Wednesday April 6th, 2011

The exercise:

Let's go with: whispers.

This morning I finally managed to attend the local writer's group meeting and I'm glad I did. They meet twice a month but things have been so crazy since we moved here I hadn't found time (or energy) to go.

It was nice to share my writing with others, face-to-face, and to hear their words as well. I've missed that.

Mine:

The whispers are growing louder, more difficult to ignore. But I have to concentrate on what I can control, and these people do not belong in that category. Let them mutter amongst themselves. I have work to do.

"Mr. Snider?" The words are accompanied by a tap on my shoulder. And another one. I guess I can't ignore them any longer.

"Yes?" I don't bother looking back. Both to prove a point and so that I don't lose my focus.

"Will this take much longer?" What kind of question is that? Do I look like I'm taking my sweet time?

"I'm going as fast as I can."

"Yes, of course." A brief pause. I almost convince myself that's the end of it. "It's just that the flood waters are above waist level now, and some of the mothers are getting worried."

"Do you think telling me that will help me to remember the combination on this door?" I spin the knob to the right and pull on the door handle. It doesn't budge. "Dang, I was sure that was it. This concussion is really messing with my memory."

"We're doomed, Mr. Snider, aren't we?"

"Less talking, more swimming." Jeez, some people. No appreciation of what's going on right in front of them.

2 Comments:

Greg said...

I knew you had a writer's group that you attended, but I'd forgotten that it probably wasn't reachable any more now that you've moved away a little bit -- so I'm glad you've found another writer's group!
Your last line was perfect today, it sums up the urgency and the futility of the situation very neatly indeed. And I really liked all the incidental details that painted the picture in the background :)

Whispers
The chamber is cool at last,
The heat of the day has subsided
And Melpomene has left.
Behind her, bodies are strewn
Exhausted from singing her praises
And writing paeans to war.

Athamas sits alone, his head resting
Against a marble column.
In his ear, a woman is whispering,
But when he turns to look,
She cannot be seen.

'Learchus is plotting against you.'
The whisperer is ridiculous:
Learchus is his son and dutiful.
'Learchus has poisoned his dagger,
And waits for you to sleep.'

Though Athamus wishes otherwise,
Sleep will not come,
The arms of Morpheus are denied to him,
And the whisperer's poisoned words
Take root deep in his brain.

Marc said...

Greg - yeah, a four hour drive there, then a four drive back, kind of eliminated the old group as an option :P

Thanks! Glad you liked it :)

It was good to see a mythology poem from you - it feels like it's been too long.