On Writing When You Can
When the only way a student will write is when you write alongside them and this becomes the only chance to do any of your own writing in a long while ...
Prompt: “Guard your roving thoughts with jealous care, for speech is but the dealer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.” Alfred Lord Tennyson
Swift was the fist that flew into the face of the garrulous man who wove his way from place to place casting malice from his lips and disarray from his thoughts. It was inevitable that, each night in each town he went to, his face would graze the ground and his blood would colour the concrete.
Dark night. Inky black and without light. No stars. No moon. Feet shuffled in and out of murky doorways, muffled voices briefly entering the night as doors opened and closed. Open one of these doors. Go on. That one over there. Walk inside and move into the shadows and watch. Take note of the scruffy one, the ruffian with the jaw unhinged and spewing forth to all those faces that are turned from him and trying, valiantly trying, to stop their ears from his speech.
Hours move with haste towards the morning and, the faster they speed the swifter the drinks flow and the shorter the tolerance of the men becomes. Foolish man, this one. Always talking and talking and talking. About anything and anyone and any topic - whatever thoughts come into his mind are instantaneously out of his mouth. No consideration. No moment of reflection. Look - here it comes. Do you see how that bearded man on his left has started twitching? How his face is dripping with sweat and reddening swifter than the roaring flames ignited to keep the night going? Look, his turn is slow but he is turning and then, suddenly swift and mighty, he lunges at the man, hoisting him from his barstool and flinging him with such ease towards the door, against the door.