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Hinckley's very own writers workshop pages 

 

 

 

 

 

My Three Windows

 

Staring, lucidity with passive rolling eyes

Through a broken shattered window of opportunity

Un-wild dreams come spiralling down

Plagued by windows of complexity

With truths scared of intrusion.

 

Afraid of commitment

Ladled with our several crosses to bare

And a gnarled future of every sullen bitter memory

Failure upon failure lay open and bare

For all passing comments.

 

And that staring black eyed dog

Has nothing but despise for me

And the ghost traps of my mind

Sneaking in the closed widows

Of the back door.

 

The blood curls down my humble throne

Future uncertain, past preferably disowned.

by W.J.RIDGWAY

 

 

 

 

THE WET PYJAMA’S

 

"Come away from the window, Tom!" The abruptness of his mother’s tone cut sharply into his thoughts and he whirled round to face her. "But...." He snittered, his eyes still drawn to the spot," But.. ." The rest of the sentence wouldn’t come. All he could do was simply point over his shoulder in the direction of the pane; his lips flapping slowly open and closed like the gills of a fish out of water.

"No buts," said his mother, "do as you’re told. And put that chair back where you found it. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you not to climb on the furniture, especially near the windows!" Absently, Tom clambered down from the chair and began dragging it back to the dresser.

"Strange things happen when the moon is full," witch - like Algeria had said in the late night film which he wished he hadn’t watched secretly in his bedroom. Specters, cobwebby, crypts, tunnels, bony hands, evil, murder, terror, nightmares.

He was watching his moon huge, low, golden, filling him with strangeness, a feeling of having lived forever, of being possessed but having power. As the moon shone it’s reflection into the garden pond he knew he must do the dreadful thing.

He decided to face the reflection in the garden pond, he’d probably feel better with some air. His fear might have gone away by then. Off he went into the dark clad only in his striped pyjamas; Tom gazed into the water. He let out a SHRIEK of fear, as in the reflection he saw a prisoner from ‘Alkatras’ with his arrowed uniform on. Tom lost his balance and fell headfirst into the water, shattering his own and the prisoner" reflection. The water was freezing, as Tom hauled his cold, wet, heavy body back onto terra firmer. Tom looked over his shoulder; the reflection he’d seen was that of a man in his early forties, unshaven, scruffy.

"Don’t you recognize me, Tom?" Tom recognized him all right; it was his so-called father. He’d been sent down for murdering the cleaner, said he was sick of her always tidying up and moving his things.

"Come away from the window, Tom!" The abruptness of his mother’s tone cut sharply into his thoughts and he whirled round to face her. "But...." He snittered, his eyes still drawn to the spot," But..." The rest of the sentence wouldn’t come. All he could do was simply point over his shoulder in the direction of the pane; his lips flapping slowly open and closed like the gills of a fish out of water.

"No buts," said his mother, "do as you’re told. And put that chair back where you found it. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you not to climb on the furniture, especially near the windows!" Absently, Tom clambered down from the chair and began dragging it back to the dresser.

"Strange things happen when the moon is full," witch - like Algeria had said in the late night film which he wished he hadn’t watched secretly in his bedroom. Spectres, cobwebby crypts, tunnel, bony hands, evil, murder, terror, nightmares.

He was watching his moon huge, low, golden, filling him with strangeness, a feeling of having lived forever, of being possessed but having power. As the moon shone it’s reflection into the garden pond he knew he must do the dreadful thing.

He decided to face the reflection in the garden pond, he’d probably feel better with some air. His fear might have gone away by then. Off he went into the dark clad only in his striped pyjamas; Tom gazed into the water. He let out a SHRIEK of fear, as in the reflection he saw a prisioner from ‘Alkatras’ with his arrowed uniform on. Tom lost his balance and fell headfirst into the water, shattering his own and the prisioner" reflection. The water was freezing, as Tom hauled his cold, wet, heavy body back onto terra firmer. Tom looked over his shoulder; the reflection he’d seen was that of a man in his early forties, unshaven, scruffy. 

"Don’t you recognize me, Tom?" Tom recognized him all right; it was his so-called father. He’d been sent down for murdering the cleaner, said he was sick of her always tidying up and moving his things.

Without a second thought, Tom pushed his father into the pond, he held him down under the water for a while until he felt he’d stopped struggling, (this wasn’t difficult as his father had been drinking).

Tom returned to the house, "Where have you been, Tom?" asked his mother, "you’re soaking"

Tom stood by the window and stared out into the night. It’s stillness seemed eerie.

"Come away from that window, Tom, I won’t tell you again" his mother scolded. Tom felt his pajamas, they were dry. So it had all been a dream after all.

   

by Joint Members

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