Next week we'll be back to AV; this week I'll give a scrap of prose-poetry inspired by a a daily-prompt exercise from my friend +Bliss Morgan . If you'd like to play along, you can find her on Google Plus and, if you ask nicely, she'll let you play along.
Today's prompt was the sentence "It was only because of him that I survived". The image is very loosely related.
I may or not make one of these a day, and will post the best on Fridays to share.
"This is Not a True Story"
Today's prompt was the sentence "It was only because of him that I survived". The image is very loosely related.
I may or not make one of these a day, and will post the best on Fridays to share.
"This is Not a True Story"
We called him Big House,
not knowing what the words meant.
It was 1977.
We were six.
OK, they called him Big House. I didn't call him much of anything. Ricky or Rick, under my breath. Richard in my head. Even then I knew he deserved that much.
It was on the field we met
on the pitch we met - what would be the pitch when we learned the words.
It was underneath the noonday sun, barely touched by latesummer's chill.
No nets, no painted lines.
Just patches
of smooth dusty earth where the grass had been worn away by countless feet,
empty goalposts
letting a well-struck ball pass out of the game, back towards reality.
They called him Big House
They called me by my name.
It was 1977, or 1978.
Who knows?
not knowing what the words meant.
It was 1977.
We were six.
on the pitch we met - what would be the pitch when we learned the words.
It was underneath the noonday sun, barely touched by latesummer's chill.
Just patches
of smooth dusty earth where the grass had been worn away by countless feet,
empty goalposts
letting a well-struck ball pass out of the game, back towards reality.
They called me by my name.
It was 1977, or 1978.
Who knows?
On the field-not-a-pitch I was swift.
I was a space-knight defending the base,
a warrior defending his keep.
Big House was just a kid with a soccerball.
I stopped him each time, cleared the ball hard
past this sector,
returned to the battle.
Afterwards I'd see him drill against the wall.
Run, pivot kick.
Run kick pivot.
Some days I'd slip.
Some days the keep would be damaged, the shields on the battlestations weakened.
Still, I was swift.
Still, they called him Big House.
And me, nothing.
Like some Danish prince
from a story long ago, I pondered
if I'm called nothing, am I nothing?
Should I become nothing, embrace nothing?
Then I'd see Big House drilling against he wall.
Run, pivot kick.
Run kick pivot
and know that without me, he'd win.
I wouldn't let him.
Because of him
I survived.
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