News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

January 8, 2012

I Climb So High, But I Always Fall -- Scene

Hey Folks,

So I've been debating with my writing over the past bit -- you see, all that comes to mind are rather depressing scenes; the characters in my mind are all either bawling their eyes out or ending up dead. Lovely eh? *rolls eyes* Now I don't want to suspend my thoughts on what is dark and dismal; however, I think that as writers, we need to write what we must when we must.

I cannot force myself to write what does not come naturally -- everything I've ever written has always come naturally, at least mostly. Whenever I attempt to write something that my mind revolts against, I simply cannot get the words down right. Thus, I end my short call-to-arms by simply saying, I'm writing what's been badgering me for days.

I offer a short explanation at the end of this dark piece.


Google Image

I Climb by Thousand Foot Krutch on Grooveshark

I Climb So High, But I Always Fall

Trickling down her cheek, a solitary tear crept onwards. Stalwart-like; a soldier without an army. Another mournful sob escaped her mouth, lunging fiercely outwards, coagulating in the frozen air; a draconic ghost of the past.

Dead. No more. Gone, like the summer wind, chased by the bitter cold breath of winter.

The words pierced her breast as they plunged into her subconscious; no other scene, no other situation could ever have such a real meaning to her, nor could they make her feel so alive.

And yet I loved him. Her mind tumbled with a thousand thoughts as she lifted her gloved hand to her face and bit her tightly clenched fist. Loved – she loved him – and now, he was gone. Deader than a doornail, as her pappy had said. Deader than any filleted fish spread coldly out on the dinner table. Dead. The infernal word sounded like some death toll being rung on a midnight bell – it shuddered within her being, reverberating against her quaking ribcage.

And by his own doing, oh lord. She shook her head and sniffled softly, reaching up to wipe her eyes, but the moist surface was quickly replenished anew with more drops of sorrow. And we all follow one another, like beasts of nature – we cannot escape into an immortal life, and still we face this anguish day after day.

Slamming her fist against the wooden table, she bit her tongue and felt the metallic taste of life flow through her mouth. Could I have done any better? Is this all my fault? She let her gaze wander over the bare room, bereft of any womanly touches. It was just like he always used to live and would have remained the same unless, of course, he had married. But he wouldn’t do that; I know, I know all too well.

Her eyes lit upon the kitchen and that certain drawer. Relief was only a few footsteps away – only a trip to the sink, only one motion. Only. One. Motion. No! Yes, just get up and get in that kitchen, you’re a waste of life. Demon! The whites of her eyes glared brightly in the light of a candle. Go to hell where you belong! Her thoughts crushed the voice in her head with a rage uncharacteristic of her persona.

Purple veins stuck out against her slender throat. She pushed her sleeves further down against her arms and then, in a sudden movement – she was so much like a startled animal...a small, startled animal – she snatched her purse from the floor and ran out the door, not bothering to lock it. All that remained of her unannounced visit was the tallow candle that soon sputtered and drowned in its own wax, and a toppled chair near a wooden table.  


Shipwreck by Starfield on Grooveshark

I've had this image in my mind a few days now -- the picture of a forlorn, perhaps even rain-drenched, young woman. She's garbed in black and has the most dismayed, sorrowful look on her face. And -- key point -- she's sitting inside a two-room cottage.

I finally just had to write something about her -- I had to give her a story (and if you're not a writer, it's ok if you don't understand this feeling. To describe it quickly, it's like you're a water balloon being filled with water and if you don't write, then you'll pop). This is the story that came out. Yes, it's dismal. Yes, it's emotional. And yes, it's dark. I'm most certain that there is more to it, I simply haven't allowed myself to dig into the backstory very far, because I don't want to right now.

Perhaps I'll bring something more jolly to the plate next time; however, while I'm on this topic, I'll point out that not all literature can be that way -- and indeed, if it all were we wouldn't have the amazing experiences and epiphanies that hit us when we read war journals or fiction that delves into the raw truth of human emotion.

*shrug* I don't want to get philosophical tonight, I simply wanted to point that out.

Stay tuned for more lit! I hope to have the courage to write more of what pesters the nooks and crannies of my mind, rather than let it fester in my mind and strangle my muse.

Google Image, of course -- magnolia blossoms for my dear readers!

*tips hat* Good evening all!

Signed with magnolia blossoms,


1 comment:

  1. Mmm... Excellent writing, Squeaks. I'm a bit rushed at the moment, so I can't take the time to "review" it properly, but I love your use of the senses. It seems to pop it off the... erm, screen.

    And I can SO relate to your sensation of wanting to pop unless you get the words down and out of your overflowing brain. It's such an incredible feeling, but it's almost inevitably followed by a sense of letdown, since the words never come out quite the way you want them.


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