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Old 29th Dec 2008, 16:13   #1
Once known as Blixa
takes it to extremes
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Join Date: 26 May 2005
Location: Glasgow
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Default Palimpian Scraps

I've found a folder tucked away on my drive with small bits and pieces of attempted writing that rarely stretches beyond a paragraph or two. I've absolutely no idea what their stories were going to be anymore - it's been that long. I thought I'd chuck a couple up and invite others, should they have any, to toss long forgotten scraps here.

Some of the titles, too. I have no idea what this one, saved as Grace At The River, was, is, or could be about:

Grace was smiling no doubt to hide her discomfort. The guests gathered around dropping questions that, with no answer forthcoming, they could push on with talking about themselves.What a joke they were! I mean, look at them.
Then there's the single sentence of Night Is The Best Time:
Despite living a remote existence the Falo were not immune to the world outside.

Then Crackle:
Sounds carry farther in the dark. They lift up, spreading in all directions. You can hear them for miles if they come across water. When they dash across the ice, there’s nothing to stop them. You can hear a scream start long after it’s stopped.

And Softly Goes The Night:
There were times when Martin loathed going for a drink with his friends. It wasn’t that he hated them, they were good people, but their company always left him lacking and depressed.

The lighting in the bar, small discs of muted yellow fixed into the wall, wasn’t much comfort; in fact they cast more shadows than they dispersed. Some old torchsong wailed from the jukebox, each crooned lyric piling on the sorrow. Someone else must have been feeling his pain.
The brochures screamed that he’d never lived. He thumbed through them, pondered the photos, with each page becoming sure of it. Everywhere there were landmarks. The Eiffel Tower pushed for the sky. The dusty Acropolis over Athens below. At Rome, the Coliseum’s pillared grin. These were the must sees of the world. It was never enough to marvel at them from a page, you had to see them for yourself. Take your own photos. Tick them off, one, two, three. The sights were not new to him, he’d seen them around. On television, in books. But here they were, myriad lives milling around, seeming less dry an experience than otherwise portrayed. These photos were bold statements reinforcing what he’d now accepted. He’d never lived.

There were so many places to see and so many ways to see them. City breaks, coach trips, cruises. All promised adventure.

When he had been married, his wife had been one for the beach. No sooner had they checked into their hotel was she spreading a towel out on the sand.
Intelligent Years
It was all there in her face; the template for the city. She looked young, her eyes large and curious as she turned to familiarise her surroundings. Her skin was smooth, lightly tanned and without blemish like a virgin dune following a storm. Her hair willowed down, its strands fine and vibrant – none of the russet locks yet fading to grey. But there was something there, perhaps the lingering lines when she smiled, that suggested there was wisdom burning within. There were years in her face, hugely unnoticeable unless you were to consider her aura – yes, written by experience, her face ached with the charity of intelligent years.
Anyone else got some little snippets of forgotten stories to share?
Reading: Concrete Island, J.G. Ballard| flickr | blog | world lit | beer

Last edited by Stewart; 29th Dec 2008 at 16:52.
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