this side of darkness.: entry twelve. not for sale.

Thursday, 26 September 2013

entry twelve. not for sale.

It's been some time. Again. Eventually this prisoner in chains will rise from captivity. Through the key hole a small offering escapes; these one hundred words, a dabble with drabble.

not for sale. J R Manawa.

Exhilarated, accelerated, inebriated on the moment, she spun. The colours, they twirled faster and faster, the dress twisted fuller, fuller. Her hair a fan of auburn slicing through the air. The sword in her hand blunt and useless as her life. She paused and fell to the floor as the coins tumbled through the air toward her. He was pleased. They were all pleased. In her mind the sword pressed to the whet-stone, getting sharper, ready to cut the sign chained to her neck; ‘for sale’ it read. He stood and placed his drink down before crossing the dance floor.

2 comments:

Unknown27 September 2013 at 19:39
LOVE THIS!
ReplyDelete
Replies

Add comment

the storyteller.

A story to tell, a tale to weave, words are there to carve and twist until they do what you want.

Until that moment where you close your eyes and see the tapestry I am weaving in vivid colour and striking pain, I have not succeeded.

Not until that moment where you see the mountains I paint with words crying up to the sky where their tears dust craggy grey faces in talcum white,

Or hear the sounds of that city I describe down to the scurry of the rats in the gutters, the choking roar of the furnace melting steel, and the laugh of glee from the lips of a child who just stole a loaf of bread so fresh it melts in his mouth.

Not until you've smelt my grandmother's baking without ever tasting the fluffy chocolate pudding. Emerging from the oven, it bubbles over with sauce, oozing cocoa and sugar steam so smoothly it suffocates every thought in your brain as you wait for that first spoonful,

Or that moment you believe you can just reach out and touch the golden hair of that girl as she walks by, the waves and curls that spill and fall over her shoulders, the texture of the fine strands as they fall through your fingers. All feather and down, gold and sunlight.

And, lest we forget, not until you feel the pain of the words I carve in blood on stone. The bitter memories and tortured grief that crawl up the back of my warrior as he waits in darkness behind the trenches of the battlefield, his sword drawn and eyes closed. His thumb will run the edge of his blade, testing. His chest will rise and fall, once, twice.

His muscles will tense, his heart will stop for a moment, and then, his eyes will open.

And I will succeed.