Stuff I'm working on

So yeah... I'm currently working on a couple of pieces right now that will be put on here soon (hopefully). The first is an autobiographical piece written in the third-person. The second is a fictionalised autobiography piece (again). The third is an extract from a story I am working on. 

Heads up!

     -  No Thumbs

The Envelope

I tend to take the highs with the lows,

Our relationship's trochee but I wish it was prose.

I see you weigh the cons and the pros,

When I look in your eyes I see where the doubt flows.

I don't know if its 'Love' with a capitol L,

But I know that its love with a capitol hell;

I have this fiery pit in the depths of my stomach where the butterflies and the demons dwell.

I feel sick to the core when you make that dead smile,

You're not gonna be over him for a dead mile –

I wish I could just accept that fact and stop being so FUCKING INFANTILE.

Aaah

I know I'm a bad fish,

And

I know I'm no grand dish,

But I will swim as hard as I can to delay the pain of a last kiss.

I would bleed through my eyes to look into yours and see the spark of passion reborn,

But hard work is no good without substance,

So I dread the dark day that our link's torn

For good...

This is a spoken word poem that I wrote. Its pretty silly really, but oh well.

     -  No Thumbs

Sleep comes quickly to the weary traveller.

For some, a paper bag is a sign of inherent beauty in the world, a flitting dancer in the breeze; for those who don't live in some pseudo-realistic, Hollywood bullshit world, plastic bags are just a symbol of the throwaways and the unwanted. Julian had slept for the last five years with these pliant, cast-off products and embraced them entirely – he felt a weird camaraderie with them. Tonight he slept with them, cushioning the area between the hard side of the carriage and his weary head. It was just him and the plastic bags, alone together in the empty bus barn. Slowly, he drifted into sleep...

...and out again. There was something wrong. At first it was a subconscious call to wake, a hesitant jerk back to reality. Then Julian heard a bass noise with just a tiny beat of a treble thump – footsteps. They were cautious, slow and quiet and deafening. And close. Julian's body tensed up, adrenaline starting to flow through his blood. The blinding insecurity of the darkness around him was forced back by a click and a predatory beam of light. It barged into a wall about five feet away from his place of rest, causing his pulse to violently rise. He could feel large breaths clawing their way through his lungs and trachea like impatient beasts, but his muscles constrained his feral impulses. His heart pounded intensely; he could feel slamming from within his wrists, neck and temples. It was suffocating him, a sulphurous brimstone of noise and light and panic which poured into every limb, follicle and orifice of his being. He couldn't be thrown out into the world, not tonight; the air of the outside hung like talons and bit with a fierce frost. The fire of fear which was consuming him danced a vicious tango with the hunter's stalking tread, engulfing more of his body with each step, until Julian thought he could hear the footsteps die away – they, whomever they were, were moving away from him. He let out a slow breath of relief, calming himself down a little, but his dread still burned inside him. He wasn't going to take a chance. Beside him, on the floor, was a metal pipe he had picked up from a skip a month ago – he usually used it to keep any of the unsavoury, or downright fucking horrible people, whom he occasionally met and dealt with away. He leant his body slightly to the side and reached down towards it with one hand.

Sleep comes quickly to the weary traveller.

Attempting to grasp the metal pipe, his fingers flailed and fumbled in the air, almost achieving their desired state, but not quite. It kept slipping from his grip, and he noticed his palm was sweating fervently. His hands were wet and hot, not ideal for the current situation, and, furthermore, he was shaking. Swearing in his mind profusely, Julian lowered his outreaching arm further, hoping to gain more success. Come on, come on, come on. The tiniest, teeniest of clangs resounded through the heavy silence of the barn as he knocked the bar against the kindred material of the seat below. A single profanity boomed through his internal monologue. He quickly pushed his digits against the pipe and managed to secure it in his grab. Finally! But what about them? He slowed his breathing down, right down until it was barely a breath, allowing him to hear every sound which vibrated in the hard hush around him. The footsteps were still there, just as stagnant and deliberate as before, but this time they were ambiguous to him. He could not tell where these paces were coming from. He listened with an even greater concentration. Step. About twenty seconds went by, with no sound. Step. Again, another fifth of a minute lay in a dumb lull. Step. This uncertainty punched into his lungs, and his breathing became difficult. The pyre was back and it spread from his chest through his body. Step. His heart burst to action with a vengeance, filling his temples with a rush of bloody percussion. Step. His body tensed up, expectant of danger. Step. His arms shook, and his core shook, and his whole physical existence convulsed with the torment of the newly-awakened inferno of distress. Step after step after terrible step. The doubt added to the blaze – Julian was now more hormonal, fiery holocaust than he was a human. The torture they were causing him was unbearable, inescapable, a torrent of misery. Then Julian remembered the pursuing light that he felt such abhorrence for; for all of the animosity that he had against the demonic beam, it would give the location of his stalker. He raised his head and looked out of the window at the end of his feet, just as a burst of luminous energy penetrated his eyes and filled him with a sharp light.

Sleep comes quickly to the weary traveller.

 

This is short story about a guy in a bus (And yes, I know this is at the bottom so you've probably already read it). Hope you enjoy!

     -  No Thumbs

Impersonal Nouns

Words, beautiful threads of flowing, silky letters hung from her, covering her in a verbal gown. Her hair was decorated with brilliant reds, simple love hearts dotted about with frequency, and she spoke with a cursive typeface. Her voice was lined with soft commas and passionate exclamations. But as I stared at her, I realised her complexion was growing strange to me. I reached out to her, but I felt not the warmth of flesh, only the coldness and distance of text. I threw my phone across the room and walked away from the sharpness of her script.

This is a piece of prose drabble that became more like prose poetry... Oh well!

      -  No Thumbs

Introduction to Wording without your Thumbs

Welcome
 So... You've found your way to No Thumb Words, the blog and dumping place of some student and wannabe writer (as you can probably tell from the ridiculous title). I hope you enjoy the pieces I post here, and if you don't then go read some Kafka or something.

But seriously, don't be afraid to comment on anything.

     -      No Thumbs