Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
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 …
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 …
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 …
Far away in the north was once a grand city famous for its splendour and beauty. The inner city of this wondrous place was filled with twinkling lights, no matter how deep into the night it was, while beautiful people in their finest clothes passed each other in ornate carriages. The scent of champagne lay …
Deep in a desert not far from here there once rose a vast mountain. Snow always glittered from its peak, even under the blistering summer sun, and lush trees grew around the base even though it had been many years since this region last saw rain. But the most remarkable …
The middle of the day feels like the dead of the night, and I’m never so alone as when I’m with you. I don’t remember the exact moment of fracture, but we drifted apart like continental plates; imperceptible up close but forever changing the shape of things. Why can’t we say goodbye? Why can’t we …
It’s five in the morning and a grey light is starting to pierce the air. The frost melts beneath its touch. Trains begin to rattle down the line, their carriages empty, the platforms still and bare. You stand upon that same spot where you first saw her. No-one passes you at this hour. And even …
Writing on Tangents