I remember it was a nice sunny day and my mummy and my auntie and my other auntie took me down to the seaside. I remember the seagulls, their screechy cries and their shadows rippling across the water and there was a big black and white butterfly and a man flying a pretty kite in the sky.
My mummy and my aunties were talking and having fun. I was in the wading pool, 'cos I was only three, and the water came up to my middle. I liked splashing and I splashed a lot and I laughed too.
Mummy and my aunties were laughing too. They were looking at something on mummy's lap and pointing and giggling. I saw mummy turn a big page over, with pictures o
Once there was a lonely old man called Tonor, who dwelt near a small lake covered by huge, green leaves that grew from bulbs at the bottom. Every year, just after the cold season, the leaves would start to look somewhat canted over, as large red lumps began to push up from beneath. Then Tonor would nod and laugh, because he knew the snows were gone for the rest of the year. The red lumps would soon become flower buds and then all of them would open at once, at dusk on the same day and release a delectable perfume to scent the breeze.
Tonor always looked forward to flower-days, as he called them and ensured that he had ample stocks of good fo
She was cunning, the old hag, I'll give her that. For more years than I cared to count she'd evaded my traps, slipped through every ambush and turned my carefully made plans to trash, but now, I had her; I'd found her base, her hidey-hole, her cosy little home.
If you thought that all witches lived in quaint cottages nestled deep in tangled woods, then you couldn't be more wrong. And if you thought they were all creepy old ladies with missing teeth and hooked noses, then you were even wronger more wrong? Never mind - you know what I mean.
This particular witch shimmied like Marilyn Monroe on a casting stage. She was pretty, b
I must admit that I enjoy operating upon those who produce works of art; those who use their hands to fashion exquisite things for the rest of us to read with bated breath or marvel at in wonder. Writers, sculptors and painters - I'll fix them all. Like the young pianist I had in yesterday - oh, you should have seen the look on his face, the mixture of disbelief, incredulity, anguish and pain; the screams he made as I chopped off his fingers with my little hatchet. Such Fun! Hee!
Just in the wrong place ... by Centauran, literature
Literature
Just in the wrong place ...
Basically, he was happily married. At least, if you went by all the usual criteria, that's the conclusion you'd have ended up with. A lovely wife, young-looking still and a devoted mother to their three children, all of whom were doing excellently at school and their various hobbies and pursuits. A beautiful, Tudor-style house set in immaculately manicured lawns and gardens within a high-walled, secure enclosure. A hush-hush job in the city which provided ample funds to maintain the whole shebang in good working order and still allow for holidays abroad, expensive anniversary presents and the occasional lavish party.
It should have been idyl
Strange, isn't it, how things work out sometimes? I came across the article purely by chance while waiting for my meal at the corner cafe. I was seated outside in the morning sun on the cobbled terrace just beyond the main window, which is only important because there was a slight breeze. The table I sat at was one of just two, the other occupied by a trio of earnest young businessmen, banging away at their laptops. My spot had recently been vacated by its previous occupant, a sadly over-pancaked, decaying model, who had demonstrated remarkable strength by tearing a thickish magazine in half with an enraged shriek before storming off down the
My brother's got a monster
and I know it wants ta
eat me in the night.
Its hair is corn and barley,
its teeth are wood and gnarley,
it really is a sight.
I'll hide beneath my sheets
with my marbles and my sweets
and fool the ghoulish blight.
When comes the bright new morning,
I'll give my sibling warning,
to do what's truly right.
And if he doesn't kill it,
I'll mash it with a skillet,
until it cannot fight.
I'll watch its rough skin harden,
bury it in the garden,
at long last out of sight.
And when our mother calls,
only one set of footfalls,
will offer her delight.
I condone slavery.
I encourage elitism.
I promote racism.
I tolerate animal cruelty.
I target children.
There is a small prize (a month's sub) for figuring out who this person is. I am interested to see who you come up with and whether it is the same person I'm thinking of.
I will give my answer and reasoning in two weeks time.
Some will not be pleased.
Originality and creativity are wonderful, but there are some rules in writing which cannot be avoided:
Do your research and get facts right. Sulfuric acid is H2SO4, not xp3zyj2. With fantasy, you have open slather, but truth cannot be bent.
Keep a list of your research.
Write what you know about. If you have no experience of life as a cabin-boy or hot-air balloonist, your attempts to describe events in such lives will be unconvincing to many and laughable to those who do, unless your research is impeccable.
Take examples/events from your own past and weave them in.
Keep a table called a 'timeline'.
Be very, very careful not to mix perso