I have been hit with writers block. After a ruthless cull of several pages from this thing, and a desire to start afresh…I have nothing. In fact all I have been taken with a several short stories, and one longer story that I am beginning to fear may never see the light of day! I have a long running fear that the way I write is too….flowery. Ornamental. Self inflated? And so for years no one has read any of it! Well, not knowingly at least…
In an effort to remedy this, here a four short snippets taken from a few of the things occupying me at the moment. Most of them I quite like, but one is very near to being thrown out with the bathwater so to speak. I give you no plot, no indication of which are favourites, how these snippets tie in to the arch, or why. I just want to know if they provoke a reaction for good or bad, hate or love, burn or preserve. After all, to write something that is ‘ok’, that can be passed over for being neither amazing nor terrible is the worst kind of writing there is…
“….Bruises and roses, I have discovered, bloom with the same putrid beauty. There is little to distinguish between the velvet petals and thorny briar when the hands that place them are one and the same…..”
“…Rainy days, lachrymose skies are misunderstood gifts, shunned by those that would love them. To never raise your eyes to a repeated stormy gray should be a capital crime, to miss that brief commune with the world, the gravest sin….”
“…White butterflies struggled briefly against her ribcage, then were cocooned. Laughter at this juncture would only force a hand that was not ready to be played. Instead she settled on a wordless smile, and prayed that her eyes fought the clichéd window pane…”
“…The belly of the beast is full, no vacancies, no spaces, no refills. Men prostrate, screaming prayers like shields, clapping retribution like manacles, claiming redemption from a malformed religion. You try to fight your way through, benighted by false lust, false agenda, false protest. Hag-like memories of women who you once hated burn their faces into a rictus of familiarity.
The beasts belly bulges. The light that pillars down leaves hope that there is an escape, a malediction, something other than this place. Yet the worm squirming in your stomach leaves no room for hope. This is not the hell you longed for. This is the Earth of your creation….”