Animals/Pets, Fiction, Interviews, My Thoughts, Nature, Nonfiction, Photography/Visual Art, Poetry, Writing

‘Rewind Interview’ with Writer, Blogger, & Poet Ryan Stone #amwriting #interview #nonfiction #poetry


Welcome to another ‘Rewind Interview =” in my now weekly interview series. Ryan is a talented Australian poet, extremely amazing, so I’m excited to reshare his interview with you both on my own blog and now on the Go Dog Go Cafe. The Cafe is a writer’s hangout and you can even submit your work there for publication. Here is the link to do that here: Go Dog Go Cage Contact Page.

Originally, I was doing this as a bi-weekly feature, only on my own blog. So in order to do this as a weekly feature on both my blog and on the Cafe, I’m going to be sharing some ‘Rewind interviews” as I think these writers are equally due recognition on both sites. Just to mention, since this is a ‘Rewind Interview’ some of the info might not be current.

Today, I’m excited and pleased to share with you the talented writer, poet, and blogger Ryan Stone of ‘Days of Stone’. Please visit the link provided to read more about Ryan and read his superb poetry.


Ryan Stone Image
Ryan Stone

1. Please Tell Us About Yourself? 

The blood of the Irish runs deep in my veins but I’m an Australian born and bred. I was raised in a ‘man’s land’ of karate, fast motorbikesheavy metal guitars, and football with Aussie rules.

My love of reading and writing was not readily accepted. Instead, I was forced to indulge my interests under my bed covers by torchlight. But the poets Seamus Heaney, Kenneth SlessorWalt Whitman, and Maya Angelou  — all have a way of asserting themselves in my writing.

Although I have no real love of uniforms, I’ve worn a few in my life so far: the combat fatigues of a soldier in the field and driving a battle tank; the torn black denim of a metal guitarist; and the turnout gear of a firefighter. I’ve been a rank-and-file cop, a detective, and a member of a plainclothes special duties team. When all the uniforms are stripped off, I like to think it is the writer who remains.

I have no formal credentials, only an observer’s eye and an insatiable appetite for books. I’m rough around the edges, but the right turn of phrase will stop me dead in my tracks every time. I love MetallicaTed Kooser, and with equal passion, my closest friend in the world, my German Shepherd (don’t tell my wife).


 “When all the uniforms are stripped off, I like to think it is the writer who remains . . . the right turn of a phrase will stop me dead in my tracks every time.” – Ryan Stone 


 2.  When Did You Begin Writing and Blogging?

The first time I considered my writing to be writing, was towards the end of high school. I was blessed with an incredibly passionate English teacher who managed to channel a teenage boy’s angst and anger into something less destructive. When one of my poems earned me a kiss from a pretty girl I had a crush on, I knew writing was something I’d stick with.

I’ve never been much of a social media fan. But I reached a point where I became sick of waiting several months for editors to respond to my poetry submissions; I turned instead to WordPress. Along with all the great writing and posts, I’m able to read from other writers.

However, I’ve developed a wonderful, supportive group of friends, and readers, who offer feedback and advice in a much shorter time frame than editors. While I still submit to poetry journals, my year of blogging has given me a huge amount of enjoyment and satisfaction.


 3. What Does Poetry Mean To You? Why Do You Write?

To borrow from my favorite quote by Anton Chekhov: Poetry isn’t being told the moon is shining – for me, it is being shown the glint of light on broken glass.

I love the way a poem can capture more than a photograph, can carry an image or emotion over time and space, and let me experience someone else’s worldview for a moment. I also like the way reading one of my own poems years after it was written can transport me back to a previous ‘headspace,’ for a moment.


” . . .Poetry isn’t being told the moon is shining – for me, it is being shown the glint of light on broken glass.” – Ryan Stone (borrowing from Anton Chekhov)


4. Where Do You Find Your Inspiration and Motivation To Write?

Nearly all of my poetry begins while I’m running with my dog through the rain forest beside my house. Usually, a thought, a memory, or an observation takes root and nags at me until I jot it down. Sometimes, an unusual word or phrase will catch me the same way.

My dog has developed his very own here we go again’ face which he pulls each time I pause during a run so I can tap out a note or two on my phone.


 5. Do You Find There Is a Time of Day You Most Like To Write?

Predominantly, I write at night, when my boys are asleep, and the house is quiet. I am frequently awake into the small hours of the morning and find my 2:00 am mind is quite adept at slipping out of the shackles my daytime mind imposes. During these hours, I can most effectively explore and develop the notes I jot down during the day.


Writing Night Ryan Stone
Credit: Andrew Neel via UnSplash 

” I am frequently awake in the small hours of the morning and find my 2:00 am mind is quite adept at slipping out of the shackles my daytime mind imposes.” – Ryan  Stone


6. What Are Your Most Current Writing Projects? 

I have two fantasy novels I’m working on at present. One is about a princess who becomes a pirate queen after her parents are murdered, the other is about an orphan boy who becomes a magician and later, a king.

Both novels began as short stories which expanded and grew during a couple of National Novel Writing Months (NaNoWriMo).  As well, both novels are over hundred-thousand words and in need of serious revision. As with everything, time is a killer.

Poetry wise, I’m writing a chapbook with one of my closest internet mates (Ajay) who lives in India. It is loosely based on flowers and cultural differences. I’m currently editing a collection of my Senryu (5-7-5) poems, with the intention of self-publishing a small e-book of one-hundred Senryu poems, in the next few months, unless a publisher comes along sooner.


 7. Have You Published Any Writing or Are You Planning To Publish Works Of Writing In The Future?

I’m fortunate enough to have had many poems published in a number of online journalsprint anthologies, and poetry magazines. I never thought anyone other than my mum would enjoy my writing and rarely submitted my writing anywhere until recently.

A few years ago, I wrote a poem called “Unburied Hatchet,” which I thought had a chance of being published, so I submitted it to a couple of places and was rejected each time. On a whim, I sent it into the monthly competition in Writers’ Forum Magazine (a magazine in the UK to which I subscribe).

I was blown away when my poem won first prize and £100 (quite a lot of money with the Australian exchange rate being what it is). That first win gave my confidence a much-needed boost and I’ve been submitting ever since.


“I wrote a poem called “Unburied Hatchet” . . .I sent it into the monthly competition in Writers’ Forum Magazine . . .and was blown away when it won first prize and £100.” – Ryan Stone


8. Can You Briefly Describe The Process You Went Through To Publish or Are Going Through To Have Your Writing Published?

All my publishing to date has been by submission, so I’ll talk about publishing by submission. Whether it’s a print journal, online review, magazine, blog, or something else, the rules are always the same:

  • Read the publication first, to gain an idea of what style of writing they publish. While it doesn’t hurt to offer something fresh, I usually have a fair idea of an editor’s likes and dislikes before I submit.
  •  Read and re-read the submission guidelines before you hit sendAn improperly worded subject line can be enough for an editor to discount the submission without even reading the poem. Some publications request everything in the body of an email, others prefer attachments. Decent editors are inundated with submissions which meet their specific requirements and most, won’t waste their time with substandard submissions.
  • Take rejections gracefully. Analyze any critiques subjectively and apply critiques if you think they are warranted. BUT DON’T GIVE UP – submit, submit, submit. There are a million homes for poems out there and because a poem isn’t right for one editor or magazine certainly doesn’t mean it won’t be a prize winner for another editor or magazine. While I’m realistic about my own writing, I generally look at rejections as a case of a bad fitnot a bad poem.

 


 

 9. What Is Your Writing Process Like?

Almost exclusively, my writing begins as a note or two on my iPhone (often while I’m running) and later develops on my iPad. My writing environment is incredibly vital to me and the Mac/iPad writing program — Ulysses — puts me in an excellent creative ‘headspace.’ I tend to write the first draft quickly once idea forms and then I’ll put it aside for a week or two, before returning and revising a poem over and over and over…

I am incredibly fortunate to have found a brilliant first reader. She’s an amazingly talented poet in her own right as well as possessing editing skills second to none. For some reason, I’ve yet to understand, she seems to enjoy my writing and conversation and has nurtured and developed my poetry to no end. My first reader’s input is a huge part of my process in developing a poem from initial idea to finished piece.


“I tend to write a first draft quickly once an idea forms and then I’ll put it aside for a week or two, before returning and revising a poem over and over and over . . .” – Ryan Stone


10. Do You Prefer Certain areas of Writing or Reading Styles or Genres?

When I’m reading a novel, it is usually fantasy and almost always a seriesStephen King’s Dark Tower collection is a favorite, as are Game of ThronesMagicianThe BelgariadLord of the Rings, and Bernard Cornwell’s Arthurian books.

I also play a great deal of electric guitar which draws me to music biographies as well, anything rock or metal is fair game. Additionally, I love short story collections: Italo Calvino takes first prize there, and I read as much modern poetry as I can get my hands on.

Originally, my love of poetry was nurtured by Maya AngelouKenneth SlessorJim Morrison (The Doors), and Jewel Kilcher. When I first discovered Ted Kooser a few years ago, my own poetry made a huge leap.

Kooser’s book, The Poetry Home Repair Manual, was full of ‘Aha!’ moments for me. Most recently, I’ve lost myself in the brilliant Buddy Wakefield and Richard Hugo’s: The Triggering Town.


 11. Do You Have Any Helpful Advice For Other Writers?
 

I’m not really big on dishing out advice, as everyone writes uniquely. What works for one person, won’t always help another person; but I can certainly share what works for me.

  • The important thing is to write, write, write and keep writing. It doesn’t have to be good. I have loads of writing which will probably never see the light of day; however, once the first jumble is out of my head, the writing that follows is much better.
  •  I don’t edit my first draft as I write. I write it all down and worry about cleaning it up later. If I’m only editing a word or two, then I’ll delete and replace. If I’m editing a whole line or large section, I cut and paste in a new version – v1, v2, v3, (etc .) and keep each version in the same document. I find it’s much easier to revise without the fear of losing words or ideas I may want to later reinstate.
  •  Once I’m happy with a version of my work, I put it aside for a few days and return to it later with ‘fresh eyes.’ I find it much easier to spot weak pointssticky spotsdoubled up words, bad rhythm, (etc.) when I’m reading it fresh.
  • The poem is more important than the truth. When I’m writing a poem based on an actual event, I find it easy to place value on a thing because its memory is significant to me. Often, I don’t want to let the thing go from the poem. This can become a weak point as the particular thing doesn’t make the poem better and doesn’t hold the same value for the reader. Once I let the poem dictate what to keep and what to cut, rather than trying to stay one-hundred-percent true to my memory, my poetry comes together far tighter.

“Once I let the poem dictate what to keep and what to cut, rather than trying to stay one-hundred-percent true to my memory, my poetry comes together far tighter.” – Ryan Stone


12. Is There Anything Else You Would Like The Share With Us Which You Think Is Pertinent To Writing or Yourself?

An honest first reader who will tell me what works and what sucks without worrying about my feelings is worth her weight in gold.


 13. Can You Please Share With Us Few Links Of Your Favourite or Most Loved Pieces?  
*****
“Unburied Hatchet”
by
Ryan Stone
*****
Axe
Credit Markus Spiske via UnSplash
*****

Until I saw those wasted hands,

brittle as chalk, I hadn’t thought

how fast the years make ghosts.

*****

I heard them once called brawler’s paws.

For me, they were always more:

cobras, poised to strike.

*****

But his brawling days are gone now;

I could kill him with a pillow,

if I cared enough to try.

*****

Thin sheets press tightly to a bed

more empty than full, his body broken

like the promises of childhood.

*****

Haunted eyes betray last thoughts

of a dim path, spiraling down.

He hopes to make amends.

*****

“Forgiven?” he croaks,

barely there, as always,

and I’m wishing that I wasn’t.

*****

With the last rays of day as witness,

I turn my back with purpose

and hear the silence roar.

*****

In a late-night bar, I catch my reflection

swimming in a glass of bourbon;

but I’m staring at a ghost.

*****

First published in Writers’ Forum Magazine issue 163, April 2015 – first place

 


Please Find More Links to Ryan’s Writing Below:


Thank you so much to Ryan Stone for doing an interview for me. I appreciate his time answering the interview questions a great deal. I would love to interview you too. Please let me know if you’re interested in sharing yourself and your writing on my blog. You can reach me on my Contact Page.


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Animals/Pets, Books, Fairy Tale Themed, Fiction, History, Memories/Childhood, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Nature, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Tale Weavers Fiction/Poetry, Writing, Writing Challenges

Tale Weavers: Fiction – The Wolff with Shamrock Eyes #poetry #amwriting #taleweavers


Thanks to Lorraine of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie telling an adult version of a fairytale.

——–

Credit: http://www.pinterest.com
——-
Red was tired, worn out from helping her mother clean up the summer cottage. They had scrubbed it from top to bottom. Now that Red and her mother, Anne, were nearly done, all Red wanted to do was sit back and watch a movie with a bottle of her favourite ‘Red’ — a nice Cab-Sav or a Merlot. 

Then, her mom appeared with a picnic basket, “Gina, I know you’re tired and we’ve been working all day, but I need you to take this basket of food down to your Grandma Addy’s house. She’ll be upset if one of us doesn’t at least pop by for an hour or two to visit.” 

Red crossed her arms, “Mom, all I want to do is put my feet up and rest. I came out here to relax with you, Dad, and Michael, not to work even harder than I do at the firm. Besides, no one calls me Gina, just you. Call my Red that’s my name , like my hair.”

“Well who do you think your beautiful hair came from? My mother, your Gran Adeline of course. I know you’re worn out but you’re younger and have my energy than I do. I still have to change the sheets and air out the upstairs bedrooms for your father and I, and your brother’s room needs new bedding as well.”

“Make him do it.” 

“Mike won’t care. I can’t have his room that way.” 

Red grumbled, “Grandma’s a fantastic cook, mom. She makes amazing food for herself. She eats whatever she likes and doesn’t have diabeties even at eighty-three. How about I give her a call and tell her I’ll come by with lunch tomorrow? She’ll prefer I call before showing up,” Red reasoned. 

“Err, Red, your Grandma isn’t always as healthy as she likes to think she is. I was down here earlier this year because she hadn’t been able to cook and do a lot of her usual activities. Her arthritis has been acting up. It’s not healthy for her to be too thin at her age and she refuses to take the steroids the doctor prescribed her. She needs the food tonight. I called her and she told me she’s been eating toast and jam for days.”

Red was shocked, “You should have said something earlier, I would have visited Gran Addy before now.” 

Anne shrugged in apology and Red gave her mother an angry look tbefore stockng out the front door to her Camry. It was red like her hair and practical. Red was nothing if not practical. It was why she was one of the best associates at her law firm. 

She drove as fast as she could down the dirt road to her Grandma’s quaint house. Red gritted her teeth as stones assaulted the sides of her car and sighed in relief when she reached her Grandmother’s front drive and bungalow. 

She picked up the picnic basket from her back seat and knocked on her Grandma’s aubergine front door. “Gran, are you there? It’s Red, I have food mom made for you. It ‘s delicious and should tide you over for a few days. I can bring more when I’m over next,” she yelled through the door. 

Red didn’t hear a response so she tried the door handle. When the front door opened easily Red grew cautious. She walked inside her grandmother’s front entrance, hanging up her vermillion jacket on a coat hook and putting most of the food away in her gran’s fridge. She put together a plate of chicken, potatoes, gravy, and cauliflower with cheese sauce for her grandma before heating the food in the microwave for a few minutes. 

“Adeline?” Red called. “Grandma Addy? I have supper for you from my my mom. It’s Red, Grandma? Are you okay?”

She walked down the hallway and knocked on her grandma’s bedroom door holding the tray with the steaming plate of food and a cup of her gran’s favourite tea. The door swung open on its own and Red realized her Grandma Addy wasn’t in her bedroom. But who was? 

Red shrieked when a half naked man came into view stretching his well defined arms and back in front of her grandma’s picture window. The man was covered with intricate tattoos, designs trailing up his well toned arms and back. 

He seemed to know she was there and when he turned around Red almost drooled noticing the attractive man’s six-pack abs and mesmerizing shamrock eyes. She had to close her own cerulean eyes to gather herself and not clumsily drop the tray of food. Red felt her grip wobbling as she tried to breath. 

The gorgeous tattoo covered man rushed forward to help her. Red noticed his dark hair and inhaled his fresh woodsy scent as he grasped the tray from Red’s shaking hands. 

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

“No! No I am not. What the Hell are you doing in my Grandma’s bedroom? Where is she? My mom sent me over here to bring her food. All she’s been doing is eating toast all week. So where is she? And who are?” Red yelled. 

The man tried to calm her rubbing her arms and hushing her. Red didn’t back down, “You have five seconds before I call the police and tell them you’re trespassing in my Grandma’s home. Guess what else? I’m a lawyer so I’m going to make sure we sue you for trespassing and anything else I can.”

The man sighed shaking his head at Red. She followed him to her Gran’s writing desk, tray in hand. His handsome face crinkled as he gave her a genuine smile and took the tray from her. Red started to shout again but the man placed his hand over Red’s mouth.

“Just give me five minutes. I’ll clear this all up.” 

Red wrinkled her nose and grasping his hand over her mouth, threw it away from her. 

“You!”

Then his hand was back over her mouth, “Okay, Miss lawyer. My name is Wolff, Axel J. Wolff. But everyone calls me Wolff. Your Grandma asked me to house-sit while she and my grandpa Reggie went to Hawaii. They used to go out before both of them married their respective spouses. But now your Grandpa and my Nana have died so Addy and Reggie are both enjoying life together. I’m not trespassing and your Grandma did call your mom to tell her to send you over with food for me. I’m pretty sure she wanted us to meet.” 

Wolff smiled then picked up the fork from the tray and started eating. “This is amazing. Not as good as Addy’s cooking but much better than my own. Did you make it?” 

All Red could do was stare at Wolff suspiciously. Something about what he said didn’t add up. Her Grandma always told her if she was going away. She would’ve mentioned something on their twice weekly phone calls. 

“Wolff,” Addy said. “If your Grandpa Reggie lives here, how come I don’t know you? My family’s summer cottage is not far from here on the lake and I remember your Grandpa and even your Dad here in the summer. But I don’t remember you?”

Wolff shrugged. 

“All the children and grandchildren came down here in the summer for at least a few weeks. I would remember you were Reggie’s grandson. Your Grandpa always gave me twizzlers, but I don’t recall you for some reason, why is that?”

The back of Wolf’s free hand grazed Red’s cheek. He smiled at her taking in her sweet appearance with a predatoral gaze. His eyes swept her face and down her body several times. Red felt her body flush responding to the hunger in his eyes. She couldn’t help but admire his fit body and perfectly structured face. Red bit her lip and Wolff echoed her reaction to him. 

” I saw you a few times growing up. You’re around ten years younger than me so that’s probably why you wouldn’t have seen me. Beside, most of the time I was away at military school and then I was in the marines for a while. We didn’t get much of a summer break.”

Wolff set the tray aside and stared into Red’s dazed eyes, “What big eyes you have, Gina. Do you believe me? About Addy and Reggie? 

“My name’s Red. Has been since I was eight. I hate Gina. I believe you but how’d you know my real name?”

“Addy of course. Red, would you like to keep me company?” His eyes travelled down her body and up to her mouth, devouring her as he went. 

“Whose the one with big eyes now?” Red asked.

“The better to see you with,” Wolff replied.

” I don’t know if I believe a word out of your mouth,” Red said observing  Wolff with careful curiosity. 

Then his shamrock eyes glimmered and he held out his hand to Red. His smile was indeed wolffish and Red’s pulse raced as he took her small hand in his own. 

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Poetry, Synchronicity Poetry - 8,8,2, -- surprise ending last 2 stanzas, Writing

Photo Challenge: Poem – Synchronocity – “Art Hell” #amwriting #poetry 


Thanks to NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge. 

——–

Credit: Kyla @ Deviantart

——–

I’m a vivid monument, 

I’m his lover cruelly tricked, 

Just art. 

——

Result of magic powerful, 

A priest with such evil intent,

Wounds me. 

—–

For I had thought the toxic paint,

That burned my skin would kill me,

I wished.

——-

I only pass out the priest laughs, 

Eyes glinting, evil smile, tells me —

“Enjoy.”

—–

For this was my punishment,

Tempting our ‘leader’ with my love, 

Trapped now. 

—–

Not quite alive, not quite so dead,

My man, the leader, loves artwork, 

He stares.

—–

I wonder if he recognizes,

A shadow of his beloved gone, 

Each night. 
—–

He comes with pain others cannot —

Ever see; I could’ve been his, 

Soft place. 

—–

Never can I speak, the priest’s curse, 

Ensured silence, a spell took —

My voice.

—–

—–

I pray to God help me find —

My love jumps as my voice cries,

Returned. 

——

Becomes aghast, furious, 

He thinks me a dream I tell him,

The truth. 

—-

Our stories, our love, a life —

We’d planned and he listens,

With tears.

—–

Then such rage summoning priest,

Who is forced to repair me from this, 

Art hell.

——

I’m taken from between life and —

Death; restored to my former self, 

I’m saved.

—–

My hero never gave up on —

Me; didn’t believe I ran, now 

We’re us.

—-

Priest I have no knowledge of, 

My guy, our leader was enraged, 

Priest dead? 

—-

Or suffering hell as I?  

Two years in art trapped, lost; 

Now free.

——

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Current Events, History, Italian Sonnet - Iambic Pentameter - Octave (abbaabba) - Sestet (cdcdcd), Memories/Childhood, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Poetry, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Day 29 – NaPoWriMo/A to Z Challenge/Photo Challenge: Poem – Italian Sonnet – “Arbitrary Blackness” #poetry #NaPoWriMo #AtoZChallenge #SylviaPlath


Thanks to NEKEEREJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo challenge. For NaPoWriMo the prompt is ” to take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. . . After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem. The last letter of the A to Z Challenge is of course the letter Z for a GoodRead’s quote. 

——–

Credit: Andi Abdul Halil

———–

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near.” — Sun Tzu, The Art of War

———

Noun – “arbitrary blackness” 

– “drops dead, “head,” imagined you”, come home, never did, lost love, war, hoping, never returned so he was lost in the war, she becomes this blackness, because he is gone, “Satan’s men” – the Nazi’s in Germany, exit, dreamed was with him in bed, dreams always, but she is mad, he exists no longer, never returned so never was? 

——-

They say this is no war for girls to fight in,

The men go off to fight their battles, estranged.

For everyone, life’s callous rearranged.

If he’s out there, he’s changed, sick as sin. 

Everyone, everywhere drops dead, there’s no win.

In cities, in ghettos, wars collide. 

Drop dead, silly head, mad but I’m alive. 

Gone for all time, years ago in air thin

Arbitrary blackness fills my soul. 

Satan’s men on trial, live in soul’s holes. 

With those from the camps, fuel for fire.

Haunted dreams, PTSD now respired. 

Mad to love you, but I wait and desire.

Arbitrary blackness still encloses.

——

Credit: Sylvia Plath – http://www.pinterest.com

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——-

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Flash Fiction, My Thoughts, Religion/Morality, Sunday Photo Fiction, Writing, Writing Challenges

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Exception #amwriting #flashfiction 


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

—–

Credit: A Mixed Bag

——

In their years of friendship, Alise and Janelle never fought except over Chaz Monroe. He dated Alise in high school causing a huge argument between the girls. 

“I liked him first you know that Alise,” Janelle had said. “Why are you still seeing him?” 

“We’ve been going out three-years Janelle. We’re planning a life together.” They’d been drinking vodka and Janelle threw hers on Alise. 

Then Chaz left for university and broke up with Alise. He dated another girl and Alise and Janelle reconciled over their disgust of Chaz’s tart

Ten- years later, Chaz came back to town. He was still handsome and Alise and Janelle had both secretly been in contact with him.

 Chaz visited Janelle first but when he came to Alise’s he told her, “I missed you so much, Alise. I’m sorry I ever broke up with you. Would you consider giving us a second chance?” 

Alise agreed, she loved Chaz. But when Janelle found out about Alice and Chaz she invited her friend over under false pretences of congratulating her. 

Janelle mixed neat vodka’s for them both and threw candied cherries in their drinks. Alise took a few sips, choking on the weird tasting cherry. She was shocked to see Janelle slumped over dead as she too succumbed; Janelle had poisoned them both. 

They had always been bestfriends except when it came to Chaz Monroe. 

—–

©Mandibell16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Health, My Thoughts, Nature, Sunday Photo Fiction, Writing, Writing Challenges

Sunday Photo Fiction: Not To Touch #amwriting #flashfiction #fiction


Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF. 

——

A Mixed Bag

——-

I’m reminded of a science experiment my class did in grade five. We used chalk to grow crystals on them. The exact process I don’t remember, but I do recall feeling proud upon removing a piece of chalk from my container and finding various coloured crystals on it. 

I thought back to this day when I saw the trees begin to glitter with crystals. It had been extremely cold and blizzardy, so we all assumed it was naturally, the accumulation of ice crystals. But then the trees became covered in crystals of all colours.

 There were bright lavender crystals and cyan blue crystals. There were even bubble gum pink crystals. Everyone thought this was the most beautiful and unique oddity. Journalists came from every city across the country, to report on this rarity for themselves. 

Then, scientists in the area starting testing the crystals and while they were lovely on the trees, the were not so lovely attached to your skin. They crystals once fastened, would not unfasten from one’s skin until a person was completely covered in them. Until their body was frozen, stiff, and dead as the trees which never budded in spring. 

Our town was nearly deserted by the time the military took over. The colourful forest was burned to the ground. 

The most heart breaking aspect for everyone was that the small children were the first to touch the trees. They had the smallest bodies and didn’t last long. I think it’s the reason so many people started over, the unbearable misery they left behind. 

——-

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Couplets - rhyme and have same meter, Fiction, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

Photo Prompt: Poem – Couplets – “Grandma’s Terrible Secret” #amwriting #poetry #writing 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s photo prompt. 

——

Credit: Andre Gova

——-

Grandma passed away this year; she, 

Left me to go through her house see —

Everything her life gathered ’round. 

Those last few years, she wasn’t sound. 

She gathered things seemingly odd, 

A variety of objects broad. 

The thing she loved the most was dolls, 

Every room was full of them, dolls —

With their bodies thrown haplessly, 

Heads cut clean, hair removed aptly. 

Such nightmares I’ve had since seeing, 

Dolls heads around her house pleading, 

Wanting to have their bodies back. 

Eyes blinking scarily, sacked —

No found dignity, bald heads gleam. 

In the darkened living room see —

Every eye staring at me, creeps —

Sound of scratching at night, weeping, 

I know not what do with their bodies,

Or heads displayed as trophies sought. 

I hear the sounds they make, they beg, 

Their souls they say away were led. 

Grandma wasn’t merely collecting —

Dolls heads to display and to set, 

Upon her wood mantle to admire. 

Many girls made dolls so expired. 

Collecting young girls made them all —

Dolls she tore apart I’m appalled.

This horrid woman who read me books, 

Where witches were evil, looked —

As hags, disfigured, monsters known, 

I didn’t see how such wholesome —

Looks could hide a beast, a creature —

So evil, I’ve nightmares featuring, 

My lovely Gran, demon concealed. 

I burned her house down so to seal, 

Her evil magic never to —

Live again as long as through —

My own light magic prevent, such —

Wickedness; that which is unjust. 

Will never live again to kill, 

Is dead and gone, and will not kill. 

——

©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, Music and Performers, My Thoughts, November Notes, Poetry, Writing

November Notes: Poem – Day 10 –  Tanka – “Air Space” #amwriting #novembernotes #music #poetry


Today’s prompt song is “Air” by Rayvon Owen. 

——

“Air” – Rayvon Owen

———

http://www.pinterest.com

——-

Holding onto air, 

Nothing even their, it’s all–

Turning into air.

Can’t make something from nothing. 

Can’t take back time, do-over. 

—–

Your silhouette, 

It’s disappearing into —

Air so thin, can’t breath. 

All we have is a shattered–

Empty past, hanging by a thread. 

—–

We were never whole, 

The definition of good. 

We were always flawed, 

We never healed, didn’t —

Accept, when we saw the end. 

——

Splinters of glass hurt, 

When embedded in my skin, 

Pieces of the past, 

They’re a pain felt rawly, 

A pain that doesn’t improve.

——

The clock ticking by, 

You grasp for my form — I’m air, 

You can keep trying. 

You know your holding thin air, 

Us, we’re gone, invisible. 

——

Let the lights burn out, 

We can’t raise what’s  cold and dead. 

The past remains gone, 

Stop holding onto air, it —

Isn’t real; we’ve both dissolved.

——

Life’s not fair, I’m sure —

Later we’ll know we did right. 

Now we gasp for air, 

Let conversation cease, fade. 

Nothing to say, it’s been said. 

——

——

©Mandibelle16. (2016)All Rights Reserved. 


Actor/ Actress, Books, Current Events, Fiction, MindLoveMisery's Menagerie, My Thoughts, Poetry, Religion/Morality, Writing, Writing Challenges

B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond: Poem – BakerStreet- “Dead End” #amwriting #poetry


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for this week’s Shadorma alternative a “Baker Street” themed after Sherlock Holmes and the popular show on BBC with Sherlock Holmes. 

“The rules for this alternative to a Shadorma called “A Baker Street” are: Each stanza has three lines. Line 1: 2 syllables. Line 2: 2 syllables. Line 3: 1 syllable and includes a “b” in the word. You may choose to bend the rules and substitute any consonant or vowel for the “b” – so long as you use the same consonant or vowel in each third line. There are no specific rules regarding number of stanzas, rhyme, meter, linking stanzas, not linking stanzas, etc.” 

——

Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

——–

Spying,

Devised, 

Deed. 

—–

Desperate

Seeking, 

Done. 

—–

Guilty, 

Games are

Dead.

—-

Caught by

Mastermind

Damned. 

Hang man’s 

Noose will, 

End.

—–

Devise

Escape, 

Blend —

—–

In with, 

The crowd, 

Hide. 

—-

Soon he, 

Will find, 

Dread. 

—–

Running, 

Seeking, 

Find —

——

Hiding

Place safe, 

Send —

—–

Letter, 

Rules you, 

Bend. 

—-

Law means, 

Little, 

Add–

—-

Awful, 

Crimes up, 

Done.

—-

You’re locked, 

He’s caught, 

Wind.

—–

You’re dead, 

Written, 

Down. 

—–
The End;

It’s near, 

Spend–

——

Time left, 

Well; you’re —

Done

—–
©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, My Thoughts, OctPoWriMo, Poetry, Relationship, Shakespearean Sonnet - iambic pentameter abab cdcd efef gg, Writing, Writing Challenges

#OctPoWriMo – Day 16 – English Sonnet – “Love Your Wife and Her Cooking” #amwriting #poetry


Day 16 Prompt: Savoury 

According to Merriam-Webster dictionary, savory is defined as: a : piquantly pleasant to the mind <a savory triumph>b : morally exemplary c : pleasing to the sense of taste especially by reason of effective seasoning d : pungently flavorful without sweetness.” 

———

 

http://www.williams-sonoma.com

——-

You say it’s delicious, you haven’t tasted, 

Anything as savoury as this food. 

 Your words need changing, not to be wasted, 

On food of women, snuck in your bedroom. 

——-

I’ll help you understand, I’m not one to be —

Crossed; when you don’t come home I wonder where, 

Who you’ve been with? I cook dinner fancy, 

Your favorite foods, savoury taste, you swear.

——-

But this night has been waiting; I’m scared, 

Tired, always being second, to some whore. 

Eat food and choke; poisoned you’re most aware, 

Should’ve been home; other men me adored. 

——-

Were you ashamed of your own wife you wed?

You cared not for me; fortunes mine –you’re dead. 

——–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.