I’m moving out and selling my flat after having lived here for almost seven years.
It’s going to be new and exciting!
But between packing all my books into boxes and showing potential buyers my flat, I haven’t had much time to write.
Next week I’m going skiing and might write in the evenings, but regular updates will have to wait until I’ve settled in.
So if not before, I’ll see you in March! 🙂
Posted by W. R. Woolf on February 13, 2017
(Credit: Bokor on DeviantArt)
Her mind grew dark
As the wind picked up.
The growing storm
Threatened to pull
Strands of consciousness
From her head.
She went down deep
To a cavern
Where the water was completely still
On the shore,
With her candlelit thoughts,
She waited for dawn.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 31, 2017
(Credit: Tim Etchells at timetchells.com)
A veil of mist has been drawn over the city tonight.
Cold droplets settle on my face.
I should go home and sleep.
Neon signs scatter emeralds and rubies on the water.
I wish I could take the gems with me as restless legs carry me over the bridge.
I need sleep.
A murder of crows are emptying trashcans and fighting over the spoils.
They whisper their advice, but I know they don’t mean well.
I should sleep,
But my legs are still restless
And my thoughts won’t leave me alone.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 28, 2017
It should be red, she thought, and turned towards the sunset.
But the clouds were lilac with a rosy lining. The sky was light blue then yellow, which turned into a deep orange at the horizon. As a plane drew a pink line across the sky, the blinding sun brought her a surging symphony of fond memories.
Her heart swelling, close to bursting, she closed her eyes and saw on the back of her eyelids a burning circle and the face of someone, whom she would have shared all her sunsets with, if only things had been different.
When the sun was halfway below the horizon, it finally turned red, and in its bloody light she shovelled the last spadeful of dirt onto the grave.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 22, 2017
(Credit: Rykardo on DeviantArt)
The wind brought in a fine spray from the sea, which settled on her bare arms and made them sticky and salty. After a long day of beachcombing, she withdrew to a small cave, where she roasted crabs and apples over a fire and licked the salt from her lips as seasoning.
She was cautious when she climbed further inland, and she never went into the water. The rocks were slippery with algae and most of them were sharp enough to cut flesh.
However, she did not resent the traitorous rocks.
They kept the people away.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 19, 2017
(Credit: darkcrystal1209 on DeviantArt)
Scratching at the paint with a red lacquered fingernail, I wonder whether I will ever see the original wood again.
Notwithstanding the flaking, the desk is white all over, and maybe it is even white all the way through. Could it really be that there is no wood, only layer upon thick layer of paint and varnish?
I am determined to find out, even if only a woody skeleton will remain in my study.
With foaming Ajax, I attack with first a sponge, using the rough side, then steel wool. Powder is washed from my hands, but I ignore it even when my nail breaks. Sweat makes mascara run into my eyes, but it is only a small distraction. A small distraction from something that I have wanted to do since forever. Or at least since I gave it my own layer of paint.
I feel that I am getting closer with every layer lost.
Closer to that real, original thing, which must be there.
The carpet soaks in water, paint and make up.
The legs grow thin, as my lipstick smears.
I must be getting there and soon.
The small drawers are already gone.
My hands and knees dissolve.
Is that my hair?
What is left?
With help from www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 15, 2017
My old nemesis writer’s block has reared her ugly head.
Do you know any good writing exercises which might help me chase her off?
Or maybe some inspiring artwork?
Please let me know.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 15, 2017
(Credit: alierturk on DeviantArt)
I made an empty speech bubble
And tried to fill it with stars, I found swimming in a night sky.
But it was only a reflection in still water, which had tricked my eye,
And I slipped on the smooth stones.
Drenched, I shivered, as the cold gnawed at my bones.
And I tried again to fill the bubble, this time with fish wrung from my hair.
But they died, gasping for air,
And my shadow rose up behind me and laughed at me,
And my silly notions of filling the emptiness. ‘Like piss in the sea,’
It told me. ‘But the sea is full of life,’
I thought, as I cut the shadow from my feet with a knife
And stuffed it in my bubble.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 4, 2017
I was so tired the first of January that it spilled over into the second.
So when I finally sat down to write Monday evening, I was too tired to notice the fairy hiding in my bookshelf. When I turned away from my computer for a second, it swooped down and gobbled up everything I had written.
Don’t believe me? I drew a picture of the thing
See? You have to believe me now.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on January 3, 2017
(Credit: HeyKtupq on DeviantArt)
We met in the laundrette on Sedgwick Street. I don’t remember how our first conversation began, but I met her there every Thursday for almost a year. She brought a small bag of liquorice, which she shared with me while we watched our clothes tumble, and I brought bottle caps for her, after she told me she collected them.
She always stood up and on the balls of her feet, as if she were ready to run at any time. Once I asked her whether she liked running and she said: ‘I’ve become very good at it.’ and her eyes looked so sad, it made my heart hurt.
There was something feline about her. It was something in the fluid way she moved and how her eyes sometimes followed things, which weren’t there, or maybe I just couldn’t see them.
It’s not that I’ve forgotten her name, it’s just gone. Every time I try to remember it, I get a faint taste of liquorice in my mouth and my head goes empty. Her face has grown blurry too even though it’s only three weeks since I last saw her.
I hope she got away from whoever’s after her. I considered going to the police, but without a name or even a face, what are they supposed to do?
What am I supposed to do?
Posted by W. R. Woolf on December 29, 2016