She dreamed of a kiss, too good to be true. Her fingers gripped the lapels of his jersey.
“Wake up.”
She moaned.
Prod.
More moans… falling.
Falling?
Her eyes flew open, a delicious blush spread across her cheeks as she hit the ground. He was looking at her. The man of her dreams. How embarrassing.
The act of writing a story, 55 words long, creating a character and a setting, three lines wide. It’s a story about love, hate, murder, mystery, with “I” or “Me” or “You” or “they”, it’s a moment of inspiration, a moment of vividness. It’s a 55 word story, fresh, brief, capturing. Be enticed by it.
I feel the summer rain, cascading all around me. The steam rises from the concrete, sizzling, dehydrating, rehydrating, existing as a wall between you and I. I see you for the first time. You are standing, watching, waiting for me, hand forward longingly. We are worlds apart, separated, until I too leave the rain behind.
She stands straight, above the crowd, the gown weighing her down. She’s tired, worn, but she’s smiling. She’s genuinely happy, seeing all those below her waving at her. Slowly, slowly, she raises her hand, and the smile, transformed into a beam, is shining down on those watching her. She is the Queen of the World.
They tell me to pen the name,
On the gilt edged paper,
And send it to the one entitled.
They didn’t tell me what it was,
Or what should have been.
When I penned that name,
I felt my heart leap with infatuation.
If I knew what it contained,
My heart would have broken earlier.
She danced in her metal and silk adorned body. She weaves her way around the floor, sinking low, spinning round, dancing energetically and beautifully. She is charming, seducing her audience. The metal glints in the dimness of the restaurant. Everyone is entranced. But everyone sees the ring on her finger, it shines brightest of all.
He raised the flag and with his other hand, he lifted his sword. The men roared and raised their swords in turn. There was nothing but fury, nothing but determination. It was a sea of blades waiting to cut the first blood. They were the King’s pride and joy. For honour, they would be mercenaries.
I am swamped by the sea that floods my boat. I am desperate in my fight to win. But the water keeps on flowing, and the boat keeps on sinking. Is it impossible to save what’s left of him? Voices call out. Hands grab at me. I can’t die. The memories must survive with me.
In the darkness of my mind, consumed by utter grief, there is a winter. Barren plains of ice and snow, blizzards and endless cold. I see nothing. I am nothing. There’s just numbness in my heart. A voice calls my name through the winter cold. It’s a warm light, gently guiding. I want to live.
The desert is a dusty plain, a sand plain, an ice plain, a dry arid land. There is no water, there is no shade. It’s just hot sun, it’s just ice cold. My fingers are hot, cold, unbearable. I want to strip, I want to wrap up. I’m alone in my misery, waiting for relief.
I hate tennis. I hate tennis racquets. I hate the sun that beats down on my back, as my hands grip tightly, to the racquet that lunges left and right and backwards. I hate falling over and scrapping my hands. I hate being tired after. But when I stop…all I want is to play again.
The cactus sat on my windowsill in terracotta. It was still, unmoving, prickly and one odd shade of green. I’d neglect it for days, expecting it to die…but still it grows, strong and wild. Just like the cactus boy who gave it to me long ago. I wonder what he’s doing out in the world.
‘Omg I’m so sorry!’ She said, from the ground, where she had fallen. She looked up in despair at the orange juice soaked guy sitting the booth. She expected to be yelled at but instead he held his hand out to her, pity on his face. She laughed, and took it. He laughed too.
They tell me to pen the name,
On the gilt edged paper,
And send it to the one entitled.
They didn’t tell me what it was,
Or what should have been.
When I penned that name,
I felt my heart leap with infatuation.
If I knew what it contained,
My heart would have broken earlier.
He took off his hat, pulled off his gloves and looked at forward. He took of his jacket and untied his tie. He gently unbuttoned its buttons. He rolled up his sleeve, one perfect fold at a time. He knelt, picked up the shivering cat and wrapped it up in his coat, holding it tightly.
The purple dress hung unwanted in the closet.
The purple dress was worn unwillingly by the puffed up girl.
The purple dress sat in a box, unpacked and pristine.
The purple dress was passed from one generation to the other.
The purple dress fell three stories down.
The purple dress experienced a lifetime of love.
Are you crying? Said the Spirit to the girl by the stream.
Yes, said the girl.
Are you hurt?
No.
Then why are you crying? It asked. Can I help you?
No, said the girl. You can’t help me.
Why?
Because I’m dying.
Is that all?
Yes!
Why?
Because…!
Death is, sometimes, a new beginning.
It sailed down the river wide, looking for a place to dock. It floundered as a boat like that could flounder. It shifted only a boat like that could shift as it slammed, settling on the beach, like a beached whale. Disembarking, a woman finely dressed, holding a baby in her arms. It was crying.
Palely cool against my skin, I am warmed, by the sun that has little shine. It’s just one moment, a break within the downpours of winter that soaked the aged and worn roads. I blink at the brightness, shiver at the coolness, and wrap myself just a little tighter. But still there’s beauty in coldness.
The sky darkens earlier, and the rain pours more frequently. The sun shines and moods fade easily. Going to work, going to uni, walking down that empty lane all seems hours longer, kilometres further than usual. How odd, how odd company can be, to make the darkness fade. It brightens the day with warm light.
Words That Flow Like Water 