On Sunday, 14 June 2015, I launched my Project 365.
You can see all the images as they are posted to the mobile | mono | square album on my flickr account.
My plan, let’s see if I can stick to this, is to post a weekly update here each Sunday.
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.
twentynine | fiftytwo
‘and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference’
― Robert Frost
*Reading feedback from readers, since first writing this post as you see it below, I’ve decided to have another think about how best to take Poetry 101 Rehab forward – don’t want to lose or alienate anyone who has participated to date – let me know what you think?*
poetry 101 rehab has grown up
it’s now p \ m
and, it’s about to become raw, grittier than before
perhaps, a lot more
you may not like it, or maybe you will, either way let me know by commenting on this post, or send me your thoughts through my contacts page
best of all, post it
<decide>
dead inside (been here before),
suicide?
no, well,
(you) decide
no?
will you fight
for what you feel
(if you even feel)
for what is real
for you
and, if not,
would you, will you, for them?
or
will
you
do (just) what you need
to
survive?
<decide>
want to be part of p \ m – all you have to do is write a poem in response to the <weekly> prompt, scribble a note, share a track (if you wish), add a photo (or not), maybe toss in a quote and then tag your post p \ m and \ or you can click on the image below
of course, the rules of p \ m are that there really are no rules…
this week the prompt is decide, so go on, decide?
a new prompt for p \ m will be published here at 21:00 utc every monday
p \ m | decide
“i’m not upset that you lied to me, i’m upset that from now on I can’t believe you”
― friedrich nietzsche
On Sunday, 14 June 2015, I launched my Project 365.
You can see all the images as they are posted to the mobile | mono | square album on my flickr account.
My plan, let’s see if I can stick to this, is to post a weekly update here each Sunday.
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.
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.
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
Do you miss the Writing 201 Poetry course by the Daily Post? If so, then join this blogging challenge and let the poetry flow!
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.
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.
My latest post on belgianstreets, covering the so called ‘Brussels Lockdown”, which describes my experiences of the third day of this seemingly unprecedented situation here in Brussels.
Enough is enough?
On 7 July 2005, London was brought to its collective knees by a series of bomb blasts that cost several people their lives and injured scores of others.
The very next day, despite the horror, the carnage, the public transport system was up and running again. I know. I was there, and I rode the tube on 8 July like many other Londoners, whether residents, visitors or tourists. We got back to our daily lives with a collective sense of defiance to those who wanted to terrorise us. We got on with it.
Here in Brussels, the streets, at least in the centre of the city, have been silenced. The underground Metro system closed, the buses and trams, that are supposed to be running relatively normally, are (at least in my experience) as rare as hen’s teeth. And taxis, where are they? They don’t stop, whatever their…
View original post 523 more words
My latest portfolio of shots from the streets of Brussel. Disappointed that the lock down continues. It really is up to each one of us how we stand up to the terrorists.
‘The rain that fell on the city runs down the dark gutters and empties into the sea without even soaking the ground’
― Haruki Murakami, Underground
Day two of the lockdown in Brussel.
Security ever present although more subdued than yesterday.
But most people stayed at home.
Who knows what tomorrow holds.
It’s up to us, not the Government, not the Police, not the Military. It’s up to each one of us. In our own, however little, way to say no to terror, no to the terrorists.
Don’t look the other way.
On Sunday, 14 June 2015, I launched my Project 365.
You can see all the images as they are posted to the mobile | mono | square album on my flickr account.
My plan, let’s see if I can stick to this, is to post a weekly update here each Sunday.
andy townend 