I was reading through some word prompts on Reddit, someone had simply typed for half an hour without editing anything and then shared it. They’d challenged people to do the same. As much as it’s easy enough to write about something and share it. It’s actually much harder to not give yourself any barriers. Something too gory? too mature? too soft or sappy? There’s always something people are embarrassed about sharing and I find the act of writing extremely freeing of feelings when I write without barriers and let my imagination run free.
The man who’s imagination has no limits – Long!
The man who’s imagination has no limits plays guitar bareback on a flying rhino whilst he plays Quidditch, eats constellations for breakfast and burps rainbows into bubblegum words, aries, virgo, Scorpio, fits random words into seemingly ordinary sentences. A pretext so you won’t notice alienated appendages.
The wrist with three hands that play flute, xylophone and a one man band. The quicksand that defied lies and flies to heliumated skies that make hearts rise, until the sun itself cries fireballs of hope and glory, spreads fiery ink to every horror story.
The diamond ruby that rotates with freight the bigger the fear the faster the starry night. The man who’s imagination has no limits takes a black box and fits within it. The daylight with a rubber skeleton, chatting teeth, a copy of Who framed Roger Rabbit and a rubber chicken. Then a black box to put the black box in.
Sewn closed with that model’s pantyhose and locked the door to where teenage boys metamorphose. Waiting in line for show time as front of house staff mime. Walking drones, ghost faces where white paint hides demonic shadows. Night time in the froze cold.
People up and leave the clothes stay. Ghost emissions from a failed day. Up tight, creased and upright, air holed in the cold night and they begin to march eerily as I cling on to reality.
I write, a notepad on an old figure, a stick dad. Butterfly pieces chip off and fly making the sky sad and I’m glad they’re free. Stip, step, stomping up a chair like tree. Virgo, Virgo, Aries, free! Mummy, daughter, baby, me!
The man who’s imagination holds no limits escapes from the coffin where his demons grimace. Run’s through a wall, down a hall ten pins a million faces like a bullet cannonball. Every relinquished anger melts away in candlelit beauty whilst the pain harnesses the energy of the Athame acutely.
Transmogrified curls to spectral swirls as you kiss my skin and it burns and burns. Eyes on needle pins like cocktail olives, glass piled apples and blood wormed oranges, faces of fruit made wonder grimace and scream as they pull me under.
Poltergeist meets Exorcist in a fantasy about a boy. Child’s play an Omen to my new puppy’s chew toy. I babysit a crimson rainbow in my heart, an explosion of such unity the whole world blown apart.
The man who’s imagination holds no limits can’t fall apart. The car always starts, replaced parts, pumping hearts, grey brain membranes to veins from mind darts. Arrows take us back from bows that over react to where that show starts. Stood in ghost queues with a note pad as the curtains pull back. Pitch black with bright white lights that knock your eyes back.
A scouser’s overheard “fifteen quid for this what’s the crack lad?” As a car lifts up and takes off of it’s own accord leaving stilted bricks and chased by securicar. We’re at the stage door. I paid doubloons to get in. It was pirated and my feet stuck to pink ink as I was swallowed whole.
I emerged on a football field where I couldn’t score a goal. I went around the whole team floating aimlessly like a ghost in a day dream. I sang, I waved, I grabbed centre stage, nobody understood they couldn’t see that I was caged.
We play games on phones we use to communicate, despise the levels we take too long to make for fake cash – originate. We share with friends who we love to hate.
The man who’s imagination has no limits taints daydreams for a living. Fractures inaccurate memories of stagnate loves, takes hardworking mothers – rough. Swears the innocence of truth by the holy book. Aspires for perfection by hook or by crook. Unless you beg for mercy he won’t even turn his head to look.
Nicotine stained pillows of mediocre loves. That’s just one of the many things he does. It transpires that after hours of lies from an ancient book, he was just reciting old lines from an oath he took. He couldn’t explain himself but he could write his own book.
The man who’s imagination had no limits found holes in his life like a bad dentist couldn’t fill it. Churning chips to molten lava in a bid not to be his father. Matrix style encompassing the whole to re emerge, re ignore. Spite the poor goals, broken jaw bones like ember ridden hot coals.
From where did you think the soul grows? Imaginations fills all holes.
Where fate, religion and belief take hold! A candlelit dinner for two and conversation about imagination gave me, gave me you. A deal for two.
Set yourself just half an hour to write with freedom, no judging no warnings no holding back or point scoring. No rights and wrongs no too tame or too gory. Just write – share with me your story.
© G.P Williamson 2017