Little Tommy Tinkleton was once a normal boy. He once was scared of the dark. He once liked to play with his toys. He once even ate a worm, then a snail, and then some flowers, but never did he do anything considered too peculiar for a boy his age.  A strange thing happened to Tommy Tinkleton a month or so ago, and he became no longer normal. Nobody else knew it to be true, but it most definitely was, and continues to be. Tommy Tinkleton keeps a secret that takes imagination to fathom, and courage not to fear.  Before that secret’s shared, and before we go ahead, one thing must be clear:

Little Tommy Tinkleton no longer plays with his toys, and no longer fears the dark. His favourite meal is worm-like but it’s certainly not alive.

In fact, Tommy’s appetite seems to have grown a lot in recent times, for spaghetti and meatballs in particular, but he only eats alone in the quiet of his room. His parents don’t mind that one bit – means less for them to do. They have so many interests and far too little time to worry about something as insignificant as parenting. Their interests so broad consist of anything and everything they can look at in the mirror, and quite literally nothing else.

It was twenty-nine short days ago that Tommy’s world took a turn, and every day since he’s kept that secret without the need for any real discretion. Mum and Dad, or Barb and Bill, as they insist that Tommy call them, have not the nearest clue, not even a sniff of Tommy’s normalcy’s disappearance. Putting it nicely, they are far too engrossed in the aroma that lingers around their own backsides to notice, or to even care about any changes in Tommy’s behaviour.  So every afternoon after school when little Tommy charges through the front door, climbs the stairs to his room and returns dressed in his bright green flannelette pyjamas, only to ask how long until dinner is ready, Barb and Bill think nothing. Then as quickly as possible they cook an oddly large pot of spaghetti, so they can finally take a break from the strenuous parenting they’ve been burdened with.

It takes only fifteen minutes to cook the Tinkleton blend of spaghetti, and tastes worse than its brainy resemblance. Taste buds shrivel from just the scent, like a rainforest catching wind of a bulldozers exhaust, but still Tommy hastily comes when called.

“TOMMY. SKEDDY. COME GET IT NOW. I’VE BEEN SLAVIN’ ALL AFTERNOON”, Barb yells.

Little Tommy Tinkleton, looking like a normal boy, races to the kitchen. His hair bouncing about with far more enthusiasm than he – it’s shaggy and brown, because a barber to Barb and Bill is a waste of precious time and money that they like to spend on themselves. He stands holding a plate, and with his twice-daily brushed teeth he assembles a smile that attempts to appear thankful.

“DON’T JUST STAND THERE YOU UNGRATEFUL SOD. YOU EXPECT ME TO PUT IT ON YOUR PLATE FOR YOU AS WELL?”

Tommy says, “sorry”, and gathers a scoop. That scoop precedes the next, as the next does the following, until eventually he stands with a plateful fit for at least two grown men. “May I be excused?” he asks, as politely as he can.

“IT’S ALWAYS WANT, WANT, WANT, WITH YOU ISN’T IT, TOMMY? GET OUT OF MY HAIR”.

And so up to his room Tommy marches, with just short of a child’s wheelbarrow full of horrible looking, smelling, and tasting spaghetti. He arrives at his door, but before he opens it he glances over his shoulder to make sure his parents aren’t watching him – though Halley’s comet would sooner come. He enters at the pace of that snail he once ate, wheelbarrow leading the way, and then firmly closes the door behind him. He drags his bed-turned-barricade across to the door, sealing himself inside, and then he places the plate of spaghetti on the wooden floor in front of his closet. Tommy hasn’t embraced some Japanese eating habit, nor does he know of such a thing. He edges hesitantly towards his cupboard, and with his arms trembling reaches for the handles. Just as his hands make the slightest contact, a shockingly hideous, thunderous grumble, rumbles through the room. It’s not some cavernous cry for food from Tommy’s tummy however, and he gasps briefly from apparent fright. He pauses for a moment before he composes himself somewhat. In one swift motion he yanks open both closest doors and dives backwards to the floor. There he lay shaking, eyes peeled wide open, unable to look away. He involuntarily lends an ear to the sound of something devouring his ‘skeddy’ as if disembowelling a cow that lives inside another cow’s bowels with its mouth.

Then…

it stops.

Tommy waits a few seconds, and a few seconds more before he springs to his feet and closes the closet doors. Then he goes about his business as if nothing at all unusual has occurred. As if he’s still…normal.

Barb and Bill Tinkleton were never normal people, nor were they ever nice. They’ve always been the kind of people that seemingly struggle to grasp the concept of kindness. The citizens of Moggleville, the town in which they’ve spent every ungrateful breath of their lives, are painfully oblivious to this gaping flaw. Although, this is understandably owed to the fact that Barb and Bill chose to adopt Tommy out of the kindness of their hearts, or at least the Tinkleton dictionary’s definition of such a gesture.

The truth behind Tommy’s adoption is far more cunning than kind, and far less complicated than such a doing should be. Moggleville has a personality that is quite the contrary to that of the Tinkleton pair. The town brims with happiness, and is always willing to lend a helping hand to the less fortunate; so much so that it offers incredible perks for people raising a child, especially an orphaned child.

These perks are like the bright lights of a casino where losing doesn’t exist, and Barb and Bill, they’re insects.

To be quite frank, Tommy has never loved Barb and Bill, though he’s certainly tried. Up until those twenty-nine days ago he would ask every night if they’d tuck him into bed and read him a story; the answer always anything but yes.

Oh how things change.

Now, after delivering his daily mound of skeddy, he spends the night at his desk drawing. The things he draws could easily be mistaken for the product of a normal child’s imagination, but they’re much more fact than not. Tommy’s only doodling’s of vividness are those in which his real parents are still alive, but he doesn’t draw those anymore – not for twenty-nine days, at least.

Tommy eventually climbs into bed but not before a stealthy late night raid on the pantry. He wakes the next day much like the last. Something seems different though; he just can’t seem to figure out what. He gets dressed the same as every other day. He has breakfast the same way too. He goes to school and everything there is…the same. Same teacher. Same class. Same table. Same chair. Same lunch. Same number of friends. And at three o’clock the same bell rings as per every other afternoon, and he races home as quickly as he can.

He charges through the front door and runs up stairs as if accompanied by a particular Survivor hit song, and changes straight into his pyjamas. Still everything seems the same.

Tommy makes his way downstairs where finally something is clearly not the same. It’s completely quiet – peaceful almost. It’s never peaceful. Barb is nowhere to be seen, and Bill still at work. Out of curiosity more so than concern, Tommy goes searching for Barb. He checks the lounge room, no Barb. He checks the study, no Barb. He checks all three bedrooms, then front yard and back, and still no Barb. Tommy stops for a moment to soak up the peace before he wanders back inside. He doesn’t miss Barb’s foul mouthed presence at all, but for certain closet-related reasons is quite anxious for dinner to be cooked.

With Barb clearly not home, Tommy decides that the Tinkleton skeddy is simple enough for him to cook himself. He rattles around the kitchen for a pot and all the ingredients (all four of them, five if you count water), and without any sort of trouble he has it cooking in no time. While he waits he notices what looks like a note on the kitchen bench. Feeling it may provide answers as to his paper mother’s whereabouts he picks it up to find that although it’s not a note per se, answers it does provide.

Tommy holds in his hand a checklist titled ‘Junk We Can Sell’.

Barb has obviously been busy scheming of ways to make a quick buck – albeit a dishonest buck. She’s been so productive too. Of the dozen or so items on her list, every box bar one is checked.

On first read Tommy doesn’t make much of the checklist, but on a second inspection he has a light bulb moment.

Tommy realizes that the box yet to be checked just below ‘Tommy’s Bike’ reads, ‘Tommy’s Bits and Bobs’, and that means…

He scurries upstairs and crashes through his bedroom door. Standing nervously in the middle of his room he stares at his closet.

 It couldn’t be true, could it?

He approaches the closet hesitantly, just as every other afternoon. This time however, he’s afraid for a very different reason. He swallows his nerves and opens the doors.

The truth is a funny thing to behold, as is irony. An ironic truth however, that is just…justice.

On the closet floor lay a pool of blood in which one of Barbs shoes swims. Tommy swiftly closes the doors. He’s overwhelmed with emotions – such conflicting emotions. Tommy doesn’t have a hateful bone in his body, but even the most decent human beings can only tolerate so much abuse. He backs away from the closet and sits on his bed in shock.

Then, Bill arrives home from work. He too notices something different.

“Why’s it so damn quiet around here?” he mumbles.

He walks into the kitchen to see the pot of skeddy cooking as always, but no Barb.

“BARB, WHERE ARE YOU AT?” he shouts to no reply – if only he knew.

Like the gummiest of sharks he hones in on the pot of skeddy and gives it a quick taste. “Yep, done”, he says.

“BARB, SKEDDY’S READY”, he yells.

“TOMMY?”

Tommy’s too overcome with shock to hear Bill calling his name.

“THAT GOOD FOR NOTHING BOY. DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING ‘ROUND HERE?”

He starts dishing up Tommy’s dinner, piling it as high as he possibly can, and when he can fit no more he proceeds to carry it up stairs – the skeddy so high it’s all but blocking his view.

He swings open Tommy’s door to see Tommy sitting on his bed.

“THERE YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE SOD. I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Tommy looks up at Bill blankly and stumbles on his words. “I’ve just, I’ve just been, umm –“

“DON’T HAVE ALL NIGHT, BOY. HERE’S YOUR SKEDDY”

Tommy stares blankly for a moment longer until he has his second light bulb moment of the day, and urges Bill to put the plate on the ground.

“Quickly, put it down.”

“PUT WHAT DOWN?” Bill asks with the same bitter tone as always.

“Put the plate on the ground, quickly”, Tommy says.

“HA! I’LL DO NO SUCH THING. NOW TAKE YOUR DINNER, YOU LITTLE SH –“

“Please, Bill put it down“

The room rumbles louder than ever before. Bill turns to face the closet clearly startled.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?” he asks.

“Bill, please put it on the ground”, Tommy pleads once more.

Another big growl roars from within the closet sending tremors across the room.

Just as Bill finally decides to heed Tommy’s advice, the doors burst open to a hideous groan.

Bill is paralyzed with fear. He shakes.

“W-what is that thing?”

He looks down to see his wife’s shoe swimming in blood, and nervously starts to back away.

It edges towards him, fresh flesh still on its breath.

“S-s-stay away from me. Look, skeddy” he says clutching at straws.

“Take the boy instead, he’d be much tastier, and no one will miss him”, he begs – gutless.

It’s already made its mind up though; Bill is dessert.

Tommy sits on his bed, still in shock, unable to look away. He involuntarily lends an ear to the sound of something devouring Bill as if disemboweling a coward that lives insides another coward’s bowels with its mouth.

Then…

it stops.

]]> http://timmyhayes.wordpress.com/2011/11/18/feeding-the-closet-thingy-updated/feed/ 0 timmyhayes http://timmyhayes.wordpress.com/2011/11/14/sticks-and-thrones/ http://timmyhayes.wordpress.com/2011/11/14/sticks-and-thrones/#comments Mon, 14 Nov 2011 00:35:03 +0000 timmyhayes http://timmyhayes.wordpress.com/?p=57 ]]> This is a little story I wrote a few weeks ago trying to work on some different aspects of my writing and a different approach. Set myself a limit of 500 words (which is not easy to stay within – especially with the way I normally write).
Anywho, I know it’s a little cliche but let me know what you think…

—————————————————————————————————————————
Sticks and Thrones
—————————————————————————————————————————

“…What do you mean I’m no knight?” Jamison asked.

“Well, I just mean Sir Hartley isn’t your real father; he was only a blacksmith, so -”

“So what? I’m not good enough for you…up on your high horse, with your gold-laced saddle and your troop of royal escorts?”

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant, but you know a princess can’t court a regular.”

“A regular? Is that what I am to you?

“No…It’s just –“

“It’s not the title you wear that makes you everything in the world to me”, he said, before fleeing on his horse.

“Wait, Jamison, I’m sorry!” Elvy pleaded.

“Everything alright, Princess?” one of her guards asked.

“Yes. I mean no. I mean…I don’t know what I’m doing. I love him. I have to go after him.”

“Sorry, Princess, we need to get you home. Not long ‘til dusk, and you know the kingdom grows restless – I fear dark times are on the horizon”

“My heart grows restless. I’ve waited too long. I’m going, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me”, she proclaimed.

“Princess, stop! It’s not safe!”

“Ah, let her go, it’s all coming down anyway – this kingdom. Every last corner” another guard replied.

The realm of Archonia had endured the most peaceful period in its history under the rule of Elvy’s father, King Walter, though everyone bar the drunk and mad could sense the tension that stricken the air of late; whispering trouble.

Horses in full stride, Elvy rode, desperate to tell Jamison how she felt. He hadn’t gotten far before she caught him.

“Jamison!” she shouted. I’m sorry!”

He turned to see her racing towards him, unaccompanied.

“Elvy, what are you doing here?”

“I had to come…to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That since as long as I can remember –“

“Wait, what was that?”

“What was what? Jamison, I’m trying to tell you that I –“

“Just wait. Something isn’t right.”

Suddenly, the earth began to tremor under the feet of a dozen horses bearing men of The Dark Rebellion. Those whispers of trouble had become shrieks of treachery.

“We have to go!” he shouted.

As quickly as possible they scampered, trying to escape, but the rebels swallowed the ground beneath them, and they came to a dead end – A cliff face over the ocean. As the rebels approached, the Princess’ horse shuffled backwards in fear, and she was thrown over the edge.

“Elvy! No!” Jamison cried.

He jumped from his horse and looked vengefully towards the rebels. Then in a hate-filled frenzy he drew his sword and hacked apart every last one of them. He raced to the cliff, fell to his knees and looked down desperately; she didn’t stand a chance.

He rose to his feet, and took several deep breaths – those three little words she’d said ringing through his head, “You’re no knight.”

Looking to the sky he uttered, “but I’m nothing without you”, and leapt off the cliff.

—————————————————————————————————————————–
The end.
—————————————————————————————————————————– 

 So yar, that be it. Originally it was just called The Knight in Shining Armour and the Drowning Princess, because that’s the visual image I had based the story on – A knight obviously can’t swim if he’s still in his armour, thus the tragedy lol, but yeah that name kind of didn’t have much of a ring to it and gave away the whole concept before you even read a word.

THANKS!

Kayla’s Wheel

An eerie hush strangled the air around what the general population unaptly called a ‘playground’ – Harnwood Playground. That same population tended to steer well and truly clear of the would be rape-hotspot of an eye sore. In all honesty the playground possessed a certain ‘rough around the edges’ charm that was unfortunately overshadowed by numerous hideous attempts at guerrilla artwork, in which the culprits quite clearly possessed the talent of a toddler who’d just received their first set of crayons.

Bordering the playground was a slate cast-iron fence that all but touched the clouds. The fence was built after locals one day decided that maybe it could be a nice place, if cleaned up a little, and protected from vandals. So they rallied together, scrubbed it clean, and fenced it off. That however, lasted all of a day, and those vandals seemed more intent than ever on destroying it.

In the very centre of the playground was a swing set, a jungle gym, and a raised platform with a steering wheel fixed to some bars, sitting atop. The platform stood some two meters above the ground, and seemed to offer very little appeal in the way of something fun for a child to play with. But nobody went to Harnwood Playground anyway, so it didn’t really matter. That is except for seventeen year old, Kayla. As a matter of fact, not only was Harnwood Playground her favourite place in the entire world, but that wheel, that was her wheel.

Every day Kayla found her way to the wheel as quickly as possible. The wheel you see, well, it was magic. It took Kayla places that only existed in dreams, and then beyond. Harnwood Playground, or more importantly, that wheel, was Kayla’s ticket to another world far away from the hurt-filled world she existed. In this world she bore no bruises, nor shed tears. In this world she was as loved by all, as they were by her. With this love came an ever-present fear that one day someone would come and break the wheel, or worse, the world in which it took her. This fear was never realised though, as no one ever came.

However, one-day, a mother and son new to town stumbled upon the playground while exploring the neighbourhood, and immediately they spotted Kayla manning her wheel. It was true; she really was out of this world. “You ok, love?” the mother asked. “Excuse me darling?” she probed again to no reply. She quickly walked over to investigate, grabbed the platform and pulled herself up. It was only then she realised Kayla, surrounded by syringes, was, and had been dead for days, still tightly gripping her wheel.

Feeding The Closet Thingy

Little Tommy Tinkleton was once a normal boy. He once was scared of the dark. He once liked to play with his toys. He once even ate a worm, then a snail, and then some flowers, but never did he do anything considered too peculiar for a boy his age.  A strange thing happened to Tommy Tinkleton a month or so ago, and he became no longer normal. Nobody else knew it to be true, but it most definitely was, and continues to be. Tommy Tinkleton keeps a secret that takes imagination to fathom, and courage not to fear.  Before that secret’s shared, and before we go ahead, one thing must be clear. Little Tommy Tinkleton no longer plays with his toys, and no longer fears the dark. His favourite meal is worm-like but it’s certainly not alive. In fact, his appetite seems to have grown a lot in recent times, for spaghetti and meatballs in particular, but he only eats alone, in the quiet of his room. His parents don’t mind that one bit – means less for them to do. They have so many interests, and far too little time to worry about something as insignificant as parenting. Their interests, so broad, consist of anything and everything they can look at in the mirror, and quite literally nothing else.

It was twenty-nine short days ago that Tommy’s world took a turn, and every day since he’s kept that secret without the need for any real discretion. Mum and Dad, or Barb and Bill, as they insist that Tommy call them, have not the nearest clue, not even a sniff of Tommy’s normalcy’s disappearance. Putting it nicely, they are far too engrossed in the aroma that lingers around their own backsides to notice, or to even care about any changes in Tommy’s behaviour.  So every afternoon after school, when little Tommy charges through the front door, climbs the stairs to his room, and returns dressed in his bright green flannelette pyjamas, only to ask how long until dinner is ready, Barb and Bill think nothing. And as quickly as possible they cook an oddly large pot of spaghetti, so they can finally take a break from the strenuous parenting they have been burdened with.

It takes only fifteen minutes to cook the Tinkleton blend of spaghetti, and tastes worse than its brainy resemblance. Taste buds shrivel from just the scent, like a rainforest catching wind of a bulldozers exhaust, but still Tommy hastily comes when called.

“TOMMY. SKEDDY. COME GET IT NOW. I’VE BEEN SLAVIN’ ALL AFTERNOON”, Barb yells, every time without fail.

Little Tommy Tinkleton, looking like a normal boy, races to the kitchen. His hair bouncing about with far more enthusiasm than he – it’s shaggy and brown, because a barber to Barb and Bill, is a waste of precious time and money that they like to spend on themselves. He stands holding a plate, and with his twice-daily brushed teeth he assembles a smile that attempts to appear thankful.

“DON’T JUST STAND THERE YOU UNGRATEFUL SOD. YOU EXPECT ME TO PUT IT ON YOUR PLATE FOR YOU AS WELL?”

Tommy, says “sorry”, and gathers a scoop. That scoop precedes the next, as the next does the following, until eventually he stands with a plateful fit for at least two grown men. “May I be excused?” he asks, as politely as he can.

“IT’S ALWAYS WANT, WANT, WANT, WITH YOU ISN’T IT, TOMMY? GET OUT OF MY HAIR”.

And so up to his room Tommy marches, with just short of a child’s wheelbarrow full of horrible looking, smelling, and tasting spaghetti. He arrives at his door, but before he opens it, glances over his shoulder, checking his parents aren’t watching him – though Halley’s comet would sooner come. He enters at the pace of that snail he once ate, wheelbarrow leading the way, and then firmly closes the door behind him. He drags his bed-turned-barricade across to the door, sealing himself inside, and then he places the plate of spaghetti on the wooden floor in front of his closet. Tommy hasn’t embraced some Japanese eating habit, nor does he know of such a thing. He edges hesitantly towards his cupboard, and with his arms trembling reaches for the handles. Just as his hands make the slightest contact, a shockingly hideous, thunderous grumble, rumbles through the room. It’s not some cavernous cry for food from Tommy’s tummy however, and he gasps briefly from apparent fright. He pauses for a moment before he composes himself somewhat. In one swift motion he yanks open both closest doors and dives backwards to the floor. There he lays still shaking, eyes peeled wide open, and he’s unable to look away. He involuntarily lends an ear to the sound of something devouring his ‘skeddy’, as if disembowelling a cow that lives inside another cow’s bowels, with its mouth.

Then…

it stops.

There’s Writing and Me

A blank page does not stare at me, begging me for ink. A cold keyboard does not weep for me, begging me for touch. There is no whisper in my ear while the rest of the world sleeps. Writing may be art, but so is life itself. Writing may be structured, but not when it’s a thought.
Thousands of combinations of simple shapes called letters, form words that form a sentence, which form a paragraph, or maybe more. A paragraph to me is where the pieces come together – the pieces of a scattered mind trying to make sense of itself.
I was born a boy of prospect, a boy with much potential. Everything I tried, I was exceptionally exceptional – sports, school, and all things creative. I always had a knack for stringing words together. In fact my teacher from first grade still uses my poetry in her class today. That being said, it’s always been so very ‘me’ to achieve but not exceed. Put it down to being too able at too many things, or just lack of dedication, it still haunts me to this day.

Even with this self-proclaimed ability at many things, writing was certainly more than a few steps down my list of things I cherished most. Unlike one Mr. George Orwell, never did I think, “I love writing so much. This is what I want to do…to write”. It was just something that I dabbled on from time to time somewhat successfully – I don’t claim that I was born to write, or born a writer. I did not magically write my own characters conception some twenty odd years ago. I did not plot my escape from the womb with a pen and paper handy. I did not arrive to the party of life with a hardcover copy of my first full-length novel. I have however discovered between then and now, that writing is the very best way for me to express myself, and help me understand my own ideas, thoughts, and sense of self.

All the good writers love to read. I don’t think I’ve read a book cover to cover since my first year of high school – I was and am still too caught up in my other interests. I guess that could explain why my writing lacks grammatically. I write how I feel, I write who I am. I don’t know the rules, so I don’t know if I’m breaking them. I write free, and much to the contrary of Stephen King’s belief that “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have time (or the tools) to write, I love it that way. I’m not saying that I don’t appreciate others writing, because I do. I always mean to sit down and read, but I just end up wanting to write, or play guitar, or kick a football around, because that is who I am.

Not everyone writes as a means of self-discovery or understanding. Others may write to escape who they are, or just for the sake of it. Some people write for gratitude or to feel important. But when it comes down to it, despite the different motives behind why a writer writes, if the words that land on paper have travelled from your mind, they do so bearing a piece of who you are.

One of the classes I’m studying at the moment discusses ideas and theories of communication, and communication history. During writing an essay for this class, I came across a theorist, Marshall Mcluhan, who held an interesting belief in regards to writings’ importance to man. He claimed that just as the wheel is an extension of the foot, the book is an extension of the eye [Griffin 1999]. For me, writing is very much this. Just as the wheel helps us to move, writing helps me see.

Growing up, my imagination was ever present. Like a lot of kids, I was scared of the dark. It wasn’t that I really thought someone was in the house, or that The Boogey Monster had set up camp in my cupboard – although I swear I have a clear memory of someone cooking canned baked-beans over a wood fire amongst my clothing and somewhat impressive toy collection. It was more the fact that my mind was vivid. So vivid in fact, it was like it had created a night-time clone of itself which was drastically amplified during the cloning process. We’ve all considered the ground to be lava at some point, but at night my room became a volcano, my bed the only point of refuge, and the critters that dwelled within liked to feed on the sleeping – especially if your name was Tim. Imaginary or not, they were pretty unique little buggers.
After finally defeating my fear of the dark, my attention switched to all things adolescent – sports (as always), parties, friends, being rebellious, skateboarding etc. I’m not really a believer in people being born with certain abilities or traits, but I must admit, I strongly believe I was born as competitive as they come. I’ve always wanted to win at everything. It’s possibly the one feature I possess that can compete with the strength of my imagination. One catch of being a combination of both competitive and imaginative is that when for some reason I don’t win, my imagination can just whip together a nice little scenario where I did in fact win…seriously.

During these adolescent years my competitive nature saw writing take the back seat, no, actually, it was more or less locked away in the boot of the car. I was busy learning guitar, losing skin skateboarding, travelling around kicking butt at soccer (football), and just being as cool as I could possibly be. It wasn’t until my best friends and I started a punk band in the last year of school that I started writing anything in my spare time. I loved to write lyrics, ones that told a story from start to finish. Many late nights I spent coming up with little stories to write about in lyrical form – a knight in shining armour saving a drowning princess, how tragic!

That was a couple of years ago now, and today writing has definitely taken a place in the passenger seat of my life, sometimes even helping me to steer – just when I’m on my mobile phone (against the law I know).

My love for music is clearly evident in the way I write – not so much in the confines of an essay, but definitely anything unrestricted. I guess it’s my own little style; I like the words to flow and have a sort of musical rhythm. My life even sometimes resembles that of a song. It has verses that differ – weekends, a chorus for all the repetitive day-to-day stuff – work/study, a pretty exciting bridge – holidays, road trips, and unexpected happenings, and then sometimes it’s just one giant improvisation. I guess my wedding, kids, and all that wonderful stuff to come one day would be the solo? No, that’s not right, it takes two to dance those routines! Luckily I already have my dance partner in Ms. Madellaine Irwin.

I often questioned the idea of writing about your experiences. How much can a young writer have experienced in their brief time alive? Not only that, where does this idea leave the land of fantasy and sci-fi? It’s taken me some time to understand the concept, but I think I finally get it. You draw on your experiences, the emotions you feel, the way they shape you, and you create a character, a scene, a world, or a whole storyline around a more colourful telling of them.

I think I finally got a grip on the writing from experience idea when I decided to write a short autobiography, only a couple of pages long. When the full stop made its way to present day, and I read back the story of my life, I thought “shit, who is this action hero”. The reality was I hadn’t experienced anything remotely ‘John Rambo like’ – excluding a near death experience or two, not involving gun-fire however.

In reading other writers thoughts on writing – why they write, I have stumbled across one common theme that also exists within this essay, and my thoughts on writing. That theme is that regardless of their different background, definitions, and approaches to explaining how and why we write, there is a clear agreement that writing is a priceless means of understanding ones own thoughts and feelings.
In her take on Orwell’s ‘Why I Write’, Joan Didion says,

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

The reasons behind why I write, and my views on writing in general are equally as alike, as they are unlike others thoughts on the matter – the same but different. There is one quote however, from English author Graham Greene, which I could not agree with more.

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition”

The mind is a problem solver, constantly trying to figure things out. There are so many emotions, feelings, thoughts, and situations that my mind struggles to comprehend – complete, overwhelming, happiness for example. This feeling, like most extremes – extreme heartache, physical pain, or fear, is hard to understand. Anyone who disagrees with the idea that extreme happiness is confusing is either naïve, or just plain lying. If you’ve felt this emotion, you know that with it come questions in whose answers are excellent at hide and seek.

“Why am I so happy?”

“How can I stay this happy?“

“What happens if the reason I’m this happy is taken away from me?”

The way I deal with such mind-boggling questions is to write, and write some more. It might sound like a cheesy pro-writing campaign slogan, but writing really is a type of medicine for unscrambling a scrambled mind.

Unlike Mr King and co writing is not my profession. I do have aspirations of publication, but that is a story in itself. Regardless of whether I get my first, or fifth novel published, the driving force behind why I write will not change. Writing to me is not only an outlet for the creativity that dwells inside, but a means for me to discover exactly who I am, and understand my mind.

I have this image that floats around from time to time. The setting is some sort of bleak, eerie, future, what I can only describe as what would have been scenic local make out spot, over looking the town. The air is not quite still and the streets are vacant. It’s sunset, but no ordinary sunset, it’s a nuclear sunset. There’s a blinding flash in the distance, with an over-cooked mushroom that follows. And There’s Writing and Me, sitting, watching, unravelling, and plotting.

Took this pic on my iphone btw :]

The Last Tree On Earth

If I could see this place from the perspective of the stars, I’d be ashamed. While they’ve burnt so brightly above screaming, “we will guide you”, we’ve reduced our world to little more than a bleak, hellish wasteland. Refusing to be inspired by the beauty of the universe, we’ve abused the privilege to breathe. Now the mere miracle of life itself may be nothing more than spilt ink on the pages of the ages – a Chinese whisper among the stars.

Those left in the world wander around seamlessly searching for answers. From every crumbling corner they come to me. My eyes are open but my lips are sown shut. I know how we got here. I would tell them if I could, I would, despite the fate they’ve doomed us to. I am not the answer. I am but the outcome. If only they’d look in the mirror the cause would be glaring back at them.

It’s a funny thing we do, to stare truth in the eyes and lie. It’s like staring at the sun – inevitable, and blinding. But laughter doesn’t live here now, nor should it. The soundtrack to this premature end of the world consists of songs about all our favourite things; war, death, destruction, and hate, played through the speakers of our self-inflicted decay. The zombie crowd has that look of paralyzing self-realization on their faces. It’s not that they finally understand the meaning behind the horrible words they sing. They’re just singing the words in fear, in fear of not knowing. I know. I know when the artist in the sky laid out his canvas, this was not what he had intended. How could such beautiful colours paint such an ugly picture?

They say that life is a lesson yet still we’ve learnt nothing. From the beginning of our existence we’ve marched towards this day with all the wrong intentions. Now they’ve marched to me, for what? To ask me what they already know? Mistake after mistake, war after war, give after take, or no giving at all, nothing has ever changed. They still won’t accept the blame. They deal with their imminent fate by deludingly grasping at faith, their fabricated faith. I can’t help but wonder, if this faith existed in the form of them or I, would it have faith in us? Could it have faith in us? If by some chance this ‘next life’ does exist, I fear that it’s already on its way to burning to the ground, and those of us still here waiting are just more fuel for the flames.

Regardless of whether there’s something else beyond this, we don’t deserve such a place. All this time we’ve taken this gift as our right but used it wrong. Now as this sea of the hopeless sits impossibly still and subdued around me it’s clear that some piece of them knows.

I am not the answer. I am but the outcome. I could be the cause – the last remaining cause.