Friday, 17 May 2013
You have no idea how I feel! Go away!
But Hayden didn’t hear. How could he hear if the words were not spoken?
Robyn could hear the muted voices downstairs and a soft lullaby soothing the cries of a newborn baby girl. She heard many different voices floating through her home and many, many feet padding gently up and down her stairs. She was aware of the kindness they were all trying to show. She appreciated the cups of tea, the scented candle, the single rose, but she knew that they were not aware how much she appreciated them.
At night she tossed and turned. She flung her arms around Hayden then violently pushed him away. She slept, dreamlessly, only to wake in a quiet, darkened room, tired.
Robyn stretched her arms above her head and touched the red velvet headboard with fingertips which recoiled, as if they had eyes that recreated the moment of pain, blood.
No-one understood. Moments of recollection, when her lips moved to explain the pain or ask for help, melted like ice in hot coffee, and no-one was there to see her eyes beg for contact – touch me!
Robyn tried desperately to grab hold of those lucid moments; to freeze them until Hayden knelt next to her, with tears of deep, deep love soaking his shirt. She needed to melt her moments in his tears, she needed to touch his face.
The blackbird chirped, indifferent to human pain. The buses, lorries, and cars all swished beneath the window undisturbed by the pain behind closed curtains. Why should they care? Who were they to care?
Robyn took a deep breath. The baby girl cried. The voices grew louder. The sirens faded.
(Writing Prompts http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/)
Posted by Rose at 07:19
Friday, 22 February 2013
|Copyright © Patual|
You think my story romantic, you envy me. The pictures you conjure up in your mind, with my words are perfect, paradise. Your face expresses your thoughts. Your dreamy eyes mesmerised by your interpretation of my story.
I left the ugly bits out. Yes, the early morning walks watching the sun play with the clouds and switching off the darkness like a light switch were magical. Yes, the silhouettes of houses and trees as the sun reluctantly sank beyond the now were worthy of a National Gallery artist’s brush. Yes, the adventures were exciting, childlike and daring!
But does your imagination place my story on summer days and nights? Did you ever consider the reverse of my story canvas? Did you ever see me plodding past that beautiful snow sprinkled engine wearing thin trousers, a jacket far too large with a zip that didn’t work? Did you see my ears almost raw, red from the cold? Did you think where I slept on those icy, windy nights?
No, you probably didn’t imagine me shivering under a thin Salvation Army blanket on the cold iron floor of one of the monster’s empty draughty coaches. You probably didn’t see me arriving and leaving under cover of darkness, keeping watch on the lighted windows for anyone who may suspect my trespassing presence.
The stories I tell you are the good times I recall from the hard times I passed through.
The stories I keep inside are the hurts and disappointments, which made me strong enough to extract the good!
(Written for www.creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/ Writing Prompts, February 2013)