I would drink sun cream to hasten April along

Wow, guys. We’ve been having a serious heat wave over here on the Emerald Isle. College has become a swarm of shorts, sandals and sunburn. It’s brilliant, the weather… I’d love to be enjoying it more, but this week has been assignment hell for me. Two essays, one presentation, an online worksheet assignment and two graded scene enactments – thankfully by Saturday they’ll all be done and ready to be forgotten about. …Sadly, rain is forecasted for the weekend. Murphy’s Law: never fails as far as work and weather are concerned. πŸ˜›

Despite the blissy mood I’ve been in all week (result of all the extra Vitamin D I’ve been getting) my writing’s been leaning towards the grim, depressing and potentially obscure recently. No, I’m not talking about my 2500 word essay on the effect the Cold War had on theatre which I’ve only just started; I’ve actually written some non-obligatory things recently! This is a revelation for me, given I’ve been fairly idle wannabe-writer-wise for the last six months. I’m feeling vaguely pleased with myself, so I’d figure I’d share something. Nothing stellar at all, but sure I’ll stick them up anyway.

First up: random poem I had to write based on a postcard. Bit difficult to make sense of it in the first place, but it’s even more difficult when I can’t supply the exact image in question. It was of the Piazza Di Spagna in Rome however and it was a fairly enticing picture – you’d certainly feel jealous getting that in your letter box!

Passing up the stairs
It felt like they were walking through a tapestry.
Red and gold but not
Brilliant; faded,
Like frail threads of a medieval relic.
Unused to the lack of banister, they
Clutched each other
Not just for support
But with the tentative grasps of promise.

Not Paris, no; but perhaps the eternal city
Was a better omen for the journey they would embark on.

Secondly, something a lot shorter (and possibly more ambiguous). It’s prose, very short, too adjective-filled and something I’d like to explore further once my life is exam- and assignment-free. πŸ™‚

Sterile beeping. The clack of decisive feet through linoleum-paved halls. A sustained hush, broken only by laboured breathing, the rattle of a trolley passing or the subdued sniffs of relatives and friends. Hospitals have distinctive sounds; none so much as those found in the intensive care unit.

After giving Jen’s hand one last squeeze, I released her unfeeling fingers and got to my feet.