Brüssel

reflections

Image | | andy townend

Faces gone, black eyes burnin’ bright
– The Rising.The Boss. Springsteen. Who else.

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Rear view mirror.

Mirror, mirror what do you see?

What you wanted to see?

What you wanted to be?

Who you wanted?

Look back in anger, at the smoke, the terror, the closed doors, the falling buildings, the smell, the screams, the end?

Look back.

Reflect.

Then, stop looking, at the reflections.

Smash the mirror, and to hell

with, seven years of bad luck.

There, is after all, only the road.

Always, the road.

writing 101 | poetry | two | reflections | prompt by Melinda Kucsera

dark | side | thursday | twentynine

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

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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.

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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.

twentynine | fiftytwo

dark | side | thursday | twentyeight

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

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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.

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This post is submitted both as 28 : 52 of my dark | side | thursday serial story and as my late response to Day 16 of the WordPress Writing 101 course in which we are invited to ‘mine your own material’.  So, this week’s chapter draws on some earlier posts, at least in part.

dark | side | thursday | twentyeight

Realisation spread through his body. A raging plague consuming him. Undoing him.

It all began to make sense.

Yes, he was the man in black. Always had been.

There was no time for this though. No time now for defragmenting the hard drive of his psyche. That task would have to be demoted, paused, left bouncing on the menu bar, until he was in a better state to deal with it.

For now, his mission, objective, goal, was simple. Survival.

And, he realised, it did’t look too rosy right now. No, not rosy at all. Not even the palest shade of rosy. Frankly, it all looked rather funereal now.

But HID!

He still had the key.

That much was true. But oh, he had more than that. He had the things he held in his heart. Not his soul, if he had ever had one, that was gone. Now after, well after -that.

A fragment of a rhyme kept bouncing around his mind:

‘The man in black, who traveled so far, put away his heart’

The fragment bothered him, something slipping away, from the boundaries of his conscious self.

Stop it. He said to himself.

Now. Now, focus, on survival.

Survive. Live. If you ever want to see her again. You must live. You must remember what it is to be the man in black.

Another fragment fiddled with his failing mind:

‘Do you know, the man in black?’

Did he, could anyone know him. Really?

He felt the ground below him collapse, fragment, he felt his body begin to slip through. He heard her voice, that voice, the voice he heard in his dreams, in his nightmares. Her voice. And those words, those terrible words, words that still made him numb.

‘Don’t let him…’

But he had. And now he was, finally, facing the consequences.

The ground opened beneath him. The floor of the sealed tomb opened up and he fell into the darkness.

The desk in front of him was empty. Save for that box, his leather bound journal, and a pen.

He reached out, picked up the journal, opened the first page, read the words scratched out on to the parchment. He turned the pages, slowly, one by one. Pausing every now and then, to linger over a phrase, pause and reflect on the language. He turned to the final page of writing. He sat back in his chair, hesitated, then, picking up the pen in his left hand, began to write, the words flying off his pen, ink spraying. Then, when he had finished, he placed the pen carefully on the table, nib facing away from him, closed the journal and, with great care, wrapped the leather strap around the journal, sealing it. He picked it up, walked to the window. Holding the journal, he looked through the rain streaked portal into that dark night.

The end of the first cycle had arrived, as he had always known it would.

Now, the dance would start again.

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.

twentyeight | fiftytwo

WordPress Writing 101 (November 2015): Day 15

poetry 101 rehab: lockdown

Image | | andy townend

Do you miss the Writing 201 Poetry course by the Daily Post? If so, then join this blogging challenge and let the poetry flow!

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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 have fun!

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.

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I will act as your host, and I’ll be here for you to reply to your comments, read your poetry, like and comment. While this post is the starting point for the challenge, do visit fellow poets in the link-up and chat to them on their blogs!

This week’s prompt is LOCKDOWN.

lock(ed) down
so tight
closed, guarded
nannied, harried
we can't (even) breathe
may we
come out
now, 
please
we're all growed up now
see?

My prompt today was inspired by recent events in Brussels, and if you feel so inclined you can read more about that on belgianstreets or in my recent post, ‘twentyfour’ here on this site. What will your take on the keyword LOCKDOWN be? Blog about it in a poetry post and share your link in the comments section of this post and by clicking on the Poetry 101 Badge above.

twentyfour

Image | | andy townend

‘It was the possibility of darkness that made the day seem so bright’
― Stephen King

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This post is began as something of an experiment. It is, started out initially at least, as my response to Day 14 of the WordPress Writing 101 course, we were invited (I’m late to the party – again) ‘to recreate a single day’. I’ve decided to twist the prompt, because that’s what I do. So, rather than recreate a day, I’m going to share today, my day, with you, my readers. That means I plan to update this post throughout the day, never tried this before so let’s see what happens? Let’s hope writing the post doesn’t get in the way of the day I have decided to write about. Ha.

12:00 Noon.

Woke very late, after months of not sleeping well, this day I slept through until noon. Woke to texts and news bulletins warning that the Metro has been shut down here in Brussel. Pouring with rain. Not a good day to visit Brussel. I’ve realised that I have no food, my plan was to visit Marks & Spencer and buy some comfort food. Comforting to see, courtesy of BBC News, that heavily armed soldiers are guarding both M&S and the Apple Store next door, now need to plan how to get from Molenbeek (yes indeed) to the store.

12:45

13:24

After coffee and hot shower, wrestling with html to insert columns (something I would have learned had I stuck with Blogging X01, decide to give up and just type. Now time to go out and see if I can take photos of whatever is, or is not happening. Wonder if I will stick with this 24 style post? Catch you later. maybe?

13:43

Now time to grab my camera and go see what’s happening. Catch you later?

14:25

Buses seem to be operating. Well this 86 to Brussel Centraal is anyway. Hard to write post with one hand and strap hang with the other. Never a dull moment 😉

14:49

15:47

Light fading now. Parts of central Brussel resemble a ghost town today. Is this freedom or fear. Who wins on a day like this?

16:16

Ok, time to head home and check the shots I took on the street.  Also, I’m soaking wet and my fingers are freezing and my mobile battery is about done.

16:45

16:55

I can see I need to tidy up some code in this post. Realised it’s not that easy to try and post on a mobile whilst also trying to document troops on the streets with my Nikon. About which more later. Photos now downloaded to my Mac so now to review and edit. Will probably post some here and also over on belgianstreets.

17:27

Uploading shots from the streets of Brussel to belgianstreets. And watching BBC news talk about Molenbeek, from my flat, in Molenbeek.

18:10

Posted gallery of images from my walk around central Brussel this afternoon. Now time to take a break and have a bite to eat…

Check out my photos on belgianstreets.

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19:56
So much for that break

20:45

left the warmth of bar, heavily guarded by soldiers and now heading back home to Molenbeek.

22:28

Now relaxing with a glass of wine and just watched my interview on BBC World News which featured many of the photos that I took today. And, when I decided to try this experimental post I thought it would be just another ordinary day…

23:41

Here is a rather poor recording of the interview that I gave earlier this evening on the BBC (it may take a while to upload and be ready to review). With apologies for the poor audio and wonky angle, I’m tired.
With thanks to the BBC I am delighted to have uploaded the unedited live interview that took place on Saturday night, this replaces my rather shambolic amateur capture…

01:06

Actually after a day like today, it’s hard to just, well, sleep.

02:10
And so, to bed, perchance to dream.

11:09

Another late rise, although in my defence I didn’t really fall asleep until around 4. Time to make a coffee and think about the rest of the day. At least it’s stopped raining and it was a peaceful night.  May go back out shooting again today or maybe just curl up and read, been a while since I did that.

11:11

Coffee brewing.AJT_0400

11:56

So, I set myself a period of 24 hours for this post and the time has now come to wrap. When I started typing away yesterday I had no idea what the day would hold.  Which made me think that we never really do. But many of us live our lives as if there would always be another day, another 100 days, so we perhaps don’t live the day in the way we would if it really mattered. Yesterday there was no terror strike in Brussels, thank goodness.

There can only be real peace if all of us care about the world we live in, care about each other, think about each other.

When we look at the terrible periods in history it is often those that sat back, did nothing, didn’t care, couldn’t be bothered, thought it was up to someone else, that caused as much harm as the perpetrators of evil and terror.

So let’s stand united against terror. They can only terrorise us if we let them. There is a role for each and every one of us to play.

Even little acts of kindness, care, compassion and understanding matter.

It’s not necessary to be a hero. Just don’t look the other way.

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us. And the world will live as one” 
― John Lennon

WordPress Writing 101 (November 2015): Day 14

 

dark | side | thursday | twentyseven

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

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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.

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This post is submitted both as 27 : 52 of my dark | side | thursday (yes, I know it’s late) which is a milestone in itself as it marks the opening of the second half of the story, and even includes a minor revelation, but it is also my response to Day 13 of the WordPress Writing 101 course in which we are invited to ‘play with word count’. For my own ‘constant readers’ you will know that this story is being told in 52 instalments each of 500 words. So I think it qualifies, you tell me. Or not.

dark | side | thursday | twentyseven

No. He was. Not. Dead.

He remembered it all.

The first day he had walked in that place, how he had felt, misty ambiguity, the strangeness of that place, the feeling of calm he felt there. And yet. Those plastic flowers. The faded photographs.

That hole, in the ground.

Her empty eyes. Dead inside.

Her hand in that of the man in black.

He screamed out loud. A scream from the darkest part of hell. He screamed. In the name of ‘hid. He screamed and screamed until his throat was sore and grating. He screamed as he remembered the snow, snow, on snow, on snow, his way blocked, the cold, the fear, the loneliness. His hopes smashed, pulverised under all that snow, the heavy burden that smothered his mind. Cut off the very air to his bursting lungs.

He screamed.

And no one. Not a soul.

No one heard.

Him.

But. Then. He thought. No. Not like this. No.

He tried to open his eyes. Tried to push his body up, his fingers numb, his mind more so.

The man in black.

A knife sliced through him. His stomach turned to water. His head pounded. He could not breathe.

What was it, about the man in black?

Who was the man in black?

He knew.

He had always known. Right from when it first started.

His eyes would not / could not see. Would not see what was there to see.

His fingers gripped the key. His body, mind, spirit (he had no soul, not now, maybe he never had) would not give up. He was not ready to move on yet. Not yet. Maybe never. The spectre of the man in black would not leave him. She would not leave him.

Or maybe he, he could not let her go. Not yet. Not after all this. All they had lived (or died?) through. Together.

His fingers tightened around the key.

This bloody key would yet save him.

If only he could bloody remember.

Faded photographs. Her photographs. Moments in (their) time.

The man in black. Yes, and him.

Her.

So much to remember, so bloody much to forget. Or not.

And then, his freezing, numb, fingers, found it. A narrow crevice in the unyielding stone floor.

Her, again, he remembered her. Again.

Not unyielding. Oh. So, not.

Pushing that to the back of (what was left of) his mind, he grasped the key in his freezing fingers. Pressed it deep into the yawning crack in the floor.

He pushed it deep, deeper, pressing it into the folds of the earth, he felt the floor vibrate as the key penetrated the folds of the crevice his fingers had opened in the floor.

He felt the ground beneath him move. Heard the ground below him moan as it was violated, torn asunder.

He heard her cry.

‘Don’t let him…’

And then. At that precise point in time. With no doubt.

He realised that he, no one else, was the man.

In black.

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.

twentyseven | fiftytwo

WordPress Writing 101 (November 2015): Day 13

dark | side | thursday | twentysix

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

2015_11_15_05962-Edit

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.

AJT_6650-Edit

dark | side | thursday | twentysix

He was soaking wet.

Every fibre of his clothing was dark, wet, cold and clinging to his shivering body. The place in which he had awoken seemed pitch black. He could see nothing. He could feel nothing.

For a moment, a moment of pure terror, he imagined that he was blind. Those few seconds, fractions of seconds, seemed to stretch into eternity. The prospect of a life of eternal darkness took his breath away, his mind froze.

Then, slowly, he began to remember.

First, there had been a key. When he had opened his eyes, he remembered finding a key. His mind wandered as he mulled over how he could possibly remember having opened his eyes if he could not see. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

Something told him that he had no time for such thoughts.

Oh, how he longed for the short, sharp, internal warming of a shot of slivovitz. The feeling of the viscous liquid covering his tongue and flowing freely down his throat, warming and calming as it filled his aching belly.

His mind wandered. Memories of plastic flowers, faded photographs, a walk on a spring day. Memories of taking photographs. Memories of searching for something. Something special. Those memories haunted him.

And, of course. She, haunted him.

He recalled how, on that warm spring day, a day filled with hope, he had first found that (or was it now, this) hole in the ground. Recalled how they had walked around it, wondering about its history. Wondering about those rough hewn boards pulled across the opening.

And then, of course, he had returned.

Alone.

And, in doing so, he had found the key.

His memories were blurred, confused and contradictory. He found it hard to make sense of the fragments of recollection that engulfed his mind. Driving snow, ice and an endless road, a journey filled with hope and expectation. A large, empty square, a tower with a clock that had changed over the ages, some felt it boring, out of place, its figures changed over the ages by tyranny. A column, a column that somehow made him think of plague, of death and horror.

And, of course, he remembered her. The feel of her hand in his. He remembered it all. The hospital cell, that small hard, narrow bed. What they had done there, what he had done to her. He remembered the cries as she submitted to it all. He remembered the box.

He remembered the end.

Her hands, those fingers that he had held in his. Entwined in those of the man in black.

Her eyes, lifeless, cold. Her gaze fixed on him but with no emotion, no feeling.

Whatever had been there. Gone.

He needed that shot, needed it more than ever. His fingers reached down to his pocket, blind instinct reaching out.

And he knew then. What he had always known.

Bad things happen.

Then, something inside him shivered, stirred.

He was not quite dead yet.

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.

twentysix | fiftytwo

Dear Andy

Image | | andy townend

‘It is rare for people to be asked the question which puts them squarely in front of themselves’
― Arthur Miller, The Crucible

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My response to Day 8 of the WordPress Writing 101 course, in which we were asked to write a post as a letter.

I chose to write a letter, the old fashioned way.

To myself when I was eight.

The same age as is my son, today.

Enough said?

WordPress Writing 101 (November 2015): Day 8

single

Image | | andy townend

“all the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust” 
― j.m. barrie

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A story in a single image

She shivered.

The cold, hard seat making her uncomfortable, her left leg numb, sensation in her toes gone.

Only two days ago, he’d been with her, they’d had coffee together, buttered toast and marmalade.

He’d left to catch the bus. He wanted his newspaper, needed his daily packet of cancer sticks.

Then, later. the doorbell had rung.

The woman at the door, and the man, in uniform.

Sympathetic smiles.

It had been quick, they said. He hadn’t felt anything, they said.

And now, she sat alone.

They had been here together, they had stood, knelt and sat together. They had believed.

And now, now she didn’t.

(submitted to Lucile’s Photo 101 Rehab)

*four images were provided with today’s prompt, I elected to choose a similar one of own, shot with nikon d700 and 16-35mm f/4 lens and originally featured on my blog, belgianstreets*

WordPress Writing 101 (November 2015): Day 4