I (sometimes) call myself Mr. Pondersome. I'm a rather wordy, weirdy person. I say hullo a lot. I write a lot more. While you're here, why not give some of it a read?

Saturday, 27 November 2010

"The Chronicle of Vita" (Revisited) and "Unwrapping Time" (Visited) - (a.k.a. Stuff I'm Working on that I Thought I Should Display in a Moment of Blog Boredom)

Hullo all!

As I'm sure you've probably realised (well, the few of you that actually find the time) I've been rather busy. So busy, in fact, that I haven't found the time to update this little blog of mine. Well, in response to that issue, I've managed to knock together a quick and relatively interesting entry concerning some of the work that I've been so busy doing.

The first text is a short poem called "Unwrapping Time". I made this as a result of a seminar activity on my course which I continued and improved upon at home. I think that it is sufficiently clear in sending it's message; a message that I came upon entirely by accident but find that I actually do believe in. Let's just say I'm big on the concepts and theories of time.

The second is the short story "The Chronicle of Vita", or rather the seventh and current draft of it. As some of you might notice I've showcased this poem before for Halloween, but I've altered it several times over since and so feel obliged to showcase it again.

Anyway, without further ado, here they are. Enjoy!


TIME is an envelope...
TIME is not the card.
TIME is a curtain...
TIME is not the art.
TIME is a coat...
TIME is not the skin.
TIME is without...
TIME is not within.


                Your flexed fingertips guide the book off the shelf by its spine. You feel the dust curl into your nails and sneeze violently as its hardback body crash-lands into your open palms.
            Why haven’t you read this book yet? It’s a classic, or so they told you. Hundreds of weathered pages of bygone brilliance.
            That’s why you’re going to read it now – it’s late and you’re suddenly bored again.
            What’s the title? “The Chronicle of Vita”. Succinct, but you still haven’t the faintest idea of what it’s about. There’s no blurb, no summary. It must be really old.
            You turn to the contents page. It’s half-complete; or is the ink just fading? You flick to the page where the story actually begins.

            ‘John Burling was a quiet man; quite afraid to speak out but content in his timidity...’

            You turn overleaf to check the following page.

            ‘Edwina Winston was a woman of passion and fire. It was this fire that often saw her into some detestable situations...’

            A page devoted to each character, eh? You skip a few dozen to see when things will actually pick up.
            Soon you realise that every page brings a new name, a new character. But how can a story have so many characters? You wonder. Surely it’s difficult to keep track of them all.
            You rest a finger on the twenty-first page and skim all the way down to the last paragraph. A throwaway sentence grabs you:

            ‘Young Donald picked up this book on January 23rd 1927 at four o’clock in the afternoon.’

            And that’s all. From that point on there is not even a passing mention of Donald Bamforth; not even a footnote.
            This book is very strange. Did these people actually exist? Is this fiction or non-fiction? If it’s the latter then you’re not interested: official records just aren’t your thing.
            You flick further on, closer towards the end of the book. At some point the words start to run out, till you’re faced with an onslaught of blank pages.
            You stop at one. It’s almost as if the writer ran out of ink or things to say, or maybe both. Or maybe not.
             You spy a black smudge at the top corner of the page. It’s drawing itself out, stretching into familiar shapes and symbols. It’s shifting into words. It’s spelling your name.
            The ink blot is moving to complete a full line of text now. It’s done and dropping down to the next.
            What the hell is going on here? This can’t be right. Books can’t write themselves, not literally. You’re hallucinating, you’re drowsy, you must be. But you’re not.
            You follow the ink as it completes the final line:

            ‘...picked up this book on October 26th 2010 at twelve o’clock in the evening.’

            The book slips through your dissolving fingers and collapses to the floor. It shuts itself. You check your hands and see nothing. You slip away. The ink’s still wet.

And there you have it. That's it. Well, not all of it. There's still a little shameless self-publicity to get out of the way too.
Recently I've been contributing a few creative writing pieces to a Sheffield-based e-magazine called "STEEL". Now I won't put up the link yet as there are still some features of it that are under construction, but I will as soon as the OK is given. If you're interested in reading it at all, then keep an eye out during the oncoming month.
Furthermore, as part of the e-zine, I am contemplating making some video readings. Before I send anything out to the editors I will be practising and, most likely, displaying the outcomes on here. So keep an eye out: it may be sooner, it may be later... 

Thanks for reading,

Mr. Pondersome

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