A VERY short story containing elderly zombies and a fête. Because: why not?
winter has come
to our cottage by the sea
the sun sets early
the moon rises pale and cold
and all around
the cane fields char
wafting ash and the stink
of burned molasses into the sky
the night is heavy with sweet offense
and we wake from dreams of nothing
filled with the longing for sugar
You come to the house at 3 a.m. in the cold.
Your mother greets you at the door with no words,
only pebbles in her mouth.
You walk along the dim hallway
to a small room flooded with light.
It contains twin beds, a dusty mirror,
fading prints, dark wood.
It contains the end of the world.
There is a ringing in your ears
as you kiss your father for the last time.
Dear Readers Sorry for the gap in posts... I'm on a little 'posting holiday' at present. It's been occasioned by the need to move out of our house while renovations happened. We're back now – with more functional kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, and a vast quantity of dust and general chaos. So I'm in clean-up-and-organising …
Mired in ordinary life, in the day-to-day and humdrum, we strive for something transcendent. And sometimes, against all odds, find it in the simplest things. Between the daily grind, the deadlines met (or missed). Between the laundry and the shopping and the kids' demands. Between the elderly relatives, and their complaints, and our own. Between …
(a novel post) "His skin is lilac beneath grey shadows. His eyes are dark and wide to drink the low light. Come closer. See the slim limbs, the strange skin. He sits unmoving in the hardwood chair in the dusty attic room. This boy has grown roots, become a nest of stems and branches, a living, breathing tree, alone in the dreaming night. Here is a tale worth believing." And the starting point for my current work in progress...
'What is enough?' might be the most important question there is. Our neglect of it has caused spectacular damage. Half the world languishes in poverty, while the rest of us relentlessly pursue the inessential. And want is everywhere. 'Why this somber start?' you might inquire. There are a few reasons...
Today, I am stuck. So, instead of spending yet more time wringing my hands and shrieking, 'Why!?' at passing hadedas and monkeys (the neighbors are beginning to worry, and the wildlife doesn't look happy either), I thought I'd write about it, and see if anyone else identifies.
How do you make time and space for the things you really want to do – without wrecking relationships that matter, becoming destitute, turning into a machine, or simply burning out? I started outlining 'The Book of Dreams' (novel, WIP) late in 2018... And since then, the outline has grown to kraken-like proportions, but very little actual writing has happened. There are many good reasons for this...
We all do it, don't we? I know I do. Especially if I don't know the author well, or at all. And, if the cover attracts me, I'm far more likely to click through and consider reading, or buying, or at least adding to a list. We're all visual animals. Which may explain why 97.3% …