He ran his hand over the crinkled page of the skin on her forearm. Away from the cannula and tubing while day and night wrestled for mastery.
Around him the ping of the heartrate monitor and the chatter of nurses and patients become birdsong.
He took up the pen and asked her, “Do you remember what I wrote on your hand when I proposed?”
A faint nod.
He wrote, “…and the greatest of these is love.”
Posted in Creativity, Short Stories
Tagged creativity, experimental, fiction, flash fiction, Friday flash, handwritten pages, micro-fiction, microfiction, slice of life, writers, writing
I grew up in a house with a corrugated iron roof and loved hearing the sound the rain made on it. It’s a familiar sound and a familiar memory and I used it as the basis for an idea developed below.
Like the wind picks at the corrugated iron roof, this memory is a scab I have picked at for years and years.
I have scratched and scratched.
Sometimes out of curiosity, out of a need to understand; to comprehend how we failed to relate to one another. Or out of frustration and anger at failed intimacy.
I retreat into the solitude of the bedroom, into a book and a pen and bury myself beneath headphones where the music thrashes and yells and pummels.
And like the wind, I return to pick at the scab of memory.
Here is a collated gallery of poems I’ve written using Storybird. I’ve blogged previous examples in Part 1 and Part 2. It’s magnetic poetry on the web.
I like the simplicity of the interface and the limitations of words you can use although sometimes I will refresh the words if there is nothing there but dross.
When I feel the need to be creative and only have limited time, it’s fun to pop in and play with words for a few minutes.
Enjoy wandering through the gallery.
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity
Tagged creativity, experimental, magnetic poetry, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, slice of life, storybird, writers, writing
Sometimes it’s random images that lodge in my head like a splinter. This is one of them. I think there’s more to this story but I’m putting it aside for later to see what grows out of the compost heap.
The child stood on the crest of the hill overlooking the city. She turned her eyes upwards to the uniform inky expanse of night sky. It was spotted with dots of white; a scattered litter of light like tissue fragments on a black jumper in the wash.
Turning her gaze downwards the city lights exploded in a galaxy of white, orange, red, blue, green.
She bent down and performed a headstand, inverting the world, and for a brief moment she believed the earthly heavens were brighter than she ever hoped for.
This week’s Handwritten Page is inspired by a colleague of mine who wrote down for me a series of events and remembrances of growing up in Queensland, Australia.
I have only taken a snippet of a memory while I work out a larger story from the raw material. On a side notes, people’s stories are fascinating.
My sister and I would sit in in the projectionist’s booth at the drive-in, offering gifts of popcorn, hot chips and sips of Coke to the projectionist. Gifts from our mother who ran the tuck shop as we waited for Dad to pick us up after he finished his shift.
We watched visions of life unspool through the reels as the clatter of the projector spoke over the dialogue and music, until frame by frame, it disappeared.
I loved how the end of the film would fthlip fthlip fthlip as the reel ended. A child’s tongue extended, blowing a raspberry. I saw it as a cheeky gesture, a way to express myself no matter how serious or shitty life would become. A chance to blow a raspberry at circumstance while the reel was changed and life moved on.
The second instalment of Handwritten Pages. This one was inspired while reading Amanda Palmer’s book, “The Art of Asking.”
I cannot recommend her book highly enough if you are a creative person. It is a heartfelt and affirming read; quite challenging to accept her premise sometimes but as a creative person there is such a wealth of ideas to gain from it. If time is of the essence, listen to her TED Talk.
The couple sit across from each other at the dining room table, each with a pen and a pad of Post It Notes.
In silence they share a communion of scribbled notes, stick figure cartoons and random doodles intermingled wiht a chorus of laughter, sighs and whispers.
There is a solemn but playful sincerity to their ritual as the notes pass back and forth.
He passes a note to her; the body of Christ.
She receives it. Reads and responds.
She passes a note to him; the blood of Christ.
He receives it. Reads and responds.
He offers his hand and they stand to leave with the benediction spoken on paper.
They leave the notes as holy writ.
What I don’t do enough of is write by hand, letting the pen and paper become an exploration. Yesterday I was inspired by a blog post on calligraphy to use my notebooks more effectively.
I know writers who use Julia Cameron’s (The Artist’s Way) technique of morning pages. The idea is you free write first thing in the morning as it clears the head and channels a creative flow. Mornings don’t work for me but the concept of free writing association can be done at any time.
I want to use a specific notebook of mine for this exercise as it is unlined meaning I can use the space on the page to convey meaning as much as the words do. I can alter my handwriting style, use colour, draw shapes or doodle images. Over the coming months I will share more handwritten explorations.
Below is the first attempt at using a notebook for handwritten explorations. Nothing fancy. Just text.
“I dab the tissue at the pinpoint of blood on my fingertip, blotting the word that pools. The tissue is spattered with random words bleeding into one another in a random game of Scrabble. Another word forms and I place it on my tongue to break it down to letters and reabsorb it. The blank page waits patiently as I resist the urge to open a vein.”
Coming up at the end of May, my good friend and writing co-conspirator, Jodi Cleghorn, is releasing a companion volume to her collection of short stories “No Need to Reply.”
The new volume is “The Heart Is An Echo Chamber” and it is a little different. It is different in that Jodi is not the author of this collection. In fact, it is a collection of writers responding to the stories from “No Need to Reply.”
The writers include Tom Dullemond, Kristen Erskine, Stacey Larner, Ben Payne, Lois Spangler, Helen Stubbs, Rus VanWestervelt and myself.
We each took a story from the original volume and reworked it, taking it to different places, from different angles, from different perspectives.
My story is “Untethering,” the companion piece to “Squeezebox.”
You can grab a copy of “No Need to Reply” here at the link before the new volume drops. If you want a physical copy, you can grab it for cheap. Ebook is Pay What You Want.
It will be published as a limited edition chapbook (hand numbered by Jodi) or you can grab the ebook.
If you’re in Brisbane, Australia, keep an eye out for the launch in late May.
Stay tuned and I’ll let you know when the new volume is released.
Posted in The Writer's Life
Tagged chapbook, creativity, experimental, fiction, jodi cleghorn, No Need To Reply, The Heart Is An Echo Chamber, writers, writing
At the end of last year, two of my colleagues left. One retired and one was returning home to another state before heading off travelling.
In a sudden moment of ideas, I composed a poem for each. I couldn’t read them aloud myself because I hate farewells and ended up a blubbering mess in the corner while other colleagues read them for me. Wuss that I am.
I will share them with you, even though you don’t have the context of the people I know because I like them as stand alone poems.
The light is extinguished at day’s end
the filament fades from white to orange to yellow to black
to signal slumber’s rest
shadows encroach where light once reached
Athena’s owl ruffles her feathers for one last flight
preens from quill to tip and one soft downy feather
falls like a summer cloud
rides the drafts and settles in the corner
In the silent moment before flight
she takes one final glance
launches on soundless wings
the warrior of the night.
We wake at morning’s first touch and
find the roost empty
Our hearts turn to sorrow and mourning
for wisdom’s presence is no longer amongst us
we run our fingers along the perch, the grooved indentations
of claws leave furrowed rows of knowledge
The wind reaches into the corner
lifts the single feather
the movement catches our eye; we reach down
hold the quill between thumb and forefinger
our extant memory
a reminder of wisdom’s presence,
her integrity and compassion
We are made the wiser because of her.
The wind asked,
“How now, spirit? Whither wander you?”
Wherever you may take me
But I will not be driven like the autumn leaves
Aimless, directionless, at your capricious mercy.
I will set my sails and use your strength
To take me to foreign lands.
The wind said,
“You have not moved.”
I have travelled the length and breadth
Of my imagination; my feet are not weary.
I will choose when to tie my laces
shoulder my pack and
Cross the threshold of my volition.
The wind asked,
“When will you find a home?”
I find a home where there is a bed for rest
a cup of tea
a book to read
a pen to write with
a nook for study
a place where my heart is at peace.
And the wind was silent.
Posted in Ars Poetica
Tagged creativity, experimental, fiction, poetry, reflection, slice of life, writers, writing, writing tips
This was an attempt at a spoken word poem whose genesis was at school where a group of Year 10 students were being introduced to slam poetry.
I took one of the prompts and explored the origins of my name. It is rough but a fun activity to explore. Hope you enjoy it.
The Earthen Man
When I heard the minister pronounce the benediction
At my grandfather’s funeral
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”
the recitation of symbolic circulation
I hear echoes of my name
Adam
accent the first letter with exhalation of breath, “Ah”
“Ah-dam”
a whisper of life escaping.
Count those breaths, man of earth, keep a record, keep a tally.
Know its origins lie in ancient roots and ancient lands
your genesis is found in holy writ
the clay, the breath, the man created
the Play-Dough of God’s creative work
“Ah-dam”
a synonym of man and earth
a story deposited and poured from one jar of clay to the next
through eternity’s hourglass until the dust and ashes settle
inverted and another life begins
“Ah-dam”
this life begins as the conjugation of my father’s seed, my mother’s soil
the banker and the occupational therapist
the handy man and the artist
and I look at the dirt beneath my fingernails
see it is more my father than me
but I have mown my fair share of lawns, dug holes and shifted topsoil
I am more likely to find ink beneath my nails
from pens where words seep out like
the sap from a tree I never planted but I am learning to climb
now I garden with words
planting syllable seedlings in the the dust accumulating on the windowsill
in notebooks and diaries and journals
whose pages I imagine falling out like the petals of the cherry blossom
in my parents’ backyard, a delicate cascade of vowels and consonants
“Ah-dam”
in retrospect, memory is an archaeological examination of a past
digging through layers of soil
stratified artefacts poured through a sieve of inconsistency
“Ah-dam”
while the root system seeks out good soil
the surface is choked by weeds and caged by thorns
the fruits of labour harvested
a meagre handful, barely a morsel
a portion for one
let alone enough to feed a family
or the overflow to lay out a feast for friends
and strangers
I would be wise to reap the harvest
plant new seed at season’s turn
“Ah-dam”
the late starter to a race
trying to peg his pace with the front runners
rather than running his own marathon
the rhythm of a heartbeat
I have not kept time with
a pulse I lag behind most often
while trying to rush ahead
“Ah-dam”
Feet of clay baked over many summers
Running barefoot through the streets
Dodging bindies, stones and once, a rusty nail
Embedded into the sole of my foot
A fissure that now lets the water in
disintegrating in the tides
of people
“Ah-dam”
are we more than bags and bags of soil or fertiliser
stacked on shelves in mausoleums of DIY self-aggrandisement?
let me remove the speck of dirt from my eye
form the rain around this granule of dirt
and I will water the ground
from which I came
Posted in Ars Poetica
Tagged creativity, experimental, poetry, reflection, slam poetry, slice of life, writers, writing
I am an English teacher and drummer/percussionist with an interest in literary pursuits, creative endeavours, rhythmic permutations, theological amplifications and comedic outbursts.
Here you will find my creative detritus: articles on living a creative life and writing explorations.
And other ideas I have snaffled from the papers stuck on the fridge door.
Twitter: @RevHappiness
Instagram: @handwrittenpages
My collaborative epistolary novel, "Post Marked: Piper's Reach," written with Jodi Cleghorn (@JodiCleghorn) out now via Vine Leaves Press.
Come and browse through the library; there is no need to be silent.
A Fullness in Brevity - Adam Byatt 