Writing Exercise Two

How will I know who I am? Conversely, how will you ever know who you are? I've found that the only way I can find my identity anymore is through you. As I write, with you sitting across the room in the red easy chair, I envision your lips are the gates. You stifle a yawn, and as you do my imagination sprints and I'm suddenly inside. There are two dark, winged figures, but who are they? They cry out that they cannot land, and I suppose the two of us have never really been grounded, have we. Safe from lightning bolts or vulnerable to their split-second descent. As your mouth closes, and you raise delicate fingers to your lips out of propriety, I find myself knowing more than I once did.

Writing Exercise One

She sat in the alley, knees tucked up against her chest; her hands were hiding something in her blue plaid skirt. She thought it was kind of dirty, but then again, that was more than fitting for a criminal such as herself. Why had she done it, why had she given into the temptation? Her fingers were getting sweaty, clutching the incriminating evidence. She knew that her hands were stained, and that she needed to scrub and scour at her palms as soon as she got rid of the item caught in her vice-like grip.

Every foot that touched the sidewalk by the alley threw her heart up into her throat. She was just far enough back so that the tips of her little black shoes could be seen past a garbage can, and if you were watching closely enough you could see them fidgeting. In her mind she imagined heavy footfalls coming her way, angry hands flinging her cover into the street, grabbing her by the collar and shaking her. In her mind she pictured bloodshot eyes and frothing at the mouth and words so loud and livid that she was deafened. She shivered and pressed herself further back against the brick wall.

There wasn't any way she could enjoy what she had believed to be her prize, her trophy. She cursed her slender, nimble fingers and the way people overlooked her childish countenance. Her toes clenching and unclenching, she mourned the way her feet had carried her out of there, nearly walking smack dab into a suited man who loomed over her, staring down quizzically. His gaze should have been filled with disgust, his eyes had probably seen right through her façade, seen what she had done.

Uncomfortability

Is it just me or is it uncomfortable in here? I'm sitting here on a stool, swinging my legs back and forth like Canadian stand-up comedian Jon Dore as he transitions from his joke on date-rape drugs into his bit about Hitler. My voice is shot and every time I try to sing my part my ears snag onto other people's voices and I lose it, my own voice fading away to nothing.

Oh, and my voice isn't lost due to singing or talking or what have you; I lost my voice due to being hideously sick. I periodically sniff loudly and cough a couple (two or three) of times into my sweatshirt. My head feels a little hazy, and I shake it back and forth violently as if by doing so I can fling thin threads of cloudy thoughts out my ears.

Physical ailments aside, I feel constantly surrounded by strangers. These people have clearly worked together before, and they show it. At the very least they're all on the same wavelength humour-wise, right? I try to sight-read my parts while simultaneously sorting out social dynamics, figuring out who I'd want to talk to, if the time ever comes to use our vocal chords for conversation and not pour le chant. I also wonder about how I'm supposed to memorize lyrics and lines while continuing to learn French vocabulary.

In a way, I'm feeling extremely in sync right now. Sniff, cough cough cough. My legs swing back and forth in time, and I look from face to face back and forth, back and forth. The soft buzz behind my eyes, inside my head, is like a softly shaken tambourine. In the distance, high up on the wall, the clock ticks in time with me, bringing me ever closer to my exit, stage left.

Damsel On the Tracks

She supposed it was like a race. There she was, alone on the racetrack, and through the darkness she could hear footfalls coming her way. She wasn't in her track clothes, having gone straight to the athletic field as soon as the last bell had gone. But then again, she usually wasn't sitting on the tartan, and she usually wasn't tied up.

In a silly sort of way she wished that what ties her wrists behind her were actual rope. Partly because the material that bound her was much too soft to make this a stereotypical kidnapping, and partly because she had really like the sweater that had been torn to make her bindings. The sun had set maybe an hour ago, and she began to wonder how long she'd been sitting there.

What had first sounded like heavy running steps slowed and quieted to a calculated walk. There were maybe four or five people approaching, and she had no idea who they were. Clearing her throat she managed to somehow croak out, "This isn't funny you guys." A sixth sense told her that this definitely wasn't a joke, even though she tried to ignore it.

A warm sensation began to trickle down the back of her ear. She tried to rub it against her shoulder, but did little to alleviate the feeling. It was like one of her cartilage piercings had just been freshly pierced, but she knew she had gotten that done years ago, at thirteen. Another phantom wound began to bleed its intangible blood on her knee, then at her lips.

For most of her life she had experienced this sensation. Old wounds would feel like they were bleeding, but the skin would always appear whole and untouched. At times the flow of blood down the back of her ear would reach her neck, and begin down the rest of her body. She had always managed to ignore it, since it didn't hurt and often faded away. In this case, however, the feeling intensified, and it felt like every cut and scrape she had gotten since birth had opened up.

The steps had almost slowed to a dead stop, but she knew that whatever it was stood right behind her. She felt like she was covered in blood, but her clothing remained dry and unstained. Cold breath wafted across the back of her neck, and her hair stood on end. Who has cold breath? What has cold breath?