The is the story of me, Miriam, and how I spent a lot of time with daisies.
There are flowers. Daisies, tonnes and tonnes of ****ing daisies. Is that what we are meant to like? What we’re meant to want? And when I say ‘we’, I guess I mean vain people. Guessing, Miriam, guessing?! What a joke, of course we’re vain, how could anyone say different. There’s Julie next door, needn't say more, and young Madeliene next door along putting her Maybelline on in pitch black, aching from head to toe. Poor gal, she’s been through a lot.
These daisies are littering the bloody place, all the corridors, every-****ing-where. They’re having a joke somewhere, the managers. I wonder if the implants come patterned themselves…
(Chuckles to herself then looks saddened).
They want to cheer us up I guess. Hmm. Shouldn’t we be cheered up enough knowing we’re gonna look in tip top shape after a couple of hours under? George Clooney on the mind and all that; but hey, I know our Sarah is into a bit of a younger man.
I’m 40, she’s 45. Immature, perhaps, but a bunch of laughs if you ever needed one. I can see her making her way onto the telly. Making it big. This new F-A-M-E lark that suddenly seems to be taking over. Then, knowing her, taking a good old Oxford Street SOS mission. Oh lord I miss London. The countryside is nice, yeah, but that’s it. Just nice. I need something more. I miss the buzz, I miss the lights, I miss the feeling of being stood there, right in the very epicentre. But money got tight and I got older and the wrinkles came and popped up to say hello and…
I don’t know why I moved. It seemed like such a good idea. All these ideas do though, that’s the problem. The business, yep, that worked, but that was Sarah, she did the cutting, the blow drying, the colouring, the chatting to celebs, the everything that comes after that and I don’t know a bloody word about. And I sit and add up numbers and calculations at some old rusty desk painted a bad shade of purple.
Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t say I’m one of these nerds you see around these days. I’m the pig. Then there’s Dean and Sarah with their oh so wonderful beachball, throwing back and forth and back and ****ing forth and occasionally I get a look in for just one sec and then that’s it. Mind. Back to London, back to the parties, back to the drinking. Like **** she does any haircutting, that’s in the past, it’s got to be.
It’s funny isn’t it, family dynamics? I’m the boss, Ms Organised, hell I carry a dictionary round. The most mature of the two, no doubting. But the youngest? You’d never expect that, that’s just pure odd.
And Little Miss Barbie turns round one day and squeaks ‘Miriam, you so should get your nose done’. And I ****ing did.
All those years of being a no one. Suddenly it was so appealing. A perfect nose, a perfect rose, right? It was this great big epiphany and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it myself.
I’d never seen any of these surgical programmes, no interest whatsoever – I'd much rather have a watch of Friends, a bit of light comedy – but I didn’t think ‘fear’. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. In fact, I was more worried about Jonathan Ross leaving the BB-****ing-and-I-really-should-stop-swearing-C.
(Take That music plays on the radio. It has been on all along but she has only just noticed it)
Ha, I remember this song. This music was on then, the very first time, wow. The second and the third – that would be the lipo – I don’t remember any music. I think I was too out of it. And then the fourth. The fourth… the fourth? Oh well, what does it matter.
I’m tired. The doctor’s coming to check on me in an hour. The usual, bp, etc. ‘You’re used to it, you old cow,’ I can just hear them chanting. That’s what they say down at Billie’s, our local. They mean well but by God…
(She bursts into tears)
It hurts. Not as much though as me. Trying to fix and chop and chip away at myself until there’s nothing left, just body and all the pain and hurt is gone. And so am I. I’m gone and left with nothing and is it all my fault? is it? I don’t know, I don’t, really I don’t. But I’m just so ****ing tired –
SARAH enters the room all of a sudden.
S: Babe! (Smiling) They’re taking the daisies out of the builing y’know, I think it’s the turn of the –
M: Sarah, listen, I’m not doing this. I can’t.
I just thought I'd post this, I wrote it just now as a monolgue from nothing really. Comments are welcome.:) After I started writing I wanted to create a character that wasn't simple, or trying to tell a simple tale. I wanted to know that people are muddled and contradicted: things can change so much, love/hate does exist, etc. So, oddly, I wrote this. I wanted to become someone else for a little while.
Last edited by Droplet : 23-01-2010 at 06:56 PM.
Reason: changed the title
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.
I think that's a very, very good peice of writing. The main charecter seems so much more real than a lot of texts you read nowadays - wether its fictionla or not. Well done :)
"I would be almighty in my own world of art, even if I had to paint my pictures with my wet tongue on the dusty floor of my cell." -Picasso
"No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war." - Picasso
'I have scars becuase I have a past; but they, like my past, do not define my future'
Thank you! That's what I wanted her to be. Here is another piece of writing.
Tribute to my someone
You are my someone. You manage to be so lovely and so great at the same time. Are you magical? I think so, I definitely do. I don’t wanna worship you though. I don’t wanna hold you high. I wanna hop on your back and piggyback in mad and gentle circles, squares, triangles; and more interesting shapes. I wanna spend the hours boxing, kissing, drinking through the rhymths of life, sober and not so sober. I wanna fall down stairs with you. I wanna go to a faraway place. Go leave trails of happy popping poppy seeds running through city fields. I wanna do the things we’ve done, and the things we haven’t.
I wanna walk round the bread section in ASDA, the fish section, the clothes section, every bloody section and not care I’m in bloody ASDA. I wanna poke your body. Prod it and stroke it and feel how little bits go in and out in funny places. I wanna sit on the sofa next to you and watch endless quiz shows and not daydream about you but watch them. I wanna walk round the house with my clothes on. And I wanna unlink my hand from yours, unfix my gaze from you. But not before it’s time. I wanna keep in time with ourselves, with our very steps. And I have come to know, where there’s hope there are fears.
I just wanna know that when I whisper in your ear, I’ll get a (magic) whisper back.
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.
I tip-toed quietly over the cream and dribbled carpet,
I climbled up delicately onto his skin.
I scrambled; I rummaged;
I fell with a sizzle into his pulsating heart.
We lay for a length,
We discussed in great detail the anatomy of worlds far.
And worlds far too close:
Myself and him, ribbons and ties.
He smiled, he sighed
He kicked me out of bed
With a wink and 'goodbye'.
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.
I'll just explain quickly: This starts off as a monolgue. The man here is quite desparate and talking to a young woman about his friend who is missing - 'papa'.
Where is your papa?
Dear. I want to know what happened to your papa. I want to know where he went. Where he wanders, what he’s fixing now… Or what.. not…
He loved you; day after day after his dark and musty days. He was a rightful man just as my papa would’ve said. Only a stagehand, but as great as a sailor to any of us. And a chorus would’a joined in there, I’m certain of that.
I want you to sit down now and tell me. Open that heart I hope very much is hiding somewhere. E-. I’m sorry, I don’t know if I can bring to say… it, your name.
It’s funny when you idolise people and then you realise actually no, they look so good from one side and from the other, they don’t look ‘emselves. You only ever see one side of the moon, and who quite frankly takes the effort to catch that very rocket, shall I say. To explore a a lot further? Stretch open every inch of your recieving body, your eyeballs and ears and nose, and all your unnamed yet so heavy, hearty senses.
Well I did. With your papa. I found him, his sides, many opposite, many beautiful. He wasn’t an honest man, I’ll tell you now. He had his old sins in cardboard boxes lined up behind him, just like a train on a wedding dress. Not that that’s a crime, mind. He carried his **** with pride. All open for all to see. The affairs, the women. He loved women more than anything. But he was genuine, and I saw that. I think everyone did. After every woman he’d sit down laughing. No no no, don’t stop me there. The laughing turned to tears. It was his way. Grief. Process. Emotion. Real burdens. Laughing and tears. It was his way, you’ve got to understand.
Now I’m not pretending to be some psychologist. But he’s your papa and you need to understand who he was. You need to know he was good just as times were bleak and difficult. Just like I need to know where, where his greyed and trembling hands lay now. Do you see, do you see?
I remember a play, it was fascinating and interesting, I wanted to tangle myself up, entwine myself in the words, the speeches. I remember he couldn’t give a flying you know about the actual play; however he could about the pub that’s for sure, heh, and after every performance he’d be a-loving down there with the best and worst of them. Equals they were. And he always, always stayed the longest, cleared everything. Right and proper, your papa
Don’t look so cold. E– Emily.
Let’s call it quits. He’s missing and maybe he hasn’t gotten in touch with you at all. Maybe he’s working the stage even now, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Inverness, all the littles inbetween, who knows. Maybe that’s what his blessed soul wanted, I very much hope so. Maybe he needed an escape and it’s nothing to do with you.
‘Stop. Do not be mad and do not be angry. Please do not call him papa. He was always referred to as father. Father it is. Ok.
I knew him all along. In all your lovey-dovey am-dram ways, you know actually very little. I knew him to start with in my very vividest dreams and what on earth could be more real than that? He was blonde and tall and toned like me, and everything I wanted from a father. He fulfilled every criteria. You remember pubs and plays. (They must have been amateur, he wasn’t very bright at all.) I recall sharks and surfing and sea, the bright wide green sea. Growing up with Ann and Charles, education always came over holidays.
But he never took me to the sea, and once I found him, well I wanted to see the sea and well, is there any point in dragging out the words? Making sense of an act so… so true.’
An act so true? Please, your papa...?
‘I took him. I took the reins, I took charge. I went over every rule he never made. His 15 stone greasy body was nothing to my horrid love and resentment. As it happens, a deadly combination. There were two men. One was called Si. One was called Opal, and that was all he would tell me. Times are dangerous, he had said, and with that my polite questioning was thrown aside.
Chucked like father, into the sea. His wrongdoing was nothing he did wrong, no act commited, and so nothing I can forgive him for. Just something he didn’t do and it is up to him to save himself. Perhaps he forgot or didn’t know how to be my... my papa. Uh, the word makes me shudder. It was easy and nobody suffered. I watched him be dragged out by the blissful tide and set up an easel and started sketching away, adding my watercolours dab by dab. It was a new beginning. The sea was just as perfect: wide and green.'
This is something I wrote today. It's a bit gloomy, sorry!
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.
You have a fantastic way with words. Really interesting. I'd love to read more.
There are, it has been said, two types of people in the world. There are those who, when presented with a glass that is exactly half full, say: 'This glass is half full'. And then there are those who say: 'This glass is half empty'.
The world belongs, however, to those who can look at the glass and say: 'What's up with this glass? Excuse me? Excuse me? This is my glass? I don't think so. My glass was full! And it was a bigger glass!
I haven't read any of his, no, and I'll be honest I had to wikipedia him! One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera I have both heard of and my mum has read. I'll try and get hold of a copy of one from the library. Interesting comment, thanks.
Thank you, I'm glad. I'm having a bit of a creative spurt at the moment, hope there will be more to spurt.
Last edited by Droplet : 26-01-2010 at 06:22 PM.
Reason: spelling
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.
Her feet a decaying and oddly youthful shade of yellow, her eyes awide with berry-picking wonderment, O slid her fingers through the gaps in her toes and with immense thought began to shake, as one would an old friend, reminiscing, remembering. That was yonks, yonks ago!
The villagers were the ones that called her O, as they watched fearful from afar. A non-entity and nameless; she was not clear yet her pain was distinct. Her eyebrows were arched mystically like no others. Her legs were criss crossed, childlike. The varying blues and greens were not an array of skirts and shirts and clothing bruises where she had tripped and fell face down; memory knocked once more. O used to adore her socks. There was one pair that her nana made her. Curled up in a ball so small, she would lean over and try to kiss them endlessly to no avail.
Now her eyes were no longer wonderfully haunted by those raspberries of times long gone. (Time that longs to be spoken as a whoosh, referred to as a a-boooom.) Now they sat, sedated, deep in her disproportionate head. Numb and bordering on the next step on from numb. Nothing was happening, her hut was not on fire. She was not any more or less hungry than usual. Nobody new had died. The bodies had gone. One of the villagers must have taken them in the night, she guessed. By moonlight, bodies, what an adventure, or so she would have thought in the before. And now, in the after, she cannot think. Thoughts are somewhat unattainable. Vague images of high school choreography are all that circle her head.
O released her hand from her foot and outstretched her fingers. Her fingers yawned. Her feet yawned. She yawned, and settled down in her straw bed to impossibly, as she knew, unsleep her nightmares.
This is just something I've started inspired partly by my imagination of a film - I saw the trailer and went from that. Have a vague idea where it's going but unsure of a 'plot'. Again, sorry for the gloominess. It's quite a challenge for me to write something 'happy', without it becoming a complete utopia.
x
The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
Wind in the Willows.