I don’t know if its old age, pushing inspiration so far back, but my mind has this large empty space. It keeps telling me I will never write a new novel. That those 400 white pages scare the bejesus out of me.
So, I tell myself, try a novella, as it seems weeks ago when I last held the pencil. It would seem I am only good for short pieces and poetry. These, I still love to do.
Words press against my mind, asking to be written. Late at night, there are different kinds of thoughts. Words that do not want to be read by anyone.
Thoughts I must keep to myself. The kind of things you wouldn’t speak in daylight. They pop up like some kind of evil demon, a black shadow most of us would rather deny. Keeping the beast well caged, we try to get on with the day.
The rains stops, there is a rainbow. Sunlight through your window reminding you of the magic this world has to offer.
Old age disappears for a while. I grab at this new enthusiasm with both hands, wondering what I will make of it.
Watch this space! They are right, old age is just a number.
( For the visually challenged reader, the image shows a lantern sitting on the wet sand of a beach. There are fairy lights inside the lantern)
An age-old magic lantern, full of mystery Stories long forgotten, of wishes made. A land where people hide from evil genius. Grown from mind in need of magic Of miracles, of wonder, to be carried to a land Where blue horses roam on desert sand Where angels sit and chat with wings folded Time to pray another day they say. The Lord is patient He will not mind your prayer delayed It shall be answered in a time that is planned By mind conceived before the pure light Of our spinning world that shines through dark space Out from old lanterns, remembering The lady of the lamp, Nightingale From patience made to soothe my savage mind With light that sprang from before time began…
The mournful sound of seashell held to the ear Being carried upward by memory Cold arms, the odour of sea salt Stirring the motion as he rocks me Whispering how he no longer thinks of his life as a loner I feel his brass buttons press against my chest As he promises, this will be his last trip at sea On his return, we will marry. Weeks pass before news arrives The Marie Celeste has been found with no one aboard My love is lost at sea, no wedding veil is needed No vows to make Just tears to wash sea salt from my face That feeling of having lost my mind…
In the long diamond years of my life I wonder how it is I have fallen into a world Of ever-changing butterflies That like to flash and change before your eyes. Something, I am sure, no human has seen before. They fly beside you, their tiny wings like fans, cooling the skin No need to rush or hurry life, they seem to say. I wish I had this whispered to me years ago I would have slowed down, making time for life’s wonders The magic and splendour we so often let pass by…
In this novel, recounted by Tallis Steelyard in his own inimitable manner, we discover what happens when the hierarchy plots to take control of the Shrine to Aea in her Aspect as the Personification of Tempered Enthusiasm. Will the incumbent be exiled to a minor fane in the far north? Will Tallis end up having to do a proper job? Does ordination and elevation beckon for Maljie? This story includes the Idiosyncratic Diaconate, night soil carts, Partannese bandit chieftains, a stylite, a large dog and some over-spiced food. On top of this, we have not one but two Autocephalous Patriarchs and a theologically sanctioned beggar.
This delightful story from Jim Webster about Tallis Steelyard’s latest escapade turned out to be an unusual diversion from his usual adventures.
I have always thought Tallis an honourable man, carefully evading, or managing to negate, any of the devious plans he comes across. So, I was most surprised to learn of this subterfuge involving Maljie.
Although she has long been my favourite of all Tallis’s friends, Maljie is proving to be a bad influence, but despite my better judgement, I am rather impressed by the speed Tallis manages to keep up with her!
I always fancied a trip in a hot air balloon, so I willingly climbed on board to share what turned out to be a thrilling journey with Tallis and Maljie.
A Fear of Heights is a refreshingly different and exciting story, one I am sure I will be reading again!
April 8, 2021, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that “rethinks the hero.” Define the hero, comparing or contrasting to the classic definition. Break the mold. What happens to the hero in the cave? Is it epic or everyday? Is there resistance or acceptance? Go where the prompt leads!
My favourite heroes, da Vinci, Plato, Galileo To name but a few Not forgetting the classics, like Achilles, Hercules As a child, Tarzan was my favourite, Taking care of the animals, righting wrongs Then I switched to Superman, fantasy maybe. Turning to more modern heroes Maya Angelou would be up there. My father for leaving, before he knew I existed What a hero! I digress, sorry. It’s one of those days when I feel like pouring out all sorts of nonsense What would happen if you put them in a cave? Would their mighty egos break down the walls?
This hawthorn has grown rather slowly over the last few years, and I attribute it (right or wrong) to my increased use of fungicides. Regardless, over the last few years, I have let it mostly grow, and now it’s time to sort out what it’s done.
The tree has a tendency to throw upward- and downward-growing shoots at junctions. It makes the tree look more ramified than maybe it is, but time to clean it up.
With the colour drained out of Times Square The yellow cab screamed, look at me! Make the most of it, my photo will soon be up there. Then stand back, as Times Square comes alive. Pushing that yellow cab into the background No more than a tool to get from A to B Does that sound big headed? Go ahead, you can say it. No matter, for I am the light…