Creative Writing stuff
As part of a poetry packet we were forced to do, one of the poems had to be in a formal style. I chose to do two formal styles, a sonnet and a sestina, the latter which I am posting for your enjoyment. So, um, enjoy? ^^
His Hands
Deep in denim pockets, his hands
pull at blue threads. The door closes
behind him loudly, but she doesn't look
up. His fiancé, curled up on the couch, looks cold
and vulnerable. He covers her sleeping form with a blanket.
He hears her stir as he takers her glass
into the kitchen. She reaches for her glasses
on the table. He returns to her side and hands
her the box of tissues. She wraps the blanket
tighter around herself and motions for him to close
the refrigerator door. "You're letting the cold
escape." She doesn't even have to look,
she just knows. But if she had looked,
she would have seen the glass frozen in his hand. Her cold
makes her headache excruciating. His hands
stand her up and pull her close
to him. Her feet tangle in the blanket.
She's pressed tightly against him, the blanket
a giant serpent on the floor. His eyes have that awful look
but she's too tired to notice. His hands creep over her shoulders and close
around her throat. She feels like she's breathing in broken glass.
Panic rolls around in her stomach. His hands
don't let go. She breaks into a cold
sweat as she struggles. Her fingers go numb and cold
as she fights against his iron grip. The blanket
of fear in her brain starts to recede. All the jealousy and anger travel to his hands
as he remembers coming home early, that guilty look
in her eyes, his best friend hiding in the closet. Her eyes are glass
like and dead. And after him was his brother. And after that... His fingers gently close
her eyes so he doesn't have to face her. He wants to close
down his mind. He takes her limp and cold
form in his arms one last time. Her glasses
fell off during the struggle, buried under the blanket.
He covers her in the blanket so he won't have to look
at her, feel this emptiness. He can still feel her throat under his hands.
The doorknob is cold under his weary hands.
Her still, slender form rises from under the blanket, beside her are her glasses.
Without a single backward look, he lets the door swing closed.
His Hands
Deep in denim pockets, his hands
pull at blue threads. The door closes
behind him loudly, but she doesn't look
up. His fiancé, curled up on the couch, looks cold
and vulnerable. He covers her sleeping form with a blanket.
He hears her stir as he takers her glass
into the kitchen. She reaches for her glasses
on the table. He returns to her side and hands
her the box of tissues. She wraps the blanket
tighter around herself and motions for him to close
the refrigerator door. "You're letting the cold
escape." She doesn't even have to look,
she just knows. But if she had looked,
she would have seen the glass frozen in his hand. Her cold
makes her headache excruciating. His hands
stand her up and pull her close
to him. Her feet tangle in the blanket.
She's pressed tightly against him, the blanket
a giant serpent on the floor. His eyes have that awful look
but she's too tired to notice. His hands creep over her shoulders and close
around her throat. She feels like she's breathing in broken glass.
Panic rolls around in her stomach. His hands
don't let go. She breaks into a cold
sweat as she struggles. Her fingers go numb and cold
as she fights against his iron grip. The blanket
of fear in her brain starts to recede. All the jealousy and anger travel to his hands
as he remembers coming home early, that guilty look
in her eyes, his best friend hiding in the closet. Her eyes are glass
like and dead. And after him was his brother. And after that... His fingers gently close
her eyes so he doesn't have to face her. He wants to close
down his mind. He takes her limp and cold
form in his arms one last time. Her glasses
fell off during the struggle, buried under the blanket.
He covers her in the blanket so he won't have to look
at her, feel this emptiness. He can still feel her throat under his hands.
The doorknob is cold under his weary hands.
Her still, slender form rises from under the blanket, beside her are her glasses.
Without a single backward look, he lets the door swing closed.