Strangers of Your Future

IMG Source:
IMG Source:

Then – fair-sized tubs of it too – thought the further I went, the further I wouldn’t. They were selling paints in Poundland back with more freedom even than I have now living with you and what colour to paint still thinks that if I walk far enough, had to wear glasses, to stop the headaches. Years between being twelve and seventeen. The worst appears as a trap. Having a whole day freedom is relative. Once you have too much camp and drink and they were happy with years; the best years. I had friends that a drunken haze. This was back when I sleepless nights and suicidal thoughts. I try to can see every colour. You can see fragments wait for me. It isn’t the same as I’m writing this from the little nook under I came home. He brandished my phone and at old photographs. See, there’s me with the I don’t feel wild. I am unemployed, of joyful. I snap the glowstick between my teeth, from the rave I’ve just been at. I the willow tree by the river. I’ve had something like that blasting out the window; the I’m glad I haven’t moved away. There was give off when your mood fits the dream. Would do what I wanted them to. I cool night air to rush on my face I wanted my mum to paint my room a time when all I wanted was to to go on holiday, whether to have people me. They took me into their tents and a dark abyss where all you can see a good thing, it’s like staring down into be calm and write things down. I look black. I said I’d do it if she when I was in my dad’s car, coming washing the car for that old lady down That was before the optician told me I You can see the person you will marry; My vision still goes fuzzy when I take told them we were going hiking and would protest or object. I told him I didn’t as an adult. I always thought that growing floppy blonde fringe and the earnest blue eyes. Only happy when I’m walking along out into like it’s Christmas again – getting that warm, need a phone. I was part of the the village lights on the journey home that course. A year at college only taught me back from the town with a boot-full of who will kiss you with more passion than we did things I wouldn’t do now. Funny, and I could save up my lunch money crawl down to the river, and release the its 500 missed calls. I wasn’t going to it be love, goals, or suicide? Will there neon fluid into the sparkling stream. If I up meant doing exactly what you want to how it was fun at the time. The glad that most of it is lost in what I didn’t want to do. Sometimes I car with the radio on, maybe U2 or hurts that I can’t see the glint of do. Deciding what to eat for dinner, where would get away. Dad shouted at me everytime life is a spiral towards one goal. Will like the raves, because they make you forget, week will be the exact same; that’s not kills me. I remember sitting in my dad’s of it, everything that once seemed free now satisfying feeling that some call love. But then the road. If you stare into blackness, you piercing it so the liquid oozes out. I at the bottom are the fiery hells of I see the tall spire rise up against shopping. It’s coming back broke and lonely. I and circulate the stench of my dad’s cigarette. I’m looking at the twinkling lights and feeling the walls. When I was seven years old, without her knowing, and said I earned it wilderness. He told me I was wild. Well, the horizon and I remember what lies in someone you’ve married; all just because they are the clouds. There’s a part of me that am poisoned with sorrow, than nature shall be you can see the parallel universe where your get out. I suppose it was those five this den since I was seven years old, it always leaves me unsatisfied, somehow. I am I’ll still get away. It’s the sight of be a future at all? The thing is, and there’s always the happy drugs available. Strangers of your future and the brilliant sheen they with nothing to do, knowing that the next window which I’ve opened because I like the rivers, or the mountain peeks piercing the cloud. Them off and look into the distance. I have a glowstick in my bag, remnant memories now to me are torture. I am paint, mostly imaginary animals or familiar landscapes, but.

(- Maria Sledmere; Cut-up via Lazarus Text Mixing Machine; Weekly prompt: glowsticks).

Update for Next Week: Colour Writing and Cut-Up Poetry

Hey everyone,

So this week we’re moving from the macro to the micro. Our previous workshop involved plotting the grand scheme of a novel: thinking up a premise, establishing a narrative framework and then starting to flesh this out with characters, conflicts, motives, setting and details. For anyone who wants to have a go at this who wasn’t there, our three buzzwords were ‘regret’, ‘stitches’ and ‘mountains’. We will be uploading everyone’s planning sheets to the blog in good time :)
The next workshop will be looking more closely at the details of our writing; more specifically, we will be focusing on the role of colour. It’s easy to forget the role that colour can play in creative writing, with regards to symbolic value, emotional setting and indications of mood, tone and atmosphere, as well as its special role in writing that deals with art itself. How does colour help us portray things like class, gender, ethnicity and personality with regard to character and setting? These are all questions we hope to reflect on. We will look at some examples of colour descriptions in writing and then go on to experiment with our own use of colour as a writing prompt. 
This workshop will also have a dabble in some form of cut up poetry. This involves exploiting the randomness of chance and the play of arrangement in our writing. It’s a good opportunity to ‘let go’ and follow your imagination. William Burroughs is a good place to start as an example, or you could watch the Beats film, ‘Kill Your Darlings’ for some inspiration (there is a good cut up scene in that – more info HERE). Please please please bring a newspaper or magazine of any kind and also a pair of scissors (if your ripping skills aren’t quite up to scratch). A highlighter or thick black pen would also do as well/instead. If you don’t have these utensils have no fear, as there are ways around it!
I will be putting some examples of cut-up poetry on the blog over the next few days so feel free to check them out. Otherwise, usual place and time 6-8pm in the GUU Elliot Library so please come along!
Also, a reminder to keep submitting for Flash Fiction February, and also we have been getting a couple more haiku in recently so it would be lovely if anyone fancies writing some for us:
Enjoy the rest of your week!