Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
When I came to, the first thing I saw was a brilliant yellow sky dappled with fleeing birds. They were racing away in flocks that didn’t normally fly together. Wedge-tailed eagles soared alongside sparrows, while snowy cockatoos streaked through the air beside pitch-black crows. There were so many of them; more than I could identify …
He knew his time had come because the clock had stopped. Of course, there were other signs too. You couldn’t miss them, really. The TV set had frozen on an image of some infomercial nightmare; the radio had cut the presenter off midsentence; the sound of lawnmowers, passing cars, and singing crickets had all stopped …
I clamber up the face of a sunset cliff, hand after hand and foot after foot. The slice of clean blue sky is drawing nearer while the furious sea below gets further away. My fingers ache. They’re scraped and bleeding from the climb, while my carefully-tended nails are chipped beyond repair. I force myself to …
At each stride of the camel’s long legs, I can feel his muscles contort and sway with languid movement. There’s a heavy rhythm to his steps. As the sun melts away, the sky turns to amethyst streaked with orange and yellow. These brilliant colours splash across the dunes before reflecting back off the sand’s crystalline …
With sweat seeping down his back and grease soaked into his clothes, he leans over the bench, hard at work. Before him lies a sheet of metal. There are three circles drawn upon it in white chalk. He picks up the angle grinder and slowly, with great care and precision, cuts out three perfect circles …
Sunset leaves dance along the empty highway. First they move in one direction, and then another; each time spinning in one spot for a moment before moving on. The old man watches from a dilapidated park bench. He gives the tiniest trace of a smile as the leaves break off into pairs and begin waltzing …
I sail upon a calm blue ocean on a crisp paper boat. The scent of sun-drenched paper brings a drowsiness to the air, mingling with the tang of salt on the breeze. It’s a dreamy sort of day. I place a hand on my forehead, shielding my eyes from the dazzling sun as I peer …
The train rattles down the line, stopping at each station just as it always had. There’s a steady rhythm to all the creaks and rumbles of the carriage, creating layer upon layer of percussion. It reminds her of music. She sits alone by the window, tapping her foot to the beat of the train and …
He picks up his paintbrush, twists the bristles into a fine point, and dips it into the colours on his palette. The painting is nearly done. Nearly. But not quite. A white hot sun makes the sea on the canvas glisten as a large piece of driftwood, scarred with barnacles, bounces gently over the waves …
Time stands still when it rains in the forest. All the birds quickly hide within the shelter of the trees. Even the insects seem to have vanished into their unseen burrows. But that constant rain continues to wash over the trees and soak deep down into the earth, feeding the roots that reach out through …
Writing on Tangents