This post is part of a series devoted to the Writers’ Workshop run by Lynn at Salt and Caramel. I must confess that I am unlikely to post any of these on time, but I will endeavour to get the writing done! I rather enjoyed the prompt, as it brought to mind a mix of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca and a Style Me Pretty photoshoot…
Prompt: She walked slowly up the long, winding driveway, her dress trailing in the mud.
She did not bother to glance behind her, knowing full well that nobody would be following. A grease stain smeared her cheek and her feet still ached from long-discarded shoes. Her grey eyes had lost the very light that made everyone call her beautiful and yet the windows of the house fixed upon her like she was all they could see.
Everything was grey now. The ominous sky bulged and rumbled. The sandstone hung sallow and wan. The silver satin and lace sagged under the weight of moisture rising from the ground and hanging in the air. Only a few hours earlier had been blue and white and green, but she had sensed change coming.
How naïve she’d been to think that it could’ve carried on forever. A girl like her didn’t belong with a nice man in a nice family. She belonged to the house. It kept her soul in a box under the stairs where nobody would ever find it, and she would always have to return. Her eyes caught a movement in an upstairs window. A pale figure clad in black was watching, with the tranquillity that comes with having been right, having always known. She was coming home.
Sitting on a similar pile
Every minute of every day
Ever more atomised, more fragmented, more individualised
A libertarian’s wet dream
Enough dirty cabs
A brave man
Compounding existing inequalities
This Faustian deal
Personally, socially, culturally
Catalyst for change
A great tool for persecuting people
Quite disturbing and problematic
Profound, structural change
On days when I suppose that I should rest
I often feel the urge to build a nest
To rifle and to sort and to explore
The contents of my attic full of drawers.
What treasures lie within those plastic beds
Where baby clothes and high heels rest their heads
Surrounded by a fortress, soft and wide
Of tired sofas lying on their sides?
Perhaps one day the work will all be done
And I will have my afternoon of fun.
Oh, what lovely secrets do you store
Piled up high upon the attic floor?
He asked me all about my five-year plan
As though that’s something everyone has made
I ummed and aahhed and mumbled something vague
About organic growth and being paid.
The truth is that I never want to tell
I’m always waiting for a fun surprise
To lift me out from under life’s mundane
And gentle ebb and flow, into the skies.
I find it all-too-sad to just admit
What life would be without that strange delight
Of unexpected twist and turn and leap
The things that keep us up awake at night
So I refuse to plan for five years on
But hope the Euromillions to have won.
The tallest man in all the world
He raised us to the sky
The bravest man in all the world
With wit so sharp and wry
But charm and lies are each a face
A gold coin has to bear
But charm and lies, they turn to ash
Carried in foul air
The cruellest man in all the world
He smashed her on the floor
The coldest man in all the world
Our hero nevermore.
My fingers linger and twist the ring – I used to sing but no, not any more. The lyrics trip and stick in my windpipe til I barely remember them.
But eyes and lies sparkle until thighs do part and what was will be sung again. A new refrain. And fingers will linger til nothing but bruises remain.
Warmth gives way to blackness
Something I may never recover
My memory is under a blanket of wine
Or it was a bed never made
Sunlight cuts through my head
Only after bitter medicine
Can I begin to heal
Elegy as a concept – fine. Elegiac was just too stressful. I need to figure out how meter actually works before I really have to use it!