He moved to the Placid Plateau after the war and spent his days looking down and out. Always watching, he'd had enough of taking part.
Friday, 28 February 2014
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
250 Words: The women in the gallery
The mermaid sat on the beach singing and combing her hair with a melancholy smile. She watched fishermen bring home the catch, tears rolling down her cheeks in the knowledge she could not ever belong.
The nymphs and sirens were more proactive, albeit with a different agenda and the power to attract and to ruin, leaving rumours of sexism trailing in their wake along with long haired maidens in woods and Pandora, the queen of them all.
Yet Circe, though she may have poisoned the sea, was strong and wise, gave her man the information he needed. And Penelope was resilient and clever, deflecting her suitors to welcome home the same man. Not for them the innocence of Ariadne, betrayed in her sleep, spurned once her wisdom was used: already they are knee deep, as soon she will be too- along with Tristram and Isolde, mere seconds from plunging.
And Shalott, poor Shalott (and Ophelia before long), moments before death, one for sorrow on the bank behind. Cursed from the start for no rhyme or reason she could fathom, sick of her lot and seeing the world by reflection, she sought the man she desired and succumbed to death on the water leading to Camelot.
So much sadness, so much wisdom, power, arrogance, innocence, beauty. The women of the gallery, frozen in time and within a story, there for us to take in and wonder at their plights and to imagine, ponder, and sometimes, too often, sadden despite the warmth.
The nymphs and sirens were more proactive, albeit with a different agenda and the power to attract and to ruin, leaving rumours of sexism trailing in their wake along with long haired maidens in woods and Pandora, the queen of them all.
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Yet Circe, though she may have poisoned the sea, was strong and wise, gave her man the information he needed. And Penelope was resilient and clever, deflecting her suitors to welcome home the same man. Not for them the innocence of Ariadne, betrayed in her sleep, spurned once her wisdom was used: already they are knee deep, as soon she will be too- along with Tristram and Isolde, mere seconds from plunging.
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And Shalott, poor Shalott (and Ophelia before long), moments before death, one for sorrow on the bank behind. Cursed from the start for no rhyme or reason she could fathom, sick of her lot and seeing the world by reflection, she sought the man she desired and succumbed to death on the water leading to Camelot.
So much sadness, so much wisdom, power, arrogance, innocence, beauty. The women of the gallery, frozen in time and within a story, there for us to take in and wonder at their plights and to imagine, ponder, and sometimes, too often, sadden despite the warmth.
Note: As with the last 250 Words, this was inspired by an exhibition of John William Waterhouse paintings at the Royal Academy - in this case, I have linked to the paintings in question within the text itself (though I may not have remembered correctly throughout). It was very hot and overcrowded in the gallery that day, hence the last line.
Monday, 24 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 11
"You've never been on a Levitating Lateral Lift!?!" she exclaimed. "Well, no," replied Abbasa, "I'm only 8. I normally walk or get driven."
Saturday, 22 February 2014
250 Words: Improv aka Ramblings 6
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds sat at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and saw the beauty he’d loved since childhood: the fine softness of the feathers, and the colours and patterns. The elegant, wise look in the beads of eyes. Owls were his favourites, he especially loved to stick his finger into the feathers around the head, marvelling at how far it would go in. That never ceased to amaze him.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand but this was all he did. He would marvel as Rome fell, all the while his wonder mirrored in the faces of his courtiers and senators as they nodded along with all he did, seeing only what was before them as Honorius saw only the wonder of birds. No one would see the savages coming. Rome had become insular and forgotten itself entirely.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and cooed to them. If only he could fly himself, all the way to Greece, Egypt, Spain, Judaea and beyond. That would be amazing. If only his skin were feathers, his bones hollow, if only he knew those secrets of flight that his pets knew. And that of song! To sing, to understand the song. How marvellous it would be. The courtiers agreed. Truly great.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and soon wished he could fly when the Viscigoths arrived.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand but this was all he did. He would marvel as Rome fell, all the while his wonder mirrored in the faces of his courtiers and senators as they nodded along with all he did, seeing only what was before them as Honorius saw only the wonder of birds. No one would see the savages coming. Rome had become insular and forgotten itself entirely.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and cooed to them. If only he could fly himself, all the way to Greece, Egypt, Spain, Judaea and beyond. That would be amazing. If only his skin were feathers, his bones hollow, if only he knew those secrets of flight that his pets knew. And that of song! To sing, to understand the song. How marvellous it would be. The courtiers agreed. Truly great.
Emperor Honorius sat admiring the birds at his feet, arms, shoulder and hand and soon wished he could fly when the Viscigoths arrived.
Note: As with the next 250 Words, this was inspired by a John William Waterhouse painting, in this case The Favourites of Emperor Honorius, which I saw at an exhibition at the Royal Academy.
Thursday, 20 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 10
He had always been loathe to get emotional at the end of films but throw in a stirring soundtrack made up of a beloved song and he was gone.
Note: Again, my next Tweets gave more information about this:
Last tweet again based on true story. However I have no problem with getting emotional at things. In actual fact I have no choice. :'(
— James Atkinson (@JamesAtkinson81) November 18, 2011
Film: 127 Hours; Song: Festival by Sigur Rós (2nd, stirring, "half").
— James Atkinson (@JamesAtkinson81) November 18, 2011
Tuesday, 18 February 2014
250 Words: Historical romance story attempt #2
The artist looked beyond the sketchbook to his model determined to continue with his work. But it was hard. Her beauty, not to mention her nakedness, was somewhat distracting. He was determined, though, to remain professional and ploughed on despite the sweat that was starting to break out on his forehead.
At least she was still, whilst she remained still he could pretend she was merely a picture he was copying, like when a student in London’s art galleries. But then she bit her lip briefly and swallowed and he took in her beautiful neck. He tried to go back to his sketch but found that part complete. Then he heard her breathing and saw her bosom rising and falling, rising and falling and it became too much.
He rose abruptly, startling her. Seeing this he apologised and explained himself and apologised again. “It is no matter,” she said, “I have been thinking a lot while in this pose. Indeed, I have had quite a lot of time to do so in the last few days. And I think of the talks we’ve had before and after my sits and how sweet you are and how desperately I want you between my legs. So why don’t you put your clothes with mine and get over here.”
And so the partnership between artist and muse became sexual and began to flourish from its innocent beginnings of an artist selecting a beautiful model toward a passionate relationship that inspired scores of artworks.
At least she was still, whilst she remained still he could pretend she was merely a picture he was copying, like when a student in London’s art galleries. But then she bit her lip briefly and swallowed and he took in her beautiful neck. He tried to go back to his sketch but found that part complete. Then he heard her breathing and saw her bosom rising and falling, rising and falling and it became too much.
He rose abruptly, startling her. Seeing this he apologised and explained himself and apologised again. “It is no matter,” she said, “I have been thinking a lot while in this pose. Indeed, I have had quite a lot of time to do so in the last few days. And I think of the talks we’ve had before and after my sits and how sweet you are and how desperately I want you between my legs. So why don’t you put your clothes with mine and get over here.”
And so the partnership between artist and muse became sexual and began to flourish from its innocent beginnings of an artist selecting a beautiful model toward a passionate relationship that inspired scores of artworks.
Sunday, 16 February 2014
≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 9
The paint on the ground at the park's entrance read, "DOGS". I could see people beyond but; signs are rules we must obey so I walked away.
Note: My next Tweet read: "Last tweet based on a true story. Well: the sign exists but I saw it on the way out of the park (read square/gardens) so it didn't happen." Helpful, I know. It happened in Northampton Square, London.
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