There is a moment, an epiphany, when a wave of black, glossy crows shudders in the hot blue-air. Calling to each other, Beware the writer in the field. He is watching their world: eyes magnifying every morsel of movement and perspicacity, for an all-encompassing consistency; to place the soul of creation onto parchment. They break into a hundred, ashen, volcanic projectiles: separated, diminished, and finally dispersed. All but one.
Today’s writing prompt to help with characterisation: Imagine all the spaces within your soul where characters or pieces of yourself lurk, waiting to tell their story. Choose one of them. They may be an orphan, an old lady, a whore, an entertainer etc… whoever you like. Now, take 20 minutes and give them a chance to tell you their unique story in monologue.
Just self published a short story. If you’d like a free read… follow the link…
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…still looking for that elusive word, which has evaded me for days. This morning I took a walk through a Banksia forest, the low tree-tops were filled with almost a hundred black cockatoos, all crying out in an urgent tone that could easily be used in the speakers of an ambulance. The two magpies, who had until this morning thought they were the Banksia Kings, kept swooping into the gnarled branches, shooting their slick bodies up into the sky before dropping and falling into a mercilessness dive once more. But, the cockatoos only shook their white tufted tail-feathers at them in reply. I thought the word might be somewhere in there, somewhere among the arsonists char, the sharply serrated gray-green leaves, or the ancient swamp sand that has no tears, but still remembers a time when the basin was full. I thought the word might be inside a spinning top-shaped seed pod, on the tip of an orange firework-like bristle or on the back of the large hover-wasp blocking the path…. still looking…. a terrified cat shoots out of the forest, back to domestic life. as do I.
Writing Prompt: Imagine if death came to take you, and you only had one memory to live in forever. You have 1 hour to choose.
…the pedal of my push-bike underfoot, racing with my friends toward the outer-edge of hill-top suburbia, into the back-forests of Kalamunda.
…the crunch and slip of red pebbles under the tyres, the menthol air, the perfect cool-shade over thin tracks.
… to ride the half-wild ponies from abandoned lots, cantering them bareback over lush grasses, their unshod hooves kicking up the peaty-scented clay.
… singing Dolly Parton’s ‘Here you come again’ into the wind, interspersed with conversations about the books we were reading, The Adventurous Four or Fantastic Five.
… We left when we became hungry, arriving at Helen’s home famished. Her mother always had homemade cookies on hand. Out to the garden, past her pottery wheel and assortment of clay projects, and into the veggie patch with nets to capture white winged moths in jars.
… I always paused at the bath-tub fishpond, searching…
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