Summer, you cruel devil, are you not done with me yet? Have my offerings in bucketfuls of sweat not been to your insatiable satisfaction?
Winter, you sweet thing, deliver me from this hell.
This was me tipping my hat at the seasons and, in so doing, answering the challenge the good people from Trifecta posed us this weekend:
Apostrophe: “A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding.”
Regarding my particular choice of Apostrophe…if you live were i do, where Summer lasts for eight whole months with daily temperatures of 35 degrees Celsius and humidity so high that the air you breath sticks to the sides of your nostrils and liquidates on its way down to your lungs…you would understand me better.
It’s made of steel and covers his face.
He wears it often;
To hide his smile,
And his eyes.
But sometimes the mask is down;
When he is unawares.
But in those times
I see beneath.
I see flesh.
I see a smile,
And his eyes.
Do I like what I see?
The flesh slipped.
And I realised;
The flesh was not flesh,
But another mask.
Underneath there was another layer.
It was made of lead;
The fatal kind.
Do I like what I see?
I don’t know.
In all these years,
I have never seen his face.
For Trifecta. The word this week is MASK.
Lying down hand in hand with a boy with no other intention except to gaze up at the passing shapes above, we used to hypothesise and ponder; were they strong enough to walk on?
A few years passed and I was up among them, looking at them. I saw cotton valleys and mountains; a whole magical world made of white and I wondered; was there anything more beautiful?
Now, glancing up I see rain coming and when up among them, looking through them, all I see is my tomb thirty-five thousand feet below; is there a death more horrible?
For Friday Fictioneers. No dark fiction from me this week; just stark, cold reality. Hope you like it anyway.
My writing process is in my title. Procrastinate Ad Eternum. Yes, that’s me.
Why am I telling you this?
Because in this week’s Trifecta challenge we were asked to describe our writing process in three words.
Because one of the Trifecta editors has recently been lucky enough to have been present in the aura of Neil Gaiman, who happens to be my favouritest author in the whole wide word. In the Q&A that followed the reading of the Master’s third chapter of the new book The Ocean at the End of the Lane, the Reigning Monarch in Fictiondom was asked “Can you tell us your writing process in three words?”
His Awesomeness replied, “Glare. Drink tea.”
That was a cool and insightful question to ask the Conqueror of the Pen, and I wish it came to me when I met His Greatness at the 2011 Fringe Festival. Alas, that is not how my rendezvous with my idol in fantasy fiction went. And if you want to know how it did go, read on. Continue reading
Returning home at five, I’m a prisoner in a wheeled metal furnace. Air steams; my body melts. A fly hums drowsily, fogging my brain with dreams of cold water sizzling on my tongue.
For Trifextra. I put this in the present because it is something I am experience everyday. The AC in my car doesn’t work. I hate Summer. I hope you got that. Spring; now that is a season!
Like any self-respecting cubbyhole, this one was dark and oppressive. I was determined though; I’d stand tough this time…
… until the fire-snakes appeared.
I screamed; ‘It’s me, mum. I broke the vase!’
‘Did you do the dishes?’ — ‘Your bed is still unmade!’ — ‘Clean. Up. Your. ROOM!’
Always think before you speak. One…Two…Three…Ten. Deep Breath. Great! Now go ahead and shout her head off its hinges!
I am a late riser. I sleep like a log all night and the alarm clock goes ignored each morning without fail. I tried putting it on snooze. I tried placing it away from the bed so that I have to untangle myself from my covers and thread across the cold tiles to make the banshee cry stop. I tried setting more than one alarm and have them go off at different times. All failed. The only thing that gets me out of bed is the panicked shrill coming from the hallway, “It’s 7.30. Get up already!” and that would be my mother hassling that I’ll be late for work. Continue reading
A young woman is slumped on an armchair. Grey bags sprout under her eyes by the second. In a hoarse voice she hollers sentences to the elder woman sitting next to her. The older woman sits propped on a chair, her behind at the very edge of the seat, her head is cocked to one side, pushing her ears as close as they would go to the monitor standing on a low table before them, albeit the fact that the speaker is on a chair on the opposite side of the table. Continue reading