Monthly Archives: April 2013

His longest minute

I’ve written this from the writing prompt over at Nostrovia Poetry: ‘Write a scene where the subject experiences the longest minute of their life.’ I haven’t written from a writing prompt before – I’m not sure that this entirely works but it was fun to give it a go. And it was a great way to get my ‘writing head’ on today…

Is this it?

A car sits in the road ahead,
Where it’s impossible for two vehicles to pass.
Dark grey paintwork,
Tinted windows,
Expensive looking.
Even up close,
He can’t see through the glass.

Is this it?
Is she in there?

For the longest moment,
The stillness,
Is like a word on the tip of his tongue,
And uncertainty is hung,
On tightly strung wire,
In the space,
Between fear and desire.
He holds his breath,
Shivering as he exhales,
Trying to remain calm,
Though anxiety is king here,
And it’s anxiety that prevails.

God damn,
Why aren’t they doing something?

A door opens,
A booted foot reaches out,
And feels for the tarmac.

Is this it?
Is this it?
Is she here?

Authors who look like their writing: #1 Richard Ford

richard-ford-please-credit-laura-wilson

Bear with me on this one. I’m currently halfway though reading the (already) brilliant Canada by Richard Ford and I was thinking how, at it’s best, Ford’s writing is a sublime combination of elegant, languid and wise. Then I flicked to the inside back cover and saw his photo – and the first thing I noticed was that he looks just like his writing. And that made me happy.

And now, excuse me, but I have to go and crack open a couple of beers with him on the front porch at the end of a long, hard day on the ranch*…

Photo © Laura Wilson
*N.B. I do not actually own or work on a ranch. To my knowledge, neither does Richard Ford. I also enjoy drinks other than beer although I have no idea about Richard’s taste in alcoholic beverage or if he drinks at all. Although I bet he does.

We each erect our own barriers (another excerpt from my 1st draft)

In the back of the car,
Victor runs his hands over the soft, cracked seats,
That always seem to smell like new.
His view out the window is incomplete,
Through the hazy tint,
As if he wants a hint,
Of what’s going on in the world,
But has no desire to be hurled,
In to the grime and banality,
Of what he perceives as reality.

The car leaves the steel and the concrete,
The chaos and the bustle,
Of the city behind,
And enters a suburb defined,
By it’s residents’ desire,
To separate themselves from each other.
Infinite lawns,
And hedges like fences,
Ensure that their lives are isolated,
By their own defences.

They pull up to a security gate,
And are granted entry,
By an anonymous sentry…