Unfinished Story...

I have several (hundred) unfinished stories sitting around in notebooks half forgotten about. I really need to dig them out and complete them. They're barely even started. This is one of them - enjoy...

The circus tent appeared suddenly overnight.

It now stood demanding everyone’s attention on the cusp of the hill. Swathes of yellow and red canvas stretched towards the sun and as the summer’s evening drew near a thin melody wound its way down the cobbled streets into the village and piped its way through windows, doors and straining ears.

The haunting note of a single flute evolved into the heartbeat of a drum.

With every second it grew more decisive and urgent until the villagers found their eyes wandering up to the vision staring down on them from the normally privileged position of only a few sheep and the occasional fox...

Bruce Davidson, Clown and Circus Tent, 1958

Comments

Big Days

I'm in the middle of planning my best friend's Hen night and it's got me thinking about how many days of my life I can actually remember. Odd I know. I don't remember the majority of the hen that she threw for me as I rather predictably drank too much and was very ill by the end of it. But until the drink flowed we had the best day ever running round Brighton in teams on a scavenger hunt, eating fish and chips by the seafront and generally catching up with my best friends in the whole World (apart from 1 who had to be in San Fran for silly work but I did think about her while I was dashing down side streets laughing all the way). I also don't remember most of my actual Wedding day. Snippets of emotions, the man looking at me as we exchanged vows and shock at the whole thing actually happening. Before the day took off, my most amazing Bridesmaid had to stitch ribbon onto velcro that had arrived with the flowers, made me cups of tea and looked after my mini

Night

The night crawls on bended legs and searching fingers at the foot of my bed. I can hear it wheezing and muttering in its hollow soul. I can smell its presence and jealousy and hate. It reeks of cold and damp and Victorian evenings swirling in fog. I try not to make a single noise. Any utterance would trigger its awareness and I would be its prisoner all alone in my single bed. I cannot see it. This sense is deprived. Cut off from neurons racing down my spine. Black dilated pupils roll around scared sockets and settle on no physical thing. Between parted lips I am aware of a sour aftertaste. I have been kissed in my sleep by the mutant lurking in the corner and now it has had that first fatal taste there is no escape. My hands know that in painfully close proximity a light switch aches to be flicked. To banish the intruder beyond the walls of my bedroom and into the world to find someone else…anyone else. But my arms are paralysed. They refuse to mov

Slackness

I've been so slack. Slacker than a pair of middle aged pants around the ankles of a slack jawed tight rope walker. I've been writing a few pages here and there and thinking many writery thoughts in my head. But it feels as though I haven't been doing enough and this is my eternal problem. So here I am writing something tangible and bankable and making you read it because it will make me feel as though I've actually done something with my day. As opposed to all the stuff I really have done with my day which is very impressive actually I'll have you know. It's just not in the general theme of writing or anything I might enjoy doing. And in other news it's been a stunning day in London town. Almost makes me happy to be here. Almost.

Always Freewriting

Search This Blog