‘Glass House’

Tags

creative, fiction, flash, Glass House, Introspection, Prose, short story, story, Study, writing

I woke up in the glass house, the rhythmic beat of the rain filling the spaces between my ears, its drumming echoing the beat of my heart. In an ocean of memories and dreams I watched myself float, unsure of which was which, backwards and forwards with the immeasurable tide. Each horizon – the mirror glass of the room that held me – bounced reflections of faces I would never be, and those that I had held as mine, deep into my eyes. I stared through the ages, to where this had all begun, and further, further still, to a point before this had all been some fantastical wish in a young girl’s eye. Back, back to a time before the bonds of dogma, before the settlers had lost their nomadic feet, before the chill had come. In an endless moment that flashed quicker than the fork which tore the darkness apart I saw each turn that had led to this. 

The umbilical current pulled at me once more dragging my eyes towards another mirror. This one seemed to hang like a ghost before the panes beyond it unsure of its purpose. I felt compelled to stare as if expecting it to reveal its secrets at any moment.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2021

Sketch – 1

Tags

Character, creative, Impressions, Prose, Sketch, winter, writing

The winter had never bitten so hard. Birds that had drifted in huddled like scared children awaiting their next disappointment, wondering if they had strayed too far north. Somewhere a broken Sun was hiding, hoping against all logic that its hiding place would remain a secret and that it would be freed from its eternal curse: cold, warm, cold – the cycle never seemed to have a happy conclusion.

In a framework he sat, impervious now to the cold which had splintered first his skin, then his bones and finally his will. He sat, framed like a priceless artwork, a portrait within a landscape, invaluable and, as such, unvalued. The winter held no more terrors.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2021

The Awakening

Tags

Awakening, Communication, creative, dream, fiction, isolation, Philosophy, Prose, short stories, thoughts, writing

     A wash of faces hovered above me like a crudely painted ceiling fresco. Eyes, some filled with hope, others relief, bore into me like burrowing beetles. Beyond them an antiseptic ocean of white stretched as far as my own eyes could see; but I was prone, lying like a whale slowly exhaling its last on a beach the colour of gold.

     There were voices; voices which swirled over me like bees returning to the hive, heavy with nectar. Their sweet words bounced between my ears futile in their attempt to make sense of themselves. The sounds meant nothing to me, and neither did the tones which were targeted in my direction. Did the faces expect a response? Part of me guessed that they did, but I could not fathom the reason.

     The expectation behind the staring eyes was palpable, and even my forgotten, deadened senses could taste it. As for why, well, I could find no explanation. I looked back up at the waves as they crashed and dispersed before my eyes and realised, at last, that not one of them meant anything to me.