Writers

He broke her passion in a few moments.
He just snapped it.
Massacred it.
Shredded it.
Kicked the pieces away.
Sitting inside her fragile shell, the muted harsh rant glanced off her; she shifted slightly and the roaring venom pierced her very core; her very heart; her.
The shell began to crack. Slowly at first, a thin spidery line, shuddering and shaking into a fragmented jagged split, which split again, over and over leaving a sharp gaping wound exposing the delicate centre nestled deep within.
Walking inside muted corridors of blankness, she stumbled home. She stumbled being a mother and a wife. She stumbled being her. She stumbled, but she managed to stand, almost.
Viciously, convincingly, the darkness fell around her. It smothered her. She could not breathe and she could not reach. It choked her and he tightened his autonomous grip. Succombing into her way out, she no longer stumbled: she fell, hard and crashing and alone.
She fell into oceans of coolness as she drank.
She fell into waves of numbing air as she swallowed, and reached, and found, and swallowed some more. The world whirled around her head, lifted her body, balanced her blood and there she lay in a new and beautiful heaven of calm and silence and peace.
No voices, no pain, no passion, no God.

Four hours passed.
It was nearly seven.
“Who the Hell is Jimmy, anyway?”
A woman, unknown to date, entered the room. In the years it took her to pass from the door to theblackened window, a forest grew. Trees emerged from the carpet, but not from seed. Rather the tops appeared first, exposed by a tide pulled hurriedly back like a sheet at morning. This is perhaps best achieved with some kind of CG.
She stepped into the carpetlake without pausing, moving with a slow, deliberate grace until the water swelled around her white dress. The staircase she followed led down, and as she disappeared under the surface she began to sing. A song of longing, of beautiful and unrequited despair, in a language understood by no-one but the singer, yet common to the many tongues of the fish that moved behind her eyes and between her legs.
Without her, the town turned around. An engine roared, and sirens. Emergency vehicles screamed their egocentric best “Me me me, Look at me” and flashed blue lights into the faces of those who dared to look away. Within, hidden music began to play. A sweeping curve of sound lead her into a vast submerged cathedral, half fallen, where the rusted shells of abandoned cars lay neatly, as if parked, along the aisles. She looked up at a gargoyle, but didn’t see his goatface, and the book she was carrying fell from her arm. Bending quickly, gracefully animated, the woman reached to pick up the book, its scattered pages dancing on the current, but as the shadow of her hand fell on them and her fingers touched the pages, they began to dissolve. To crumble into dust. Beneath her feet, the ground was covered in the finest deep sand, the dust of millions of pages, eroded by mourning, loss, frustration, jealousy and greed. These emotions swirled around in the water on an invisible tide, carving both disfigured sculptures of rock and the most delicate corals where tiny coloured fish sparkled like precious stones.
Where did the light come from, that cast the shadow?
The distant sunlight, slowly filtered through the greenish water, illuminating the myriad organisms that hung there like motes in an empty room?
Or some forgotten moon, white and cold? Was it day or night?
A lantern perhaps, swinging on magnificent ironwork outside a shoemakers, sqeaking in the soft twilight breeze?
Breeze. She remembered the breeze on the hills. And as it came to her mind, so she could feel it again, in the moving water.

They tried to hide you from the world, they did not understand.
How could they find the time needed, to guide your tiny hands.
"She may never communicate", they heard the doctors say.
And so they shed a tear and quietly walked away.
No one looked into your eyes and saw the promise there.
No one showed you how to kiss or stroked your downy hair.
The doctors say "she's coming on" and pass to other things.
They never hear the joy of life that in your laughter rings.
Who knows of all the fun we have when we are left alone.
Of all the love you have to give each time I take you home.
They never see you lie and laugh, or hear you try to sing.
Or watch the sun shine from your eyes.
When you learn to do some little thing.
Do they sit and gaze upon your face when you are fast asleep.
I do, and when I look at you, my heart it wants to weep.
You're such a tiny helpless child, abnormal? no not you.
You often set my mind a whirl with things you try to do.
We'll share our lives together, in a world a part of which.
Is specially set aside and marked.
Reserved for my girl Mitch.

"Mitch" was pofoundly handicapped and abandoned by her family. I found her in the childrens ward of a local hospital. She became my foster daughter at the age of two until she was adopted at the age of seven. She died aged twenty one.

My great grandfather was norwegian and in 1900, when he was 18, he sailed from Kristiansand to Australia on a schooner (not the beer glass kind). I'm an enthusiastic geneologist and researching his has been given me my own adventure on the high seas. I've set myself the task (or burden) of writing the stories of my ancestors, either in one big book or a bunch of smaller ones...Haven't quite worked it out in my head yet, so hopefully I can get some great guidance and encouragement from other more experienced writers who can offer useful suggestions to overcome things suchs as writer's block, the manic high when you just can't stop (like now) and the manic lows which can last for years that leave you completely unproductive....(hmmm the Stephen Fry documentary comes to mind....

I live in Norway now and think I shall take a trip to Norwich this summer to do some further family tree research....ah yes, didn't I tell you, I'm descend not only from "norwegian" roots, but norwichian roots too.....lol...It still amazes me to think that the 2, being so close geographically, just across the North Sea basically, had to travel all the way to Australia to meet up. Mind you, while the Norwegian sailor went of his own free will, the end result of my norwich roots went courtesy of HRH Queen Victoria's "lets clean up England's streets" policy and protect the possessions of the rich by carting off every man and his dog to no man's land (or so they thought....tell that to the aborigines) otherwise known as Van Diemens land or, by way of Gov Phillip, New South Wales. But I digress... This really needs to become my blog ....and so it will! You will have to visit my blog for the rest.

I've visited the old farms of my ancestors and they were moving experiences. For my birthday 2 weeks ago I visited the oldest viking chieftain village in Norway and wandered through the forest as the golden sun set between the ancient moss lined trees at 11pm. All the trees in the forests are tinged green on their stumps because of the heavy mossy life that exists on the forest floor and its truly a sight to behold. The village is a recreation of how it looked 1000 years ago. These were the very vikings who invaded York in England and one of their chiefs, Harold the Great (he was known as harold fine hair in Norge (Norway) "Harold fint har" på norsk). It was a remarkable birthday experience, one I'll never forget.

And just at that moment, a large ocean liner on its way to Denmark cruised down the fjord where we stood. It was a great contrast of old and new. The vikings no longer travel in long boats, but in white cruisers lol.

"Boo-hoo!"
"Boo-hoo!"
What was that sound?
It's like a cry for help
No it's a cry of regrets!Blames!
Regrets of being.
Blames of being
Forced into slavery.
Wait...Ok, it's a sound of another
Soul personifed, clothed
With suffering,torture and fear.
But people around seems happy.
Are happy thanking God.
'Celebrating for the new life'.
That was their answer
To the merrymaking.
Celebrating?Hm... merry for what?
Being born is being condemned,
Condemned for years
With hard labour.

... thank God
It's a cry of a new baby!

A short poem I wrote on ashwednesday,year 2005 the day I met my first girlfriend.

I SAW

On ashwednesday
I saw and I bowed.

I am only flesh to behold God.
I did not see angels,
I did not see a goddess,
I did not see men,
I did not see ladies,
Not beautiful girls even.

I swaw an artwork,
More perfect than 'Da Vinci's Mona Lisa.
The queen of coast is not good,
I say beutiful!where it exists.
I saw a masterwork,
Civitas beauty,
Breathing perfectness,
The nectar of the gods I saw,
And I bowed.

I bowed to MAKER,
SUSTAINER AND CONTROLLER
Of the universe.

'Cause I saw,
HE is the best Sculptor.

The part I play is struggle,servitude
Slavery,suffering,responsibility annd fear
Of the next second.
Then I called out,
Death!O death!
Please take me away,
I did not hear him speak.
I shouted harder and harder
But death seems to not
Have any perceptual power.
Death is deaf!
Since death is deaf,
I take refuge in the cousin of death-
Sleep.

All I want is a river of water.
The cousin of death
Does not flow
Rather it rains,
And it has just exhausted
It's last drop.
.
Awoke again to the torturing reality,
I can only wish,
I wish I was an angel
I would be God,
Though I wouldn't have freewill,
I would have been atleast free,
Free from the bustles,
Even the struggles and tortures of my part,
Whichever part THE DIRECTOR wishes
I would be glad to play,
'Cause every part in the scene
Of the angels is good,
Fantasy seems to be my favourite part.

Now the part I am permitted
To play is pray,
Pray that wishes be horses,
And I ride.

I have been approached by an illustrator who has a good bit of work behind her.
She likes my stories, her agent does too, and together we shall create something enchanting

Fingers crossed the agent can sell to the publisher !

Well done Munzly, this group is for me

A short poem I wrote in September. Seems to follow on from Jack's "What makes a Daughter? piece.
My first post here

Calls for Daddy

When she calls and asks for me
She asks for me by name
When she calls for Daddy
How can I not go?

When I touch her scars
The scars that tell me of her pain
When I see the holes in her heart
What will I not bear?

When she calls and asks for me
How can I not go?

When she calls and asks for me
She asks for me by name
When she calls for Daddy
How can I not go?

When her heart is empty
Empty fingers reaching out
For something out of nothing
What will I not give?

When her heart is empty
What will I not give?

When I hear her sweet voice
Sweet voice raised in love's sweet song
When I hear that music
How can I not sing?

When she goes her own way
Now she's waving and she's grown
I see her dancing and I ask you
How can I not grow?

When she calls and asks for me
How can I not go?

When she calls and asks for me
She asks for me by name
When she calls for Daddy
How can I not go?

© birdsong. September 2007

After an almighty shove with my right elbow my cellar door finally flung open with a bang and bounced back off the wall. The putrid stench of fear and excrement readily greeted me as I leant on the rough stone walls on either side of me for support. I carefully made my way down the narrow steps. I pulled at the light cord. It refused to work. It didn’t matter, the moonlight was bright tonight and the window at the top of the back wall did a good enough job of illuminating the dank room.
Her naked body was curled up into a tight ball. The heavy, rusty chain on her right ankle was still intact, fixed to a water pipe, holding her in place. Even if she was alive she’d only have a metre or so to move. There was limited chance of her attacking back. Her green tinged skin, the result of three weeks in total darkness looked slimy and dough like, almost like I could scrape chunks of it off with my nails. Her once blonde hair was matted beyond recognition and was now grey. I took great delight in seeing her like that; so fragile, so helpless. She didn’t even look human I chuckled. I had an almighty urge to kick the mess in the corner but I restrained myself and took a few deep breaths. I knew that I’d have to get rid of her quickly, before anyone found out that it was me that took her away.
First though, I needed to find out whether she was dead. Picking up the blood splattered broom to the left of my feet, my favourite torture tool, I walked cautiously towards her. My hands shook in anticipation. I held out the broom with a fully extended arm and poked her thigh. She felt rigid and the force of my poke made her lifeless body collapse onto her side into the foetal position. I walked a little closer, my steps precise and military......

http://www.dailywritingtips.com/

I wrote this after sending the well known poem "what is a boy" to mycorneroftheworld and she said "have you one for a daughter"

What is a daughter?? 

She’s a joy she’s an angel, well that’s what she thinks
She clings on to your heart like a plug to a sink
She drives you all crazy with make believe games 
She’ll have you believe that fairies fly planes 

She often comes in with imaginary friends
And can draw on her dad with those permanent pens
She has pretty parties with dolls as her mates 
But then runs straight outside and she swings on the gate 

She listens to stories of love and romance
Then shoves a live frog in her best friends pants
At night when asleep the angels go quiet 
I often do think that she could start a riot 

She looks like a princess all said and done
And uses mums lipstick to draw a big sun
All over the walls and down the settee
Her face is alive and she giggles with glee 

Its then that you have to be strong and quite firm 
For if you stand back she will never quite learn
And learn things she does most every day
She learns how to get things her very own way 
 
She came into your life and captured your heart
And then from that time you won’t stay apart
You may keep your son till he finds a good wife
But your daughters your daughter for all of her life

hope you enjoyed it!!
    

Ah wuz jest remembrin those good ole boys back a few years ago. Now Bill he was somethin' else. He wuz a barrel chested s.o.b but boy could that man sing. He had the sweetest voice yet when he let go he din' need no microphone. He could write the words, write the music, play a dozen diff'rent instruments and put them all together like nobody else. Corse' he was an ornery sort of fella and if'n things dint' go quite right he would throw a tornado size fit. Still for all that we wuz good friends right up until the time he commited suicide. Danged if'n his wife dint' up and leave him one day and that wuz the finish of him. Now old Blue he wuz different. He could sing and play guitar o.k. but he never had the power or the polish like Bill. Still he played some good places and got some awards for his music. Trouble was with Blue he liked a drink or two. He'd start singin' sobre and finish singin' drunk. He was harmless though, never got into any bother, at the end of the night we would jest load him into the back of the Caddy and take him home. A mixture of booze and prescription pills took his life. He died one night alone in his bed. Rebel was a diffren' kettle of fish altogether. He was a loner most of the time. He would turn up at a gig and stand around at the back drinkin'. He had a certain facination for the ladies and no matter how drunk he wus he always managed to keep them satisfied. He never wore no drawers, said it saved time. One day he jest went on walk about an no body's seen him since. Rhinestone was the youngster, called him that cus he wore a shirt with rhinestone decorations. He had a pretty little wife and they seemed happy enough. They would come out to a concert but I never knew much more than that. We had some good times back then. The music was strictly country, the cars were old Caddies and everyone was yer friend. We never had no trouble, never caused a fuss, jest sang some, drank some, smoked a little and had fun. I guess when yer gettin' a bit older yer start to think more. One things fer sure, the memries get more an the yearning for the old days get stronger. I sure do miss them good ole boys.....................

Hello

I've been writing on and off for years but never seriously. I've written poems and I've also started a book. 5500+ words then I got writer's block... for about a year now.

All of my poetry can be found here:

I have found that when I'm going through something sad or horrible in my life I tend to churn out a lot of poems. Since life has been pretty good, I haven't written anything in a while

Do you think that Teddy Bears
Can come alive at night?
Do you think that they may wait
Till' you've turned off the light?
Then they jump down to play a game
With all the other toys
And laugh and sing
And dance around
With very little noise
Do Teddy Bears make all that mess
That Mommy has to clean
Do they play football with your socks
Like your favourite football team?
While you're asleep do Teddy Bears
Eat chocolate in your bed
And get it on your pillow
Right where you lay your head
Do they spill fruit juice on the mat
And blame it on the pussy cat
Or do they just lie by your side
And keep you warm till' morning time
I wonder, do you think that Teddy Bears
Might come alive at night?

After being told that I was not writing what was selling I decided to publish myself. So I bought a printer, a binder and some decent paper. I printed 25 copies of my book Talking Leaves and offered them to a "Spiritual needs" shop at a reasonable, cover my costs, price. They sold them. I printed some more and started to sell them to whoever would buy a copy. As the book is of a spitual inspiraion nature I found that I could sell it at a local spiritualist church. I then had a short piece reported in a local paper and sold some more. One day, hopefully, some publisher may see a copy and think it a possible seller. Until then I will print up a few copies now and again and sell them when I can. It may not be a best seller but at least I can say I have been published and sold. To date I have sold about four hundred copies. I have also sent copies as gifts to friends overseas, you never know who might read it.

Hi have just spotted this blog which is a great idea, thanks Munzy -have been writing since I was knee high to a grass hopper although my general blog is nothing to do with my writing, my interests are contemporary poetry, fiction and non-fiction, love flash fiction and have won two first prizes and a couple of commendations for stories and poetry. It's great to belong to a writing group and I wish everyone well with all their writing

This is the link:

http://business.timesonline.co.uk/tol/business/columnists/article3378297.ece

Do you agree with the sentiments? I think I do....... but as I'm so fond of saying, I just enjoy writing!

I just thought I'd ask what everyone is working on at the moment?

I'm embroiled in a work on magic and plants.... plus writing the usual love poetry (to Mr Penry of course ) and also working on a talk I'm going to give later this year. It's tempting to think that I'm busy just because I'm published, but actually I was always working on something. Whether a work is published doesn't make it any less or any more important.

So at the moment, I'm very busy. How about you, what are you writing?

I sit and wonder
What it is I'm doing wrong
Alone on V-day
With yet another gooey love song
Dribbling out the radio
Poisoning my head
Lord, give me Death Metal
Or some cyanide instead
A day designed to make you question
The way you are and act
The way you look is terrible
You just must be too fat
That's why you are alone, isn't it?
No card for you today
Put simply, you're unloveable
Give up and fade away.

Hi all,

I'm not a published author, but I am having a go at writing my first fiction novel. It's something I've always wanted to do whether it gets published or not.
Just wanted to pop in and say hi to everyone. I look forward to joining in.

This looks interesting so I thought I would join. I've had some poetry published, some articles, two books on Wales (now, alas out of print ) and my first book on my pagan spiritual path should be coming out this year. I'm now on my third book since that... and writing furiously.

Basically, folks, I write because something within compels me to write....

Hi all,
I just joined and I'm trying to catch up to where things are with Consquences. This is a great idea, very fun. I've not been published except by a poetry site that always wants to sell me something large and ugly to commemorate my work. I'm still working on the basics and trying to free myself up to write more.

Just to say Hi to the other members...and hope to learn something here and share what I've experienced...big hugs...

Slightly embarrassed and excited by AF's flirtation, Victoria looked at the checked board for a second before looking up.

"See that black pawn? You're right in his line of attack!" She laughed.

A.F. Jones was playing as a white bishop and he'd noticed that from the start Victoria, one of the black knights, had looked over at him a good few times.
He thought he might as well be friendly so, when the opportunity arose, he sidled up the board and sneaked into a gap between Victoria and a black pawn. Seeing he had the advantage, he said "Check" and winked at her. Not the most original line in the situation, but it was better than nothing.

Whoops. Sorry. Went offline for a while. Can I pick the first person? Please please please? (Hey it's a party game I'm allowed to be childish!)

1. I'd like a character called Aloyisius Fitzalan Jones!

At least, I think that's how you spell Aloyisius.
Sorry! I didn't see the new post remark till I'd already posted. Ignore my last one. *feels slightly silly*

So I'll start the first creative post, with game of consequences.

The first person in this story is a young lady called Victoria.

Next we need,

2. Name of another person.
3. Where they met.
4. What person 1 said.
5. What person 2 said.
6. What happened next.
7. And what the consequence was....

Your turn. Let your imagination go crazy!