Category: Words

Monday Poem: The Frozen Fields

The Frozen Fields We drift through mists that hide the day. The night will close in on us, and the cold Will make us huddle protectively inside. The rain will fall, almost frozen, hard Like the ice of sadness that freezes Then shatters the delicate heart of one Who has known love and seen it die Alone and uncared for, out in the frozen fields Of a time lost to it and bare of all traces Of the hearts it once held, beating together Inside itself, as though something so strong Could never be beaten or could ever die.

Sunday Poem: Stories and Lies

Stories and Lies I saw her. She was walking so alone. The road was long, and lasted all her days. She would, I knew, then grow so weary sore Of walking, long before that endless road Then curved off into distance far beyond. The road was heading on towards some place Beyond the maps we knew she’d never see. She’d only hear the stories people told Of distant places, tales from travellers Much like me. Stories told by wanderers All like me, who can merely tell these lies, That only ever fail to bring back here Those distant places with…

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Always Remember His Name

Another day, another scene. Or, if he was unlucky enough, and the writer got into the flow, a complete bloody chapter. He was getting too old for this. Back when he started, it seemed like an exciting career choice, glamorous and sexy. To be the protagonist in action thrillers seemed like the dream job. After all, his father had been the man in maths problems. True sometimes he played a farmer, a train driver, a builder or some similar character. But all he did was carry improbable loads from one place to another, build awkwardly shaped houses, plant crops in…

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She Knows Darkness

Her name? Just the echo of some sounds in her mind. She is not even sure if she ever had a name. But everything has a name. He must have a name, even though he never speaks. The things he brings her to eat, drink, to clean herself – all of those have names even though at the moment she struggles to remember what they are called. She knows darkness. She and darkness became friends a long time ago when he kept her eyes hidden from the light. The word blindfold comes from somewhere deep within her mind where the…

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Getting the Story Going

‘Action!’ ‘What?’ ‘Action.’ ‘What are you talking about? This isn’t a film.’ ‘I know, but I thought….’ ‘Bloody hell.’ ‘What?’ ‘You’re not one of those writers who thinks are you?’ The protagonist peered out of the page. ‘This,’ he glanced around nervously, ‘isn’t going to be literary is it?’ ‘What? No, of course not. Literary? Whatever gave you that idea?’ The protagonist shrugged, then remembered. He checked the safety catch and holstered his pistol. He’s been the protagonist in someone else’s story where a gun had gone off accidentally. 450 pages of being chased through a dense forest, across rivers.…

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Words and What They Mean

Slowly the adverbs crept towards the unsuspecting paragraph. Its sentences were relaxed, at ease. They had fought off the last attack by the adverbs and their attempt to break up the solid paragraph’s defensive phalanx. A couple of sentences had been lost, but the paragraph’s words were experienced fighters in the editing wars. They had been on many campaigns together, welding themselves into a solid fighting army of words, capable of making any story asked of them. Of course, back in the training dictionary, some of the multisyllabic words had scorned their choice of fiction. Some words looked down on…

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The New Literary Sensation

Pennib Trustfund is probably the leading figure in today’s literary scene. Her works have all the literary critics in academia and the media raving about them. Some have said she is the most significant literary figure to appear in the 21st century and that her name will live on into the next century, as long as grants are allocated to literary studies. Some outside the somewhat narrow literary genre have wondered what all the fuss is about, especially as so far Trustfund has only published three shopping lists, a reply to a spam email and a note to her cleaner.…

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When the Page Thinks About Words

There are no words. At least, there are no words yet, anyway. The page lies empty waiting for something to happen. Sometimes the page thinks it would like to remain white, clean. Remain untouched by the footprints of letters turning into words as they follow the twisting paths of the sentences deep into the paragraphs. The page likes the idea of its own emptiness. It likes to leave the possibilities open. But then the words come along and try to fix meaning, purpose to the page. All too often, the page doesn’t like the feel of the words crawling over…

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Excuse Me?

‘Excuse me?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking?’ ‘Well, I am a bit busy at the moment.’ ‘I can see that, but-’ ‘What?’ ‘I couldn’t help noticing… are you the protagonist in this story?’ Bill stood a little straighter, turning to face the tall, dark stranger in the long black leather coat. ‘You can tell that, can you?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ The stranger touched the brim of his black hat. ‘I was standing in the margins of the blank page over there,’ he pointed to his left, ‘and I saw him start to write you. So, I thought that…

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