Postcard

Greetings from Venice!

Dear Mimi. That full stop is there because I don’t mean “dear” by way of an address, as in Sir/Madam. I mean it as darling, love, light of my life. Dear Mimi.

All night we sing and think of you. These musician’s hands you once loved dance in a funereal remembrance of you. I remember how they used to look, my hands. They were perfect when they held yours, tiny in comparison. You never could stretch an octave, but that only made me love you more.

These strings represent my heart. Heartstrings. You didn’t just tug mine; you pulled them right out of my chest and wrapped yourself in them, laughing. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. You were all I wanted.

I used to be blind. With you gone, it was as if somebody flicked the Earth’s on/off switch. The sun withered. The land was dark. Without you I feared I’d never see again. But then, I sang of you, and a seed of bravery planted itself in my heart. Where you once were. It grew and grew, slowly, gradually, unfurling and pushing its way out of the dark, cavernous depths of my ribcage.

I arrived, and I saw you in everything. Every landmark, every plant, every paving stone. I sang, and my heart sang of you. This place shines, all over, with the light from your smile.

I will sing of you again tonight, Mimi, my lovely saviour. I’ve kept my nails short all this time, so that my guitar and I can sing for you.

All my love.

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Another creative writing, it didn't really have much to do with the actual exercise that was set! Venice, because I had Venice written on my hand. I've no idea where the rest of it came from. The name Mimi just popped into my head and then my hand wrote the rest...

Argument

I burn, you freeze. I scream, spewing flame. Your silence creeps slowly around the room, fingers of ice reaching out, slowly stroking frigid spider’s webs over everything they touch.
My eyes flash, yours are blank. My mouth curls into a devil’s snarl, fangs bared. Your lips are pressed together thinly, sewn with the white thread of quiet.
My red hands are claws. Small but perfectly hideous. I wreak destruction. Smash. Shatter. Kill.
You don’t use your hands. Long, thin, nails which would be suited to spearing my heart right out of my chest. But this doesn’t happen. You don’t fight me.
It feels like I’m stepping on glass. I cut my feet to shreds running over your spiked thoughts. I fling your own unsaid words back in your face. To no avail.
I’ll bury my shame in a box made from the bones of a dead man, placed in the ground by hideous weeping women. It burns in the flames of hellhounds. Eternal. Pitch. Black. Rest.
You, my antithesis, will quietly hide your frozen heart in an ornate box of silver and sapphire, bourne to the deepest recesses of your mind by wraith-like angels. A vault of unsaid words. Deadly silence.


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Argh, I've been SO busy! Missing much creative writing. But here's my latest offering. It was an exercise on opposites. I'm OD'ing on my fav thing, short sentences. Ah well, what can I say?!