“You can’t park here without a permit.”
“I’ve bin’ comin’ round ‘ere longer than them petty council laws were in place.” She hobbled down the steps clutching a walking stick. Continue reading “Painted Ruse”
A story that never dates…
“Just what d’ya think ya’ doin’?” Palms on hips, her head tilted, and eyes squinted against the sunlight.
“What d’ya think I’m doin’?”
“You’re lying on your back copyin’ a goanna gettin’ a suntan?”
“Are ya waitin’ to die of sunstroke to become Dingo bait?”
He screwed up his nose. “No.”
“Unless you’re pretendin’ to be a brown snake, stretched between them rails, please explain for the masses…” her arm swept across deserted surrounding sunburnt scrub lands, “… why are you lying on the train tracks?”
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Buckle-up bookworms, as we crack back the covers to follow the footnotes of this twisted plot that has more pulp than a paperback!
Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night, a writer entered the fiction category of a book competition.
Two books were entered.
Sadly, the writer’s books never made the shortlist.
And the writer was okay with that until it was discovered…
Those two book entries were never read!
30+ books were entered into this competition.
The entries included an amazing selection of children’s books, memoirs, novellas, short stories, and poetry by many talented authors.
However, proven by date-stamped data and other sources, two books remain unread in this competition.
Did these book judges judge a book by its cover?
“Did these book judges judge a book by its cover?”
Like most competitions, judges are either voluntary or they are paid for their valued services. But is it okay when a competition manager says this about their judges, “… I did not expect that they read every word of every entry.”
So how many other hopeful book entries in this competition were left unread?
As we continue to wade through this tawdry tale, the competition’s shortlists were proudly proclaimed.
Congratulations to all those nominated. Even those in the shortlist for the fiction category where some could be argued in certain publishing circles as being creative non-fiction.
But as we flip the page, another storyline emerged…
Someone far removed from the competition, noticed that among the fiction category’s shortlist stood the name of a board member. A board member to the group managing the competition.
They say troubled times helps to create a good character arc in a story, so the blue-collared writer penned a letter to the board who manages the competition.
Their plot twisted response— “…legal action…” in a letter from the board’s President and Executive Director.
How’s that for irony, when a place claiming to promote all writers is threatening to sue a writer for writing!
“…a place claiming to promote all writers is threatening to sue a writer for writing!”
It’s enough to want to hide at the bottom of a publisher’s slush pile, never to be read again.
But then the Executive decided to change the rules after the shortlist was announced to claim “…it was the judges final decision”.
You read that right, books not read and rules changed and they charged people for entering too! What sort of book competition is that?
Should a refund of the entry fee be requested while warning all other hopefuls to not bother?
Or is the entire story on this page fiction or creative non-fiction?
You be the judge!
*Author’s Note: I’d like to pass on my sincerest congratulations to all authors everywhere who publishes a book, it’s a tough task so you’re all winners in my book!
Yeah, I had to sneak that last pun in. :O)
encased in a broom closet
where dreams expand like balloons swept away.
where colour is leached from petals
curled into bleached thorns.
a paper boat floating
amongst pilotless paper planes,
shadowed by pouring shredded paper
on a paperless queen’s parade.
a loss in belief
with no confessional relief
not while the triggers turn
remaining chained to tastes yearned
showing sometimes acceptance
can be emptier than loneliness
an emotional minefield
where dreams are reaped
& souls are minded
the rain trickle of a memory erase
to extend hope on a unicorn chase
past mountain masts
towards a stellar cast
across the ballooned moon’s whiskers
where solitude speaks of dreamt stolen time whispers
the eternal fool
led by a broken watch
to become the mists’ master editor
for the now and forever chase for that pocketful of paper
I tasted a glimpse of paradise
when I first kissed him on this planet
my monochromatic world.
He became the foundation of strength
I the support
where his words wove the wonder of two worlds
together we built a bridge that earthed our once lost souls.
He revoked the weary from my smile
breathed hope into me
& made it a home.
my everyday paradise
where listening to his heartbeat
is my lush lullaby of nature serenading my moon.
It might be a tiny part of paradise but to me, I’m so glad he invaded my planet.
in that moment
when your presence pirated my mind
you threw an invisible lasso that tightened around me
in a time when I’d been an emotional shipwreck
you chose to be my anchor
among those sweet exotic scents of summer that surrounded you
sinking us deeper into wetter sands
watching a fragrant frangipani flower
follow a floating fallen leaf.
I dream of the taste of salty skin
that washes away my fortress of sand
hoping to stop me sinking into this sorrow
to stop trembling from the aftermath of a tornadic storm
the waves whispered to the mermaids of that one summer love
where you were my sizzling summer season
symbolic of our sensual life-long story
it was just a closed door in the rain
there’s magic within a mere moment
if you listen to the wordless silence
that echoes for the moon
I pray in this rain
carrying my jar of wishes
where among those ashes’ crystals are formed
to be tossed beyond
the time-told traditions
high into this magical storm
beyond the whispers melting into the mosaic wall cracks
that threatened to shadow our eternal dance on their beliefs
because I knew,
amid this slow centred storm,
he was the lightning
bringing his thunder
chose to cross that corner
was ready to dance eternally within the rain.
“And your prognosis?” She leaned back, scrutinizing the male across the desk.
“Um…” He fidgeted with his wedding ring. “Err…”
“At this rate, I’m won’t be getting my fifteen minutes of quality time.” Arms crossed, she scanned the room with a huff of disdain. “Tick-tock.”
His fingers tugged at his too-tight collar. “Well, the reports and our tests—”
“Prove, what?” Her swinging crossed leg made her stiletto’s heel to glint in the light like the tip of a black dagger.
His mouth went dry, unable to swallow. “Um, well if you look at—”
“I don’t want to look at the images I can find at home. I’m here for a report. Your verbal presentation. Not a show and tell lesson. I want to know strengths. Weaknesses.” She shifted in her seat. “These chairs are so uncomfortable.”
“I can get you another one?”
“And waste my fifteen-minute time slot. Listen, Mr,” she said, checking her wristwatch. “I want to know the basics. Simple—failure or pass? Brain scientist or truck driver.”
“No one fails grade two and your son is doing well.” Relieved to see her smile, he dabbed at the sweat from his brow, mumbling, “I hate parent-teacher interviews.”
#MovingMoments #HomeSweetNot #R&Rramblings #RuralRomanticRamblings
ashes and dust
as shipwrecked ghosts
are left to drift on murky waters
for a day the blue veil lifted
to uncage a gypsy sentence
to renew &
burn regretted debt
kicking their coffins shut
& stepping round tombstones
So rose the necromancer’s dancer
towards their happiness here ever after
Awoken by cold water sloshing against his face, he winced, rubbing at his salt-filled eyes. Blinking tears until his vision cleared to light blue skies, he was surrounded by a flat calm ocean. Nothing more than a floating speck in the middle of nowhere, trying to remember his Stranded at Sea survival manual.
Still with his wits about him but in time, confusion would become an ally. Headaches would arrive, soon followed by motion sickness.
Licking his cracked lips he noted the first sign of dehydration, and a salt rash irritated his neck and shoulders where the life jacket rubbed against the skin, knowing boils would soon appear.
Hypothermia, he’d survived, so far. But his fingers were puffed-up like boiled pork sausages and it wouldn’t be long and his body would bloat from exposure.
He had to survive the day and contend with a sunburn that would cause his skin to crack and bleed, and try not to attract sharks.
Kicking his legs out beneath him he felt every singular hair follicle. It was as if they were being ripped out from his sensitized, briny soaked skin, unleashing shock waves over his entire being. With his heart pounding in his ears, head back, his screams echoed around him.
Then he floated. Unmoving. Just breathing.
The sea air was strong against his singed sinuses, but it was the smell of deception that burned more. Clenching his teeth, flexing his hands into fists to get the blood flowing, as memories of last night passed through his mind’s eye.
The first mate stirred that pot by turning the crew and it’d been a modern-day mutiny on his own ship. Tossed overboard like fish burly, by rookie wannabe pirates, suffering cabin fever found in a mob of manipulated dumbarses.
Soon to be dead dumbarses.
All night he’d deliberated on elaborate malicious plans. Intricate strategies perfected in retaliation of their treachery. Ensuring every single crew member would suffer in their own unique way. It’s what kept him alive.
He needed to prevent sunburn and cover his eyes to combat partial blindness, another expected side effect from reflective sunlight and needed to suspend his gruesome death by seawater. With measured movements, he found nothing in his pockets. There hadn’t been time to grab anything, only wearing shorts and his own personal lifejacket. For now, it was just waiting while planning his revenge and drift with the tide.
When a whirring mechanical noise echoed in the distance. Shielding his eyes from the rising sun, he spotted a fast moving object coming towards him.
Thank god—a helicopter.
Sighing with relief he smiled. He might be a captain—but he was a modern-day pirate and the EPIRB attached to his lifejacket obviously worked and knew he’d have his vengeance.
#MovingMoments #HomeSweetNot #R&Rramblings #RuralRomanticRamblings
as a recycled relic
alive behind jigsaws of glass & brick
just shifting mortar in this dead man’s dance
where the rabid rabbit is trapped in a clockwork spiral
where the tick crawls on that walled clock of damned denial
listening to souls shadow-chase ghosts under the midday moon
such is another day climbing that planned tapestry chain
forgetting freedoms, faces, and even our names
handcuffed to habits, hurts, and self-blame
I’m out of place amongst the mundane
where static delays decay my days
like a sidelined renegade
chained in body
yet free in mind
how I choose to fall
is where I’ll learn to fly
to stop playing the paycheque-whore
& never look back for that boardroom door
to face the long black-water heated highways
I’ll re-find a renewed lost within an unscheduled history