Terrible

Please.You have to admit its worth seven for effort alone (See previous piece of writing). All those nights sat down with a virgin writing mind staring at the screen with memories of all those famous authors running through my mind of their books stories challenges overcome halting starts small successes then eventual world domination! And I couldn’t even write my name without getting stage fright. But. So. A writer. Someone who writes for a living. Those six words would sit like a drill on a shelf in the garage just waiting for someone or something to light the touchpaper of the firework ‘aspirations and dreams’ then it would scream like drilling into masonry. Then it would all go quiet and I would see that I had managed to gather those essential writing paraphernalia of a pen, notebook and a full packet of fags (I was still a dirty smoker then) Its was like being in some personal drama where all it took for the worlds of my imagination to come to life was to take the pen in hand (left or right) and gently apply pressure. After all the words I had assiduously read weren’t clever or difficult just flowing conversations narrative and what not. How difficult could it be? Stories from the recesses of my mind would be transported via the magical sensory part of my brain into cognitive sensationalism which i would naturally transcribe patiently knowing that there was a never ending supply. I suppose I believed in fate too. One thing leads to another and ….

…serpent words like Chinese dragons would come a dancing trailing words like mystical dust that contained the magic ingredient- narrative. What do dragons eat? Villagers? So I could expect some skulls and the like in it. Skulls. Very gothic and evocative. Funny I never let onto myself that one thing did lead to another or I would have been writing progressive sentences earlier. I remember I just set myself the goal of writing. It did not matter what I wrote so long as the ink got eaten up along the papyrus (lined paper) road by a Bic or Steadtler Dodge Van Or pickup truck (Its OK, Its just the way I think). Sometimes I even wrote the line with no words .e.g. ————– and draw pyramids, eyes and cubes.

I have no idea of how I am going to end this. Will it be on a message of hope, a cadged piece of humour, some chicken wisdom? Yes, I like the sound of the last one. Cluck! cluck, cluck, cluck. Cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck. cluck cluck. cluck cluck cluck.

Thank you for reading.

Nowadays I still get stage fright or it’s writing equivalent which is like having a bad trip ( I have heard of those) with the words you choose. It’s funny but every word is chosen even when you are going fast. It’s incredible really the capacity of the human brain for a fear of the written word.

 

Skull Basket

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The headline tells you what I am writing about. It’s one of those days and you cannot get anything that you want done, done. Instead of asking ‘What if?’ a million times you instead adopt the mindset that as of someone were going to try to make a basket out of your cleaned out skull, perchance to fit a bulb inside and to then mount it on a rather boring (well it used to be boring) lampshade, then they might was well. God forbid anyone should read your thoughts!

I am suitably inspired to attempt to write short poem about the aforementioned’ skull basket’

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What if my skull were emptied of brains?

What if my skin and hair were ripped off?

What if my head was removed from its body?

And what if my skull were cleaned and cleaned and cleaned?

And what if my skull was then left in the sun to dry?

Then someone buys my skull from the boy who’s job it to see it doesn’t get nicked

Who just happened to turn his back for one second!

Then my skull is squashed up with oranges, bottled Evian one someones trip back home.

And all the time he (or she) is thinking of ways to mount a lampshade on top of my skull!

The door slams behind him and he soon gets down to work. In the cupboard is a drill with a circular bit.

The drill whirs and soon there is a neat hole in the top of my skull into which he screws in a light fitting

Presumably this has been planned for a while now.

In another cupboard is a lampshade which is placed on top of the light fitting and then secured.

Then a new light bulb goes into it. He plugs in the light fitting and thumbs on the switch with one hand whilst holding his handy-work with his other.

He then says something unintelligible and places it down on the table. He sits down in the sofa and stares at his handiwork.

A dark veil seems to pass over his face and his shoulders tense. He stares at the crucifix on the wall and holds his jaw between his fingers tight.

Then the bulb in my skull shatters into a thousand pieces and the lampshade catches fire.

With a start the man gets up and grabs my skull, ripping the plug from the wall. He carries it into the kitchen and throws it in the sink and turns on the tap dousing it in cold water. Smoke and a rather unusual smell fill the room.

The doorbell rings. The man closes the kitchen door behind him and opens a window before going to open his front door.

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Well that’s it. More of a short story than a poem. A little bit chilling? Hopefully. Well if you like it then like it and follow me. I liked writing it and the rather wierd/scaryness/everyday of how the story progressed. Sigh! If only i could do it in chapters!

It’s time for me to go now. I hope you come see me here again. Sianara