I finally finish my piece on the Trial of Oscar Wilde, only to realise I have incorrectly answered the question. It was concerning attitudes towards Crime and Punishment not Homosexuality. Wonderful, it looks like I will have to speak with the staff to see if any of it is salvageable. All this and I still haven’t gotten around to even attempting my Tower entry. The deadline is the 2nd of March I believe, so it appears as though I will miss out on that also.
Cat x Rafpak
Valentine
My moistening palm sits delicately, intertwined
With each slender figure you outstretch. Hurriedly
I throw naive glances, desperate to meet the unfathomable
Depths of burnished brown your eyes exude. The
Perfect, slight arches of your lips shine iridescently
With the smouldering vitality of crimson. With one
Nervous arm I draw your waist to mine, the other
Purposefully arranging your curled hair. My tense
Eyelids shut as our lips touch in unspoiled unification.
To wed our inimitable dreams to the significance of
A setting sun.
Tower Prize
Struggling with my intended entry for the Tower Prize. Voyages is a really awkward theme. Will probably use Elliot as my inspiration I think, as it was the first thing I thought of when reading the theme of voyages: “Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter”. Will post my draft up on here once I make any headway with it.
Arrived today: Exercise in Futility by Steve Lowenthal & Dan Rossiter and Social Butterfly by Dan Rossitter. Thanks Dan
Recent acquisitions: Palinurus is the 1945 repress and was a gift, Goethe is the 1959 Heinemann German language repress and Yeats is the 1931 Macmillan repress.
Excerpt
Observantly and with great hesitation, the words were delivered from my awkward pursed lips. “Well I suppose I could take a brief leave of absence.” My eyes dragging shamefully to the floor as I began to buckle under the pressure. The concise rebuttal established my position. “Very well; I feel a four week leave of absence would be beneficial. You may collect a month’s reduced pay and then you are to leave us.” I meekly uttered my resigned support: “Thank you. I’m certain it will be beneficial.” I scuttled off with shame burning hot on my forehead. The once-familiar, communal classrooms were now a stark reminder of my looming, leprous isolation. As I apprehensively entered the staff room I may no longer frequent. My damp, twitching fingers fumbled with the envelope. My dishonourable discharge was complete as my feet beat a mismatched march out those no longer welcoming doors. Wistfully, I stared up at the sky. It was clear and undisturbed, I felt as if every millimetre was visible for me. Then I froze and realised that every millimetre of me was clear. Everybody could view me, that hideous, repellent flaw that made every moment so dangerous. Suddenly I stuffed both hands into the coarse woollen pockets of my jacket. The envelope crinkled and bunched under the haste and force of my fists.
Once my feet left the last square of academic property I did not stop walking. There was no purpose to my movements, I lacked direction and I had nowhere to go. Nothing needed me and my empty apartment did not seem welcoming. Therefore it was decided that I would wander without reason through the city, eventually returning to my apartment when the burning shame had vacated. Each skyward gesture my foot made weighed heavy with discontent. I had never felt so insecure before and it preyed on me, the once inviolate sanctuary had expelled me from safety. Every eye was tracking me and lingered on my individual movements. The unforgiving eyes followed as I shifted uncomfortably and soon I moved with the utmost haste. I considered the possibility of disappearing down one of the numerous alleyways and never returning. By nightfall I was tired, my legs were sore and my feet throbbed when they connected with the pavement. With my initial anxiety subdued by this forlorn meandering I set off towards my apartment. Whilst wishing that some mysterious man would steal me away forever; that or the unlikely possibility that I would become a nomad. A wanderer of grief, never settled yet never troubled.
A brief excerpt of what will hopefully become a very short novella. I appreciate that these pieces are poor, however, I must practise if I ever wish to be good enough to realise the dream of becoming published.
