Wednesday, 18 August 2010


Frustration inspires exceptional acts
but there's no guarantee they'll be good
It may make you down a whole bottle of Jack
but that certainly don't mean you should.

So when you start to feel that tension rising
You're not sure if you'll curb it in time
The best way that I've found to stick to the ground
Turn what's got you stressed into a rhyme.

Don't just shout
It about
Find some way to block out
All the thoughts that make you feel destructive.

And instead
Use your head
Try to channel that stress
Into something that's far more productive

Monday, 16 August 2010

'The Kiss' - A Freewrite

Cue: Cello Concerto in E Minor by Elgar - this was originally a freewrite, but I played about with it a little.

A withered old man storms into his dark, cold bedsit, attempting to slam the door behind him with his weak frail arms. He hobbles over to the rickety chest of drawers, picks up a photo frame and stares. Slowly he lowers himself into the plain wooden chair next to him, never taking his eyes off of the photo in his hands. And he remembers.

The first time they met was in Georgia. A warm, balmy night at a mansion on the river. Owned by an obnoxious lawyer. He had arrived late and entered, nervously clutching his violin case and hurrying towards the rest of the orchestra. He was worrying over his solo. The final few bars had felt wrong in the last few rehearsals. Something was missing but he couldn’t place it.

He’d been in his seat all of a minute when he saw her. She was only 19 and the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon. She was twirling around the ballroom with her skirts flowing as if in slow-motion. A sweet innocence graced her face and when she smiled, all of the lights in the room seemed to focus entirely on her. As the solo approached his eyes never left her.

While she was before him everything seemed perfect. He held his violin with such tenderness as he wished he could hold her. As he reached the final, troubling section, he felt no worries or fear.

While she was before him no note could land wrong, no phrase move too quickly. As the melody peaked, he fell.

He wanted nothing more at that moment than to take her in his arms and profess the love that had just overtaken him so violently. But he was a mere musician with nothing to offer this angel before him. He was no match for the tall, dark foreboding man with whom she was dancing. Covered in fine clothes and brimming with confidence, her partner was possibly the most intimidating man in the room. As he moved gracefully around the floor, the musician watched him. Hated him for everything he was and everything the musician was not.

The old man still felt the anger coursing through his veins, so strongly that it shook him from his trance. He rested one thin, wrinkled finger upon the picture, gave a sad smile and then dragged his failing body out of the seat and over to the kitchenette. After pouring himself a whisky he moved to the bed and sat on the hard mattress. As he supped his drink, he drifted back to that night. To the first time he heard her voice.

It was as soft and gentle as her manner. She had approached him during his break.

“You play beautifully.” She began. “I wish to thank you. For your music made my soul dance.”

He was not confident and had instantly frozen when that peaceful lilting tone first fell upon his ears. He managed to stutter a brief thank you and then stood dumbly, staring at the vision before him as if it were a dream.

“I adore music, I wish that I could hear it played all day long. That it could accompany me throughout my life. It is music that truly makes us feel, do you not think?”

She was still talking to him! The poor, nervous musician went to run his fingers through his thick brown hair, a nervous habit he’d had since childhood, when he remembered that his sister had spent what felt like hours trying to tidy it before his performance. Instead he scratched his neck and returned his shaking hand to his side, gripping his trousers as he tried to reply.

“I..I..I.. a.. agree.” He paused, trying desperately to order his thoughts before he spoke. “Music is life.” From the instant that the words left his mouth, he mentally cursed himself for speaking so openly to this goddess. Surely she could not truly care what he thought.

Instead of laughing at him and running back to her rich, cultured friends, as he expected, the woman stayed and her smile grew. “Yes.” She whispered. “It is everything.”

She glanced around the room, before grabbing his free hand and pulling him to the garden.

“Play for me!” She commanded, laughter on her face and joy in her voice at the excitement of hiding from her dull, judgemental, over-privileged friends.

The musician glanced around, making sure that they were far enough away, and that the ball was loud enough, that they would not be discovered. Not once did he consider refusing, for what warm-blooded man could deny this woman anything?

He had played for 20 minutes straight as she twirled and swayed through the trees, down the path, around the benches. By the time she stopped he was sweating from the effort. And then she ran to him, grabbed his violin and gently, carefully placed the instrument on the bench, before dragging the musician to the bench to join her.
He was becoming increasingly aware of how inappropriate this was. If any of the other guests were to see them, her reputation and his job would both be in danger. But as he opened his lips to speak his concerns, she shushed him with one delicate finger rested lightly on his mouth. Pushing her deep mahogany curls behind her, she leaned forward and replaced the finger with her lips.

As the old man remembered that kiss he abandoned his glass to the bedside table, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, swept up in the perfect memory of the perfect woman. The perfect woman who was no longer his and would never be his, nor anyone’s, ever again.

In his memory the kiss deepened, his breathing faltered.

But unlike the first time, when he’d pulled away to tell her he loved her, now, in the memory, the musician would not let go. Not even for breath.

And as the old musician’s body shut down, and the music faded, the kiss continued, with him for eternity.

'Escape' - A Freewrite

Cue: Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber

The ocean crashing and a girl looks out. She shivers and wraps a blanket around her, holding back the fear and the loneliness of the place where she has found herself.
No one had ever understood her.

Not really.

And after many attempts, eventually she just gave up and ran.

Most say run for the hills but that was too closed off. She ran for the ocean. Somewhere that was open and somewhat sad and empty, like her. The ocean reminded her of happier days. Days when she would laugh. When she would walk hand in hand with a boy who made her feel care free. But now he was gone. And the crashing of the waves against the rocks lulled her into a memory.

Dark and sorrowful.

The phone call from an older woman she'd never met who had told her, with cracking tones, that he was gone. It was over for her at that moment. She hadn't loved him. She had never loved anyone like that. But that day she accepted her fate.


Here she was safe from heartache. From loss. Here she had the sea and she sat on the dark, wet sand and let it slowly wash over her, wrapping her in warmth. The coldness was only felt when the water moved away and left her shivering and crying in pityfulness for the state of her existence.

She screamed at the sea. Then as the water came back and washed over her again she felt the calming gentle feel of the waves. Soothing her. Reminding her that here nothing could touch her. That here she was able to scream, able to cry.

The ocean would never judge her. It would only fold her into it's rippling arms and soothe her. All that she could feel in the sea was peace. Not bliss, not happiness. But peace. Something she had longed for since childhood. She had found a sanctuary away from the cruelty of others.

She was good here.

Updates: Freewriting

So I've been fairly sporadic with updating this blog, but it's not because I haven't been writing, just because I'm rubbish at remembering to actually put stuff up.

As I'm feeling totally crap today and have the day off work I've decided to try and remedy this situation by uploading a number of pieces I've written over the last few months, including some Freewrites.

Freewrites generally come from a number of challenges over at (Where I post as DaBill) But the Freewrites aren't saved in a way that allows others to read them from your account, so I'm thinking it's best if I put them up here as well.

The general idea of a Freewrite is pretty much as it sounds. You're given a topic or some kind of cue (could be a photo; a song; a poem etc.) and then you write whatever comes into your head. (Technically you're supposed to write as the words come, without editing - but when I post stuff I HAVE to edit a bit because I hate putting up posts with incorrect spelling or grammar - I know, I'm such a pedant!)

So anyway, that's just a quick explanation for the sudden flurry of posts I'll be putting up today.


Under the bridge the city swells

The smoky air filled with happy yells

High brow chat, an artistic song

But then reality hobbles along

I’m sorry, I can’t. Not as rich as I seem.

And liberal capitalism is simply a dream.