So, I’ve posted a few things about writing. Not that I’m an expert or anything, but readers seem to like me rambling on. I’ve made it a ‘thing’ (I like to do that–‘Haiku Friday’ anyone?). So, now you can find … Continue reading Writing…stuff.
I looked to the city. The lights were on, but nobody was home. I was alone. I expected dust devils to whirl as I walked through my world. Behind every door a Marie Celeste, of empty chairs and still full plates. Always alone. Wherever I looked reigned emptiness, yesterday’s news and mild distress. The dust and dirt of memories clung to my walls like tragedy. And then the lights went out. That was when I knew, without a doubt: I would always be alone. But what was always there, that I just couldn’t see, were all the souls surrounding me. Continue reading City of the Lost. A poem.
I said ages ago (yes, literally eons, in a time when winter frost covered the land like icing sugar. Hmmm. That’s a stupid simile) that I would review some Tabletop Role Playing Games, as I am a complete nerd nut … Continue reading Mutant Year Zero – Gamma goings-on in the wasteland
So many options. So many numbers, so many keys. A lifetime of choice compressed into one, mechanical drone call. Menus designed to send me on my way (but not in a good way, or a satisfied way, or a new way). Menus, like life, with far too many options. Continue reading Options. A poem.
She loves me, She loves me not. I suppose I’ll never know. She loves me, She loves me not. I have to let her go. She loves me not. And that’s how it always ends. Continue reading She Loves Me (Not). A poem.
Do you suffer from depression? If so, you’ll know the Black Dog. If not, click here or here before reading on. An Observation on Observation Every writer should be an observer. Every writer should watch the people around them, taking … Continue reading The Art of Observation, Character, Dialogue and Navel Gazing. An occasional post on writing.
Causal expectations and experience will say that I will just gain nothing from this long and tedious day. My movement winding down, corroded, insecure, scattered springs, nuts and bolts and thoughts abound, unsure. Who’s to say my automation is better than before? Let cogs and gears grind on and on as I cogitate some more. I was once wound so tightly that I thought I’d never slow, but now my springs are stretched and worn, so tired and overblown. Tick tock, cries the clock, round and round it goes, this clockwork man keeps winding down, all the way to zero. Continue reading Clockwork. A poem.
Her apple eyes look through me, Auspicious in ambiguity. To think, I thought she liked me. Extra ego in perpetuity. Continue reading Hate. An Acrostic Poem.
Fence Sitter Here in your desert, every choice a mirage; each oasis lost. Silence Shy, foolish man child, so terminally quiet. Silence will end you. Bloom I wish love would bloom. In the field of broken hearts, loneliness grows strong. . Well, it’s that time of the week again. Haiku Friday demands three line poems with a 5/7/5 syllable structure. And what Haiku Friday demands, it gets! Cheers Steve 🙂 Continue reading Haiku Friday. Three Haikus pour vous!
So, what exactly happened with the writing of my great Australian novel (and I use the term ‘great’ very loosely)? I don’t have writer’s block*. I know a lot of writers suffer from this, and I am always sympathetic (did … Continue reading The Great Australian Novel. A pondering.
The light is fading, you’re walking out; she’s reclining luxuriantly. The light in those magical eyes is enough to blind a man, before you question why. That smile, combined with sylvan form, is hot enough to melt a man (raised on a diet of ‘avoid’). Like a supernova sundae, take him out at the knees, leave him confused and dazed, with thoughts, indiscreet. Get out of there before that brazen temptress (Who doesn’t know her power over all that exists) enthralls you with her siren voice; makes you fumble, stumble, makes the floor your only choice. Escape while you can, … Continue reading Fall for you. A poem.
Perish the thought, along with all the others. My mind is a blank canvas for me to paint anew; for me to spray all my hopes and blues. Continue reading Perish The Thought. A poem.
Yet another of my long-overdue university out-takes. Following is an answer to a question about establishing place and setting for stories, that I wrote several months ago for one of my writing subjects. I moved back to my parents’ house … Continue reading Place and Setting. A writing perspective.
I glanced drunkenly into the near-empty bottle. In the viscous alcohol I saw my face, rippled and twisted like a garish Mr. Hyde. I laughed at the carnival mirror, so accurately reflecting every facet of my, oh, so petulant features. Every flaw and misconception brought to life in errant ripples at the bottom of a pit, too deep to reach. I cast the bottle aside and hailed for another, in the hopes that I (eventually) might see something far, far better. My first book of poetry, The All or the Nothing, is available now as an e-book from most online … Continue reading The Near-Empty Bottle. A poem.
She waited as he wasted away. She watched and pined. He watched as well; sometimes TV, sometimes her. She fed him hand-to-mouth. Eventually he refused to eat. As he grew thinner, the drip in his arm pulsed like a marathon … Continue reading The Wait. A short tale.
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