Smudge Writing

So here are some things about me: I've been writing for several years now, and its only lately that I've started to take it seriously. I prefer writing to typing, but want to try this as my place to put all my ideas, my experimentation and some of my work.

[smudgewriting]

http://www.creativewritingink.co.uk/journal/

Just got word that my short story (”Sun and Rain” by A.L. Clarke) just won Creative Writing Ink’s competition in May! Please follow the link if you want to give it a read and let me know what you think.

- Smudge Love

[smudgewriting]

63 + 1

Same old story, story old as time. It starts with a clean slate but, a word to the wise, ends with a bleeding heart. She was the bark worse than her bite, barking up the wrong tree and he was the cat that got her tongue. Hardly two peas in a pod but after all, opposites attract. Long story short, in a nutshell; boy meets girl. t was at Wits End, a local watering hole where – come hell or high water –  no one knew anyone from Adam. She ordered the ‘two birds one stone’ cocktail to blow off some steam from her nose at the grind stone – and met him. He was a Jack of old trades, nothing special, an average Joe really, but every dog has his day. Needless to say she caught his eye but he held his tongue, his horses, his head up high and he held his own. She just eyed him up time and time again. When they shook hands she saw the heart on his sleeve and the can of worms he kept up there. But those skeletons were all Greek to her. She was like a dog with a bone and there was more than one way to skin a cat.

It wasn’t until their first anniversary that he counted his blessings and his lucky stars, knowing what was written there. If life was like a box of chocolates he was armed to the teeth in the forbidden fruit. He ate his words when he saw her; the icing on the cake, the proof in the pudding, the sweet tooth that gave him his just desserts. Good enough to eat. But first impressions are the most lasting and odds were, against all odds, it would all end in tears. She would cry like a baby and he would cry her a river, and all too soon it would be water under the bridge for things to go belly up in.

But that was all behind the eight-ball, and I’ll tell you this for free; the devils always in the details. For now, he said the magic words and the rest is history.

“I love you.”

[acrylicalchemy]

Michael Carini | Beneath The Paint

[smudgewriting]

Imagine seeing patterns- geometry, symbols, even constellations - in everything. Imagine seeing perfect pentagons in smashed glasses or Orion’s belt traced across a frown.

This is all Ben sees. 

This is an idea for a short story I have been playing with for a while, and wanted to share my concept and ideas. Let me know your thoughts. Some of the real thing should follow soon. 

Smudge Love

[smudgewriting]

if realists are wannabe scientists then post-modernists are wannabe philosophers.

Smudge Writing

[smudgewriting]

Writing

[smudgewriting]

Noise 

‘Um… sorry….er… Sir? You dropped your ticket…’ ‘Oh, um, okay thanks.’ … ‘Probably don’t wanna leave that behind, am I right? Probably something pretty important!’ ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ ‘So what is that, a ticket? For a train? Oh – sorry it’s none of my business. ’ ‘No, it’s okay. No actually it’s a football ticket.’ ‘I see. Which team?’ ‘Er… Tottenham.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘Why? Who do you support?’ ‘Oh, I don’t. I’m just interested.’ ‘Okay…’ ‘It’s dated a while ago, huh? Why do you keep it? Sentimental?’ ‘Not really, I guess I just never empty my pockets.’ ‘I’m the same. Still got an old stick of gum I must have had for about three years in there.’ ‘Mhmm.’ ‘And these glasses, they’re old. Just have the lenses changed. They’re a little small now, if you see, but I like them. They’re, like, vintage-me.’ ‘Yeah I get it.’ ‘Sorry, didn’t wake you up, did I?’ ‘No, I wasn’t asleep.’ ‘Didn’t think you were. Odd place to sleep on a tube, wouldn’t you say? Lovely place, but still odd.’ ‘Yeah, I suppose.’ ‘Do you like the underground?’ ‘Um… Well, I never really thought about it before. It’s alright I suppose.’ ‘I love it. Ride the trains all day.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It’s as good a way as any to pass the time. Wouldn’t you say?’ ‘I guess. So are you just riding them today?’ ‘Yes. No. Well, kind of. See, I am going somewhere. Just like taking my time to get there.’ ‘… I see.’ ‘Really? Not many people get that. See I don’t think there is such a thing as “wasting time”, because the very act of “wasting time” is time well spent, in my book. But sometimes I think that’s just me.’ ‘Ah… Well, this is my stop. It was nice meeting you-’ ‘– Cathy.’ ‘Cathy. Right.’

[smudgewriting]

Silence

It was always packed at Paddington at four so much so that Cathy considered as she always did getting off of the tube and continuing her time-wasting by foot for today especially that would slow down time nicely but the train was already moving off and Cathy had found her seat her favourite seat only person in London her mother always said to love the tubes she settled her book on her lap and faced the blank pages they were always blank these days her eye was caught by the flicker of a mouse tail nearby it was the shoe lace of the boy next to her scattered in artistic disarray across the floor his sleeves were slumped at his side and his baggy jersey straightened and creased as the body beneath sighed to the beating hooves beneath the train eyes were closed beneath the brim of his hood but Cathy knew he was not asleep probably just pretending she peered closer at the laces under the rims of her glasses they were an ombre of mud and dyed nylon the result of a thousand careless wanderings maybe late at night in places you wouldn’t expect mud to reach  like a corner of Camden or a dark alley in the East end under spider-webbed streetlamps that block out the stars she turned back to her page but her eye was caught again by something falling nearby she scratched that something fluttering nearby it was made of paper but it wasn’t a shopping list and it wasn’t a letter that much she could be certain of it was something official a ticket of some kind maybe it was for the cinema from the date-night of a failed romance or a train ticket one to visit someone who lies ill a grandmother with her eyes barely open waiting hopefully desperately expectantly for her grandson to arrive to say his goodbye but will he come will he ever make it if this ticket lies abandoned trodden into the chewing gum and dust to leave her waiting always waiting?

Gently, Cathy reached down and picked up the ticket to give back to the boy.

[smudgewriting]

Exhibition of my collaborative project hyphencathy with talented illustrator taniacimatti