Post by kitty on Apr 13, 2008 18:25:04 GMT
I wrote this a little while ago but fell asleep before I ever found an ending. I'm not entirely sure where it's going or if it even works but that's where you come in! Tell me please if it's good or utter bollocks.
Beneath his sheets of paper lies her truth
The rumour running through the town is that she is in love again. She has been mooning around streets with a smile that excludes everyone else. No amount of coaxing can pull the truth from those upturned lips. Her friends grow exasperated, bored of her happiness that is seemingly unsubstantial. Where is the tangible reason for her cryptic words? Suspicious they watch her as she sprawls romantic with her nose in a book and a hand caresses the crumbling wall holding in the roses and the weeds. Though she often pauses to sigh at the sprawling blue that make her eyes shine like puddles, there never is a visitor. The spies wait impatiently for the inevitable other half but he never strides down the street to sweep her off her feet.
Next they sort her letters into piles of potential. Typed, windowed envelopes are discarded behind their busy fingers, far too practical for such a situation. Two are maybes, handwritten and pregnant with possibility but someone recognises the swirl of the loops and curls; they are from the mother. Disappointed the rectangles are redelivered and feet scurry back to their positions as she buries herself in the prickly grass under the sunflower sun. She runs her fingers through her hair, plays with a postcard. Could be a clue so one is sent to ring the doorbell and another jumps the wall, snatches it up. Picture of the sea with a tiny love heart doodled on the back but no words, no names, no hope. It is dropped onto the worn pages of the red book, another dead end.
She sings now. Sings to the vain roses fighting for centre stage in the tangle of green. Thorns cross in battle, leaves shed like tears to the dirt. The buds hold back as she passes, plumping out petals, dressed to impress. She sings to the birds that dive into the dust on the path, rolling in the sand. She sings to the fat clouds that make no determinate shapes in the sky. She sings to the girls in the hedge that think they are invisible and she laughs a little. They ponder this, scratching around for meanings.
It is the hottest summer since the last time it was the hottest summer and the sun crawls high and hot. Midday she disappears back into the house and returns with a tray and a pitcher and more plastic cups than she could possibly need. The hedge with its six pairs of eyes holds its collective breath, first in excitement, as surely they would see the answer to the mystery, and then in fear as she draws near to their hideout. The tray is left on a tree stump within reach and she returns to her reading.
Foiled, the group does not immediately give up, although one or two accept the drink before it is agreed that it should be acknowledged. With their heads bent to cover their embarrassment they enter the garden proper and surround their project. They are angry. All they want is a share of the excitement but she is selfish. The thrill is still new and she wants it all to herself. If everyone is in on it the portions are diminished. She will tell one of them and they in turn must share their own slice to lessen the original loss. Unfair chinese whispers they protest but relent considering the alternative of ignorance. The shortest straw is the luckiest and her breath tickles the ear of the chosen confidante.
The information is no clearer than her enigmatic smiles from before
Beneath his sheets of paper lies her truth
The rumour running through the town is that she is in love again. She has been mooning around streets with a smile that excludes everyone else. No amount of coaxing can pull the truth from those upturned lips. Her friends grow exasperated, bored of her happiness that is seemingly unsubstantial. Where is the tangible reason for her cryptic words? Suspicious they watch her as she sprawls romantic with her nose in a book and a hand caresses the crumbling wall holding in the roses and the weeds. Though she often pauses to sigh at the sprawling blue that make her eyes shine like puddles, there never is a visitor. The spies wait impatiently for the inevitable other half but he never strides down the street to sweep her off her feet.
Next they sort her letters into piles of potential. Typed, windowed envelopes are discarded behind their busy fingers, far too practical for such a situation. Two are maybes, handwritten and pregnant with possibility but someone recognises the swirl of the loops and curls; they are from the mother. Disappointed the rectangles are redelivered and feet scurry back to their positions as she buries herself in the prickly grass under the sunflower sun. She runs her fingers through her hair, plays with a postcard. Could be a clue so one is sent to ring the doorbell and another jumps the wall, snatches it up. Picture of the sea with a tiny love heart doodled on the back but no words, no names, no hope. It is dropped onto the worn pages of the red book, another dead end.
She sings now. Sings to the vain roses fighting for centre stage in the tangle of green. Thorns cross in battle, leaves shed like tears to the dirt. The buds hold back as she passes, plumping out petals, dressed to impress. She sings to the birds that dive into the dust on the path, rolling in the sand. She sings to the fat clouds that make no determinate shapes in the sky. She sings to the girls in the hedge that think they are invisible and she laughs a little. They ponder this, scratching around for meanings.
It is the hottest summer since the last time it was the hottest summer and the sun crawls high and hot. Midday she disappears back into the house and returns with a tray and a pitcher and more plastic cups than she could possibly need. The hedge with its six pairs of eyes holds its collective breath, first in excitement, as surely they would see the answer to the mystery, and then in fear as she draws near to their hideout. The tray is left on a tree stump within reach and she returns to her reading.
Foiled, the group does not immediately give up, although one or two accept the drink before it is agreed that it should be acknowledged. With their heads bent to cover their embarrassment they enter the garden proper and surround their project. They are angry. All they want is a share of the excitement but she is selfish. The thrill is still new and she wants it all to herself. If everyone is in on it the portions are diminished. She will tell one of them and they in turn must share their own slice to lessen the original loss. Unfair chinese whispers they protest but relent considering the alternative of ignorance. The shortest straw is the luckiest and her breath tickles the ear of the chosen confidante.
The information is no clearer than her enigmatic smiles from before