This short piece is the result of a recent random word exercise that I shared with my writing buddy M. I've edited it down three or four times from the original version in an attempt to cut out the waffle - which is one of my many weaknesses! If only the ringing would stop, then I’d be wrapped in a soft blanket of silence that would hold me while I slip quietly away, but something tells me to hang onto consciousness, to fight back. Better late than never says a small, cynical voice.
Chunks of hard-core press through my clothing and when I open my eyes I see the lunar landscape of the lorry park; a ground level view of ruts and craters filled with inky water, each containing a splintered moon. It’s a barren spot where only bruises bloom. I catch the distinctive smell of diesel on the frigid wind and taste the metallic tang of iron on my tongue as it investigates the pulpy gap that was once occupied by a rooted wall of teeth.
I sense that time has leap-frogged ahead in order to catch up with itself after the slow motion of the attack. The unexpected impact, the blinding flash of white light, the upward rush of the ground, my switch-back spasms as heavy boots met soft kidneys followed by even softer groin, the stick-dry snap of a rib. I instinctively curled myself round a sob and when I dared to uncurl I was alone, just me and the pain.
Breathing has become a rhythmical life-line that I cling to but each intake of cold night air feels like the icy jab of a blade so I keep it shallow, the barest minimum. I can see a lone, shadow-grey, blank-faced house lying below the arms of sleeping cranes and above the legs of the jetty. I need help.
Crawling, first on my belly then on hands and knees, at a painstaking rate, I fight off nausea and an ever present edge of darkness that has nothing to do with this, the shortest day of the year. As I draw closer to the house I see there’s a weak, jaundiced glow shining out of a downstairs window. Unlike the warning beam from a lighthouse I feel encouraged and, like a damaged moth, drawn towards its signal. Suddenly there’s the wind-blown howl of a siren somewhere in the town beyond the docks and in desperation I conjure up a concerned ambulance crew, a speedy ride, a neon lit hospital. But the siren is swallowed by the night.
I try to keep my thoughts away from the rising tide of panic and pain. I think about my parents, how they can’t understand my restlessness, my inability to set down roots. This is where it has led me. I grovel a few feet further and think about my move to this town and the first day teaching at Hensford College, how it didn’t take long to work out where I stood in the pecking order and how quickly the lads from the technical block sussed me out, calling after me down the echoing corridors, playing with my name for their own amusement. “Hold on Maurice, not far now,” I whisper to myself through blubbery lips, “safety, soon.”
I pause as red stained spittle dribbles from my broken mouth and after what seems like an achingly long time, I reach the paving slabs that lead to the house and notice that the shaft of light looks less jaundiced and distinctly rosier. It hurts to smile but there’s even a sparse holly wreath pinned to the door. I rap on it with shivering, shaking knuckles and wait, slumped with exhaustion. After a while it swings open, there’s a rush of warm cigarette scented air, the distant chatter of a television and a stocky, well-built figure fills the doorway, back-lit from within. “Nah, it ain’t carol singers,” says the youth, half turning to address someone inside, “and it definitely ain’t Santa. What a surprise, it’s Ho-Ho-Ho Mo and he’s in a right old mess, aren’t ya mate?”|
Written by blogbrush (33 comments posted) 21st December 2007 | Well first things first: some wonderful language in here.
'a ground level view of ruts and craters filled with inky water, each containing a splintered moon. It’s a barren spot where only bruises bloom.'
I think is particularly good, finding a sort of perverse beauty in the first line then almost retorting against the unwelcome poetry of it with 'only bruises bloom', i.e. no posy, just painful reality.
'my switch-back spasms as heavy boots met soft kidneys followed by even softer groin, the stick-dry snap of a rib'
For some reason really liked this too.
The only criticism I have really is that you haven't revealed enough for me to guess what's gone on. At first I presumed there had been an explosion, then when I realised he'd been beaten up, I was waiting to find out why. There are hints but maybe they aren't strong enough, unless that was deliberately your intention. Also, the last line sounds menacing and I am intrigued by the youth's tone: again, I just can't guess why he says what he says. Maybe I'm just being slow.
With a little bit of editing though I think this could be an excellent piece, thanks. |
Written by fellpony (1646 comments posted) 21st December 2007 | Ho-Ho- HoMo just might be a clue? I think he's been lucky to survive.
I can't say I "enjoyed" this, since rabid dislikes and violence are not my thing, but I thought it described the aftermath of an attack convincingly. As you say, it still could be shorter and tauter; as an experiment you could try taking out every adjective and see what happens. Then try only putting back half of them and see if it still works. |
Written by Phil (6828 comments posted) 22nd December 2007 | A good piece of writing. As FP suggests, might be improved further by paring down even more.
Phil |
Written by Asferthecat (851 comments posted) 25th December 2007 | Very well written. It took me a while to work out that Ho ho ho Mo meant he was a queer. Then it all made sense.
What is a random word exercise? It has certainly produced something worthwhile. |
Written by Josie (2823 comments posted) 3rd January 2008 | | I have to say that I am in total agreement with most of the above. "Enjoy" definitely isn't the word for me either, but I think you have a good knack of painting a good picture in words, and with the picture comes the feeling that goes with it. Of course, we can't experience exactly how the other person feels, but almost from your writing. I am quite impressed, but hope that my next read of your work will be more pleasant in content. ha ha. |
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