#coffeebreak: winter in amsterdam
A chilled writing challenge to suit the oncoming winter. Write for 10 minutes on the image below. Post the results in the comments at the bottom.
Bikeless Winter in Amsterdam, originally uploaded by B℮n.
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Bikeless Winter in Amsterdam:
It was early and… cold. Very cold. Cold enough to freeze my mind into humble submission, to freeze it into the vacant warmth of non-thought. I was thankful for this. A secret is a burden which we carry with faltering eyes. Maybe the cold could numb this weight, if only for a moment. The thoughts whirring around inside my head were beginning to seep out through the pores of my skin, unleash themselves from my mind, unfetter themselves from the icy glow of my eyes. And this was a secret I couldn’t let loose. Not yet. Joe knew better than to share this kind of information with someone who couldn’t hold their tongue, or their thoughts in check. I was his man. I knew I had to get out of this hollow town before it was too late, and I knew I couldn’t trust anyone with this information, including myself. As strong as I was, I was not immune to the warmth of comfort offered by those perilous foes of ours, the Delta Network. The Network we were not to speak about. I was beginning to wonder if maybe they had some answers for me. Where did I fit into this jigsaw??
Danger never bears down so quickly upon you as when you consider yourself safe, and I guess this was the mistake I thought I had already learnt previously. In a moment, your whole life can change, all it takes is that one split second. The fragments of time falling in precisely the wrong order, or perhaps the right order depending upon your perspective of the situation, your view.
Without warning I was trapped with a damp cloth bag being pulled tight down over my head. I tried to strike out but I was buried in darkness, and things went hazy as I felt the sharp hard reality of something solid striking against my temple. Like the snow falling conspicuously around me, my body made a heavy slump toward the ground. The moment of a new course had arrived…
Cheers, Benjamin
http://www.bsawon.wordpress.com
Life imitates art. Like the character, I found myself stuck, with no clear way forward or back. Oh well, here goes:
Winter in Amsterdam
Jan pedalled towards the hut at the end of the road, weaving through the rubbish and rubble and broken glass. The rain pricked his exposed face, the wind passed through him like a damp rag.
He watched the hut, saw the smoke spiralling from its chimney. He pedalled steadily, lungs aching and burning, flecks of tobacco surfacing in his throat.
He stopped his bike a few metres away. Through the dirty fogged window he saw a guard, taking a sip from a steel cup.
The guard flicked a glance at him, not meeting his eyes, and shifted his gaze away.
“I did not look at you,” the glance said, “Therefore you do not exist.”
Jan waited a few seconds. This was important.
To not wait, would imply that the guard’s behaviour was expected, that Jan understood what he was thinking. This would annoy the guard.
Wait too long and the guard would have to stop pretending not to see him, interrupt his coffee and leave his warm fire. This would annoy the guard.
Jan moved on, trying to appear hesitant, uncertain. The guard and his rifle hovered in his mind. The tyres running along the ground. The jacket rubbing against his back.
The bike turned to the right and the guard was forgotten. He headed for the dark underpass and it rushed up to meet him, flooded, half-frozen, brazenly blocking his way. Jan braked hard and reluctantly shuddered to a stop,
A mirror, he thought. Some one has jammed a mirror under that bridge, cut it to size, pushed it in, polished it to an immaculate sheen. The reflected bike too perfectly the reverse of the one at his feet.
He walks forward, past the first bike. The crunching sound of the snow is the only noise in the entire city. Everything has stopped, even his chattering teeth. His steps alone rupture the winter frozen silence with a fizzing crinkle that sounds as though each carefully placed foot is ripping through the very fabric of the planet.
The bridge looms. The man takes his gloves off, the air soaking straight past his shocked skin and cutting into his bones like a welder. The cold is white hot inside him. He feels his fingers harden at the knuckles but regardless he reaches forward to touch the reflective surface.
His fingers, then his hand, and then his forearm dip into the reflection and, as though he were scooping water from a flailing boat, when he attempts to drag it out, he feels resistance, and when it gives something comes away with it, falling viscously at his feet. He looks at the image, it isn’t the same now. The bike is no longer there, but it isn’t a simple case of the bike disappearing from the image; it is like a portion of the image, has disappeared from the image. There wasn’t a different object, or even no object, lying in the snow. There wasn’t even a black space, because that would be something. This was nothing, as though part of that mirrored world had ceased to exist. Never matching the man’s world again.
At his feet a slurping noise drew his attention. On the ground a jellied mass wobbled and writhed, mewling in the cold.
Mewling! What a word. I don’t really even know what it means Dan but I do like the sound of it!
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