#scribuary

Hi writers and creators! Hope you’re all doing well. It’s been a while since this blog was active but I thought I’d restart it. I’m hoping to post some writing prompts, resources, writing inspiration, etc. Now that we’re all self-isolating, this can be a great time to catch up on any old projects--or start totally something new! With that being said, keep in mind this is a stressful, unprecedented time, so don’t feel bad if you having trouble creating. Take a breather and put your health first. Be well!

"The Persistence of Memory", painted by artist Salvador Dalí, 1931. One of his most recognizable works. Sometimes referred to by more descriptive titles such as "Melting Clocks", "The Soft Watches" or "The Melting Watches".

Picture chosen for the first prompt of @scribuary: Choose a famous historical photo or work of art and write your own interpretations or fictionalized story based on the picture or painting.

***

Drip, drip, drip, flows the passage of time, like a fine stream of sand over the steep edge, every stream a river alone and yet as one they all cascade, down where the light reaches no more.

And they fall until they hit rock bottom, and then the bottom breaks and they gather in the clouds only to fall again, and again, and again.

Though the sky is bathed in golden light, the sun bright over faraway cliffs, trying in vain to slow down its end, and the heat burns and burns and it smells like burning ocean blues, the golden glow devouring at once the evening sky.

It smells like freshly pounded dough left to melt down the edge of the table, like broken numbers and misplaced pointers and metal that feels like glue in your hands, it smells of scorching summer heat and harsh desert treks under the midday sun.

Something has already eaten away at the wheels, they no longer spin.

One of them has gone bad, rotten by the unforgiving nature of constant, constant ticking. The river has turned into a trickle, that trickle into a drop, that drop to something that we can no longer see.

How strange, I say, for these to lie here unattended. Freshly washed and hung to dry, for surely in this heat they will do so?

Ah, but the ocean of time never dries out. Hear the trickle of fine sand by your feet? The desert, too, is an ocean of sorts, and always in the ocean even a single drop will keep the current flowing strong, no?

Drip, drip, drip, sound the melted clocks. And they fall and hit the bottom, again, again, again.

Written for @scribuary. Switching things up and trying a screenplay format. 

Prompt #5: Write something based around a flower/plant and its meaning(s).

FADE IN.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

A clean, well-kept room. On the desk is a mirrored tray, loaded with crystal bowls. A WOMAN, mid-30s, is asleep on the bed. Slowly, peacefully, she wakes up.

SUDDENLY, a memory:

EXT. CAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

The woman is driving through a snowstorm. The blizzard is blinding, and she can hardly see in front of her.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

The camera zooms out to show her whole body: she’s wearing a black dress and evening gloves, and her hair is in a formal updo.

EXT. CAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

We see the woman is wearing the same outfit. She’s at a red light and stops to check her phone. Someone’s honking at her, and she looks up--the light is green. She continues driving.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

She gets out of bed and walks towards the tray. In each bowl, there is a flower. A pale blue lotus, an orange marigold, a black rose, a yellow rose, and a white asphodel. She examines each--breathing in the scent, inspecting them, feeling the petals.

EXT. CAR - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

She slows down at a stop sign. There’s screeching behind her, howling brakes, as the car behind her makes impact. She’s pushed into the intersection, and she sees blinding white headlines cut through the snow, rapidly coming towards her.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

She finally decides on the black rose. Then the blossom begins to change, to morph, into something else. The petals fall away layer by layer, each one turning and curling and transforming into a small black ball. It continues to evolve, until she’s holding something else entirely different. In her hand is a black pearl necklace.

A hand touches her shoulder in a half-comforting, half-menacing gesture. She turns suddenly and sees A MAN standing behind her. His dark robe covers his face. He takes the necklace from her hand and clasps it around her neck.

They walk out of the bedroom, down a pristine white hall, and towards a door. The man opens it and walks through, into a snowstorm. She follows. The wind whips and howls, the snow whips around her, but she is pleasantly warm. She touches the pearls at her throat and finds them to be almost uncomfortably hot.

As the two walk down the snowy path, the camera moves down and racks focus. On the ground, lying next to a mangled metal heap that was once a car, is the woman’s bloodied body.

CUT TO BLACK.

THE END

Lotus: Rebirth, reincarnation. Enlightenment and purity, victory of the spirit. Ascension.

Marigold: Grief, the fragility of life. Healing. Remembrance of those who have passed. A sacrifice to gods.

Black pearl rose: Death, mourning, sorrow. Dark magic. The end of a journey. Uncharted waters. The beginning of something unknown.

Asphodel: The underworld, the haunt of the dead. Can be medicinal or fatal. Gloom, pallor, and the afterlife.

Sucking shallowly at the air he leaned heavily against the wall, the brick cool beneath his sweaty palm. The other was tucked beneath his jacket, pressed securely to his bloodstained shirt.

Gritting his teeth he fought for balance. Once achieved he continued on, sticking close to the exterior of the building. Each step an agony that forced him to shuffle.

Grass whispered as his boots passed through it, drops of dew darkening the leather. Inch by inch he progressed, the light of the lamps at the front of the building beckoning him.

When he reached the corner he hugged the turn, eyes roaming the expanse of lawn for security. Lackeys. Anyone.

A breath of wind stirred the grass. Colored autumn leaves swayed on the branches of evenly spaced trees lining the walkway.

Save for the vegetation, nothing moved.

Had the goal been theft or sabotage, no doubt he would have encountered opposition. It was only when he was in need of aid, of course, that there was not a soul in sight to intercept him.

Easing onto the cobblestone walkway he made for the front door. Grabbing at the handle, he half expected to find it locked. When it gave under pressure he slipped inside the home of a man who had once been a friend. And had almost killed him twice.

The corridor was longer than he recalled, though the low lighting was eerily familiar. Veering toward a set of double doors, he did not so much as push them open as fall against them.

His weight sent one swinging hard on its hinges, the thud of it colliding with the wall resonating through the room.

A man and woman, conversing nearby, startled at his unceremonious entrance.

Staggering sideways his shoulder connected with the wall. Hunching in on himself, he growled out his pain in wordless torture. When he made to step forward his legs came unhinged and he went to his knees.

“What the hell?”

Reuben’s voice spiked the pace of his heart. Bracing a hand against the tiled floor, Callum angled his head to watch their approach.

A scowl adorned Reuben’s expression, where a sly smile would have sat with more comfort. “What happened to you?”

“What does it look like?” Callum snapped between ragged breaths.

“Like you made a mistake.” Reuben crouched in front of him, his companion hovering nearby.

Callum snorted, immediately regretting it when pain forked up his side. “Yeah,” he breathed.

Recoiling as Reuben reached for him, they eyed one another warily.

“Do you expect me to fix it?” Reuben asked, grasping the edge of Callum’s jacket and lifting it away from the wound.

“No, I came to steal your money.” The room had begun to spin subtly, robbing his voice of the intended sarcasm. “You owe me for the Burlington job.” A pause, to catch his breath. “And medical bills are expensive.”

Reuben studied him. “Who was it?”

“Does it matter?” Callum dropped his eyes to the floor when Reuben’s expression darkened.

A hand fisted in his jacket, and with an arm circling his waist, Reuben made to haul him up. The abrupt motion wrought a scream from him.

“Get the fuck on your feet, Callum.”

Scrambling to get them under him, he staggered. Kept from sprawling by Reuben’s hold on him.

“Sir?” the woman stepped forward, but Reuben waved her off when she made to help.

“You could just kill me here,” Callum wheezed. “Good a place as any.”

Reuben scoffed. “There’s no victory in killing you while you sit in a pool of blood I didn’t draw.”

“You’re just jealous-“ He hissed as he was forced into movement, and continued through clenched teeth. “Someone else managed what you couldn’t.”

“Shut up,” Reuben said.

“Fuck you.”

Reuben barked out a laugh. “I don’t think you’re up for it right now.”

Callum wrenched away, and was startled when he hit the floor. Stars burst across his vision, and he experienced an odd moment of disconnect between body and mind.

Reuben heaved a sigh. “I could just drag you.”

With darkness encroaching at the corner of his eyes, Callum found himself unable to summon a come back.

Reuben stooped to grab hold of him, but Callum sagged listlessly against the other man. They might have stagnated in the hallway, had they not been accompanied by Reuben’s companion.

“Get over here and help me with him,” Reuben snapped at the woman.

Together they brought him back to his feet, half dragging him into the depths of the building.

“You better not die on me.” Reuben’s voice came as if from a distance. “Killing you is my job. I won’t let you take that from me.”

He sat in his bedroom sketching the view from his east window. He wasn’t allowed to paint in his bedroom, but he was allowed to sketch and draw. He had a studio on the floor below him that he was allowed to paint in, but it didn’t have the view that his bedroom did.

He had sketched a cypress but was unsure about how he wanted the space next to the tree to look. It was quite bare, but he had a vivid imagination. There was nothing next to the tree, just a wheat field that he had drawn multiple times, but, in his mind, he could see a small village, with smoke from fires coming out from the chimneys. He finished the sketch, not adding in the bars from his window.

He went downstairs to his studio the next day and painted it. He added in stars and swirls which made the sky come alive. He finished it, and didn’t like what he saw. So, he wrote to his brother, like he usually did. He wrote that the painting was a failure.

He took his own life the next year.

After his death, that painting became one of his most famous paintings.

It was called The Starry Night.

And it was painted by Vincent Van Gogh.

@scribuary prompt #5 is flowers and their meanings, so I wrote this little scene with John, Mary, and Sherlock! It’s a bit of my personal headcanon, where John and Mary move in downstairs after Mrs. Hudson retires, and Sherlock and John continue their slow exploration of ~feelings~ for each other.

From the living room, Sherlock’s ears tracked John’s footsteps as he came in off the street, strode past the stairs - bounce in his step, good mood - and entered the first-floor flat for a few minutes, before clattering up the stairs. Sherlock, by the window, and Mary, knitting in John’s chair, both turn towards him.

“Happy Valentines Day, love,” John said, presenting Mary with a bouquet roses - red, symbol of romantic love, almost certainly a traditional dozen - with a flourish.

“Oh John,” said Mary, beaming up at him. “They’re beautiful!”

Sherlock let his eyes slide away as they kissed. His catalog of ticket stubs was due for an update. He’d have to go out, collect some samples.

“I’ll go put these in some water,” he heard Mary say, and then she was moving towards the kitchen.

“And, well,” John turned and held a hand out to Sherlock. “For you.”

This was… unexpected. Sherlock put out his palm, and received... a very small, purple flower.

Sherlock stared at it.

“They were on sale,” John said, shifting his weight.

“John!” cried Mary, roses now bursting from Sherlock’s largest erlenmeyer flask.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, quite in agreement with her tone. “No flowers are on sale this day, of all days. Even a very small one - consumerism at its best. Did you steal it?”

John laughed.

“No! No, I did not - I didn’t buy them today. I bought them months ago, as a plant. Been growing in a pot on the windowsill. They actually… they’d been with Mrs. Hudson, she got more light in her window. Our window, now.”

Sherlock held it up, level with his eyes. Five lobed petals on a slender stalk, 2.5cm in diameter, no specialty garden stores along John’s commute, so fairly common houseplant. “African violets.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock frowned. This felt important. Why would John hand him a flower?

John shifted his weight. “I was… going to plant them. By your grave.”

Sentiment. “Why?”

“As a symbol. To help me… move on. But I chose the wrong flower for that.”

“Violets…” murmured Sherlock. “They symbolize.... loyalty. Devotion.” The small flower in his hand felt soft. Delicate.

He hadn’t thought John was delicate, when he’d… left. Good, sturdy John, always dependable, always ordinary. The punch he'd thrown when Sherlock revealed himself had felt like the weight of the world, crashing him back down into solid earth.

Strong, but not immune to hurt, his conductor of light.

Sherlock studied John’s face, now a bit flushed. Embarrassment.

John shifted his weight again. “I...didn’t think you’d keep that sort of information. Flower meanings. You can see why it didn’t exactly help me getting over… well.”

He cleared his throat. “Not the right climate for them anyways, out of doors.”

Sherlock lightly twirled the flower in his finger, unsure how to respond. His default off-hand sarcasm would have to do. “And what am I supposed to do with this? Shall I press it dry between two pages of my diary and then encase it in a locket to clutch at my next funeral?”

“I think it’d look quite lovely in your hair,” Mary suggested, with a little smile. She’d returned to her knitting. “Purple’s a very fetching color for you.”

Sherlock tucked it behind his ear, and John smiled.

“I have seen my death,” she said when she first glimpsed it.

She saw her naked future                          before her funeral.

It went through stony flesh                           leisurely, like a ghost.

She lost (in an electromagnetic                            river) our nest 

(our human nest built of                            faustian overbookness).

The lab, where photography had won                            millions of lives, 

was dusty, achromatic, hypnotizing, —                            was almost a graveyard?

He got undressed and told                            his bones ‘hello!’

A/N: @scribuary prompt, Acrostic writing For poetry, the first letter of each line spells out a word.

Smiling through it all,

Under the watchful gaze of doctors.

Playing while attached to an IV pole.

Enduring all the treatments:

Radiation, chemotherapy, surgery,

Hospital rooms for months on end.

Engaging in battle everyday, fighting

Rouges no one can see.

Overflowing with courage, these children,