Creative Writing Course 2013: Descriptive exercise (gone a tad rogue!)

What could bring a man to this decision, this place, this moment, two storeys of memories standing before him as he stared hopelessly at the dilapidated facade, the collection of bricks and mortar looking as unwanted as the memories held within. That photographic window into the past was the cause of this misdeed, as heavy for him as the crumbling archaic stone work that overshadowed the front door, yet it was as slight as the creased photo tight in his grip.

The photo felt like something old and the faces in it older still, two people very much in love is what he wanted to say but the truth was something less ‘emotional’ the meaning of that word ‘love’ always having some comparison to a poison or a drug now a days. He remembered been in that house when it was filled with ‘love’ or whatever his sub-human existence recognised it as, as for her, he couldn’t hazard a guess as to what her own views were on the matter.

The picture had been taken on a webcam, the focus was a little off but the image was clear enough as two people joked around in front of a camera lens, without any idea of just how intently their demons would try to destroy any notion of happiness. He wasn’t a bad person, he was everything life expected him to be, followed the rules, he even managed to appear human on occasion but as the photo reminded him of happier times, the pale semi-shaven face and black bags under his eyes reminded him it amounted to nothing.

From his first step into that cursed building he could smell the acidic reek of emotions burn his senses, throughout the house there were many marks set into the discoloured plaster and the disseminating cracks that radiated from those stress fuelled impacts, a fitting tribute to how these events in his life had spread their ill after affects to every hopeful endeavour since. From having dug it out that fateful Thursday the image had haunted him, even more than her rejection that she had delivered with such poisonous prose.

She was perfect of course, I mean she had her demons which could reduce anybody else to a depressive mess, but that’s why he ‘loved’ her even though it had led to the crushing hell that with every romance since had become the norm. His heart had become like the house that stood empty, abandoned, bare faded walls showing the evidence of neglect and abuse as a spider silently scurried out of a cracked window, unaffected by the cold breeze that the broken glass and the ageing frame with its cracking paint let in. When even the insects abandoned the carcase, it was a sign…

As his grip loosened on the faded paper that reminded him of both the happiness she had given him, the despair her absence had left him in, he felt not the chill of the air but a more vicious chill of something a lot more familiar. When he was younger and full of hope he would have already moved on to some new and fantastic project, something to distract himself from the more depressing aspects of his life, but now it was only when he was sinking into that depressive haze that he could face such a situation, such a choice.

Messing around with his laptop, showing the only lady in his life to whom he could speak honestly (well, more or less anyway) he had without knowing it got the only photo of her that he possessed, a glimpse of a moment in time that now lay in the gathered dirt, on the floor that evidently hadn’t been cleaned for quite some time. The only evidence he had ever been human, left behind as time began to cover his freshly laid footsteps, even more infused with the sense of nothingness he had entered with.

What had drawn him into that place, what ghosts had beckoned him to times best left behind, was it her voice he had heard or just the wind rattling through the broken windows of an empty building. And with her face fresh in his mind at the source of his biggest mistake, that was to trust and open his heart without the scepticism of his advanced years to protect him, where better to bury his demons once and for all.

As he tied the rope around one of the few remaining banister poles, sat upon the creakingly old banister itself as if to give life the chance to do what it had been too much of a coward to do so far, the only words that came to mind were those on the back of the photo. Gravity like a merciful force did its work, the final satisfaction of knowing life would be deprived of one of its greatest jokes.

And the words on the back of the photo…

Wearing shades in a darkened room

The glass is solid and the contents still, a hand so steady that it would challenge the very meaning of calm as with measured breathe I take a sip of the liquid clear, the hollow wish that what lies within it would be an alternative liquid clear so to kill my mind for a night of tranquil thoughts.

A history full of unwanted relics, that with less noble intent linger to persist the idea that if I gave in to the sweet desire for eternal silence… Such seductive logic a regular temptation when faced with the world so cruel. To delve into despair with such willing frequency is not a thing the damned wish to endure; it is but merely a fractured reflection of the lust for chaos that underpins my self-destructive flare.

In the suns praising light I am to others a figure whole but for those that walk in the chasms of shadows, the places happy folk don’t even have to try to ignore, I am best represented in the darkness of pain drenched sorrow refined into a vintage to defy the purity of pure.

But who gives a damn about another melancholy soul in this world we drift through….

The darkened mirror, the shadow cast room, a man faces demons as into his own eyes he sees the storm, no glaring light to highlight the endless layers of flaws, wishing not to have to see those eyes set into the face he calls his own, such realisations too much to bear.

The jaded shades I wear through which my corrupted vision is forced to perceive all that surrounds, no concept of the positives of life as every action both maliciously cruel and wonderfully wholesome are given the same conceit as my paranoia can draw, to consider only the lesser motives to which we all are slaves and must endlessly serve. To experience the full wonders of my pessimistic view I would only offer the exercise of wearing sunglasses in a darkened room.

Angelic voices shout warnings from one side as from the other demons drag and claw, with my will to live standing upon the knife blade so sharp as to cut the untainted without so much as a care, the tainted already too wounded to notice they are so close to committing to a mortal fall. But what a nice shiny blade it is that for those who live on the borderline, who see it as so perfect a metaphor for the life they live, the life they endure.

But upon the edge, which way to fall?

The Restful Sleep, Peaceful Night, Which with my flying fingers I fight as i type

I see you life, watching, plotting

Your assassins have failed again, whether by design or the art of incompetence

As the moon lit night becomes my muse I ponder why when I need sleep my mind is wired to rearrange the stars, as a mere parlour trick of the power my mind commands

Within the fevered fog of a creative haze I stumble, each line I compose a fragment of the obscured vision I flail hopelessly to reveal

The looming threat of a headache front clouds the horizon, any certainty of health I may wish for beset by instability, born of both my nature and the curse of chasing time

Eyelids collapse with weakness as my long awaited sleep heralds its arrival, how long can I hold back the tide of tiredness, how long can I justify the futile exercise of resistance my flawed nature persists

The sheep I count take forms of words, over the fence and into the screen that loyally serves my need to type fever induced collections of letters than attempt to resemble coherent lines

I am finally awash with restful waves that crash upon the endless beach of my unconscious dreams, unless these waves are an illusion of the darkness that shifts into more nightmarish forms

Must type, must write, challenge with unhealthy cause the endless night

My resources spent as into realms beyond I submit, for in these hours I fight my lust for sleep, only to find that with the daylight sun I will crave the bliss of a restful night

Deep

Bleeding Heart 1

 

Deep down

In this dark place

A hole so deep

Mortal minds cannot reach

A place of wildest dreams

Held within a nightmares keep

Of shattered dreams

And fractured sleep

I find a raging storm

From which no light escapes

The core of a lifeless place

Devoid of all but hopeless black

The gateway to this retreat

In the centre of happiness source

The empty heart shaped hole

From which my joy bleeds

Within which I find my release

From all of life’s wretched beat

The Dance of the Damned

Let the damned dance before the light of the day

For in the dark they are one with the unseen that society has cast into night

In the dark they move with grace as eyes that those lesser souls life has blessed have no sight

A dream or nightmare for any poor mortal that to have visions of insanity would dare strike a match

The damned they smile and with banshee’s horrors cackle

Arts lost to time becoming artistic form and hidden blight

Till the mornings sun reveals the outcast figures with a cruelly glaring light

Once more to the embrace of a ghost’s shadow they retreat

The happy folk of falsely embraced social chains free to roam

The creeping fear of what will be released as the moons pale glow chimes in the night

Let the damned dance before the light of the day

For in the dark they are one with the unseen that society has cast into night

In the dark they move with grace as eyes of those lesser souls life has blessed have no sight

The Creative Storm, to be struck by inspiration, to be consumed by insanity

Blessings and curses are rarely so clear as in the mind of madness, when logic takes upon itself the mantle of sanity yet is corrupted by the inherent instability of creativity.

The blessing of sight where others are blind to possibility, the curse of seeing what others are incapable of comprehending that fuels the temperament of an artist’s separation from reality.

An imagination is something that has no cure or control yet given the nature of what you seek to remedy there is an irony, to find the answer of how to cure you must further indulge what ails you.

So into cycles of crazy a mind will be cast in order to further progress the mind of a madman, a madman made perfection by the very act of trying to restore the calm that corrupted logic may no longer recognise as reality.

Alas poor sanity, I knew it well….
As with a blade of imagined glory I split it
An act of creativity to bind it
A new word to define it

The Creative Storm, consumer of sanity, devourer of sleep, damnation of the calm, corruptor of logic….

Old friend, loyal companion, inspiration unbound

Part of the ‘Creative Condition’ compilation, which also includes: The deafening colours of emotional extremes

An exercise in suffering, only the brave should read! (I dare you to read all the way through)

 

The author of this piece has been phoning call centres and automated phone lines for weeks solid, so enjoy this authentic reconstruction

For those that survive this experience with a shred of sanity I raise a toast!

     Phoning 0800 hell

You have reached an automated phone service; for the purpose of making your suffering more acute please listen to the following options

If you are phoning because you’re a masochist and you like extreme pain press 1 for our deluxe suffering line

If you are looking to waste the next two hours of your life with nothing to show for it please press 2 for our endless ‘put on hold’ then ‘randomly hung up on’ service

If you are calling in regards to giving yourself the final push towards ending your life press 3 and we will put you through to our ‘pass the buck’ service manned by the lower percentile of the human race that are trained to provide only the best annoyance

To be hung up on press 4

For some attempt at getting information that is useless or out of date press 5 and we will put you through to a voice activated sorting line that has a hearing impediment

     Pressing 5…..

Welcome to Moron Bot 5000, the latest in inhumane torture for the masses, are you the person intended for torture….

     Yes

You have selected ‘No

     No I said….

You have selected an unknown response, please reselect….

     YES!!!!!

You have selected ‘No’, please give the name of the person who you wish me to punish for the crime of living…

     I said yes you piece of…

You have selected an unknown response, please reselect or press 1 for the original options….

     Pressing 1

You have reached an automated phone service; for the purpose of making your suffering more acute please listen to the following options

If you are phoning because you’re a masochist and you like extreme pain press 1 for our deluxe suffering line

If you are looking to waste the next two hours of your life with nothing to show for it please press 2 for our endless ‘put on hold’ then ‘randomly hung up on’ service

If you are calling in regards to giving yourself the final push towards ending your life press 3 and we will put you through to our ‘pass the buck’ service manned by the lower percentile of the human race that are trained to provide only the best annoyance

To be hung up on press 4

For some attempt at getting information that is useless or out of date press 5 and we will put you through to a voice activated sorting line that has a hearing impediment

     Pressing 2

We are currently looking at your name on a screen and deciding whether you deserve our £3.00 a minute time, please hold. Alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

     20 seconds later…

Your still in a loop because we can leave you there as long as we wish, alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

     20 seconds later

You’re still there, well done, good for you, alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why your phoning us.com.stress

     Two hours later

Sorry, we forgot you existed, would you like to be connected to our financial department to re-mortgage your house in order that you can continue paying for this phone call, alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

     20 seconds later

If you would like to return to our original options press 1 now, alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

     Pressing 1

You have again reached our automated phone service; for the purpose of making your suffering even more acute please listen to the same old options

If you are phoning because you’re a masochist and you like extreme pain press 1 for our deluxe suffering line, with added stress to reward you for your loyalty

If you are looking to waste the next two hours of your life with nothing to show for it please press 2 for our endless ‘put on hold’ then ‘randomly hung up on’ service

If you are calling in regards to giving yourself the final push towards ending your life press 3 and we will put you through to our ‘pass the buck’ service manned by the lower percentile of the human race that are trained to provide only the best annoyance

To be hung up on press 4

For another failed attempt at getting information that is useless or by now out of date press 5 and we will put you through to a voice activated sorting line that has an even worse hearing impediment

     Pressing 3

We are currently looking at your name on a screen and deciding whether you deserve our £3.00 a minute time, please hold. Alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

20 seconds later…

You are still in a loop because we can leave you there as long as we wish, alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

20 seconds later

You’re still there, well done, good for you, alternatively you can check our website www.you already checked here and that is why you’re phoning us.com.stress

     Bang…

You have appeared to lose the will to live; we would like to thank you for choosing our automated service and look forward to your next of kin phoning us to arrange the funeral

Have a pleasant day

Other attempts at humour include: Dating an artist, the insiders guide

And who clicked on the www.you already checked here and that is why your phoning us.com.stress link!?