Musing Mind Mould…
Sometimes you need to come across those precious snippets of information found on tumblr to spur you into action, to cast off the suffocating chains of writers block and find my spark again, but finding inspiration doesn’t always light that spark and creativity can wonder off in a world of it’s own and meanwhile my collection of characters are in story limbo land waiting for something to do. I almost imagine them playing cards or smoking a long clay pipe awaiting direction from my finger strokes…
My tangent has been a series of ten abstract paintings and two mixed media pictures… All of which have poems attached to them (or will have – three are written) … I’m not sure how I’ve ended on this path, but I have discovered a tangled route, barely visible, a little messy and altogether pointless! I’m no artist, I can’t paint an abstract painting any more than I can write a sonnet (which I tried once – I liked it) … I’m no artist, but I will paint… I’m no writer, but I love to write and here I am, sat at my desk once more, facing that blank screen and searching my mind for the words I want to share today…
…Writing Prompt, Part 19 and a Part…
The caravan ambled through the narrow city streets winding their way towards the Royal Castle that overlooked the land dark and imposing, vicious fangs of black stone reaching up to the sky, blotting out the low sun, high towers circled with birds of prey which roosted in the tall rafters. Onlookers regarded the troops with curiosity and forlorn broken expressions, a society broken by the news that had reached the city before the caravan. The child of prophecy had died, the King victorious, triumphant – His people numb, they lived in the hope that the magical spirit of the child would free them from the strangling grip of oppression, poverty and starvation. While fine Lords and Royalty lived in perfect luxury, separated by thick stone and a considerable quantity of armed forces.
The troops following the caravan home were indifferent to the scenes surrounding them as they marched in practiced uniform step behind the oxen drawn wagons. Those captured, those dragged along behind, met the gazes of the broken, broken resigned to be broken. The slaves, the citizens … little actually separated their fate …
Upon a filthy broken wall someone had chalked bitter words of contempt, the unknown author hung nearby from a rotten tree a bitter reminder for anyone who spoke out against Royalty decaying a putrid.
“Welcome to your Kingdom!” Hera said sarcastically to the Prince sat by her side. She had exerted her powers to healing the youth, stitching together the split threads of his sanity so he could present the stolen gem to his father, to be magnificent in the eyes of his people. Hera herself wore the image of a mature hansom woman of a ripe age and full of figure, thick auburn hair was tied up in elegant knots, she was the consort to the Priest and a wedding would be announced along side the Princes victory.
“Rejoice young Prince, you will be a hero to these people!” Her sarcasm grated upon his nerves, but he had forgotten how grizzly it was within the city. This was not the heroic return he had envisioned, he saw only hatred and with each step closer to the castle his growing anticipation of facing his father grew, until panic threatened to overwhelm his fragile mind. Hera placed a cold hand upon his arm, somehow easing his thoughts, a calmness encased him.
‘You will do the right thing one day.’ Her voice resounded within his thoughts… A promise he felt was too massive to fulfill…
Anne Harrison 24.01.17
Tatterhood 