Tagged: writing
Poems from the Vault – The Power of the Storm.
Here’s a random oldie plucked from the Vault; check it out if you wish. Thanks for reading, be well, and stay creative.
1000 Posts.
One. Thousand. Posts. A thousand posts. That’s quite a lot of random musings amassed over the course of eight years, and I have to say, it’s been a long, challenging, exciting, tiring, but ultimately satisfying ride. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about (and damn near highly considered) quitting this blog. On many a day, it has seemed like a complete waste of time…but in the end, the passion to communicate and the deep drive to create and express wins out.
I consider myself a writer, and Writers Write. I don’t believe that a writer should write for likes and follows. I believe that a writer should write what’s written on the inside. Sounds cheesy and cliche, but it’s true. We all have a message or messages within us, just waiting to see the light of day; we all have a voice waiting to be spoken in whatever medium gives it life. Convey it, whatever it may be.
No preachy preaching from me, though…just write. You can’t reach everyone….so just be true to yourself and create. Cast your net out there…it doesn’t matter how big it is. If you can snag a few fish, then smile. If you don’t, keep going and smile anyway. Do your thing, stick with it, be consistent, and give your voice a stage. And most importantly, many, many thanks to those that have taken part in the journey! Your support is priceless, and I thank you.
Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from The Passing at Highway 10.
Check out this excerpt from an upcoming short story about…zombies. Read on, if that’s your thing. Best of days to all, and thanks for dropping by.
No, this was real. And it was scary. And it was happening right before our eyes whether we were ready for it or not. All our lives, we live and breathe and feel invulnerable, like no disaster will ever reach our shores…like nothing bad will ever happen to tear our own little personal worlds apart. And when it does happen, everything we’ve ever known, understood, prepared for…gets thrown out the fucking window. “Yeah, zombies”, I said again into the silence, and it broke that silence like a rock through a pane of old glass. “What the fuck was that?“, Sam whispered into the dim light, and I heard him say “Oh shit, that back door”, and he took off and made his way to the back. I told Sally to wait here while me and another guy followed Sam to the back of the place. I heard it then too…a bumping or knocking sound coming from outside the door. Maybe they were trying to get in. We all looked at each other, and slowly and silently moved our way to toward the door.
Poems from the Vault – Starfire.
Just a little poetic wordplay inspired by the broad, quiet beauty of a meteor shower; thanks for reading. Stay creative, and best day to all.
Poems – The Why.
Why do you write? Whatever dream you choose to pursue, do it fearlessly. Stay creative.
Quotes – Simplicity.
Life can be complicated; we all know this firsthand. How much of it is of our own doing? The appreciation of simplicity has been around for ages; renowned 16th century poet and Earl of Surrey Henry Howard (an unfortunate victim of Henry VIII’s rage) remarked that one of the “things that cause a quiet life” are “true wisdom joined with simpleness”. Sage words. Great concept. Let’s see if we can make simplicity the new complicated. Stay creative.
Storytime Saturday, featuring an excerpt from an upcoming untitled piece.
Read on if you'd like; if so, thank you for taking the time to do so. Best of days to all.
The bus veered around a series of winding corners, and they slowly and methodically snaked their way deep into the trees. He surprisingly managed to drift in and out of sleep periodically with each bump and sway of the ancient machine as it rocked him to sleep. The old driver tamed the turns like a seasoned pro, and managed to swerve deftly around each craggy bend; any driver with normal nerves would surely not have attempted that type of road with the type of speed that this guy was able to conjure up. It was actually quite a shock that the old scrap heap was able to generate any speed at all, he mused. One look at that thing and you’d think it must’ve been George Washington’s motor coach. That fucker had to have been at Valley Forge. A good jolt jarred him from his sleep, and he sat up wide-eyed in the seat. He gave a quick, slumber induced glance around the bus in order to get his bearings, and noticed that her eyes had closed and her head was tilted back against the seat. Her head shifted gently from side to side with each curve of the road, and she looked so peaceful like that, he thought, her head dancing along with the movement of the bus. The breeze forced its way in and caught fragile tufts of her hair in its grasp, and sent it flying rapidly in front of her face. She was beautiful.
