Sunday afternoon -The dark tea time of the soul (h/t Douglas Adams) Let the random ruminations begin!
Hugo stared at the wall daring it to be anything but what it was. Unyielding, unchanging, uninteresting. It did not alter or shift. Neither did the Djinn rune written in an ink no pure human could read.
There was no option but to do this the Djinn way. He felt his body undulate and lose weight. It felt like falling asleep but not nearly as comforting. Anyone lucky or unlucky enough to have been watching him at that moment would have seen him appear to fade into near nothingness, a ghost image. That ghost then appeared to walk through the wall.
The manner of why this can be is quite tedious to explain.
Thank you Heid and Juliet, for nominating me for the challenge of sharing “Love” with an axiom of ten lines. The rules are to:
- only use four words in each sentence
- each sentence to include the word “love”
- to give my favourite quote on love
- and to nominate other bloggers to share the love
Today’s word is trust: write a poem in which you address, reflect on, or tell a story about the feeling of trusting or being trusted by another (person, animal, object, potted plant…). Or about distrusting them (or not being trusted yourself).
Currently listening #onrepeat to:
And so Blogging 201 has come to an end. It was an excellent follow on from Blogging 101 and I feel ready to move forward with my writing and blogging. Continue reading
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Race the Clock.”
The muzzle never waivered, didn’t even move an inch. Despite the cold ball of fear in my stomach Hugo was impressed. The glock was cocked, round chambered, ready to explode in my sore bloody face and it had been pointing at my head for 20 minutes. That’s along time to keep a heavy lump of metal at arms length.
“Nǐ shì shuí?”
“For the last time I don’t speak Chinese” Hugo lied for the eleventh time through swollen lips and a haze of pain. His wrists were chafing on the ropes that bound his arms to the pipe overhead.
And there squats on a river next to a swamp a bloated ugly creature. It was once beautiful but time has punished it for its corruption of eating the flesh of the young and the innocent and the desperate traveler. It’s size has deformed and disfigured it and it is now unrecognisable from its former stoic beauty. It has grown many arms and reaches out across the land grasping unceasingly to feed itself tearing flesh from bone, root from land and child from mother. It’s body is dirty and rotting save from those parts it locks clean to satisfy a memory of a dignity it once had.
It was no accident that he had chosen this house. It was a modern home in an old building. It was cool in summer and warm in winter. The walls were thick and the floors were sturdy. In a time of quick builds and optimised space they literally didn’t make them like this anymore. He’d bought several in cash with stolen CIA seed money when he’d first dropped under the radar and laid a paper trail back to his old boss to cover the theft. If any auditors went looking for the missing loot the investigation would wind up at his door and the murdering douchebag would end up in Alaska or Arizona chasing sovereign citizens.
Damn it was hot. It was a sticky Sunday summer morning in Hackney. The birds had long since given up flying in the polluted soup that surrounded them and had taken to wheezing lazily in the trees. Sweat clung to the skin and the latest iteration of hipsters clung, exhausted and sticky, to their frappe lattes. Various cafes had flouted council jobsworths and put out cheap plastic chairs and cheap plastic tables onto the already crowded pavement for who ever found peace sitting in the street with buses and trucks thundering by.