Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
He wasn’t meant to be there. And he knew it. The fence was made of brick put together so smoothly that it was impossible to climb. It rose several metres into the air and encircled the entire property. While there were several signs posted around the perimeter warning against trespassing, he hadn’t found a single …
The electric screen reflects in her eyes and douses her face in a bright blue light. Her skin isn’t quite as smooth as it once was. Even her thick chestnut locks are starting to turn thin and grey, changing rapidly, if there was anyone there to witness the transformation…
Once upon a time there lived a wise old king who loved his kingdom. He loved every leaf upon every tree and every drop of dew which glistened with the dawn. And his people loved him too, for he was a fair and kind ruler, who held his people reverently in his heart. One night …
I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you in so long. I haven’t dropped by to share any thoughts, or words, or stories. But things have been a little tough. I’m writing a book, a novel, something which has been a decade in the making. I think you’ll like it. I hope you do. After …
Mercury waves rise into sharp peaks before crashing down with a roar. The wind screams like a banshee. His boat is flung one way, and then another, completely at the mercy of a foul-tempered sea. He hangs onto the side of the boat, his knuckles white. Every muscle strains against the violence. The salty spray …
‘I had the strangest dream last night. The sky had turned to jade, while everything else appeared in shades of turquoise. The people. The streets. The buildings. They only existed in the wavelength of green. One woman with emerald eyes and moss green hair was passing near, but when I stood in her way, hoping …
Every time I see a crocus, I feel sad. So sweet and blue: it is no-one’s favourite bloom and never the crown jewel of a garden. Florists never include it in their arrangements. Few artists paint it. And rarely has there been a poem or even a limerick to honour this poor little flower. The …
He wakes up, not in the golden warmth of his hive like all the other bees, but someplace dim and dusty. The ground is hard beneath him, and the air is stale and sour. He rolls from his back onto his stomach and lifts himself onto his feet. They clink on the steel surface of …
