False Start Friday
 |
| Circa 1993? |
In my
usual daily regime, something fresh gets scrawled, and often it seems like I'll
chuck a post together. The construction is not as random as I make it look.
When words come slow I just type anything that pops in my head and sometimes
this is a white water river ride and sometimes a shopping list. Then I play and
snip and tap and between the flow of this present moment and the years of
blistering practice, a presentable piece of work emerges. But it had to start
somewhere, didn't it? Should I owe something to these words? I had nearly
forgotten this story altogether. I think it references the emptiness of needing
objects to verify personal identity. It's the work of a student, the sort that
walks out of the canteen, accidentally stealing a mug, getting wet muddy feet
collecting autumn leaves and most likely has paint in her hair. I think I might
follow it all the way through to as far as it got, but I can't face it all in
one go!
The Red Dress.
Paragraph
One:
'The woman who feared dreams got out of bed, shivering. Dreams were dangerous. There was a film she'd seen, about a man who was turning into a werewolf; he had dreams of running through a forest, re-living an old wolf memory of hunting. When he woke up he was actually in the forest, naked. He was a monster, a freak.
'The woman who feared dreams got out of bed, shivering. Dreams were dangerous. There was a film she'd seen, about a man who was turning into a werewolf; he had dreams of running through a forest, re-living an old wolf memory of hunting. When he woke up he was actually in the forest, naked. He was a monster, a freak.
Why
is it so cold in here? I need to dress, warmly.
She
moved towards the wardrobe, regarding it with disgust. It was dusty, covered in
particles of human skin.
Disease
and devilry at every turning in this damned house.
Inside
were layers of bloodless thread, leering at her, slopping off the hangers,
pale, like corpses, mottled, like plague victims. She couldn't dress in these
pallid rags, it would be close to necrophilia.
Cold
and unclean.
Something
had infected them and they had to be disposed of, before the stench began to
spread. She dragged them downstairs, to the kitchen, leaving the bedroom almost
empty.
In the corner lingered an anticipatory
figure. There were few distinguishable features, as though it had not quite
been allowed to form.'
Comments
That last picture kinda freaked me out. Where in the world did you find something like that???
It isn't the kind of writing I would typically read because it has a number of sensory bits that make me feel uncomfortable (which, honestly, doesn't take much.) But knowing you wrote it -- and how much I have gotten out of reading your posts over the months we have 'known' each other -- I had to press past my knee-jerk reactions and keep reading to that final, unsettling image.
I think this character could definitely be the genesis of a story.
Oh, and best typo in a comment I've read in a long time: S.P.'s "blog hope." I love that, and think it works well here -- a blog hop of old stories that might hopefully be reborn someday. Nice! ;^)
My wife's grandmother was this amazing little Italian women. A prodigious seamstress and knitter. My wife still wears many of her works 50 plus years later. i sometimes think of the lives,events,interactions that took place.
The enchantment of vintage and heirloom, and your wardrobe.
Raising my tea cup to Lily Tequila.
Liking the 'enchantment of vintage & heirloom' Scott, and laughing because today I am wearing mostly my daughter's cast offs..
Microscopes, Cygnus- I hadn't thought of that but it really fits- perfect for such an insular character.
And hooray for Suze, being brave and embracing a bit of morbidity! I raise my tea cup also :-)