Rita......

The potent stench of her Poison perfume was overpowering as I entered her flat, and I had an urge to vomit as I walked into her lounge, which was decorated in vile, velvet, purple flock wallpaper.  The black sofas, dressed in red funky cushions, were in my opinion vulgar, the whole colour scheme had quite a heady effect on me and I had to fight against the urge to walk out and shut the door forever.

It was ironic to be honest, she haunted me whilst she was alive — I couldn’t stand listening to her boast about the countless men she had manipulated. She would delight in telling me and her coarse, croaky voice would slow down and emphasise her sleazy vocabulary.  Her eyes would come alive as the excitement took over her like an invasive fire. And in the same way, she was now haunting me in her death, her odours and crap flamboyant décor was stifling.

I sat down and closed my eyes for a few minutes but it didn’t erase the ugliness. Memories of shame emerged as I recalled  the police car pulled up to our house in Green Street, it’s blue flashing lights screamed ‘look at me’, and the neighbours curtains twitched as the shadows of the occupants escaped onto the streets.  For days the embarrassment forced me to look down at the floor, I was twelve years old and capable of recognising right from wrong.  So at the age of 29 so was she, she was selfish and couldn’t care less and she continued to act like that throughout my life.

Rather than embrace my malicious past I stood up and walked into the kitchen. Tea stains and dried scabs of sugar covered the work surfaces, and a wilted plant sat sadly on the windowsill. Nail varnishes and lipsticks were the only residents of the fruit bowel and a stack of paperwork was scattered on top of the microwave. The kitchen looked tired and worn with the yellow splashes of grease that coated the rear wall; perhaps they would be offered a new lease of life with the new tenants.

This wasn’t a home. No care or love had been channelled into the flat, it was lifeless. It was somewhere to drink, smoke cannabis, and entertain her so-called friends. If she had a win at the bingo, she would have a party, and waste every last penny.  I was never invited of course, but I would get the phone call telling me she was in A&E because of a drunken fall, or as a result of a drink-fuelled fight. I would arrive at the hospital and her blood-shot eyes and stagnant smokey breath would tell me better than her feeble words, the cause for her injuries. I would shake and nod my head in order to answer and acknowledge the doctors questions and instructions and then bring her back here to sleep it off.

Rita......

The potent stench of her Poison perfume was overpowering as I entered her flat, and I had an urge to vomit as I walked into her lounge, which was decorated in vile, velvet, purple flock wallpaper.  The black sofas, dressed in red funky cushions, were in my opinion vulgar, the whole colour scheme had quite a heady effect on me and I had to fight against the urge to walk out and shut the door forever.

It was ironic to be honest, she haunted me whilst she was alive — I couldn’t stand listening to her boast about the countless men she had manipulated. She would delight in telling me and her coarse, croaky voice would slow down and emphasise her sleazy vocabulary.  Her eyes would come alive as the excitement took over her like an invasive fire. And in the same way, she was now haunting me in her death, her odours and crap flamboyant décor was stifling.

I sat down and closed my eyes for a few minutes but it didn’t erase the ugliness. Memories of shame emerged as I recalled  the police car pulled up to our house in Green Street, it’s blue flashing lights screamed ‘look at me’, and the neighbours curtains twitched as the shadows of the occupants escaped onto the streets.  For days the embarrassment forced me to look down at the floor, I was twelve years old and capable of recognising right from wrong.  So at the age of 29 so was she, she was selfish and couldn’t care less and she continued to act like that throughout my life.

Rather than embrace my malicious past I stood up and walked into the kitchen. Tea stains and dried scabs of sugar covered the work surfaces, and a wilted plant sat sadly on the windowsill. Nail varnishes and lipsticks were the only residents of the fruit bowel and a stack of paperwork was scattered on top of the microwave. The kitchen looked tired and worn with the yellow splashes of grease that coated the rear wall; perhaps they would be offered a new lease of life with the new tenants.

This wasn’t a home. No care or love had been channelled into the flat, it was lifeless. It was somewhere to drink, smoke cannabis, and entertain her so-called friends. If she had a win at the bingo, she would have a party, and waste every last penny.  I was never invited of course, but I would get the phone call telling me she was in A&E because of a drunken fall, or as a result of a drink-fuelled fight. I would arrive at the hospital and her blood-shot eyes and stagnant smokey breath would tell me better than her feeble words, the cause for her injuries. I would shake and nod my head in order to answer and acknowledge the doctors questions and instructions and then bring her back here to sleep it off.

My name is 'Her'

Causing pain, twisting knots

It’s a pleasurable journey,

Shouting, screaming mindless thuggery

Puts forth my mother’s ways

Did she groom, mould and shape

My slippery shadow?

Is she my mother at all?

Delve into and deliver 

Deep, dark  tricks.

Laugh, leer and spread lies

Ensure they all drown in Hell and fury as I

Suffocate and blur his healthy mind.

I shall slither and smear the sisters,

Ferment and infuse the famine towards his others –

It’s the methodical me, me, me.

His mother, his pitiful, pitiful mother

Claws and climbs the craggy hill.

The smoke is smoggy as she nears her destiny,

Choking and fighting forever more,

Alas,

He may see her while

I scream, shout and slither silently

Shattering my own distorted innocence,

As I openly embrace the everlasting evil,

And bathe in an eternal war against the outlaws….

After all, I am the undertaker

My black cloak underpins my mastery -

And  blinds them with thee invisible glare –

Bit by bit –

Little by little –

I have superseded his family

And refuse to adhere to guilt

Weekly challenge

Take a look at this picture :

http://cache2.allpostersimages.com/p/LRG/9/954/LS8K000Z/posters/silberman-henri-poet-s-walk-central-park-new-york-city.jpg

Write a short piece of prose, poetry or fiction inspired by it. You don't have to mention the picture at all; just see where it takes you.

For example - You could write a short piece about a man walking in the rain; how is he feeling? Where has he come from? Where is he going?

To be completed by Tuesday 6th September:

I stood there contemplating whether to walk through the park or hail down a taxi. I really wanted to walk, but the idea of getting soaked through was not my idea of fun..... then again, neither was having to participate in small-talk  with a total stranger who knew sod all about me!

So I set off briskly and a conscious feeling of isolation suddenly overcome me.  The trees whispered amongst themselves defying the otherwise silent, lonely evening. I breathed in the cool, damp air trying to block out everything that had happened.  It was a waste of time though, the tears started to fall despite my effort, and I suddenly lost control.  Why couldn't I be strong and beat this? Why did the pain strip me bare and mock me?  It was all too much! I took a long, deep breath and screamed...... it went on and on, penetrating the park's surroundings.  I stopped suddenly but the echo lingered and leered. The frightened birds flapped their feathered wings and flew off into the sunset. The whispering trees waved them goodbye and suddenly fell silent.  Everything came to a standstill, my tears, the mocking, the leering and my pain...
I composed myself and continued to walk home. Ahead of me I could make out a tall figure of a man holding an umbrella.....

Part 1 of 'Annie'

 The gentle breeze caused the flimsy curtains to flutter, as the morning sun filtered into the bedroom.  Annie stirred but exhaustion caused the twenty four year old to ignore the pleasantries of the peaceful, spring morning.  Her thick, wavy, red hair sprawled over the cotton pillowcase, adding beauty to the otherwise plain Docklands apartment. Normally, the young business woman was up at 6am, jogging around central park, New York. However, a late flight into Heathrow the night before, followed by a two hour taxi journey, had taken its toll on her. She lay there sleeping peacefully, until her alarm clock suddenly came to life, reminding her of the week ahead in London.

Slipping into her dressing gown she switched on the percolator, and opened the balcony door, embracing the magnificent view. The tranquil water of the river Thames looked dazzling and the surrounding buildings saluted proudly.  Annie had barely noticed the view when she arrived in the early hours, but now she savoured the scenery before her.  The aroma of coffee suddenly aroused her senses, and she decided to shower and select appropriate clothing for her meeting in Holborn that afternoon.

Within forty five minutes Annie had left the apartment and started making her way to Holborn. In despite of her slight frame, as she strolled along the river, she looked powerful and confident.  Her green eyes were striking and complimented her fair complexion , and those who met her could not help but notice her beauty....... 

Time

Well I'm considering this A215 course is going to be harder than I thought....  I really struggle for time when it comes to writing! I bought my little 'notepad' and there are no entries at all! There must be lots and lots of ideas buzzing around in front of, me and I'm not realising it. Facebook for example, exploits the ups and downs of friend's lives, yet I still don't seem to feel compelled to write. In fact, I'm going to have a nosey at my news feed now, and maybe ideas will jump out in front of me: 'sitting on the balcony'..... erm, a possible beginning of a romantic love story  maybe???  'would love to know what I done to deserve this!'.....erm, a family ding-dong perhaps???? And finally, 'BORED', a little person who hasn't mastered the art of washing-up/loading the dishwasher because he spends far too much time on the computer watching sci-fi???? Let's hope this isn't the start of a novel which witnesses him kidnapped by aliens, and carted off to the moon......
So there's a few ideas generated from the 'social networking' site Facebook -- I feel mighty proud of my 1st bit of investigating; I shall write it all up tomorrow morning!
Netty, applaud yourself, this could be the start of your career as a creative writer.... now it's time to rest that weary head and enter the land of....... dreams..... and possibilities ;-))))

A215 challenge

Oki doki - here goes! I can't believe I am brave enough to post this little muddle! Thanks for looking fellow students :-))))

Bittersweet kisses taint my lips

They linger and torment

Distant moans –

Serenade my soul

Refusing to relent

My strength is weak

Like a newborn foal

On a pasture new one morn,

My smile is lost

And yearning for

The passing of the storm.