I've decided it's time that I posted a bit more fiction on here, not just poetry. I think poetry and I need to take a break for a while and I need to let my creative juices flow ... into terms of short stories and little nippets of writing. It'll be fun :D. But I have this great little book called the Writers Block which I'm going to use to help me. However, something I just wrote recently called The Honeycreeper I wrote after looking at a picture and my brain had a <lightbulb!> moment which was just wonderful. Thus resulting in this.. Unfortunately I can't find the picture. But, it was of a women holding a bouquet of roses whilst peeking through a curtain on a train. It triggered this piece of writing, and I don't really know where it came from. I'd like to know what people think of the main character at the moment, who will currently remain nameless.. Perhaps I could do some character develop.. But anyway, I would like to hear some opinions on what kind of person you think he is. That'd be great :) just to get some feedback (SOMEDAY!?!). Also, if people like it I may develop it into a short story if I think it could potentially go somewhere.. (*starts humming somewhere over the rainbow, then realises that there are people in the room.. Oh crumbs.)
ANYWAY. Enough of my chitter chatter, here is The Honeycreeper. Just to let you know, I am thinking of editing it - so this isn't final yet :) WATCH THIS SPACE o.O <3
The Honeycreeper
My hardback lay open with a strip of red tissue on the petite yellow bird. It was the Hawaiian honeycreeper with a plump frame illustrated in my book of remarkable birds. Its distinct bent beak and sunny glow gave it an independent air, although it is known for being a lonesome creature. I felt the honey bird’s solitude, especially today when I was due to set off. Its beady black eyes had a certain glow though, showing a definite character. The air was hushed and tranquil, and I had no personal bother. Autumn leaves tumbled to and fro, frolicking by my feet and I brushed some debris off my jacket, fastening the loose buttons. The train was definitely late now, by eight minutes I could see as I pulled out my pocket watch. Now this, I had stolen from my father aged nine, the daft man never noticed. As I was contemplating memories of my father, I saw in the distance the russet glimmer of the train transcending towards me. It wasn’t exactly a popular station after the accident and rumours of haunting but I know that’s all a load of nonsense. But being the only man here I did feel an uncertainty of the place, furthermore I kept my luggage close. I smoothed the page of the honey creeper, closing it on its bookmark, assuring myself that I would continue my discoveries on the train. I had been delving into my interest of orthinology for the past eighteen months though and it has proved to have been of great relief to me. I couldn’t believe my daughter Arianna’s suggestion of a simple break to the beach to cure depression, that’s laughable. Sand gets in your socks, sand gets in your sandwiches! I can’t stand the beaches here; it’s wet, windy and wretched. Either that or there will be little brats running rancid all over the place, dribbling ice cream down you, or losing their trunks in the sea. Now, I want to be somewhere silent and I don’t think I’ve found anywhere truly quiet for many years. Everywhere is so built up nowadays, I remember sweet Daisy and I used to frolic in our gardens, and what brought us most satisfaction is the fact that we felt alone and that we could play our games in secret. Only the flowers or foliage knew our tricks and we held comfort in knowing we had our own private world, down at the end of the garden. Just as I was contemplating the memory of Daisy and I, the train arrived at the platform. I gathered up my possessions and fumbling, felt for my ticket in my pocket. When I looked up again I saw a young lady alone, peeking out of a red velvet curtain in her carriage. She truly startled me; her eyes were of an enquiring dark black and her raised eyebrow suggested she was inspecting me. Her cropped blonde bob accentuated the frame of her face and her cheekbones and from her darker roots I could tell that it had been dyed. She appeared to be wearing a bulbous jacket, with a feathery hood. And in her arms she held an array of cherry roses that were tinted yellow. They were dainty roses, the type that only lasted a few days. Who had given them to her? They weren’t your regular flowers, not the striking red roses you’d expect from an admirer. The lady had her nose stuck in them, and she closed her eyes as if she was enjoying the aroma. Something about her captured me, and when I began to examine her more I could see that in fact she was not alone at all. A young girl perhaps the age of eight tapped her shoulder and begged the lady for a rose bud. She didn’t seem bothered by the pestering child at all, and handed one over to her, fastening it in her breast pocket. The girl smiled with glee, running out of the train with what appeared to be her father, speaking in a rushed French voice. I got on board the train and decided that it may be worthwhile to sit with the lady with the roses. I tapped on the carriage door, and the lady opened it up for me, gesturing that I should sit down opposite to her. I peered at her for a while, smiling, watching her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears. Then she plucked at the petals, watching the loose ones collapse to the carpet.
My hardback lay open with a strip of red tissue on the petite yellow bird. It was the Hawaiian honeycreeper with a plump frame illustrated in my book of remarkable birds. Its distinct bent beak and sunny glow gave it an independent air, although it is known for being a lonesome creature. I felt the honey bird’s solitude, especially today when I was due to set off. Its beady black eyes had a certain glow though, showing a definite character. The air was hushed and tranquil, and I had no personal bother. Autumn leaves tumbled to and fro, frolicking by my feet and I brushed some debris off my jacket, fastening the loose buttons. The train was definitely late now, by eight minutes I could see as I pulled out my pocket watch. Now this, I had stolen from my father aged nine, the daft man never noticed. As I was contemplating memories of my father, I saw in the distance the russet glimmer of the train transcending towards me. It wasn’t exactly a popular station after the accident and rumours of haunting but I know that’s all a load of nonsense. But being the only man here I did feel an uncertainty of the place, furthermore I kept my luggage close. I smoothed the page of the honey creeper, closing it on its bookmark, assuring myself that I would continue my discoveries on the train. I had been delving into my interest of orthinology for the past eighteen months though and it has proved to have been of great relief to me. I couldn’t believe my daughter Arianna’s suggestion of a simple break to the beach to cure depression, that’s laughable. Sand gets in your socks, sand gets in your sandwiches! I can’t stand the beaches here; it’s wet, windy and wretched. Either that or there will be little brats running rancid all over the place, dribbling ice cream down you, or losing their trunks in the sea. Now, I want to be somewhere silent and I don’t think I’ve found anywhere truly quiet for many years. Everywhere is so built up nowadays, I remember sweet Daisy and I used to frolic in our gardens, and what brought us most satisfaction is the fact that we felt alone and that we could play our games in secret. Only the flowers or foliage knew our tricks and we held comfort in knowing we had our own private world, down at the end of the garden. Just as I was contemplating the memory of Daisy and I, the train arrived at the platform. I gathered up my possessions and fumbling, felt for my ticket in my pocket. When I looked up again I saw a young lady alone, peeking out of a red velvet curtain in her carriage. She truly startled me; her eyes were of an enquiring dark black and her raised eyebrow suggested she was inspecting me. Her cropped blonde bob accentuated the frame of her face and her cheekbones and from her darker roots I could tell that it had been dyed. She appeared to be wearing a bulbous jacket, with a feathery hood. And in her arms she held an array of cherry roses that were tinted yellow. They were dainty roses, the type that only lasted a few days. Who had given them to her? They weren’t your regular flowers, not the striking red roses you’d expect from an admirer. The lady had her nose stuck in them, and she closed her eyes as if she was enjoying the aroma. Something about her captured me, and when I began to examine her more I could see that in fact she was not alone at all. A young girl perhaps the age of eight tapped her shoulder and begged the lady for a rose bud. She didn’t seem bothered by the pestering child at all, and handed one over to her, fastening it in her breast pocket. The girl smiled with glee, running out of the train with what appeared to be her father, speaking in a rushed French voice. I got on board the train and decided that it may be worthwhile to sit with the lady with the roses. I tapped on the carriage door, and the lady opened it up for me, gesturing that I should sit down opposite to her. I peered at her for a while, smiling, watching her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears. Then she plucked at the petals, watching the loose ones collapse to the carpet.
~misshapenskies
