose her words carefully – that didn’t mean anyone
understood her. THAT was why she’d come on this hot wired road-trip to
nowhere; to land up some place where no-one spoke her language. There
was an honesty to that she had been missing so badly. No-one had to
pretend to understand anyone.
But she had not planned on being entirely alone – no, Jesus had just
plain wimped out on his part of the deal.
Men!
Despite the heat she shivered, underneath everything there was always
a chill. Dammit. Adjusting her bubble shades and fixing her mouth into
a tight line she decided it was time for a drink.
Step by deliberate step, broad round shoulders forward like a boxer
and into the nearest rooming house. The next bus would be boarding in
the morning.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-27 06:20 pm (UTC)I especially love:
"swinging in an old tire in the afternoon sun spinning st
christopher with her fingers and privately laughing"
no subject
Date: 2011-11-27 07:35 pm (UTC)i agree that those lines do jump out a bit.