'Hushed Lyrics', by Aron Woolnough

'Hey, wait up - it was
nice to meet you', he said.
'I've been waiting so long
just to feel this again'.
He was a lonely soldier
out for a battle.
He was a lonely soldier
when the music died.

Oh, she danced in silence in the silver spotlight.
He met her moving and they moved all night.
She didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to mind;
and at first he was loving, at first he was kind.

She was speechless when she watched him leave,
but he left in a rush because he couldn't believe
in daydream dancing to his own heart beat.

He looked into the mirror with a wistful smile,
he closed his eyes and heard her breath. 

But he didn't hear reason, when he feared of her treason.

'Hey, wait up - it was
nice to meet you', he signed.
'I've been waiting so long
just to feel this again'.
He was a lonely soldier
without a battle.
He was a lonely soldier
when the music died.

'Every night I dream and then I wake', by Aron Woolnough

Every night I dream and then I wake.

I dreamt of spring last night.

The wet blue day had only just begun.

A busy buzzing bee dropped into our garden

when the blossom flew across the Sun.

The blossom landed in your tucked-back hair

and the bee landed on my pale freckled arm.

It nestled between us and tickled me with it’s stinger.

You watched the sun rise and I watched you.

We never stopped smiling, but the bee buzzed off –

and then I wake with the cold bitter air by my side

and see I slept on solid dirt during the dusk. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of summer last night.

The shinning white day had only just begun.

We drove to the Zoo and we gasped,

a lioness dozed under the high Sun.

She was fierce, could cut a man in half.

The ground was marked by thick claws.

The beast soundly slept as we studied it,

but we found no meaning for a lioness

and we left it for the honey bees –

and then I wake to trace the hard naked hills

and see them shaping the bloody horizon. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of autumn last night.

The cool brown day had only just begun.

Dead leaves had dried to a crisp and we crunched

them under our footsteps, following the Sun

through the tree tops towards no where.

Weaving through the trunks without a path,

but everywhere we reached, there you were,

standing by my side. You kicked through the leaves

and I laughed until you left –

and then I wake as a siholuette standing against a bright white moon. The day had only just begun.

I dream of winter tonight.

The cold black day has only just begun.  

Shivered plants fade away and leave a hunger.

I am freezing without the low hanged Sun.

Lost in the darkness, searching for a light.

Hoping to find you for the rest of my life,

but only finding fright and sleepless nights.

I walk about a void under directionless stars,

the white moon slips into darkness –

and then I wake, the sun has risen and the day is hot, but my skin is still so pale.

Short Fiction Writing Exercises

Third person writing exercise

He joined the queue and grabbed some confectionery to keep his hands busy. The faint aroma of coffee distracted him momentarily from the task at hand. He bought her a drink and offered her a seat to soften the decision. He looked over the balcony, unable to look her in the eye. His gaze consumed in the masses of people passing below. He closed his eyes. He said it, cold, hard and heartless like the clean table between them. She slapped him, his cheek felt the warmth from her palm where she'd embraced the drink he'd bought her. She stormed away, everyone remaining in the queue watched as if it was on TV. He glanced above the counter, quickly studying the menu and contemplated if he should have bought her a more expensive drink.

First person writing exercise

I'd seen her in class and had slowly managed to reposition myself until I was next to her. She was funny and clever, she liked what I like and was constantly having her heart broken. My damsel in distress, I couldn't wait to save her.

Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ask her out - maybe she is too nice to reject me - she said yes. I'd kept my excitement on the down-low, but by the date, I couldn't wipe the freakish smile off my face. That's when everything went wrong.

Since I'd confessed myself to her, she changed. Was she being distant? Nervous? Or does she think this is how I want her to act? Now it's like dating my ex, just anyone, just a pair of legs. Maybe once she is comfortable around me, she'll open up again... I kissed her, she kissed back. She didn't change back. I was scared of breaking her heart, but I didn't know whose heart this was.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark

This evening has been one of contemplation and evaluation of life and the events occurring within. I've been watching a lot of short films on youtube recently, all in the early stages of brainstorming up an idea. So far I'm not able to convert this philosophy into creativity.

I can't sleep at night. Its either too hot, or too rainy, or too buggy. Glitching out during the night doesn't start your day off well. You finally manage to close your eyes as the birds start singing. You look around your room and see all the death by your hand, taking the phrase 'Crushing like a bug' at its utmost literal. You sit up and consider trying to sleep or just starting the new day. You hear a sibling or parent wake up and begin theirs, when you're not sure whether to finish yours or soldier on.

I click continue, which often leads to unintentional game overs. When I sleep in the middle of the day in the heat, through sheer exhaustion, my dreams are vivid and most fierce. They become intense and rapidly decent into the realm of nightmares. Facing mortality and destruction, loss of control and violation of will on a daily basis can begin to drive you a little crazy. I was hoping my new found insanity would aid my creative flux. Though it appears to diminished all thoughts into rationalised fears and paranoia.

Driving is when its worst. I drive when I'm wide awake, but the lingering thoughts throughout the over lapping days creep in when you're only focusing on the road and the cars around you. Thoughts tease you, at the possibility of crashing, whether to wake you up or finally find a way to catch up on sleep. The illusion of power with 70mph at your fingertips can corrupt even the most innocent minds. Fortunately rationality prevails.

So far into the night, you cannot justify having music playing or a film on screen. You force yourself to sleep and eliminate all other competition. The local drunkard's drama is the only entertainment available, muffled by the pitta patter of moths drumming on your ceiling. Momentarily you'll be comfortable, time will do its thing and you will be uncomfortable. Turn your pillow for the cooler side. Turn yourself over for the cooler side. Eyelids heavy. Yawning painful. Dry throat. Dry lips. You whisper a pray for rain.

A flash of white shines into your room for a split second. You consider the possibility of aliens before lightning. A crash of thunder dispels the hopeful theory of being abducted and induced into a deep sleep. The pitta patter of moths is replaced with the heavy drops of rain striking the ground. You feel the air turn to butter, the room becomes humid and you think of your curtains more as mosquito nets. The air is cooler though.

Finally, the air is cooler. Heavy eye lids can finally rest. Deep breaths of cool air. Your body temperature returns to human levels. The rate of blinks per second increases exponentially and eventually they just remain closed. You didn't even have to think about it. A bug lands on your arm, but you don't care. Finally, sleep. Your eye lids turn from black to a redy pink for a split second. You feel yourself drifting away. A crash of thunder sounds like it personally punched you in the face.

Now every drop of rain sounds like a crash of thunder. A chorus of giants bellowing boisterously for my attention. Spitting and spluttering everywhere. You smack your arm and kill the smug bug. You find something disposable to wipe it off your skin with. You sit up and see the time is pushing 3am. You know from the last few days that sunrise is just round the corner. You know from the last few days that the birds will sing before the sun will rise and perhaps you should research just how much hunting rifles cost.

You stare up at your ceiling in the dark, same old empty feeling in your heart like you're looking at a starless sky. Hope and ideology is non-existent. As far as priority goes, the word has little meaning, as if anything other than rest could be your priority. The stubborn Earth continues to spin on its axis. Within no time at all, the croak of crows and the crack of dawn come about and inform you that another 24 hours has past. A day used to mean the interval between sleep. I'm both awake and asleep, in a perpetual state, in an unbroken cycle.

Suddenly sleep seems like an abstract concept. The routine and cycles of days and weeks become arbitrary and meaningless. What is a Saturday? What is a Tuesday? Different sets of 24 hours. Different names for the exact same interval of time. It's said that Sunday is the day of rest. I wonder if it will bring me rest or live up to its namesake and allow Sol to bring me to the boil and then leave me to simmer.


~A

"Inamorata mid Paramour" by Aron Woolnough

A long time caging my rage
and I'd be hating just fine,
but yee, but yee, be down
because I played the fool
and I, curse I, be damned,
you broke the ice with a kiss;
how did thou end up like this?

Falling upon a bed asleep
while she left me alone to weep
and dream aside his ash filled pipe
aghast haunting my aerial drift,
and shift as they purge a bedchamber
to fire putrid pain onto my gut o' amber,
but it's all in my head, it's all in my slumber.

A giggle, a gasp and she fingers his chest,
he tears through her dress onto caress
her captivating beauty, not letting me go,
burning forth from me uncontrolled,
jealousy, churning darkness by the sea
swimming amid a sick alibi
choking I can not preach goodbye.

'The Wordsmith' by Aron Woolnough

Don't believe I wrote this?
Want me to drop in some names or go hiss-tiss,
tuff-puff, oogle-boogle,
don't take my word for it,
hit feeling lucky on google.

I'm a crafter of the croak, a revolution of the word,
these rhymes will feed my ego even if they're absurd.
Does it make your brain boggle or your mind mangle,
that you can't believe, that I'm not playing an angle?

I don't want to smother you in words so I'll give you a chord
it starts with dang dong and it's played on keyboard;
if you hit A minor, then the dang-dong -
wait, don't twist my words into abusing kid King Kong -
hit a C major and you're back in the song.

I'd be strong at singing hymns if they weren't all wrong,
this is right now and no one's playing around,
my words'll make my money just by being a sound,
I don't care for cash, but its hard to say no
when you've got this much talent, they'll keep on feeding you dough!

I'm not quite there yet, so I'll take this slow,
I'll call this bit the bridge and then pitch'll get low,
if you haven't done it yet, you should drop the tempo,
start to sound real gloomy for this part of the show,
build suspense cos everyone is waiting to blow,
the star that I am is starting to glow.

I was gonna try to hide it, but you already know
that I could write a kick-ass poem,
about my parents and show it to 'em.
Show that I'm the poet, that wrote it and sow my seed;
be an artist I insist, not led by greed -
kill some stanzas in pyjamas as I hit the hay.

I'm the wordsmith of the future, so you'll do what I say,
I'm expecting to be nominated for penguin awards any day,
no one's sure if it's fair on the runners-up anyway,
as I'm the wordsmith of the future, hammering not stammering,
no mutter, stutter or utterance unintended.
I'm a linguist, an artist and kick-ass too,
as I'm preaching to my canvas in my kick-ass room.

Cogito, ergo sum

It's strange, when in a certain mind-frame, nothing and everything makes sense. When you forget the magical aura humans have invented around life and mystery and replace that fiction with fact - you question everything. When you remember that humans are a handful of organs, carbon, water, atoms... The illusion of romantic notions like love, commitment and faith are just ideas. Love isn't a magical thing, there aren't soul mates - it's a chemical reaction.

However when this mind-set is upon you, the world makes sense. It fits in logical balance with the universe, the mind-boggling complexity is unquestionable, but it makes sense and I think seeing through the magic is the destruction of innocence and ignorance that everyone needs to enlighten their perspective on life - to enrich their happiness, to motivate them to do great things and for them to prioritise what is important to them.

Though, it is a sacrifice when the alternative is blissful ignorance - we can all be more mature and sensible in a world without magic, potentially leading to fair government, global equality and peace on Earth, but what keeps you invested in humanity when the walls of reality crumbles around you and a man's life becomes a number?

Je pense donc je suis

You decide your own reality.