I am feline great about my Valentine. 👄
Are you? Happy Valentines to everyone.
I am feline great about my Valentine. 👄
Are you? Happy Valentines to everyone.
I have always thought …
We may have a bad day. We may have no ideas. Blank unforgiving spaces between our writer’s ears.
Maybe we are feeling low, With life to do and places to go.
So we put it off … penning I mean.
We procrastinate and are not so keen.
When we give ourselves a shake,
Stop feeling lazy; checkout of our writing break.
Pick up a pen and start again. It’s not a bore or some godless chore.
It is a gift, a time to live and work in fantasy.
For most, it would feel like ecstasy.
How many others wish they could too … if the shoe was theirs; instead of worn by you.
Writers Block … is it just a phrase?
to disguise the days we chose to Laze.
Pictures by way of Pixabay.
What do you think?
Is there truth buried in my tongue in cheek?
Or is it a contagion, a nasty communicable disease? I truly want to read your replies c’mon let me have it straight between this writers eyes. 😉😗
Today, I am reviewing Dark Visions. To set the mood I prepared a spooky scene. *Whispers* Be safe, don’t go into the basement!
Keep the lights on …
*in a rough gravelled voice* Do not Answer the door …
At first glance, Dark Visions appears to be a Halloween anthology but there is so much more to this book than that. With 34 creepy stories under a spookily mysterious cover. Stories that will make wonderful gifts for any avid reader.
The Corner shop By Dan Alatorre. Feel the fog crawl up your back, hear the clop of the hooves, taste and smell the stench of urine from the alleyways. But don’t look away. It is a taste of what this book holds.
The Changeling by Christine Valentor. This one shocks from page one. Her skill to put you in the room is enviable. She writes a tale of foul and grotesque goings-on.
Geoff Le Pard, his writing style is crisp; in the voice of both his stories. What if … What if the words he chose to write came true? His dreams became scenes; in reality. This gripping short story made me scared to go to sleep; my hand trembled to pick up a pen.
It is full of bite-sized; easy to read, but hard to forget stories.
Swimming by Frank Parker.
This Is an intriguing tale written with clarity as much as mystery. Not a traditional horror more psychological. One that tells you just enough to have your mind bothered for hours.
No spoilers here, just a few words leaving the taste of fear coating your tongue. Do not be the one that’s disappointed, buy your copy before it’s too late. What! CAT got yer tongue. Waaahhhaha.
Get your spook on like I did making my pumpkins puke.
Read my debut Story contained inside this horrifying book.
Where Red- riding- hood is more than she seems.
If you would like to hear me read my story come to the best Halloween party on Facebook where stories and horror meet. Click Here To See
Don’t go just yet, I would love to know; ‘Did you buy it? ‘Are you hoping to?’ I love to talk, please leave me something in the comments.
When you buy it, remember you’re review counts. leave one on Amazon. We will be thrilled to read it.
The Link to purchase Dark Visions is right HERE
Thank you to Anne Marie who can be found Right Here for producing the trailer.
My Super sister Anne Maxwell for painting the best wolf for my own story.
Pixabay for the cat. And myself for the other media.
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “yes” Use it as a word, use it in a word, extra points if you start and finish your post with it. Enjoy!
Yes! This is what climbed down in front of my face. I was In the supermarket gathering items, reading label’s, trying to compute calories, sugar and fat. Really not taking much else on board when this happened. On yesterdays trip it was eyes peeled, trolley nicely filling up when . YES! A flipping “S” word, him up there👆dropped like James bond absailing into th O2. Hairy legs wriggling from a sign, you know the ones (TEA and sanitary protection isle 4).
My arms froze in crucifixion position my eyes crossed, I leapt back and the Agave nectar spun out of my hand and slapped hard into the direction of a passer by. At that precise moment I was doing an impression of a first nation Indian warrior dancing on hot coals … voice and all. Meanwhile the recipient or victim, (of the Agave) had turned to face me, as it’s thin plastic container slapped his forehead, split and sent rivulets (all in slow motion) down his face and suede jacket. ‘Humpf, who wears suede to do the shopping anyway?’
I remember hearing a frantic tannoy announcement but couldn’t understand what was said, for some random screeching commotion that was going on. That was when I realised it was me. Some person was dragging me towards pet food and finally clamped a hand over my mouth. Yesterday was a not such a good day for shopping.
The ‘S’ word had long since gone scuttled away no doubt looking for Miss Muffet. Two girls were cleaning down the irate man in isle 4 ( he appeared to enjoy that bit) and I was escorted (manhandled by a chauvinistic security guard) out to the door to my car,
minus my shopping and thoroughly traumatized. “You will go home and think yourself lucky that the gentleman in isle 4, does not … do you for assault” said the security man close to my ear.”You have serious issues” I went on to suggest mental ones. How dare he I thought, but meekly I unwound the window and said “Yes Sir I am going … I promise … yes”
P. S. Just in-case you didn’t notice “I hate the “S” word, I do Yes.”
What don’t you like? That could get you to loose control? leave me a comment and I will get back as soon as I can.🙂
Sue Vincent invites you to join in press here to leave your piece or read many imaginative others.
Today’s word is track.
Some say those that were born here have … the thing. The magic of the forest, sap running through veins, nooks and crannies, corners that hold secrets. A quirky look at life, grounded in soil and mulch.
I was born of this place, in the cottage hospital on the edge of Savernake forest. An ancient wood 2750 acres of mystery and as you would expect history. As a child, I once was found sleeping at the foot of the Great Bellied Oak.
Fred liked to walk with his girls through the forest, when time allowed,The youngest would no doubt need carrying before the track had stopped its meandering. The day was sunny and all was lush, branches flicked light this way and that, birdsong was full-throated all in all he thought, its a good day for a walk.
Me, the three-year-old, me, loved to walk the most, but my chubby legs would not always keep up with the want to finish. That was when Daddy’s arms helped out and shoulder high I would grab his ears to hold on and soak in the atmosphere. Shafts of light threw colours or that was what Dad said, I knew it was something special. My sisters four and six didn’t really want to walk but we all loved Daddy and his treats. The story goes that I had held daddy’s hand until we stopped to share a picnic; a bag of Smiths crisps with a twist of salt and a bottle of Orangina. Three straws he pulled from his handkerchief pocket we sat on Dads tweed Jacket three little bums; eyes as big as saucers. Once the feast was over we stood so he could shake his Jacket. Like a magician, he pulled a white paper bag stuffed with soft Pontefract cakes from his cap. I remember how we oohed and ahhed, how he did the Dad magic, producing a perfect round Pontefract coin from behind our ears.
This is where our stories differ, (Dad’s version) the sisters playing chase ran off the track, I couldn’t keep up my legs were far to short for his turn of foot. So he told me to wait and not move from the spot and he’d return as quickly as he could. (My recollection) My feet could not go fast enough as I was swept behind a frightened Dad through the forest, my hands wet from licking the liquorice from my fingers slipped free, and I fell with a bump. When I woke Dad was not there, I was laying on a bed of moss at the foot of the Giant oak. A voice whispered as I sat up; ‘do not be afraid child, we forest folk always look after our own.’ I looked around but could not see anything more than a wisp of colour flash by my head. Daddy, with one sister under each arm, was struggling to walk and calling my name. I told a very cross face that he wasn’t to worry his head, the forest folk took great care of me, when you were gone.
Our stories have like Chinese whispers altered with the years, but last week was the first time I returned to that spot. Now a road is next to the Old Big Bellied Oak, and the A346 south of Caudley trundles caravans and cars by oblivious to the magic.
Were you born somewhere magical? Or have you visited such a magical place? leave me a comment I love to converse.
He finished his book, watched the moon glow red on the day. With closed eyes, he inhaled … as if in a dream. A flash, then he falls away.
Into the deep, his arms like tentacles flap as if he’s waving goodbye. There’s panic, an unheard scream, bubbles bursting towards the sky.
Down in the grime the muck and the slime beside the hull of an upturned boat, Protrude oars, like arms reaching out … as if to get ahold of his throat.
An eel comes to look at the boy with a book, who into the water was spilt.Who struggles and fights, his legs disturbing the silt.
Deep he plunges, the light disappears in a mist. Like angelic detritus he floats, intoxicated with heavenly bliss.
The dark clears, a nymph beckons with barely a flick of her wrist. A wisp of a thing lures him deep. Her face he tenderly kissed.
He’s now way below,
ebb and flow.
This re worked piece gets a second chance as I attempt to capture something new.
Did my foray into fantasy work? Answers will be most welcome *waves*