Thursday March 23rd, 2017

The exercise:

Write about something that was: stolen.

Only had two loaves left at end of day, along with a few butter tarts and some macaroons. Toss in some warm weather and sunshine and you've got a pretty good day, I reckon.

Miles is doing okay. At least he isn't coughing too much, which is when the laryngitis is most noticeable. But Kat is currently not feeling all that great as well (hopefully just a cold and nothing more).

Because of course.

Mine:

A simple glance, an innocent look. That's all it took for you to steal my heart, as though my life were some tawdry romance book. But it's true - my heart raced, my knees shook. And just like that, I fell in love with a crook.

*   *   *

Walking to a meeting at work, I hear you call. My name, on your lips... a combination that always enthralls. You say I am your doll as my passing coworkers press us against the wall. Tumbling, tumbling, I continue to fall. A stolen moment in the hall.

*   *   *

This empty bedroom is hidden beneath blankets of dust. It is silent here, not even an echo of our former lust. I try to forget you but it seems like I must keep watching these mental movies of us. A bond broken by mistrust and too many things not discussed. Ten years lost, the prime of my life taken from me, and I am standing here now and I just... I just... cannot adjust.

1 Comments:

Greg said...

I hope Kat is feeling better by the time you read this comment :) And Max too, for that matter.
For all you present this as prose it's very clearly poetry and the last stanza is emotive and powerfully charged, with the last line and its faltering words really pulling the whole piece together. The story told through the three verses is bittersweet, which is always a great combination and there's so much implied but never said, a really good example of how poetry can carve a shape for the mind to fill with detail. Great!

Stolen
The smell of stagnant water was stronger in the evening, a musty, damp smell that wasn't exactly unpleasant but was still worrying. The sun had left the shed hours back; now there was just a Stygian darkness.
Jimmy's eyes still tried desperately, uselessly, to find something to look at, but all that happened was his eyes ached and tiny pinpricks of colours pinwheeled across his vision. There was dried blood on the back of his neck, his legs felt as though they were on fire and his hands had gone numb and he couldn't actually feel anything below his elbows. The ropes holding him to the chair creaked as he sagged against them, unable to relax, unable to get comfortable.
Something in the darkness skritched. The noise was too brief to triangulate on, but it came again a few seconds later. Sweat sprang out on Jimmy's forehead and chest again -- had Sylvester come back? Something slithered, hissing across the concrete floor. Something -- else? -- skritched high up now. Another hiss, another skritch. A chill breeze that caressed his face like the ghost of a lover.
There was a sudden pressure on his wrists, which tingled with pins and needles at being woken up, and a straining sound; then the rope around them parted and split and his arms swung forward, blood finally circulating again. He howled in pain, astonished that relief and agony could mix like that.
Cold lips pressed against his ear, and a breathless voice whispered words to him.
"The price of your freedom is the return of something that was stolen. The thief will return here in the morning; wait until then."
The ropes binding his ankles snapped as though made of cotton.
"I know you can't answer me."
Something pressed into his hands; cold and smooth, long and slender. A knife?
"I know you won't let me down."