Fiction and poetry writing, recapturing the muse.
(Vent poem warning, no Jack today)
Ask for permission,
twice,
and infect me with guilt
for pointing out reality.
The third time you don’t ask,
it is done
and you act shocked and hurt
when I am angry
when I am scared
when I am resentful.
Sometimes you have to be an adult
and face the harsh facts,
but not you,
do what you want
and leave the stress to me
while offering to do whatever I want.
How about listening to me?
For once.
The beans looked ordinary,
a little bigger than usual
but they didn’t sparkle
or give off any special feeling.
He tried to touch them
but Crazy Mary pulled away,
tutting at his eagerness.
‘Payment first.’
(I’m not happy with this backstory much so might change it later or add more detail).
‘I met one, a giant.’
Crazy Mary told him,
expression distant,
no gloating or malice.
‘A child one, but still
almost as tall as a tree.
He was hiding in the forest,
scared but prepared for death.
His family had come down
from the clouds to scout the land
but had their beanstalk
chopped down immediately.
His parents were killed,
his sibling drowned as they ran,
and he’d lived in the forest since,
too scared to use his beans
and create a beacon to his location.
He gave me them.’
She shifted at this,
making Jack wonder at her honesty,
but didn’t voice it.
‘He stayed there for years,
but then he had to start
crouching not to peek out
above the trees.
One day I went and he was gone.
I never saw him again.’
Jack had been scheming,
calculating, preparing
to approach Crazy Mary
and trick her magic beans away.
The first stage was flattery,
friendship, trust.
He approached with an offering
of fresh milk,
one she treated like
precious nectar,
lapping up every drop.
He let her mutter away
until she mentioned her beans,
then made exaggerated
eyes of wonder.
‘Tell me, how did you
find these beans?’
Spring clean
and sneeze up the dust,
choke to cleanse your house,
gain a coat of grime
and exhaust any
sense of success.
Is it presentable?
It will have to do.
(Late again today. I just realised I somehow mistitled my poems, having multiple 133 and 134, so I’ve fixed that.
Went to a library event today for crime genre so that’s the inspiration today).
Lap up the true crime
but shy away from gore.
Hear how real events took place
but recoil at fictional details of
bent bodies, bloodied wounds,
twisted minds.
Perhaps you’re confusing
which is real and which is not
to cope with living
in this world.
(Beanstalk tale is back today)
Crazy Mary wasn’t as old
as everyone thought.
Cruelty had aged her,
neglect wrinkling her skin,
nalmourishment thinning her hair
and avoidance effecting her mind.
People amused themselves
by daring each other
to approach her,
talk to her,
hurt her.
She always asked for the same thing,
an animal,
a useful one,
in exchange for some
very special beans.
Beans, she told them,
that could lead
to another world.
(Sorry this is so late again. No excuse, I’m just obsessed with playing the new Final Fantasy XVI. This poem is inspired by it).
Driven for years and years
by thoughts so false
you can’t see yourself,
can’t even remember
why you’re here,
why you belonged,
why you fought
and clung to life.
Face your shadow,
your nightmare
your truth
and decide
to live on for redemption
or die from guilt.
(Different poem theme today, inspired from a podcast I was listening to)
Walking into an impossible dream
without even knowing,
being yourself
and impressing the stars
enough to change your fate
and achieve something
they’ll remember forever
in a world that made you,
that formed your being
and causes tears of thankfulness
that you exist
in this universe.
(Very short, a bit of an interval during the beanstalk events)
Jack had never been popular.
He wasn’t disliked,
but he wasn’t thought of fondly.
The past few months
had turned his underwhelming notice
into disapproving whispers
at the seedy company he now sought,
the recreational pastimes he pursued.
When he began asking about
crazy Mary people turned away in disgust.
His mother must be so ashamed.
Scribbled Thoughts