Autumn

(Another piece of coursework from yours truly, this piece was originally written just over two and a half years ago and has since evolved and been reshaped so many times now that it barely even resembles the original. For my final draft of the coursework, I decided to change the narrative - from a piece that was originally told in first person, I decided to experiment and change it to third, which worked so well that I kept it like that when I handed it in. Enjoy!!)

As surely as trees must lose their leaves in autumn, she knew deep down in the very depths of her heart that this was to be goodbye.

Goodbye.

Such a simple word. Such a simple, and so frequently used shard of icy venom that could penetrate even the warmest of nights with its sadistic connotations – if used incorrectly, it could be this word that tears a person’s sane consciousness into one thousand miniscule irreplaceable pieces.

It had always been them – never the both of them specifically, but they shared the same group of friends, so that was good enough for her. Maybe the two of them were not necessarily the closest of a pair, but they were both the so-called ‘different’ ones: alternative rock music chosen over the mainstream music of their friends, the musicians, and the ones who would be found having the ‘deep and so-called meaningful’ conversations about life, the universe and everything. He had always been there, admittedly, however his attention was hardly ever directed specifically at her, but she could always count on the arrival of his skinny jeans and faded black converse trainers to brighten up the dull days that were drawing their era to a close. However, not even seeing him in any of those clothes could heighten her mood. This was to be goodbye, maybe not for the rest of their friends, but certainly for her: he’d always said that a clean break was best in any situation of goodbye, and she unwillingly had to agree.

So here they are: in the present. They walk as a group for probably the final time through the town park, laughing as he kicks his way through piles of leaves, the way they scatter in every direction a harsh yet accurate allegory for the beginning of their own separate futures, she muses. For a moment there, she could have sworn that he caught her eyes in the rush of laughter. He sees her sad smile as the ice blue of his eyes meet her own chocolate brown coloured ones, but turn away quicker than the time taken to decipher - let alone notice - the very reason they’re glazed over with glistening dew.  They continue their walk, and she can’t help but drink in these short glimpses of him, with that hair that reminds her so much of her favourite musician, who, ironically is his too. ‘Face it’ she thinks to herself. ‘We both know that we’ve got too much in common to ever be able to be anything more than friends.’

When they finally reach the station, she knows that the time is truly up. She can’t help but hope he’ll be happy at whichever stop he gets off at. He wasn’t here.

Everyone takes a turn saying goodbye. As they do so the disassociation inside her and the reality of the situation she never wanted to face begins to mount up. When he reaches her, she manages to force a smile despite everything she’s promised herself. ‘Obviously, it would be too much to ask for a hug,’ she thinks to herself, and instead waves and wishes him the best.  Now that’s he’s so close to leaving, she realises that a return is near enough to impossible.

It’s too late to say anything more to him now: and the reality that yet again she’s wasted her final chance to say something, anything to him. She stands with them, watching as he boards the train that will take him forever away from her and remembers one of the only things that he had ever said that had really stuck out in her mind.

“If you think about it, there are six, maybe even seven billion people on this earth. So what does that mean then? Meaning at least three billion of the opposite sex out there. One hundred million, or even more, of our specific age range. So surely, surely there is one person out there who is perfect for you in every way, shape or form. It just takes time to find them.”

She repeats these seemingly reassuring ghosts to herself over and over as he boards the train, and takes a last long look into his eyes: those perfect blue eyes that he always despised, describing the colour as an un-natural anomaly of nature. Silently, she protested. To her, that last image was perfect. Him: standing typical as ever in those clothes that they both loved, leaning out and waving his goodbyes, his eyes almost gracing hers with their faultless gaze. Almost.

‘I want to remember you like this.’

The train is gone when she opens her eyes once more. She turns and follows the others out of the station, a fragile empty shell of what she had been mere moments before. It felt to her almost as if he had taken her soul away with him on that train. The ghosts of their footsteps still lingering on the gravel pathway that leads through the park: dancing tantalisingly around the bereaved group of friends that she no longer truly feels a part of. What had before been the route of companions and friendship was now shadowed by loneliness, and the fear of a life lived in solitude for the rest of its eternity.

A chill wind lifts her dull hair, whipping it around her face and into her eyes so that her vision becomes distorted, and for a moment she sees a glimpse of reality in an alternate way. A different time, and a different girl. But him, always the same person. A reality that this heartbreaking goodbye had somehow bypassed. The image disappears in the same amount of time that it would take for a heartbeat to pass, and the path once again becomes laced with the shadows of uncertainty in front of her.

Autumn was over. Winter had begun.

A Few Poems

(So here is the second part of my 'blog treats:' another piece of coursework, this one a selection of  five poems written in different styles with the purpose of exploring several different types of poetry and genres. My favourite is almost definitely the first one - so much fun to write and something I'm really pleased with!! As this is being posted as a scheduled post, you'll probably first see this when I'm at the top of a mountain. So whilst you're enjoying reading, I'll be enjoying my week skiing - everyone's happy, perfect!!) 

Why I Hate Rhyming Couplets

So why is it that some people always think poetry has to rhyme?

To me, at least, I always find that trying to is particularly time

Consuming, especially when it is not the content that matters but the way

In which the poet delivers exactly what it is they want to say.

Whatever my inspiration is when I begin to write

Is more often than not a pile of shite,

However at least I seem to have the decency to utilise free-verse

Than to try to bring in irrelevant words simply to ease the flow of speech. Universe.

Surely there is more to a literary life than to try to rhyme every single word

With the line before. I'm sorry, but moon and spoon just sound far too absurd

And unimaginative to be taken seriously in something

That anyone over the age of twelve has been writing.

So how about from now on, people realise that instead of trying too hard

On getting their work to rhyme, instead it is better to be avant-garde

And go with plain old free verse. In short, I'm tired of making something rhyme just for the sake of it,

So maybe it's better just left alone to save the pain of irrelevant trips to a thesaurus.

A Suite Of Seasons

I.

Dewy morning's dawn,

Caught by the golden sunlight -

Winter is over.

II.

The sun bakes the earth

Like an everlasting fire:

Throats and plants are parched.

III.

Orange and scarlet

Leaves fall from lofty branches -

Crunchy underfoot.

IV.

Snuggled up inside,

'Baby, it's cold outside' plays:

Christmas is coming.

About An Apple

Once scarlet,

                                    (Blood red, now the colour of decaying dreams, mottled aesthetic imperfections)

And dewey crisp green underneath,

                                    (The colour of envy, rage, fresh new days with fresh new starts)

:

It is the very epitome of poison,

Innocent as the beautiful snowy white winter's morning

Yet at the same time,

An image,

A false idol

Of innocence lost

In a garden somewhere.

Aged imperfections on the surface are the

Only clues to the symbolic significance of this

Devil's fruit.

A clever disguise.

Go Away.

I am writing this

From my sickbed.

However my head is in far too much pain

To be able to concentrate properly.

Purple Elephants.

Upon Dreaming

A cloud shifts across the inner eye,

Memories of days gone by

To a sunlit day, we say goodbye

And to an abstract place our thoughts must fly.

What is it that lies beyond the realities

Of birds and bees

And worlds and trees?

Eyes close and breathing slows,

Chasing thoughts and fantasies of long ago

Inside the realms of our subconscious thoughts,

The focus of our curiosity is caught.

Will we find a dragon's lair,

Or kingdoms, realms and universes?

A fairytale life is now within reach,

Escaping goblins, giants and witches' curses.

In truth the dream must always end,

With the morning sunrise just around the bend.

Fairies and riches are left behind,

Kept forever inside the mind.

A return is always possible, fear not,

For it is effortless yet to return to that plot.

With thoughts alive until the final breath:

A poignant sweet ecstasy captured only in death.