This week I didn’t manage to find time to post by my self imposed deadline, so here is a short exercise I wrote as part of a creative writing course I have begun.
A dragon’s head is poised, mouth open, teeth bared. Large horns or oversized ears reach upwards like those of a fighting dog, barbarically pinned to exaggerate the menace. The eyes however have almost comically long eyelashes protruding from the otherwise terrifying skull. The snout long and blunt, the jaws a fearsomely efficient blend of teeth, bone and terror. Emerging from the smoke and the wall behind.
The body, slick and shiny, reflects the mysterious green light shining up from below. Hidden depths and a dormant power slumber, and the flies buzz restlessly, incessantly. What they hope to find is uncertain. It hasn’t moved for days, weeks even, and the dust is building up on the shoulders, grey and thick. The fingerprints tell a story of desire, curiosity, need. Reaching out to grasp but never quite courageous enough to take. To connect. To unleash.
There is a dark hole from which the sound would resonate, if only it were allowed. To soar, to fly. Yet there it remains, forlorn and forgotten, hanging in a corner between the sofa and a lamp.
The shadow of my guitar.
Stuart Westwood 