Sunday Short Story

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Sunday short story – a short story on Sundays. You can either: choose to join and share yours; or read mine – either way you’ll be participating in the event.

Word Limit: 200-500 words.

Genre:Author’s choice

The idea behind it is to think outside your major project. Being completely absorbed by the one project seems daunting and frustrating. I feel it could be like music; you can love classical but listen to a bit of rock to make you appreciate the finer melodies.

I’ll begin with a short story I wrote today.

Enjoy.

Continue reading “Sunday Short Story”

Ma nin theM irror

Haunting blue eyes, absent mind staring

at the face in the mirror – staring back.

Furry brows resting above the eyes,

sharp-pointed nose, passed down by the one-night stand.

Cheeks, boney – forehead furrowed and wrinkled

too much for my age.

Long blonde wirehair,

teeth, chipped; lips, covered by hair – the problem.

Mouth, hungry; skin, leathered from overexposed sunlight.

 

I pause with the razor, hovering over my mouth.

the moustached man needs my attention.

But why? I ask him.

‘Food to feed the mouth,

cream to protect the skin,

cap to fill the tooth,’

The face in the mirror replies calm but stern.

‘But first your job interview.’

 

DWTSmith #poetrymonth

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Inside and out

City life had always fascinated me. Crowds of people rushing for public transport to arrive at a destination. There were some moments I stood there and created back stories of  random people; where they were going, what lifestyle they lived and if they had a family or lived alone.

It sparked creativity and train of thoughts for short stories, poems or a character

I would love to create, inside and out.

I can remember this lady I saw. Her eyes were emerald green and curved

like a tear drop on its side. She was one of my memorable characters I created whilst waiting for my train.

I named her Yalein. Her wavy red hair fell below her shoulders and bounced on her back as she paced through the train station. She had always been in a rush after work. Everyday she walked the same path for the same train; the long black draping coat, wavy red hair and tapping high-heels. Her husband, Trent, was an abusive alcoholic. Her escape was work. Worked as long hours as possible to come home, abused of sleeping around or meeting up with other men. Trent never trusted her; Yalien didn’t care, only for their unborn child.

A few months went by; Yaliens belly grew, bruised eyes faded, arm-slings were used and replaced but her make-up was always done perfectly.

Until one day, she didn’t turn up. No echoing taps down the tunnel nor bouncing hair.

(This is fictitious based on no real people or events I know.)

train station

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Burimen Brothers

‘The Burimen Brothers’ is an on-going Fantasy story that I will be writing on my blog. It was going to be my first novel but I thought I would express it to my followers.

I hope you enjoy the first installment and follow the journey I will take you on. Each week I will release a segment. Enjoy!

 

I stood on the edge of the fiery lake. My village burned in the reflection, and underneath the dawn light. People screamed in agony and animals fled for higher ground. Mother urged me to leave before the chaos begun, she said the Wndith were after me.

Ashes drifted high above the fiery lake, smoke rose with it and I watched the villagers burn. On the opposite side of the lake, the morning dew moistened the short grass. It was a brisk morning but the villagers would disagree; they were underneath burning logs.

‘Hunter!’ a man yelled out, running towards me from the eastern side of the lake. I was ready to pounce. As he got closer I recognized him. It was the village Butcher, Clyd.

‘Leave now!’ He continued, ‘Go to Edenra over the mountains and find a young lady, Deanna.’

Before I had the chance to ask a question, an arrow flung through his neck. His body collapsed to the ground. I scanned the trees to find the bowman. I couldn’t see them and I didn’t want to hang around.

I fled for the cradling mountains. The mountain ridge kept our village secret for many years, hid me from the outside world but that time was up. I had been found.

DWTSmith. #amwritingfantasy

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Cold. Freezing cold

It was quiet but not anymore,

school holidays filled the absence.

The whoosing of driving cars,

steam from the hot road.

 

A stretch of trees – dull colours

dragged through the raindrops.

Birds chirped across the clouded sky.

Cold. Freezing cold.

The winter sky hugged the hills,

yet the moon is hidden

and I could not relax.
DWTSmith. #poetrymonth

Footprint

My brother asked me, “what do I want to accomplish with writing?” The first thing that popped into my head was to leave a footprint. Not an environmental footprint but one I can call my own, show my own individuality and show my passion.

I learned from University, to create your literary footprint you must read a

diverse range of books to find your own voice. So I did. I read: teeth-clenching mysteries, predictable thrillers, philosophical fiction, dystopian science-fiction and heptalogy fantasy series (I had to google that, it’s a 7-book series); after all the page-flicking, I have found a voice I am comfortable to call my own.

I still read a wide range now. I found my genre I want to write in and now I read a diverse range of Fantasy writers.

My blog will also contain book reviews of all the books I have read, reading or hoping to read. To showcase, that I might have a bit more of an idea with writing than people tend to think.

For now I’ll let you ponder, as a writer or reader, on what kind of voice

you have in the literary world.

 

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