Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
I truly loved with all my heart but once. I believe that’s the only way we can ever be sure we have actually experienced love, when we feel something so strong, so over-powering, that it lingers across our entire lives. And when we look back, no matter how happy we are now, we only wonder …
Faraway, on the edge of an emerald sea, is a city enclosed by walls that tower into the sky. These black stone walls are adorned with hideous gargoyles that leer from every corner. But hidden within is a city where all the buildings are carved from smooth white marble. Elaborate fountains spray the …
When I wake up in the morning, and that heavy black cloud hangs over me, blocking out the light, I can see the sun rising in your eyes. I breathe a little faster. My heart beats a little heavier. That cloud dissipates, broken apart by the seed of bliss you’ve planted. You juggle the stars …
For years he had perched in the same old position, on the same old spot where the sculptor had carved him. The rain had washed away the finer details of his grotesque form and the sun had bleached the stone into a ghostly white. Hideous bat wings sprung from his hunched back, while a set …
There once lived a sparrow who loved the sun with all its heart. All throughout the spring and well into summer, he would perch on the highest branch of the tallest tree and sing to his golden beloved. He sang so sweetly and earnestly that all the people of the town would gather around his …
She lies peacefully beneath the currents, nestled in a bed of tangled seaweed. A tiny silver fish darts by. Following closely is larger fish covered with striped frills of white and orange. The smaller fish weaves between the reeds, desperately trying to lose its pursuer. First it turns one way, and then another. Its little …
The house looked old and dilapidated from the outside. Tiles had slid off the roof, pigeons were nesting in the rafters, and the paint had peeled away from the walls, leaving a dreary patchwork of greys on the splintered wood. But never was that tired old line truer; that true beauty is found within. The …
‘All these years, and I’m still afraid of the dark,’ she admits quietly, avoiding his gaze. ‘I know that I shouldn’t be, but it’s not like there’s a switch to turn it off. The human mind just isn’t that simple.’ ‘Are you afraid right now?’ he asks. She brushes a strand of silver-grey hair away …
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 …
Writing on Tangents