by Christopher Slater Nothing is more devastating than running into a complete roadblock when you are trying to think of good ideas for a story or book. Humans are storytellers. We love to spin a yarn about all kinds of things. Sometimes we want to be scared, other times amazed, and still others […]
by Morgan S. Hazelwood Sometimes, when you’re stuck at some writing stage for too long, it can be hard to remember why you started this thing in the first place. Whether you’re drafting, editing, revising, querying, submitting, or marketing, there’s likely some point where you feel like you’re never going to reach the […]
by Cecilia Lewis Setting and worldbuilding are critical aspects of your novel. Having a vivid setting can pull readers into your story and bring it to life, and unique worldbuilding is often what sets a book apart. In editing both my clients’ books and my own, I find that establishing the setting is […]
by S.E. Jones Sometimes, you’ve just got to take a break. When you’re so sick of your words that you can’t look at them anymore, when you start to roll your eyes at every possible idea you have, when all of your characters seem to do not much more than walk in circles…
by Allison Maruska Don’t worry, this post is still approved for general audiences. Though if you’re looking for the more adult definition, this is the interwebs. Just don’t be gone too long, because that might not help your career advancement. Anyway.
I do not envy woodlice
the big number of legs
though at one time
I could try on
twelve pairs of stilettoes
wellington boots
sandals
flip-flops
and fur-topped boots
when winter comes
I wouldn’t like to be
tuatara either
to see more
though it seems more righteous
than the first paragraph
I do not fall asleep
with a half of my brain only
like a dolphin
I sometimes play cards
I am active
and when I am not
I am surprised
that through some inattention
I have stopped flying
I care about sunflowers
eating up seeds
and I care about ash-tree
though I seldom see it
when you sit beside me
you are the only one I envy
I was always a fan of classic stories.
but when a man cries depression,
The boy who cried wolf doesn’t seem so interesting anymore.
When tears tumbleweed down the cheek of your father,
the thought of ravenous barking things doesn’t arouse the senses much;
for you know your father’s lockjaw can be tagged-in at any moment now.
We will risk him reciting an obituary for his own voice.
We will risk losing the sound that echoes “survival” after the
tear ducts are patched up again.
We will lose it and never realize it was there in the first place.
When your father cries depression,
does he even speak the word?
And when he doesn’t,
will you know he’s speaking volumes
when silent on the couch from sun up
to sun down or will you scowl at the lethargy?
Is it not easy to hear the screaming
from the cold pillow case cotton?
Is it not a machine gun barrel clicking at your earlobe
each time Dad’s doctor’s appointment is missed,
or dinner gets cold?
When you say you are a patient daughter,
will you decipher the ancient texts of father’s past and find
yourself having part in the crumble?
Will you, too, lose your tongue in the moment?
Will it be ripped from your throat and fed
to the same wolves you didn’t think existed in the first place?
This isn’t some folktale we must disentangle
before we lose its meaning. There are some good days.
There are some bad. There are many we will never know until
he lives them. But one thing we do know,
is that he is still trying to judge the book by its cover and contents.
And I’m damn happy he chose to read them out loud.
– @StevenValentinePoetry
Face whipped by an ice
-wet
wall of wind,
squinting at the chill,
shoulders shrugged
on shrivelled spine,
shrunk against the relentless
unforgiving shadow above.
Brick archway offered
temporary respite from attack.
A rank
putrid assault
of urine stank with rotting
fatigue of flesh,
under a rumble
d, hurried world,
anxiously bridging
one worthy shelter to another,
business to leisure and back,
troubled only by mildest burdens
.
Shelter under shelter,
a bright blue tent sat hardy
on the soaking concrete,
skin flapping at autumnal
slaps, as the fellow out front,
clasped knees in dejected
patchwork of clothes,
battle
d like a rowboat
at war with Poseidon :
losing.
His eyes
bore the colour
of the sky,
which sang verse of his soul
to the jingle jangle chorus
of a tin pot at his toes,
bereft of the shrapnel
of kindness.
I averted my eyes,
embarrassed for not staying
long enough to learn
his name
or his song,
and sing a line or two
for his freedom.
Across the arch,
lying in sodden detritus,
discarded, abandoned
crippled by neglect,
left by too many passers-by,
a large soft toy bear
grasped my sympathy
as my heart clasped my throat
and the moment dragged
at memories of love lost
whose lessons taught tears
for the lonely soft souls.
Tempted to stage a rescue,
had I not been conscious
of my living witness,
I walked on, guilt rattling
my conscience.
I stepped back out
into freezing air,
punishment for leaving
the perished furry soul to wait
their silenced death.
Why did my heart leap
for the pitiful inanimate toy
but not for the living spirit
adorned on the edge of time,
clocking out each day, waiting
just for his chime
with the rest of the world?
Why did my strings
play so out of tune
for that which never bore life,
lacked knowledge
of its own hardship,
understood no brutality,
or truly had to endure
the callous cruelty of cold
and sometimes wonder
if one final sleep
will be enough,
and yet so slack
for my fellow man?
How can I feel so much
for that which may be replaced
but shed so few tears for a man whose past
I cannot tell,
but whose future
I can almost guess?
Where is my debt to him,
if I feel so deeply owed
the ear of democracy
listen to me?
Where is my debt to children
whose arms do not wrap
a cuddly figure
in their own bed,
safe in warm comfort,
belly filled and eyes fresh
with smiles instead of tears
at parents who weep
for fears and failure
they cannot escape?
Where is my debt,
if not seated in my heart
to beat for the greater good
of unity which invites all
to its embrace?
And though I know loneliness
too well to forget
its vengeance,
I was guilty of such a crime,
in a world consumed
by greed for privilege,
and too high a price
for warmth.
I stood in that archway,
where London laid bear
the waste of man,
and walked on
as if I didn’t care.
I found only shame.
I didn’t care
That he held the power
To cool my defenses
Death’s cool touch opened a part of me
That I never shared with anyone
And even in his deep dark sadness
I saw a gleam of hope
As I traveled within a world
That kept spouting unknown secrets
New to the world of demons and witches
I did not fit in
Until he took my hand
And showed me that it was ok
An unconventional love
Sneered at from all sides
But I didn’t care
This demon’s heart will love on still
Until Death, himself, departs
By Mena Oktariyana
Here,
I’m dancing with my shadows
forget about my battle against yesterday
bury all sadness
that I hope can fly away
I,
follow the rhythm you play
and keep dancing with devils inside me
whispering and whispering
loud, not gentle
I hear their anger
taking my body
give a gripping cold
give a gripping pain
Genres : sadness, painful, life, hurt
