Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge? Are you open to sharing your dark side? Then read on.
Do you have a dark side?
Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so, join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.
Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday
Share your dark side?
I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.
dark | side | thursday | thirty
He turned away, from the dark, rain lashed window.
Walked across his cold, empty, single room. Taking care not to trip on the cable that snaked across the perfectly laid out grey stone tiles. Selected a sparkling shot glass from the shelf of the kitchen cabinet, laid it on the pristine work surface. He opened the fridge door, it creaked, he knew, he needed to get it fixed. Took out the bottle, that still, after all this time, lay waiting in the shelf tucked inside the door, flipped the metal clasp that held it closed, poured the clear, slick, liquid into the shot glass. To the brim.
Taking the glass in his left hand, he walked back past the glowing screen, back to the window. He looked up at the towering chimney in the dark night, lifted the glass to his mouth, closed his eyes, the liquid slid down his throat, warming, burning. And as it did, he remembered, although, he knew, it was pointless to do so.
He turned, and, in a rage, hurled the shot glass savagely across the room. It stopped, when it hit the wall, at the back of the kitchen area, shattering and smothering the floor with sharp shards that would, he knew, slice into his bare feet.
Ignoring the fallout from his senseless rage, for now, he returned to his desk, turned to the low cabinet that contained what little possessions he had. Kneeling down, he opened the door, took out a large white envelope. Placing it on his desk, he took another shot glass, feeling the shards, that covered the floor, press into the naked soles of his feet, he tipped what remained in the open bottle into the shot glass, drained it in one long swallow, sat down at his desk once more, and opened the envelope.
He reached inside, and took out four sheets of paper, papers folded, and long ago abandoned.
He pushed his Mac out of the way. Spread the papers on the desk.
Each one was a painting, crude, simple, and yet powerful. Each one told a story, a piece of the puzzle, concealed in watercolours, created, he was sure, with passion, and then forsaken. But, he had not forgotten them. He remembered, the moment he had been given them, the artist, perhaps uncaring in the moment, had handed them over, not caring, unwitting, what might be their fate.
Fruit trees lining the banks of a patch of water; a bridge crossing untroubled blue waters; a ballerina in a bright blue dress, arms akimbo leaping against a yellow background. And last, that face, the face that had started it all.
It’s face.
A shiver ran slowly down his spine as that rendering stared back at him. He took the envelope and stuffed the paintings back inside, except that which bore the face. The pain seared again, shooting pains up his arm, into his shoulder.
Gasping for breath, he reached out for the painting that bore that terrible face.
The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.
seconds are infinitesimal counting down seconds out but wait stop all the clocks what the hell is time anyway roll back the clock fast forward freeze frame pause seconds out
game >
< over
writing 101 | poetry | four | seconds | prompt by rosemawrites
Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself
― Leo Tolstoy
The Poetry 101 Rehab was initially set up for those who missed the creative writing challenge of the Writing 201 Poetry course run by the Daily Post.
Some may remember that last week I was of a mind to change things. Sometimes change is not a good thing. Listening is always a good thing.
So Poetry 101 Rehab is back. Not that it was away for long.
How does it work?
Feel free to answer the prompt, twist it or ignore it; write a poem of your own or share a poem by another author. Write about your inspiration, your creative process or other poetry related thoughts, but this is in no way obligatory. Nothing is obligatory in this challenge. The idea is to get together, talk poetry and enjoy.
How can you take part?
Anyone can take part, anytime you want. Publish your poetry post and add a link to it by clicking on the Poetry 101 Rehab badge below or share your link in a comment. Use the tag Poetry 101 Rehab, so we can find each other in the Reader.
I will be your host, and I’m here to reply to your comments, read your poetry, like and comment. While this post is the starting point for this week’s challenge, do visit fellow poets in the link-up and chat to them on their blogs!
The prompt for this week is MAGIC.
Row upon row
of empty seats.
Day after day,
they stayed away
Who will pay?
None can say?
It sure ain’t,
magic.
This week’s prompt is a slightly bitter take on one of the consequences of the recent Brussels Lockdown and it’s also the prompt for the first day of the WordPress Writing 101 Poetry course to which I have signed up. I do hope neither you nor the people at WordPress mind me mixing the two together here in this post.
What will your take on the keyword MAGICbe?
Write about it in a poetry post and share your link in the comments section of this post and / or by clicking on the Poetry 101 Badge above.
Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge? Are you open to sharing your dark side? Then read on.
Do you have a dark side?
Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so, join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.
Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday
Share your dark side?
I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.
dark | side | thursday | twentynine
And so, the dance, started again.
He typed, enjoying the gentle click, click, click as the square, black plastic buttons, with glowing white characters, gently depressed under his flying fingers. His wrist resting on the clean aluminium skin of the machine on which he was writing. The screen glowing white, nothing to see but the words appearing, one after the other, in the old school font that was a soft spot of his. When he did this, he felt at home, comforted somehow. For now.
And by his side, the battered old journal, bound tight, its secrets still shut away inside a leather thong. The leather, a base and wanton challenge to the gleaming aluminium usurper.
He looked up from the shallow laminated wooden desk on which he was typing. His eyes, distracted for a moment by the red woven plaid thrown over the sofa, looked towards the windows. Distracted by memories, and almost memories, of things that had happened, that were going to happen, and those that didn’t. His view of the empty industrial landscape outside interrupted by the thin plastic gauze that had been applied to the window, ostensibly in the interests of privacy. A wry almost smile formed on his lips. The rain forever lashing against the windows, a susurration of sensation that stealthily stole his attention.
He remembered the origin of the man in black. The one who always wore black, the man in the song. The Byronic anti-hero. The song inspired by pictures on a domed roof. In the entrance hall of a municipal station that had been in a state of constant renovation. Until the time came for it to finish. In another world.
He continued to type.
The words kept appearing. He had no idea how or why. Pretty much how he felt about it all. Type. And see.
The man in black, his narrator, had travelled far, in a circle. And yet, only now had his journey really started. He knew that many many roads lay ahead of him, roads covered in ice and snow, roads ahead that held promise. And he knew that promise, that fake premise, would be his undoing.
He thought of her, the woman that had been the nemesis of his man in black. The conflicting and contrasting emotions, the walk in the soft light that led to that terrible hole in the ground. The loss and despair. The search, the seeking, and the resolution.
The cold clinical way in which the man in black and that woman had been conjoined in a convergence of chaos in a white tiled hospital room.
Images of that square, empty of people, the tower, the climb to the top. The despair.
He stood up. The keyboard stilled for a moment. He looked through the rain, at the chimney stack, a relic of times gone by. Industrial, and fanciful.
The rain smeared across the dirty exterior of the window.
And a tear spilled from his eye as he remembered. It all.
The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.
andy townend 