Tag: The Art of Writing

The child lay unmoving as the two men paddled closer and closer. They seemed anxious and I wondered if the child needed medical help. The men gesticulated as did the crew on the huge liner they were now very close to. The crew was clearly telling the outrigger they were in danger and to move […]

via Crane: Six Sentence Stories — Reflections and Nightmares- Irene A Waters (writer and memoirist)

SERENITY by Tanisha D. Jones He was a constant explorer and that was what brought him to the dingy alley in Chinatown. The smell of old fish and mooshoo pork wafted through the steaming grates in the ground as the late October air, whipped through his expensive Armani trench coat. Being one of the richest […]

via Free Fiction: Serenity by Tanisha D. Jones — HorrorAddicts.net

“Now you must answer my questions nine
Sing ninety-nine and ninety,
Or you aren’t God’s you are one of mine
And who is the weaver’s bonny.

What is whiter than milk?
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
And what is softer than silk?
And who is the weaver’s bonny.”

Snow is whiter than milk,
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
And down is softer than silk,
And I am the weaver’s bonny.”

What is louder than a horn?
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
And what is sharper than a thorn?
And who is the weaver’s bonny?

Thunder’s louder than a horn,
Sing ninety-nine and ninety ;
And death is sharper than a thorn,
And I am the weaver’s bonny.

What is higher than a tree?
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
And what is deeper than the sea?
And who is the weaver’s bonny?

Heaven is higher than a tree,
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
And hell is deeper than the sea,
And I am the weaver’s bonny.

What’s more innocent than a lamb?
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
What is meaner than woman kind?
And who is the weaver’s bonny.

A babe’s more innocent than a lamb,
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
And the devil is meaner than woman kind,
And I am the weaver’s bonny.”

You have answered my questions nine,
Sing ninety-nine and ninety;
So you are God’s, you are none of mine,
And you are the weaver’s bonny.”

They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the marketplace;
At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face.
“Ho neighbors all,” spake Adam Brand, “see ye John Farrel’s fate!
“Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man’s hate!

For heard ye not John Farrel’s vow to be avenged upon me
Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!”
Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-
For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes,

And with strange motions, slow and stiff, pointed at Adam Brand
And clambered down the gibbet tree, the noose within its hand.
With gaping mouth stood Adam Brand like a statue carved of stone,
Till the dead man laid a clammy hand hard on his shoulder bone.

Then Adam shrieked like a soul in hell; the red blood left his face
And he reeled away in a drunken run through the screaming market place;
And close behind, the dead man came with a face like a mummy’s mask,
And the dead joints cracked and the stiff legs creaked with their unwonted task.

Men fled before the flying twain or shrank with bated breath,
And they saw on the face of Adam Brand the seal set there by death.
He reeled on buckling legs that failed, yet on and on he fled;
So through the shuddering market-place, the dying fled the dead.

At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies;
Across him fell John Farrel’s corpse, nor ever the twain did rise.
There was no wound on Adam Brand but his brow was cold and damp,
For the fear of death had blown out his life as a witch blows out a lamp.

His lips were writhed in a horrid grin like a fiend’s on Satan’s coals,
And the men that looked on his face that day, his stare still haunts their souls.
Such was the fate of Adam Brand, a strange, unearthly fate;
For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man’s hate

I will repeat a subtle rune—
And thronging suns of Otherwhere
Shall blaze upon the blinded air,
And spectres terrible and fair
Shall wake the riven world at noon.

The star that was mine empery
In dust upon unwinnowed skies:
But primal dreams have made me wise,
And soon the shattered years shall rise
To my remembered sorcery.

To mantic mutterings, brief and low,
My palaces shall lift amain,
My bowers bloom; I will regain
The lips whereon my lips have lain
In rose-red twilights long ago.

Before my murmured exorcism
The world, a wispy wraith, shall flee:
A stranger earth, a weirder sea,
People with shapes of Fäery,
Shall swell upon the waste abysm.

The pantheons of darkened stars
Shall file athwart the crocus dawn;
Goddess and Gorgon, Lar and faun,
Shall tread the amaranthine lawn,
And giants fight their thunderous wars.

Like graven mountains of basalt,
Dark idols of my demons there
Shall tower through bright zones of air,
Fronting the sun with level stare;
And hell shall pave my deepest vault.

Phantom and fiend and sorceror
Shall serve me…till my term shall pass,
And I become no more, alas,
Than a frail shadow on the glass
Before some latter conjurer.

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair–
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!
A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)

Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn’t the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)
Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn’t know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside–
(But it isn’t on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died–
(Even as you or I!)

“And it isn’t the shame and it isn’t the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand–
It’s coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!”

Her strong enchantments failing,
Her towers of fear in wreck,
Her limbecks dried of poisons
And the knife at her neck,

The Queen of air and darkness
Begins to shrill and cry,
“O young man, O my slayer,
To-morrow you shall die.”

O Queen of air and darkness,
I think ’tis truth you say,
And I shall die tomorrow;
But you will die to-day.

While musicals certainly seem to dominate Broadway box offices, we’ve seen
some incredible plays that will certainly go down as some of the best works
of our time.

These plays serve as the very best examples of what drama should be. Their
creativity, depth, and characters have set a new standard for playwrights
for generations to come. With comments by those who reviewed their
productions, here are our updated picks for the Best Plays of the 21st
Century…so far.
— Read on www.onstageblog.com/columns/2016/3/15/s5momkbm1vhzftiy4ypbsskzxod5vw

The warder looks down at the mid hour of night,
On the tombs that lie scatter’d below:
The moon fills the place with her silvery light,
And the churchyard like day seems to glow.
When see! first one grave, then another opes wide,
And women and men stepping forth are descried,
In cerements snow-white and trailing.-

In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,
And whirl round in dances so gay;
The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,
But the cerements stand in their way;
And as modesty cannot avail them aught here,
They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear
Scatter’d over the tombs in confusion.-

Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,
As the troop with strange gestures advance,
And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,
As of one beating time to the dance.
The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer,
When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:
“Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!”-

Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled
Behind the church-door with all speed;
The moon still continues her clear light to shed
On the dance that they fearfully lead.
But the dancers at length disappear one by one,
And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don,
And under the turf all is quiet.

But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,
And gropes at the graves in despair;
Yet ’tis by no comrade he’s treated so ill
The shroud he soon scents in the air.
So he rattles the door–for the warder ’tis well
That ’tis bless’d, and so able the foe to repel,
All cover’d with crosses in metal.-

The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,
There remains for reflection no time;
On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,
And from point on to point hastes to climb.
Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed!
Like a long-legged spider, with ne’er-changing speed,
Advances the dreaded pursuer. –

The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,
The shroud to restore fain had sought;
When the end,–now can nothing to save him avail,–
In a tooth formed of iron is caught.
With vanishing lustre the moon’s race is run,
When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,
And the skeleton fails, crush’d to atoms.-

{REVIEW} The Martian by Andy Weir[Genre: Adult Scifi]Read more about why I rated it 5 stars!

via {REVIEW} The Martian by Andy Weir — MNBernard Books

Big Pete is a hitman that was hired to kill a local minister. However, though a series of random events Pete decides turn himself into the police and tells them about every hit he performed and every client that hired him. The story was decent, but seemed a bit silly at times. Also, I would […]

via The Accidental Hero by Joshua Graham — Lynn Thaler