The Wise Gentleman's Resolution

It's poetry week here at The Daley News (reading it for literature and posting it on here justifies calling it poetry week). Now a direct comparison can be made between this and the previous poem - which do you think I should have submitted? Thanks avid readers! Dale.

The Wise Gentleman arose,

Buttoned his jacket,

For protection,

Against the harsh, chilling wind,

Amongst other things.

His bones ached,

Weary and well used.

His mind wondered,

What was to come.

His smile faded,

As the wind blew fiercer.

The Wise Gentleman sat down again,

To reminisce,

As much as to rest,

And to wait,

Until it was easier to go.

He needed the sun,

Some encouragement,

Some warmth,

But the clouds were thick,

Bereft of sympathy.

No matter,

His memories would warm him,

And his faithful old heart.

The Wise Gentleman closed his eyes,

Marvelled at his fortune,

Thankful for his blessed life.

Yet there was still more,

He knew.

Unlike many his age,

He looked forward,

Unafraid,

Accepting.

The Wise Gentleman awoke,

Not where he had been.

Beeping,

Strangers busying themselves around him,

An unfamiliar numbness.

The Wise Gentleman smiled,

His eyes filled with tears.

He’d had a glimpse,

And it was beautiful.

He could wait for it,

But he wouldn’t.

He’d go on living,

Not waiting,

For what was ahead,

To inevitably come.

The Wise Gentleman walked,

Into the sun again,

Refreshed,

Determined,

Resolute.

He buttoned his jacket,

And ignored the wind.

Sometimes, Somehow, Somewhere

Warning: The following poem is ridden with cliche. So much so that it may induce cliche-related headaches or vomitting. Now that that's out of the way - enjoy! :)

Sometimes, you have to see the truth.

Sometimes, you have to clear away the debris.

Sometimes, you have to look through the wreckage.

Sometimes, you have to feel melancholy.

Somehow, you have to move on.

Somehow, you have to regain control.

Somehow, you have to pick up the pieces.

Somehow, you have to cleanse your soul.

Somewhere, there are people just like you.

Somewhere, there are people that will understand.

Somewhere, there is a place where you can forget.

Somewhere, there is a new perfect land.

Sometimes, the struggle is hard to endure.

Sometimes, the memories do not fade.

Sometimes, the haunting will maim you.

Sometimes, the sun shines on your shade.

Somehow, you will find a helping hand.

Somehow, they’ll help end your strife.

Somehow, you will no longer cower.

Somehow, you will rediscover life.

Somewhere, hope will be instilled again.

Somewhere, new memories will be created.

Somewhere, dreams will be within reach.

Somewhere, the darkness will have faded.

My Stories, The Cold Future

“How has society changed over the past 75 years?” Milo sat impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk before him. He hated essays. That was something that hadn’t changed: teenagers’ hatred of all things English. He stared at the blank flat panel screen before him, willing the essay to write itself.
“Are you stuck?” the computer chimed at him.
“Yeah,” Milo sighed in response.
“Can I help you?” enquired his PC in its cold, calm voice.
“How has society changed over the past 75 years?” he asked it, regretfully. He had wanted to do this one by himself, but didn’t have the resolve to refuse the computer’s comprehensive assistance. His PC brought up several web pages and panellised them before him. He looked at them, disinterested.
Society had changed dramatically. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like living in the early years of the third millennium. Especially not with the privileges that he had today. Thinking about it, he probably took his status for granted, he should be more thankful for his mum’s power and what it meant for him. Even imagining life as a Sub made him shiver. The Elite life was the life for him.

Milo stood up and walked away from his PC, out of his unnecessarily large and luxuriously furnished room. He didn’t feel like studying today, he didn’t feel like doing anything today. He was quite depressed. Milo walked into the sleek, modern kitchen.
“News.” The left lens of his high-tech glasses flickered on and displayed the latest news in front of his left eye, something about a group of Sub’s protesting somewhere. He retrieved a can of Energy Plus from the fridge. How could people have lived without Spec’s in the past? He’d heard of primitive things called TV’s… maybe he could incorporate that into his essay: technological and societal change.
“Incoming call,” his Spec’s alerted him.
“Accept.”
The news disappeared and his mum’s face came into view. It was a pre-recorded message; he could tell she’d done it this morning. “Hey Milo honey, just letting you know that I won’t be home til late tonight, ok?” She seemed quite distracted and concerned. “By the way, it would help me a lot if you got up earlier in the morning…” Milo tuned out, paying no attention to her. His mum would sort out whatever problems she had, she always did. Finally, the message ended and Milo was left with the decision of what to do. Sleeping seemed like a good idea.

Milo dreamt of angels, but they had no wings. They were desperately climbing a ladder leading into the dark and stormy clouds above, but lightning kept striking them down.

He awoke, wondering what he’d eaten to have such strange dreams. “Honey,” it was his mum, but her voice seemed shaky.
“Yeah,” he called out, concerned. “Everything okay?” He walked out of his room and found his mum sitting at the shiny kitchen counter, her head in her hands. She was quivering. Milo rushed to her side and embraced her. There were white pills before her.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She muttered complacently. She was a mess. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Jason…” her head lolled, her body went limp.
Just like that, Milo was left alone in the world.

* * *

I don’t know why I’m writing this; maybe it’s just to create something real, something certain. It’s been two years since Dad died, almost one since Mum. I’ve lived, well more like not lived now on my own, as a Sub. I was a fool to take what I had for granted, and I’ve tried desperately to get back the lifestyle of the Elites. But the world is cruel, I was cruel and it’s a shame it took this to make me realise it. I don’t talk much anymore, not even when I’m protesting. I just get carried along with the other Subs, an unknown. No one cares about me, or even knows I exist. Anonymity is the worst feeling that I have ever felt. Mum lost it all. She gave me everything and took everything away. I’ve had enough now though, too. Everyday I fantasize about what living in the year 2000 would be like. Where all people were cared for. I don’t know how I’ve survived this long, I’m as thin as a twig, and when I cough I swear that I might snap just as easily as one. I’m giving up the fight now; I’m just going to lie here in this ditch, the temporary home of my soul, but soon permanent home of my body. No one will know or care. I won’t leave behind anyone or any memories of me… Goodbye.

My Stories - Untitled (unfinished)

PROLOGUE

"Hello dude," my Mum said peering her head into my room.
"Hi." Dude?
"What are you doing lying on your bed like that?" she asked me.
I was sprawled on my bed facing my window. I rolled over and looked up at her, "Thinking," I replied distantly.
Her head disappeared and I heard her footsteps going back down the stairs.
I had been thinking. Thinking about writing something - a story probably, a story that doesn't seem to leave anything out, like my others.
"You can use the computer now," my brother told me unwillingly. Mum probably forced him to, I'd been waiting for a while.
"I don't want to anymore," I said back to him. "Thanks anyway."
"Okay then." He seemed pleased about my decision, his face lit up again and he ran enthusiastically back down the stairs, no doubt to the computer.

I managed to get up off my bed, walk over to the door and close it, then walk over to my bookshelf. I was unusually lethargic today. I picked up 'The Other Side of Dawn' by John Marsden and remembered how well told that story was. From book one I was enthralled...
I picked up Philip Pullman's third book in his 'Dark Materials' trilogy, 'The Amber Spyglass'. I thought back to the adventure I'd followed Lyra and Will on, and how it ended...
I put the two books back in their rightful positions. Two great authors, two great series'. I wonder if I could ever - no I couldn't. But that doesn't mean I can't try.

1

I looked out my window again. Out of the entire house I have the best view. My thoughts wandered back to the fireworks I'd seen last night. They were amazing.
I closed my eyes and noticed that my radio was still on. I must have forgotten about it while I'd been lying on my bed for God knows how long.

Today is different to other days, well that's what it feels like to me. I must be going a bit crazy. I haven't been the same lately, not even the Christmas spirit has shaken me out of this dull mood. I don't know if anything will. I saw my friends yesterday; I went bowling with them and had a good time. I was alive again, but still there was something missing.

Fifteen. That's how old I am.