Writer, Publisher, Retired

Tag: creative writing (Page 2 of 2)

Holding Rice

The sky was darkening by the minute as the clouds turned from white to light grey to a darker shade, to charcoal and now indeed black with a rapidity rarely seen. A wind had suddenly sprung up. Starting as a light breeze with a vague hint of coolness. Then gradually becoming a more noticeable breath of cool on face and exposed skin. A stronger blast. And now strengthening as its power is rediscovered, moving the branches on the trees surrounding the village and sending out a siren of rustles and creaking wood as it further strengthens and trees start to sway and bend. The sound of a branch falling through the foliage to the fine red dry dirt on the ground breaks the whistles of wind now flowing through not only every open space but finding every gap between massed trees, the smattering of houses on the dirt red packed mud road, that they were built along. The red dirt from under the trees, the road and even the rice farmland down the end of the pike now becoming airborne and coating the floors of the rude wooden houses on stilts, passing into the communal areas and under the houses where the farm tools were now coated in red. Visibility falling as the black darkness seemed to descend around all. With the rise of the wind, now a crescendo of whistles, crashing boughs, falling tools and pieces of slamming houses. The air now filled not only with dust in the air but pieces of tree, house, tile and detritus. Doors not fastened blown closed and open, crashing in rhyme to the beat of the wind.

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Twins

I stand looking into the deep blue azure sky with the sun blazing and reflecting off of me and twinkling and blinding and heating, and I gaze at my not so distant twin and see the same. Both of us so proud and tall in the early morning sun that is warming us both from a long night before. And down below such an amount of movement and sound just like on so many days.

And knowing of the good and the bad that I exist for as it spins, and moves and churns all around me. At times so tired of it all. At times so in need of change. At times so much wanting not to be part of it. And always the bad remaining uppermost. Why oh why do they have to do bad?
Now busier and noisier and dirtier and with rising smells and odours and sounds that only serve to disillusion more as I wonder how long? How long must this incessant repetition go on for? Not just for me but also my own identical twin. Identical in virtually every detail. And with what some would say was perfection that my own father my own mother my creators and the creators of my replica were so very, very proud of. And for some reason that neither of us understood so many who lived near us were so proud of. Why?

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