Sunlight on a late November day,
Transitory beauty, all will pass away
Fragment
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Tag Archives: creative writing
Primal: A Guest Post By Emma Tomlinson
Many thanks to Emma (https://creative5word.wordpress.com/) for the below guest post which takes the form of a short story. Emma has also submitted a further post which will appear later in the week. Thank you Emma!
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Primal By Emma Tomlinson
The sky begins to darken and my own footprints create an echoing sound, vacant, yet soft crunching, on the hardened ground. I can feel the moist air dampening my skin, the freshness almost choking me as I walk further into the night. Direction seems futile now as every turn I make appears identical and remains vast.
I can vaguely hear sounds from around me, unnatural sounds, which evoke an unwelcome chill to travel down my spine. I can feel the tiny hairs on my body rising like soldiers and reacting in frozen response. The trees appear to thicken and their branches move slow but deliberate, my path becoming narrow and overgrown.
I quicken my pace, aware my breathing is becoming heavier with each step. I can see my breath spiralling in front of me, small clouds of nothingness. I feel alone. I feel afraid.
From my right I can hear a strange panting; I can feel a sensation of being watched. The little hairs stand taller as I realise that the noise is coming closer. With fear and momentum rising, I try to remain calm and take longer strides, putting more distance between them and me. My purposeful steps are matching the thuds within my heart, rhythmic and strong. My ears explode almost with the sound, the blood cursing through my every vein.
I now feel like the hunted as I feel my every sense coming alive. My vision is becoming stronger, accustoming to the dark and now fuelled by the overwhelming fear that has almost paralysed my body. I continue. To stop is not an option. I now know my body is responding in pure survival mode. My legs feel stronger and I can feel the blood pooling near my muscles, alert, ready for the unknown.
The noises are surrounding me now. There are others. No longer a lone threat, I can feel eyes feeding on me, stalking me. Watching my every move.
I begin to feel faint, slightly disorientated and nauseas. I feel my body shivering. I pull up my hood, my coat no longer providing heat. I am drenched but there is no rain. My own perspiration is collecting in small pools on my body, although my hands remain cold and icy.
My head begins to throb and I reach up to soothe my temple. The cold of my hand shocks me and I become alert once more.
My senses tell me they are close now. My own footsteps are casting continuous echoes all around me. I realise too late that these secondary noises were not me. It was them. But I cannot escape now.
They reach me before I can react. I feel the impact and lose my footing before falling, my hairband fluttering loose and landing on the uneven earth. I can hear screaming. I realise that it is coming from me.
I awake to a continuous tone. I recognise the music from my phone. I had specifically chosen an amazon theme, the cool sounds of nature, to softly shake the sleep from my eyes.
Realisation hits me and I sit up to survey my surroundings. My heart begins to pound once more in isolated apprehension. As my eyes take in the scenery of my bedroom wall, I can feel a smile spreading from my lips. My bedspread tucked under me, my dog by my side.
A dream. Only a simple dream.
The mind of a deep thinker…or complete rubbish…it is all down to interpretation and perception…
Waves
Cars, like waves swish past.
Distant sound of engines forever passing, here then lost, tossed on the tides of time and space.
A horn sounds, a driver going somewhere perhaps.
My study. Books in cases stand. A poster on a wall, the dolphin swims, forever caught on paper.
The night is dark. Outside engines rev and die. In my room the dolphin looks down from the picture. A fish on a wall, how strange.
Thoughts travel with vehicles along endless roads, while I sit, the dolphin looking on, swimming perpetually on a wall.
Aquarium
A fish in an aquarium.
Tank brightly eluiminated so he can be observed swimming, swimming.
Encased in glass.
Water just the correct temperature.
Fed, content he swims.
Happily he glides through his regulated world, for ever observed.
A man travels on a train,
CCTV keeps him safe from pain.
Watched he sits contentedly munching, crunching.
For “your protection, CCTV operates throughout this train/station”.
The man is grateful, feels “safe” wrapped in his protective case.
Muggers, thieves are watched along, of course with him but, having nothing to fear he smiles, tut tuts at a headline in the paper and dozes, the movement of the train lulling him to sleep in this insulated world.
He dreams of yester year. A boy growing up, unobserved, free to roam.
Waking he shakes his head sadly,
“The world is a different place from when I was a boy. We must give up a little bit of freedom for the good of society. I have nothing to fear for I’m doing nothing wrong”, he thinks glancing at the camera which observes, keeping him, and the other good people “safe” from harm.
A woman plants a camera to catch her cheating spouse.
She observes the cheating pair, intimate details to make your toes curl.
A couple place tracking software in their teenage children’s mobile devices to keep them “safe”.
And still the fish glides serenely, content in his observed world.
A Cup Of Tea
A cup of Earl Grey, no sugar, just milk. I lift and sip. Bits of china, fragile as a life disintegrate and fall away. Tiny pieces of broken existence nestle in my hand. A chip crater-like decorates the fragile under belly of the handle. I continue to drink. The handle holds. Once finished the plain white cup will be discarded, it’s utility at an end. The landfill beckons.
Creative Journaling For A Writer – Guest Post By Linzé Brandon
Many thanks to Linzé Brandon for her guest post on creative journaling for a writer. For her blog please go to http://linzebrandon.blogspot.co.uk/.
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Creative Journaling for a Writer
by Linzé Brandon
Most writers I know, keep a journal of some kind. I have three journals – two of them online (www.penzu.com) and another which I write by hand. There is a fourth, but it is a journal that I am keeping as a character in a series of erotic romance short stories I am busy with. Since this journal is pure fiction, I will leave that to the side for now.
You might rightly ask why three journals?
The first is a personal journal, I am sure you have one of those as well. You know that place where you vent your frustrations from the world and people around that you don’t want to share with people, since you don’t want to hurt their feelings. The place where you pen you personal dreams, fantasies and secrets. The one you don’t plan on sharing…ever. Since that is self-explanatory, I am not going say anything else on that.
The remaining two are my “writing journals”. The first is online and very handy when I have an idea in the middle of a meeting, or standing in a queue at the grocery store, or any place where using a pen and paper can be difficult. Since I always have a small notebook and a pen on hand, the Penzu smartphone app for the online site is helpful when sitting down and writing a few ideas is not possible.
This leaves the last one on my list – the handwritten journal. This is more of a self motivating slash information storing slash book ideas journal. It is also one of my favourite journaling experiences since I write it by hand with a fountain pen or a dipped pen.
While it might be old fashioned in this modern computer and smartphone driven world we live in, I find the experience of getting my journal out, unscrewing the lid on the ink, and picking a quill to write with, a relaxing experience in itself.
The experience is further enhanced by choosing a theme for decorating my journal each year. In 2013 I had butterflies all over the pages of my journal. This year words and sayings of all kinds add the colour around my handwritten words.
For 2015 year I am contemplating a few dragons to fire up my writing world!
While this might have you saying, ok, but why bother? Why not just write or make notes as part of a project?
I will let you in on a little secret: I need a more creative outlet than only writing books. Yes, writing fiction is a pleasure in itself, an outlet for my imagination and all the stories crammed into my head that are insistent on being written or they would never leave me alone.
I am also an out-of-the-closet artist. Painting and cross stitch projects are my passions too. With a full time job, and books to be written these more artistic endeavours take a back seat most of the time. So I compromised. And my handwritten writing journal is the way to satisfy, at least partially, all these creative outlets at the same time.
I add stickers, photographs, and printed and resized infographics to the journal. These are reminders of things to make me a better writer, storyteller and blogger. Constant reminders that I see almost everyday. Since adding this to my journal, the knowledge imparted is part of the enjoyable experience of keeping a journal.
I draw or sketch upon occasion, but only when the entry of the day has inspired me to do so.
As a pantser, or organic writer, I often find that the process of writing by hand forces me slow down and think about the words. As a rule I sit down and let the story I have in my head pour of me at the speed of white light.
A handwritten journal, that I use to keep track of new things I have learned, or reminders not to write in passive voice, and avoiding adverbs, has embedded these things deeper into my subconscious than would have been the case otherwise.
I do not claim that this is the answer for every writer, not even every pantser, but in my world, finding creative outlets within a schedule that barely allows for time to do anything more than work, write, eat and sleep, is a bonus any time.
Do I write everyday? The answer is both yes and no. Yes, I write words everyday, email, blog posts, entries into whichever journal is on hand, but no, not everyday is spent writing fiction.
Not all writers enjoy other creative hobbies, but for me finding ways to be creative will always include more than writing my next fantasy or sci-fi story.
Look out for more articles and ideas on Creative Journaling for Everyone on my blog in October.
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Author Profile:
Teaching herself to read before she went to school, it was the start of her life long love affair with books. Trained as an engineer, Linzé has worked as an export consultant and is presently a project manager at a company that designs and manufactures products for the military industry. Although she still loves to read, she also enjoys counted stitch embroidery, archery, fly fishing, painting abstracts, her husband’s medal winning photographs and watching Manchester United play.
She is one of the moderators of the Google+ group, Writer’s Rabbit Hole, and leads the Pretoria Writers Group, consisting of ten members, seven of which are published authors in various genres.
Linzé Brandon lives in Pretoria, South Africa, with her engineer husband and German Shepherds who are convinced that the world revolves only around them.
Follow Linzé online:
Blog (Butterfly on a Broomstick) http://www.linzebrandon.blogspot.com
FB author page http://www.facebook.com/LinzeBrandonAuthor
Twitter http://www.twitter.com/LinzeBrandon
Pinterest http://www.pinterest.com/LinzeBrandon
Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LinzeBrandon
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6035313.Linze_Brandon
Google+ https://plus.google.com/u/0/+LinzéBrandon
Wattpad http://www.wattpad.com/user/LinzeBrandon
Book Links
Science Fiction
Don’t Call Me Sweetheart – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/383111
Erotic Romance
Their +1 – http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/360607
Erotica
Bubble trouble – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/364605
Pixie Dust, Boots and Reindeer https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/391625
The Third Gender Series (Sci-fi Romance)
reGENESIS – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/430285
Hunger – http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/213647
Perfect – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/269278
The Nations of Peace Series (Fantasy Romance)
Géra’s Gift – The Grandmasters – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/238397
Keeper of the Dragon Sword – The Dragon Masters https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/301923
Contemporary
The Cutting Horizon – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/430313
Liverpool Garden
The music of wind chimes intermitint and poignant speaks to me of far away lands where monks sit in silent meditation. Tibet, as yet unvisited but one day I will go and walk in the mountains, breathe the pure air.
A gentle breeze sings in the leaves, touches my sun kissed skin. Planes fly overhead but no birds sing.
A Liverpool garden on a late August day, ordinary yet extraordinary in it’s way.
Houseproud
Have you noticed how hypnotic washing machines can be. The swish, swish of the clothes going round, the movement of the drum and the gentle whirr of the motor can soothe the most savage of breasts.
As you can tell,I like doing the laundry. There’s an art to it. Its not just about throwing in the washing, willy nilly with any old soap powder. You need a good quality powder and a fabric conditioner. The conditioners vital as it not only softens the fabric it also destroys any lingering odours.
My wife, Emma jokes that I have OCD.
“You don’t need to clean every day darling, once or twice a week is fine!”
“But you work so hard sweetheart. I can’t just sit around while you work all the hours god sends”, I say kissing her on the lips.
The house needs to be perfect. Next time you visit one of your friend’s homes look under the sofa or the bed and you will see dust, pet hairs and heaven knows what else. Most people including my darling Emma are Lazy, they clean the visible places but work on the basis that what the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve over, hence the filth under so many beds and sofas!
I always wipe all surfaces. You can’t be to careful about bacteria and other things. A damp cloth with just a trace of fairy liquid works wonders on the mattress.
Emma is so untidy. I’m forever picking up her shoes and storing them neatly on the shoe rack. You never see me throw my dirty underware on the floor but I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve found my darling Emma’s bra or knickers randomly lying under the bed or in the bathroom. I’m sure its true that women are generally more house proud than men. I guess I’m the exception that proves the rule.
Lots of Emma’s friends are jealous.
“I wish my Tom was like that” I heard Paula say only the other day. Emma just smiled and squeezed my hand under the restaurant table.
She’ll be home soon. One last tidy up before the lady of the house returns. The living room looks great. Its wonderful what effect Bees Wax has on the furniture.
Everything looks good in the bedroom. Freshly laundered sheets smelling of fabric conditioner and all the clothes neatly put away in the wardrobes, one wardrobe for me and another for Emma. Everything in it’s place, what a wonderful husband you are John!
How could I have missed them? A pair of Emma’s shoes underneath the righthand wardrobe, at the back by the wall. I vacuumed, I always do but the vacuum cleaner must have pushed them to the back without me noticing. Pick them up and take them through to the shoe rack in the hall.
Emma’s key in the door, I must go and greet my darling wife. What a funny sight I must be rushing to the door a pair of women’s shoes in my hand!
“Hello darling” I say putting the shoes on the little phone table just inside the front door and taking Emma into my arms.
“Hi sweetheart, its lovely to see you to” she says running her fingers through my hair. “Who’s are those? Hold on Jenny has a pair exactly like that, I was in John Lewis with her when she bought them” she says taking up the shoes. “Yes, I distinctly remember her buying these …”. She trails off her eyes boring into mine. I look away. Shit, to be caught out by a pair of bloody black stilettos when I’ve meticulously cleaned and tidied the house from top to bottom. Not stains on the bedsheets or lipstick on the wine glass but a damn pair of women’s shoes, oh shit!
Jenny fragrant with the scent of lavender, my beautiful Jenny kicking her shoes with gay abandon under the wardrobe and diving into bed. I love high heels. Jenny likes what she calls “sensible” shoes so she comes in stilettos to make me happy but leaves in flats. I remember her slipping on her “sensible” shoes before leaving. I didn’t think anything about the stilettos. Bang goes my marriage and all over a pair of fucking stilettos.
The Last Hurrah
Thronging the doorway
“Excuse me please”. The throng parts letting me through. Sometimes a kind soul holds open the door allowing me to enter.
In all weathers the die hards stand puffing away. In summer the scent of cigarettes wafts through the pub’s open door bringing with it memories of yester year, a time when walls turned yellow with nicotine and I, a non smoker returned home, my clothes smelling of smoke, cursing the filthy weed.
The rain drives the hardy band ever closer to the pub’s sheltering doorway
“Excuse me, excuse me” I say attempting to retain my fixed smile as I try to enter or leave.
Some said the British would never stand for it, this intrusion into the rights of the individual to light up in public. But what about the liberty of the non smoker not to have his lungs clogged with poison? The latter argument won the day.
and so you stand. Not quite the last hurrah but something noble in your tenacity not to give up despite the pouring rain.
I sit enjoying a pint, thinking of the bedraggled smokers outside.
He Who Sups
“Have you seen my long spoon?”
“No, why do you need that bent old thing anyway? It’s caked in rust and falling apart”.
“I’m off to sup with the devil”.
“Ah, I understand, he who sups with the devil should use a long spoon”.
“Precisely so”.
“But you are God, surely the lord of the universe doesn’t require a long spoon to protect himself from the prince of darkness?”
“You don’t understand. It’s a tradition. Without tradition where would we be?”
“But, with respect, you are the supreme being, can’t you create a new long spoon?”
“But I was extremely fond of the old one. Where can it be?”
“Perhaps the devil is using it to stir up trouble on earth”.
“That is a terrible joke and unworthy of an ark angel”.
“No, seriously sire your long spoon is ideally suited for stirring up humanity”.
“You may have a point. Really it isn’t good enough. Satan should be content with that fearsome pitch fawk of his but, no he has to go and steal my long spoon”.
“Excuse me sire, what is that you are sitting on?”
“Oh, its my long spoon, heaven be praised. Oh heavens I’ll have to apologise to Lucifer, fancy accusing him of stealing it like that”.
“Well sire I guess there has to be a first time for everything …”.
K Morris - Poet 