Writing 101, Day 7: Knight and Day

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Hello one and all, we meets again as writing 101 powers on. This piece here was an interesting one to work on. I was asked to write a piece in the form of a dialogue, that was a challenge in itself, but the assignment had a twist, the two voices in the piece had to be representatives of two opposing stand points, light and dark, cold and cold, high and low, the possibilities began to seem infinite. I tried to sit around, drawing up the perfect polar opposites to pit against each other in a dynamic whirlwind of a dialogue. It was well and truly a challenge, after much thought and deliberation I made the decision to challenge myself, I offered up two themes a chance to voice themselves. I give to you, Clarity and Temptation. Enjoy!

 

“They’ve forgotten all about you!” She said. “All they want is me. They do not remember loving you!”

She perspired the coldest diction, she had perfected her way with words. The air around her danced to the cadence of a learned malice. Her perfectly pursed lips pressed her twisted words to life. She was sensual, she was stern, she was everything she thought they wanted, so she hated the hope he harboured.

“They will always have me in there hearts.” He was sure.

He stood firm under the tumultuous waves of her diction, never losing his footing beneath him. He never fought to fill a frame with what he claimed to be his, he was a voice that spoke a steady promise, a mind who waited for time to offer up those gifts not promised, never  swayed by the sweet scent of her frivolity.

“I make them feel alive, you force them into tedium. With me they never have to wait, my very touch is satisfaction, you insist on prolonging suffering, what kind of love is that?” She watched his face for a failing hope, “They will never search for you, Look at those faces, they would never dream of leaving me.”

“Temptation, control your ego.” Clarity had found his words, “You seem to think its them who need you, but you crave there love the most, you shake when there voices fade from you.” His silence was never empty, and he was keen to unfold his mind. “You shiver with every night that they have gone without your folly, I love them because they choose me, you love them for validation.”

“You’re a foolish and bitter old man, what kind of pleasure can you provide?” She lost her seductive flare as she was met by clarities stare. She had never prepared herself for the moment he would reciprocate a volley of his own design. “I kill the agony of broken hearts, I hide the scars of a broken past, I keep there smiles etched on there faces you make them bare those heavy burdens.”

“They only run to you to numb there skin from life’s events. You’ve given shelter from natural elements, in the darkness of your embrace” Clarity was suddenly drawn to the feature that traced her face. Her smile was losing leverage and her beauty was falling weak. Her strength was seeded in there weakness, he thrived when they had found there footing.

The flickering flame of temptation had bought their love with the vigour of virgin flames, the fiery tongues that promised warmth, but danced away with a subtle heat. He rested in the ambers that burned steady, whispering a warmth to fend off the embrace of the evening chill.

“I’ve never of thought cheapening love for the sake of a following” he said, “When they find me we will be whole, we will learn to talk, we will grow with the passing moments.” temptations eyes soaked in the words that began to fill the space between them, ” I feel the fire inside them grow to power their dreams.” His features began to soften and his eyes betrayed his cold firmness. “I will wait an eternity to fight the dark with every heart that finds me, no matter what name they know me by.”

“You will never win.” She said, “Till the day I forfeit breath, I’ll keep there hearts away from you.”

Her features firmed and her seductive tones where riddled with rigarmortis, unkind to her eyes, and clumsily laced with fear. He could see it.

He smiled.

“They are faceless in your hearts, and nameless in your eyes, I will let you have them now.” He settled his gaze, “You show them to my door, from there I show them the world.”

“were not that different you and I” she said

“You see us like the children do,” He said, “That is why they grow and leave you, they learn the difference.”

She twisted her smile, she watched him retire into his solitary wait for there arrival. Never faltering, never swayed, she danced her word to win there hearts once again.

 

 

Writing 101, Day 3: Top 3 Selected, 2.

Daily post have presented a nice challenging task for writing 101. Select 3 important songs to you, they say. Little did they know about the panic and intense pondering they had plunged me into. For me, selecting only 3 important songs to talk about, is like gathering my close friends and family into one room and telling them that only 3 of them are important, and only 3 of them will be joining me on a special prize holiday. It’s mean and it’s cruel, but it definitely got me thinking, like one of those house fire scenarios, those “If your house was burning, what 3 things would you grab?” Type questions.

 I remember the songs I chose for my last contribution to this challenge, last time round. At that point in time, those three songs were the three songs that I felt deserved a mention. I have decided on a fresh three today. A trio that are relevant to my current lever thinking. So I appologise for the lack of diversity in genre, because it’s hip hop time, we’ll be touring some fly rhymers, with some dope commentary on some straight truth! Here are my current 3 important works of hip hop. 

Can I Holla At Ya – J.Cole

  

J.cole wins his audience with a level of honesty, he is a clever lyricist who doesn’t conform to many of the popular culture structures of rap. “Can I Holla At Ya”, with a Lauren Hill sample, mirrors an all too familiar sensation. Looking back and finally saying those words we never said. J Cole steals an opportunity in each verse to address 3 different subjects with honesty and a humbling openness. The emotional content is rich and without a doubt, very raw. He talks to an old sweet heart, exploring the possibilities of what could have been and the connection that may still underly, he wants to revisit the one that got away and he offers is a front row seat to the dialogue. He then portraits an honest monologue to a father figure, one that was filled with it’s fair share of tempestuous emotion. From a boy he remembers that relationship and carries a burden inside him, he shows us the development of the relationship and the underlying resentment, “by now you’re probably and old man, but I won’t be satisfied until we throw hands…” The reality of that relationship does scare call, maybe a part of that father figure lives on within him. He then addresses a childhood friend. From J. Coles start to his success he has understandably changed and the faces around him have changed in certain ways. There are people we lose touch of ,after a long time it’s hard to identify where we fit. Do we pick up where we left off? The beautiful thing about writers, poets, musicians, is the ability to connect with an audience on relatable strands of thought. J Cole knows how to do this well. He is calling his subjects aside in memory for an honest heart to heart. When was the last time you wished you could pull someone aside for an honest “Can I Holla At Ya?”

Family Business – Kanye West

  

Kanye West has played with my loyalty dramatically over the years. From late registration, college drop out days through to Yeezus, I have both celebrated and detested his work. But if he played it safe he would not be the Kanye I respect as an artist. Family business does what it says on the tin. We all have our moments of weakness, we have our strengths and down falls. Blood is thinker than water, sometimes it’s this density that might feel like a lead weight holding us back. Family is not a perfect word by any stretch of the imaginatiom. We are victims of our own humanity, so the ambiguity of character can cause harmony or friction at times. It’s undeniable that family is forever, just because I detest my cousin, it doesn’t make him less of a cousin, he simply becomes a cousins I hate. Kanye identifies different family elements, giving a guided tour of the different characters that piece together to make that family. “You know that one auntie, you don’t mean to be rude, but every holiday nobody eating her food…” Home truths. He plays with humour well. We will run shoulders, but as we done together, sit together at the same table we are bound to bump shoulders. We all have our demons. “We ain’t letting anybody in our family business” we may not be perfect, but we are one.

Bitch, Bad – Lupe Fiasco

  

We are confusing ourselves with popular culture. The conflict between the cool and our core is bordering on disunity. I have chanted along to “I like bad bitches that’s my fucking problem” by ASAP rocky, Knowing full well, I would feel a certain way of the special woman in my life would associate herself with the term “bad bitch”. We are casual with this conflict at times, we can nonchalantly draw the line between entertainment and personal values, those core principles. We feel as though we are relatively mature and can make that distinguishment. Sadly we are confusing a generation that are coming in after us. Lupe Fiasco addresses this confusion in Bitch, Bad. He talks about the possible confusion of a young boy watching his mother sing along to her favourite record, referring to herself as a “bad bitch”. He recognises her a source of support and strength, and in his head builds a picture of a bad bitch as a strong dependable woman to his mothers likeness. Lupe moves on to contrast this image by addressing the potential outcome of some young girls listening to the music, watching the videos online. The internet is there for everyone, even moderately tech savvy youngsters can discover the world, in good and bad ways through it, ” It doesn’t matter if they have patental clearance, they understand the Internet better than there parents”. The young girls attach themselves to a very different definition of a bad bitch, the video vixen, forever flaunting her flesh, the apple of the protagonists eye. Lupe furthers this confusion by introducing the boy to one of those little girls. Both have an image of “Bad, Bitch” with both conflicting with each other’s definition of the idea. He never knew a bad bitch to dress this way, in his mind a “bad bitch” was firm source of support, the the young girl “Bitch” was still an offensive term. There are a host of contradictions that we look over because they are a done thing, having slowly become some kind of a social norm, breeding confusion and conflict in the way we, and the generations coming into there own, perceive themselves and the world around. We say “it’s just music”, We are lucky when we cab make that distinction.However music has been a big influence in social culture for a long time, Lupe does a good job of discussing the consequences of these contradictions. Words have power, and popular culture does have the potential to confuse us and the budding generation, leading them astray. Message from me and Lupe, think about what you’re actually saying. 

Writing 101, Day 2: A Room With a View

  

The prompt for the day was to write a descriptive piece. I had to think of one place I would love to journey to, I’d have to go there, I’d have to share it with you, paint you a picture of this important place. I turned to nostalgia for my answer, and I wrote, what I’m hoping to be an effective portrayal, of one of my favourite weekend outings as a boy. Enjoy! 


It was a weekend, It was always a weekend when we went there. We waited until the sun was nice and round, full and clear, sitting perfectly in the sky. 

There was a long stretch of shore line. I’m not sure what you call it when a man made body of water meets land like that, but the grass was right up against the water. You could see right across to the other side if you stood at the right place. Sometimes the water went on forever, an endless sheet of dancing sunlight, dropping off into the distance. The whole thing was like a mirror, wobbling and dancing. This wasnt a river, or a great ocean, so the water had a bit of elegance I guess, because it danced a shy little dance against the warm air that swept through.

There was a large building, it was the unmovable guardian of the water side. It stood sturdy and still, it was the long standing sanctuary from the Zambian sun. I could tell it had been there for a long time. It had these cracks that traced its walls, like wrinkles on a face that has seen more than its fair share of sunsets, I’m more than sure that it had seen its fair share of setting Suns over Mindolo. It’s once white walls were faded and had clearly been kissed by the sky’s offering during the rainy season. It was an old building but it housed everything we needed, the bar, the restaurant, the old slanted pool tables that sat right in front of the dj booth.

Between the mirrors edge and the old building, there was a wide stretch of grass. It was littered with rounded wooden tables, revarnished on occasion, but sporting there age in withered edges and dented slacks. There were unevenly spaced deck chairs huddled around them, waiting for the crowds. I remember how those tables attracted the herds of folk, hooves of happy patrons clip clopping across the worn grass paths to those sun lit perches. 

I could tell people went there a lot, I could tell because of the grass. There was grass everywhere, but in places you could see it had been worn away by the frequent visits. Around the picnic tables you could see the green bleed to gold. I can imagine the little feet running around the table, as the adults sat down, drinking their cold drinks, drinks far too bitter for their youn mouths. The adults would occasionally stand to have a dance, joining the little feet in tracing another map of a joyful weekend in the blades of grass. 

There was always music in the air. From the heart of the faded white building the disk jockey would spin his afternoon magic, he kept the air filled with music that kept the spirits high, matching the tempo of the peaking sun. He had a way of making it so there was always a song that made mum and dad dance, I remember mum shuffle in her seat pursing her lips the way she did, I remember dad stifling a laugh, I remember us all laughing.

 I remember the fishing rods that dad would make up for us. Dad always brought some hooks and a reel of fishing line along with him, they might have been guitar string but dad was always resourceful like that. Past the big building and further away from the crowds, there was a place where the reeds had grown wildly against the wavering mirror. Dad would fetch us some reeds, he tied the line onto the ends and fix our hooks with his unmovable knots. He would help us bait our hooks and sat us down by the waters edge. It wasn’t very deep close to the grass, when the water was clear we could see the little fish swimming underneath the semi permeable  mirror, I liked how sometimes I could see broken pieces of the sun in it, stealing a moment from the sky to dance in the water. 

Everyone threw there sauced and seasoned meats onto to the barbiques. There  barbiques pits everywhere, each was stood next to the picnic tables. With a hiss and a subtle mist, the air came alive with a world of flavour. Dad would watch over the pit and turn the pieces of meet with an experience eye, sending another cloud of flavour in the wind to tease the other tables who had just finished there share, or were readying there food for the fire. 

We enjoyed the day until it was close to spent. Dad always liked the way the sun dipped in the water at the furthest edge. The sun dawned an orange hue, lowering itself into the water. I have watched dad look at it the same way every time. He watches very closely. He watched it until only a small corner of the sun was left peaking out of the water, the whole sky was tainted orange, the air grew cold and the loud music played on. There were less of the yoingervoices. We knew this meant it was time to go home. I always savoured those days by the water, the sun catching in the shimmering sheet, at Mindolo where we forged our memories. 

Writing 101, Day One: Unlock Your Mind

Daily post have kindly brought back Writing 101. As usual, I’m a day behind, None the less I will be tucking into the delicious feast of prompts on offer for the blogging U. Day one was a task in free writing. We had to let words fall on to paper for 20 minutes and post whatever came out. Dangerous concept, but a beautiful freeing writing practice. Here is what my mind had to say when I let it loose. It’s all bitter and I did a brief sweep, but it’s still all very raw. 

  

Imagine an open field, you got it? Great, now imagine it early in the morning, real quiet like. There is a thin fog hovering over, not the menacing type, you know the one I mean, horror movie, Halloween type fog. It was just a real easy, laid back fog, the sun can cut through it real nice. It makes a cool little curtain against the round hills off in the distant. 

Now picture waking up to this, not from a bed, just kind of waking up all of the sudden and looking out at everything, you see the fog, you feel the wet grass on your toes and you see the sun just working it’s way through the cool, laid back fog curtain. That’s kinda how I picture every great adventure starting. Right at the start of the day, with a fog slowly peeling away to show what’s ahead. It’s an awesome idea, and it kinda fits perfectly with the fairy tales. 

Learning that sleeping damsels in great castles with fiery dragons might have edged towards an exaggeration, I still respected that. I grew to learn though, that it isn’t as glamorous when we take our own adventures and have to slay the dragons waiting for us there. 

I killed a dragon once, it had these mammoth scales, great big things, the size of a full grown man, it teeth that were tainted red, I immediately assumed it was blood. It’s fire was blistering, it was thick, hot and, imaginary. My dragon was a mindset, “You will never be able to…”The mighty cry of the scaly nemesis. There was an adventure to embark on, but I never knew I would meet my dragon, right at the first step, as in looking out ahead to track a map to the first check point, and there it is, staring right at me. I was scared, but I saw people out there, past the dragons, so that means it could be done right? Not many people were out that far, but they were out there. Some people had slain the dragons, others whistled some songs they learned, carried trinkets, puffed up there chests and walked bravely past the dragons. Maybe the dragons didn’t see them when they looked brave, maybe that was the secret, or maybe the dragon saw them, pretended not to see, waited until they were too far to hide and got them then, I don’t know. 

Dad kept an old sword on the table in his study, took me forever to sharpen that crippled piece of iron, my knees knocked and my voice creaked as I hoped to sing little songs to lift the fear from around my neck. 

I took far too long to work on that sword, but I guess doing a small bit everyday until it was done, made me strong enough to carry it.

With the Blade sharpened to an amateur finish, I woke up to that open field, with the cool laid back fog in the air and the wet grass at my feet. I watched the dragon floating down, a mighty silhouette against the newly risen sun. I was breathing deeply feeling the hilt of the old sword in the palms of my hands, heavy and firm. I swinging it wildly and listenin to the jagged edges cutting awkwardly in the wind as I finally confront my dragon. The dragon drew in closer an closer until the steel of the jagged blade stopped suddenly. There was a moan and a grunt, a thick wetness surrounded the grass around me. 

My dragon was dead, the little boy, with the old sword could finally see the cool laid back fog, drifting away. I had never thought of life past the dragon, everything was new again. Another little fear, a near unnoticed fear nibbled at me, whispered it’s poison

“it’s a long way off?” 

“how will you eat?” 

“home, how will you make it back home?” 

Home is where the heart is, I will take my heart with me to the furthest end of that trail. 

Writing 101: Death To Adverbs

Another day another challenge, The title of today’s challenge should be self explanatory. I’m required to write today’s piece without the use of adverbs. So ill be taking to describing a setting of my choice, bringing it to life and into your minds without the use of adverbs. Sounds interesting enough, hope you enjoy it.

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I manage to find myself in the same place every Friday. I walk along the same roads, cutting through the same lanes, to occupy the same seat at the bar. One innocent visit germinated into a habit, a habit now calcified at the tail end of my week as perennial punctuation. The sun dives into a slumber, the orange sky congeals to a black and I rise up into the night.

Peeling open the doors of the watering hall, I saunter in. I salute the friendly faces behind the bar and flash them the  sparkling residues of my wallet, inviting my libations from their safety. “A pint of Thatchers please!” Parting with a few pound coins and the odd penny, I arm myself with a golden potion for the evening.

Cutting across the crowded room, I elbow my way past the same old men. The same old men who commune at the foot of the evening with fist fulls of youth by the chalice and pint glass. They commune in ecstasy, lost in the depth of jubilation. I see them there, rocking atop there experienced feet, from heal to toe, swaying as the hops and fermented barley snake their way into there belly’s, they revel in merriment. “Bring em in Dave!” I hear them say, the call for more ales and brews cannons, adding more fuel to their onslaught of just tonality. The moment resonates in infamy, how can I forget those atonal drones, as the speakers dotted across the room lead the slurring sundry through another man handling of a classic ballad. “Signed sealed delivered, I’m yours!” the boisterous baritones burst into chorus, a truth Stevie Wonder must never learn.

Another plunge into my golden companion and the idle chatter around me is chiselled into a flurry of static, the vacant voices decend to simply another noise drifting into the walls. As I steal another embrace of my dwindling golden trough, the thick smog of sobriety lifts, unveiling the obscurity intoxication arouses. Layers of joyful ambience drape themselves over each other, layer after layer, as each moment inches into the next.

My tongue, serenaded by a mischievous sweetness, teases me into the world of slippery syllables. The mosaic in front of me flowers and feeds my eyes, the canvas of bar stools and tables patches itself into a master piece of merriment.

The night fills the empty spaces around me with familiar faces. I find peace in knowing that I’m never alone in this weekly pilgrimage. The evening, at its apex, draws in such crowds. Waves of wondering souls waltz into the thick of things and paint there stroke against the hungry canvas.

 Merriment has a contagious gait. Together we drink. In unified fashion strangers and kin folk alike surrender to the evenings libation, infecting the willing patrons with this swing of Bon Vivre. This bout of merriment is a peculiar breed, a gloriously, potent tonic that takes to running into the depth of our belly’s, overpowering our minds and our sensibility. Sometimes the flowering fun wilts. It happens and I witness it from time to time, the bubbly motif of the evenings glee strikes a dead note. The merriment grows stale as the labours of libation adopts a bitter taste. The meandering  culprits, with their crooked steps and belly’s swirling with more than there fair share, fracture the fugal fanfare. Before there rebellion infects any one else, they are pealed from the palette, and cast into the night. When the smell of anger betrays the sweet smiles, and inhibition forsaken there tethers, the masterpiece is surrendered to the hands of a cubist, and the mural contorts. 

I perch myself on the easel until my time is spent. After the smiles wane, and the fatigue filters in, I reacquaint my feet with the cold night and retreat to my sanctum of solace. Home calls, through the permeable cloak of assisted merriment, it rings. Until the week has weakened its grips once more, I rediscover equilibrium, I gather my senses and bid auf wiedersehen to my portrait of pleasure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing 101: Give and Take

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Hello one and all, I’d like to re-emerge from my hiatus with a long overdue apology.

I am sorry.

 I’ve been neglectful of my blogging habits. This has been due to a powerful combination of work, life and procrastination. I’m easing my way back into your homes and hearts by continuing with the blogging U I was doing before my mysterious disappearance, “Writing 101”.

The challenge I tackled for this post is a challenge in contrast. I have to present 2 conflicting, or opposing ideas or elements through the piece. The challenge however has a twist, and the twist is that, for this challenge, I have to present this idea in the form of a dialogue. There is no better way to get to grips with something new than to get your hands dirty. So here it is, my attempt at weave together a dialogue.

Enjoy

 

“Every time!” He said. “Every time were in need of swift action, you waylay our efforts with this, your obsolete moral babble!” Brendan’s bark was a bitter one, abrupt and cloaked in malice. It often was this way, he was a passionate boy, quick to anger, quick to love. He paced around the room intoxicated with agitation. The old floor boards creaked in protest of his frenzy. Each step of his, agitated and brisk, punished the worn fibres of the old carpet.

“You need to calm down Brendan” Said Frederick. “Your pacing is sure to give me a head ache. Quieten your legs and use whatever is left in that little head of yours” His disposition maintained its usual calm and controlled air. His sombre eyes searched the corners of the room. There was a solution hidden in the thick of the confusion, his patience hadn’t failed his pursuit for resolve before, he trusted his temperament.

“How could you possibly consider calm at a time like this?” Brendan said, “If the tables were turned , I would really hope that you’d be out there,” He gestured to the window “Out there doing what needs to be done!” he struggled to ease himself and paced some more.

All the while there was a third body in the room, a body that sat quietly, under the roaring tides of a sibling dispute. Fading under the waves of dissonance.

As the young men vied for justice and resolve, the small room grew smaller by the minute. Fire and Ice, spiralling in abrupt bouts of diction, passion and sensibility caught in mortal conflict. Brendan’s fires, though periodically subdued by Fredrick winds of reason, offered a glimpse of the infernal the young man harboured. Fredrick was determined to douse and simmer  the crescendo of Brendan’s passions, as he had always done.

“This isn’t wisdom Freddie. There is nothing wise about your flap-able courage.” Brendan spat out his words, attacking the empty spaces in the room, “I just want to get my hands on the …”  he stifled his words as the seething ambers of revenge coursed through him. His steps boiled into a heavy march that rattled the delicate little house. He drew himself close to, and turned towards the seated boy with some semblance of calm. “I’ll find whoever did this, and I will make them truly pay!”

The little home their mother kept in tact till the time of her passing was rattling at the hinges. Shaky floor boards, faded walls and wavering spirits.

“He is as much my brother as he is yours, maybe the hatred and fury of your little black heart blinds you!” Fredrick said, now projecting with some power, through his wavering calm “Can’t you see this cuts me just as deep as it does you!” a surprising flicker of passion flashed through his air of  tranquillity. “Your senseless taste for blood will only stir the violence” once again he restored his timbre, that rhythm of reason that kept the peace. “There will be no such foolishness.”

Malachi, the third body in that room, the youngest of the three siblings, remained glued to the seat of his trousers. A normally jovial young man, now wore his severed stare and wounded pride with emptiness. His gaze, a cold and empty gaze, was lost in everything. He stared into and through through the faded walls, his face dotted with bruises, the dark foot prints of a fray tracing his body and face. Every bruise that kissed his skin was a twisted dagger in each brothers flank. As plain as it was to see that the two brothers were nurtured by completely opposite impulses,  there love for there brother was a deep and mutual one. It showed oh so clearly, as is only expected, t2hey only had each other.

Agnes, there mother, was a gentle lady, a sweet, loving mother. A hard working woman, who raised  3 boys and supported them through tireless endeavours.Times had gotten much harder since the love she grew to know betrayed her. Her husband had left her, The father to her sons had vanished without notice. Fredrick and Brendan old enough to remember that moment, had taken with them separate pieces of that broken picture. Brendan, with all his fire, remembered the tears and pain. His mothers wails of pain nourished a seed of passion and fire that grew to serve as his compass. Fredrick, on the other hand, remembered the long hours his mother worked, he remembered her exhaustion and sleepless nights. He wished to put an end to that and relieve her of that burden. After her passing it was Fredrick who kept the peace and sustained what left of there little family.

“All you do is watch things happen, you never take action,” Brendan said, “are these the impotent habits of a learned, educated , man?”, Brendan was working him self up, eagerly teasing another bout of passion from his older.

“There is nothing wise about all three of us rushing at the lions mouth” Fredrick  said “It doesn’t make you a man, to surrender to that thirst of yours,” he added ” That thirst for blood and chaos is a fools lust. You’re only proving to me that you are truly still just a little boy!”

“You really have become him, haven’t you?” Brendan said, drawing a confused glance from his older brother, “Unbelievable! You’re talking just like him. Running away from your responsibilities, just like him. You even look like that dog, smell like that dog. You are barking just like him.” His voice and edge into a menacing growl “You are just like dad Fredrick!” Brendan’s rage was consuming him.

“That’s enough!” Said Fredrick. pressing his lightening white knuckles to the seems of his trousers, flashing a glorious crimson.”I’ll never be that, swine.!” He said, “Who helped keep us all fed, dry and warm after Ma passed? That selfish pig wouldn’t do so much as spit in a trough to quench our thirst”

“That’s it, let it all out.” Brendan said. A sinister air cascaded through his rage, his faint smile found pleasure in breaking his brothers patience.

All the while Malachi, with his melancholy demeanour further drowned him into obscurity, the soul cause of the commotion was speechless and filled with an unknown war.

“Ask the boy!” Fredrick said “Ask the boy what actually happened before you’re madness lands us all in it”

Malachi’s eyes finally wondered out of the depths of bewilderment and back into the room.

“He’s gone!” Malachi finally spoke. “That bastard is gone, finally gone”

His words crashed the tension, his unexpected utterance shattered the bubbling confrontation into shards of curiosity. His older brothers, dazed and confused, searched to piece this new strand of misery into the frame.

“He was there! His face was right there in front of me, repulsive, arrogant and black all the way through” Malachi continued, his brothers were prisoners to the mystery he teased into the coarse air “He mentioned Mum!” He said, Why did he have to mention her?” Malachi was shaking and growing alarmingly agitated  “He had it coming!”

Fredrick finally found his words. His worry and curiosity had set it in thickly “What did you do lad?”

Malachi’s once innocent eyes had finally been sullied, they spoke of malice and grief. His face, war torn and bruised, his garments tattered from unknown fray, spattered in frightening auburn patched. The very disposition that ignited a deep concern had now thrust them into a worry of the darkest sort.

Even Brendan’s lust for commotion was stifled. “You fool!” he said “What have you done?”

“It was that rotten mutt Richard” said  Malachi , through gritted teeth, clenched knuckles and a bubbling soul.  “It was dad!”

The words stripped Fredrick of his balance, he collapsed into the nearest seat, his head fell into his palms, his chest emptied in whimpers of a delicate pain. Brendan’s simply froze, the disbelief had simmered his energies.

Fredrick pleaded with the heavens.”Lord, what has he done!”

The three brothers, stunned by it all sat in silence. Taken aback by the unforeseeable events, sat there, simply sat there.

Unannounced, an urgent knock boomed and echoed through the room. The three faces turned in puzzlement.

Writing 101 – Day 6: Music & Lyrics

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Her fingers were tipped with magic, they teased at the strings of her guitar, sweetening the air around and stealing me away from my own thoughts. The sun danced to her medleys, her lips, full with passion and grace traced out words to new worlds that lived in song. Her whole body was immersed in music, the passion filled her cheeks with life, they dawned a scarlet warmth that radiated from the brightest smile, with a single shallow dimple poked into her left cheek. Her nose did a little dance as she sang, she’d sway to the music and disappear behind her thick lashes.

At first, I only heard the music. It was enriching the painting of the summers day unfolded in front of me. I was sat beneath the giant Elm tree, scribbling away at my notepad and working my way through a book. Between watching the park fill with a mosaic of faces, coaxed into frenzy by the summers brilliance, I’d peck away at chapters of my book and scatter words onto the blank pages of my note book. It was out of curiosity that I turned her way, the sound of that guitar pried me out of my world of words and ushered me into the pulsating current of polyphonic brilliance. I adjusted to face the music, and there she was, enjoying her picnic for one. Enjoying herself, making merry in accordance with the radiant delight of summer.

She had won my audience, I listened in appreciation. The music had perforated the last barrier that would have deemed us strangers. We became two residents of the same home, inhabitants of the same present, woven together by music. The notes she played nurtured our smiles into nods, which opened the door through which the two worlds bled through.

The prelude our initial interaction had glossed my impression of her richly, we had no problem diving into engaging conversation, Pealing away the layers in a jovial joust, fighting away the thin veneer of  the unknown that lingered. I spoke of words, she spoke of music. Music meant so much to her, she adopted a certain vulnerability when she talked about her music. She spoke sweetly and full of certainty,  she spoke as she sang, with captivating grace, hooking me with every sentence she uttered. She had these eyes, these shy eyes. Like a sobered tempest, still, blue, teasing up a storm in every glance, they traced my features and welcomed my gaze, filling me with warmth. She had a character of intriguing allure. She wore her hair boldly, a rebellious blonde that swept one way, just reaching low enough to hide her ear lobs, and gently framed her radiant face, it complemented her boisterous nature perfectly.

The hours were dwarfed into endless strands of a mutual fascination. Fleeting minutes, falling over to the next in haste, time was passing us. I unwrapped every chapter of her mind with zeal and wonder, she wandered into my labyrinth of nuances and quirks, with surprising delight. The conversation caught fire and consumed the day light. The cold air that rushed along her soft skin was  a sure sign it was time to go home. We parted ways with a promise. We promised to hunt down any open mics and poetry slams. We spoke everyday and fantasized about chasing storms. Vibrant storms, where music and words can catch fire once more.