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11 January 2017 @ 05:50 pm
Writing  
...I want to do more of it.

So, it's been a while since I did anything with Livejournal. Mostly because of time, some of it due to not feeling I had anything much to say and share.
But I want to write. It's something I enjoy, it's something I produce that people seem to enjoy, and I can find purpose in creating worlds. I get the same sense of accomplishment from putting together a larp but... well, writing is more permanent. So I might as well use this journal for that.

So, went fishing for prompts on Facebook. Putting the finished drabbles here as a back up. I realise that her might not be the sturdiest place to make a back up but it is a start.

So, LJ, for now, I'm back. I may be shouting into empty air at this point, but meh.


He sat, alone, on that damp cardboard square, gazing through bleary eyes at the cracked skin of his fingertips....
The strobing blue lights painted his stained skin interesting colours, though he didn't see that. Despite his best efforts, all he could see was the crowd of people straining against the cordon. Even when he closed his eyes, they were there; hungry gazes devouring everything as they speculated, not caring that their voices carried.

Funny how they stared at him now; those same folks who passed him each day as though he weren't even there, ignored his pleas for just a little spare change. Twitching their coats away so they could avoid even accidental interaction. Treating him like nothing.

But now a girl was dead, lifeless body unceremoniously stuffed into a trash can in a back alley. Since "his" doorstep overlooked the alley entrance, suddenly he was something. A person of interest; that was the phase he had heard muttered. They'd asked him their questions, and he'd told them yes, he'd seen the girl before; no, he'd not seen anyone carry her into the alley; no, there wasn't any suspicious cars around recently. Now the police ignored him, bustling round back and forth across the road; no longer interested.

He couldn't even dreg up any anger. He was used to being invisible and, in time, they'd all forget about him and he'd fade back into the background again.

He always did.



I love to ride the bus.
I'm used to people looking at me askance when I say things like that; I don't mind. It's not their fault they cannot see what I see.

I am blessed with synesthesia; to be specific, projective chromesthesia. In layman's terms, certain sounds cause me to see shapes and colours. A door slamming is a contracting ring of dark brown; a violin is a snake of dusky pink, winding back and forth in sinuous arches.

A bus ride is my own personal fireworks display.

The hiss of the hydraulics as the doors close and the bus lifts are a rain of metallic stars and sparkles; mostly silver, but some copper and gold flashing through. Then comes the engines purr, a tide of midnight blue that constantly washes around me.

I like to sit near the front if I can; then I get the flickers of green and orange when people buy their tickets. My favourite driver has a voice that is crimson crackles that explode upwards and outwards, over everything. The only time I sit near the back is when Beatrice is driving. Her sarcastic snarl is sludge grey, and cuts through everything else. It makes my skin crawl for the rest of the day.

But, normally, the bus driver's voice is just one hue, blending in with the other passenger voices and the bell.

Oh, the bell! It's the deepest, richest blue. It's summer skies and faraway lagoons, it's a perfect sapphire of warmth and... gods, I wish you could see it. I can't do it justice, however I try. I would sit and ring the bell all day, if it wasn't for the fact it would get me kicked off the bus.




His mother's eyes and his father's coat. Both in his possession. One a chance of the maelstrom creation of birth, one a design in the inevitable trudge towards death; both unbearably precious to him.

Sam had never known his mother. His father had described her, when he was deep in his cups, as a fae creature; she had danced into his life when he was a young'em. Turned his head with her mass of black curls and flashing green eyes - so unlike the washed out greys and mousy browns of the local girls. They had spent three summers and three winters together, waltzing under the moonlight and wrapped in each others arms and dreams.

Then she had gone away, and eight months later a baby boy left on the doorstep. There was no doubting who had left him there; the same bottle green eyes stared out of his fathers face in miniature. He'd named the boy Sam, and taken to fatherhood with a earnest awkwardness.

The two of them had struggled through together; father and son against the world. Single fathers were not common in those days and Sam could remember his father, wrapped in his long black wool coat, amidst the mothers waiting at the school gate. Horribly out of place. Uncomfortably stiff.

Sam had never known such pride as he had knowing that, despite how he would feel about it, his father would never forgo his post. Unlike his mother - fickle fleeting fairy tale that she was to him - his father would never leave him behind.

Except now he had. Time had marched on, and the boy had become a man; the son a father. He had forgiven his mother the day his daughter had been born; he had felt the rush of fear, the cold clench of doubt on his heart. How could he possibly be good enough for the little miracle he cradled in clumsy hands. No wonder his mother, fae creature that she had been, had fled. He was solidly grounded and still he could hear the call to run.

But he had not. Whatever spark of his mother danced in his heart, it was wrapped in the solid calm of his father. Now it was he who stood at the gates to the school, wrapped in his long coat of black wool, watching as a laughing dancing girl with black curls and his father's grey eyes ran towards him.
 
 
Current Mood: Resolved
Current Music: Background Childrens TV
 
 
 
greg_rgreg_r on January 12th, 2017 08:02 am (UTC)
Really enjoyably stories :) And there's at least one voice in the void shouting back.
Huinesoron: Middle-earthhuinesoron on January 12th, 2017 09:53 am (UTC)
Heeeeey it's you! ^_^ Don't worry, there's still a few of us knocking around here.

I like the fact that your three drabbles take much the same tone, but apply it to three very different themes. It's like they're all focussed differently in time: the first on the immediate past, the second on the present, and the third on both the distant past and the future.

Of the three, I think I like the synesthesia one most: it feels like you're being playful with the senses, painting a picture of the sounds with your words. Spot-on for the subject of the drabble.
Emma MacGuyverhelbling on January 12th, 2017 10:06 pm (UTC)
I read occasionally! No shouting into the void just yet :)
Lucylucy_k_p on January 13th, 2017 10:50 am (UTC)
I really like all of these - I think the first one is my favourite. The emotion is really intense and realistic - I sympathise with the character. And the second one is wonderfully vivid.

I have been thinking for about 2 years that I'd like to set up a writing group when I have the spare time and things settle down, and I've just never carved out a time for it.
magicaddictmagicaddict on January 20th, 2017 11:22 pm (UTC)
There aren't so many left, but keep writing - those who are reading are enjoying it.

And yes, I very much dislike the bus.