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Apologies for the delay. Even if this doesn't qualify, enjoy.
Inspiration is a fickle thing. It may arrive briefly to produce an original idea or thought, and then disappear, as if it never came. Like a marathon runner without energy, a writer without inspiration lacks the passion and fuel to keep going. And so, even great ideas, shimmers of brilliance, potential, can be tragically lost, perhaps to be picked up again several years down the line by someone who can do them justice.
I try to scatter various items of interest about my house – paintings on my office walls, odd accoutrements from my travels around the world on my shelves. I even tend to a complicated yet beautiful garden, although this provides more of a welcome distraction. Yet despite my best efforts, flashes of such sought after originality come rarely and at the most inconvenient times. In the middle of the night, when I'm driving – more often than not, places and times when writing something down is either impossible, difficult or just plain dangerous for the other drivers on the road. Why have I devoted my life to chasing something with such a cruel sense of humour?
Today I sit at my desk, staring absently at the flashing dots on my digital watch as they mark every wasted second I do so. The computer screen contains the useless ramblings of today's unsuccessful brainstorm, although the layout and text are at least formatted to perfection. I glance back at my watch. It's 14:02. I can't do this for much longer. My teeth ache and my mouth feels dry, my muscles are tight and tense. My consciousness is diminishing slowly, not through tiredness or exhaustion, but imprisonment. I'm lost, bored, suffocated by these restraints...
I need to get out. Now.
* * *
14:27. My furrowed brow feels at home beneath the cloudy grey sky. The sea breeze is refreshingly liberating, although despite the vast expanse of blue before me I'm no more motivated to write than I was before. I sit with one leg bent across the other, my notepad resting on my calf, my pen poised. Waiting.
A group of men walk past, one of whom is talking animatedly.
"...so I said 'I'm not bloody taking that from you', and I smacked him..."
The intensity of expression in his voice is bitingly real – it lingers even after they pass. My mind starts to race, as if suddenly injected with a burst of energy, a spark...
Three men are sitting in a bar – no, standing. Yes, they're at the bar. One's buying the next round as the other two talk. It doesn't matter what they’re talking about. Football, probably. No, far too clichéd. Doesn't matter, we can't even hear them. The wholeness of the scene is more important. Yes, regular, comfortable. But the conversation takes a more serious turn.
Suddenly everything is sharper, stronger. The air clears. One man looks concerned. He isn't drinking, must be the driver. The other is more nervous. The concerned man takes out some money, offering it to our nervous friend. Now the line; "I'm not bloody taking that from you", from our now slightly angry friend. He hits him. No... slaps him. Like people do, jokingly. Except the concerned guy moves backwards because of the sudden movement, knocking the drinks out of the hand of the guy who's just bought them.
"Looks like I'll need that after all, mate" says the talker, taking the cash and getting the attention of the barman.
Argh, awful – what am I thinking? But that feeling is back. I have it and it's not going. Two women approach. Again, one is talking...
"...he's just been too violent recently; I don't think I can take any more..."
Another spark.
Ok, typical husband and wife situation then... what can I do with this? Turn it on its head? Yes. What do we want... owner and pet. Yes, different, new. Ok, so this woman has a dog. No, not a dog, a turtle. A turtle? WHAT? Far too obscure... a dog's fine. Not an ordinary dog though, no no. It's a stray, wild. She took it in when no-one else wanted it.
Despite her kindness, however, this creature is angry, traumatised by something. It will attack anyone it's unfamiliar with, so the woman finds it impossible to meet new people. Her social life dwindles, and for what? A dog? She is either faced here with a choice of whether to keep it, or a challenge to help it. Except it's not her choice to make. The dog cannot be saved – it is what it is. Such rejection is devastating for her, forcing her to question her very outlook on life...
Still rather feeble, but it's easier now. I'm stronger, hungry for more. Two teenagers pass...
"...my dad bought me it. My parents have bought me loads of stuff since they split up..."
What is "it"? Does it matter? Not really. Let's take a trip into the future, say... ten years. The boy has become a product of his parents' squabbles to earn points with him and, as such, lives a life of greed. His mind is focused around material possessions, nothing else has value. He drinks – it makes emotion and other such complications simpler.
His parents contact him. They're back together, forever, they say. He doesn't care. Their renewal can't change what he now is, neither can anyone else. In time, he turns to crime – theft, robbery. It gives him the buzz he can't find in an ordinary life. There's a girl involved, who sees him for what he is. She tries to change him but she can't. He's the dog, essentially. Tragic, alone...
Enough. I'm breathing more heavily now, excited. I feel compelled to think, to record. Suddenly I'm alive with all the passion and zest that once enthused me to work as it does now.
I glance down at my watch. It's stopped. Smiling, I start to write.
Inspiration is a fickle thing. It may arrive briefly to produce an original idea or thought, and then disappear, as if it never came. Like a marathon runner without energy, a writer without inspiration lacks the passion and fuel to keep going. And so, even great ideas, shimmers of brilliance, potential, can be tragically lost, perhaps to be picked up again several years down the line by someone who can do them justice.
I try to scatter various items of interest about my house – paintings on my office walls, odd accoutrements from my travels around the world on my shelves. I even tend to a complicated yet beautiful garden, although this provides more of a welcome distraction. Yet despite my best efforts, flashes of such sought after originality come rarely and at the most inconvenient times. In the middle of the night, when I'm driving – more often than not, places and times when writing something down is either impossible, difficult or just plain dangerous for the other drivers on the road. Why have I devoted my life to chasing something with such a cruel sense of humour?
Today I sit at my desk, staring absently at the flashing dots on my digital watch as they mark every wasted second I do so. The computer screen contains the useless ramblings of today's unsuccessful brainstorm, although the layout and text are at least formatted to perfection. I glance back at my watch. It's 14:02. I can't do this for much longer. My teeth ache and my mouth feels dry, my muscles are tight and tense. My consciousness is diminishing slowly, not through tiredness or exhaustion, but imprisonment. I'm lost, bored, suffocated by these restraints...
I need to get out. Now.
* * *
14:27. My furrowed brow feels at home beneath the cloudy grey sky. The sea breeze is refreshingly liberating, although despite the vast expanse of blue before me I'm no more motivated to write than I was before. I sit with one leg bent across the other, my notepad resting on my calf, my pen poised. Waiting.
A group of men walk past, one of whom is talking animatedly.
"...so I said 'I'm not bloody taking that from you', and I smacked him..."
The intensity of expression in his voice is bitingly real – it lingers even after they pass. My mind starts to race, as if suddenly injected with a burst of energy, a spark...
Three men are sitting in a bar – no, standing. Yes, they're at the bar. One's buying the next round as the other two talk. It doesn't matter what they’re talking about. Football, probably. No, far too clichéd. Doesn't matter, we can't even hear them. The wholeness of the scene is more important. Yes, regular, comfortable. But the conversation takes a more serious turn.
Suddenly everything is sharper, stronger. The air clears. One man looks concerned. He isn't drinking, must be the driver. The other is more nervous. The concerned man takes out some money, offering it to our nervous friend. Now the line; "I'm not bloody taking that from you", from our now slightly angry friend. He hits him. No... slaps him. Like people do, jokingly. Except the concerned guy moves backwards because of the sudden movement, knocking the drinks out of the hand of the guy who's just bought them.
"Looks like I'll need that after all, mate" says the talker, taking the cash and getting the attention of the barman.
Argh, awful – what am I thinking? But that feeling is back. I have it and it's not going. Two women approach. Again, one is talking...
"...he's just been too violent recently; I don't think I can take any more..."
Another spark.
Ok, typical husband and wife situation then... what can I do with this? Turn it on its head? Yes. What do we want... owner and pet. Yes, different, new. Ok, so this woman has a dog. No, not a dog, a turtle. A turtle? WHAT? Far too obscure... a dog's fine. Not an ordinary dog though, no no. It's a stray, wild. She took it in when no-one else wanted it.
Despite her kindness, however, this creature is angry, traumatised by something. It will attack anyone it's unfamiliar with, so the woman finds it impossible to meet new people. Her social life dwindles, and for what? A dog? She is either faced here with a choice of whether to keep it, or a challenge to help it. Except it's not her choice to make. The dog cannot be saved – it is what it is. Such rejection is devastating for her, forcing her to question her very outlook on life...
Still rather feeble, but it's easier now. I'm stronger, hungry for more. Two teenagers pass...
"...my dad bought me it. My parents have bought me loads of stuff since they split up..."
What is "it"? Does it matter? Not really. Let's take a trip into the future, say... ten years. The boy has become a product of his parents' squabbles to earn points with him and, as such, lives a life of greed. His mind is focused around material possessions, nothing else has value. He drinks – it makes emotion and other such complications simpler.
His parents contact him. They're back together, forever, they say. He doesn't care. Their renewal can't change what he now is, neither can anyone else. In time, he turns to crime – theft, robbery. It gives him the buzz he can't find in an ordinary life. There's a girl involved, who sees him for what he is. She tries to change him but she can't. He's the dog, essentially. Tragic, alone...
Enough. I'm breathing more heavily now, excited. I feel compelled to think, to record. Suddenly I'm alive with all the passion and zest that once enthused me to work as it does now.
I glance down at my watch. It's stopped. Smiling, I start to write.
Page:
Very good - one of the few stories I've made myself read and not actually checked the length whilst half way through.
Even in the books I read offline I check to see how many pages are left in the chapter!
Even in the books I read offline I check to see how many pages are left in the chapter!
Apologies for the delay. Even if this doesn't qualify, enjoy.
Inspiration is a fickle thing. It may arrive briefly to produce an original idea or thought, and then disappear, as if it never came. Like a marathon runner without energy, a writer without inspiration lacks the passion and fuel to keep going. And so, even great ideas, shimmers of brilliance, potential, can be tragically lost, perhaps to be picked up again several years down the line by someone who can do them justice.
I try to scatter various items of interest about my house – paintings on my office walls, odd accoutrements from my travels around the world on my shelves. I even tend to a complicated yet beautiful garden, although this provides more of a welcome distraction. Yet despite my best efforts, flashes of such sought after originality come rarely and at the most inconvenient times. In the middle of the night, when I'm driving – more often than not, places and times when writing something down is either impossible, difficult or just plain dangerous for the other drivers on the road. Why have I devoted my life to chasing something with such a cruel sense of humour?
Today I sit at my desk, staring absently at the flashing dots on my digital watch as they mark every wasted second I do so. The computer screen contains the useless ramblings of today's unsuccessful brainstorm, although the layout and text are at least formatted to perfection. I glance back at my watch. It's 14:02. I can't do this for much longer. My teeth ache and my mouth feels dry, my muscles are tight and tense. My consciousness is diminishing slowly, not through tiredness or exhaustion, but imprisonment. I'm lost, bored, suffocated by these restraints...
I need to get out. Now.
* * *
14:27. My furrowed brow feels at home beneath the cloudy grey sky. The sea breeze is refreshingly liberating, although despite the vast expanse of blue before me I'm no more motivated to write than I was before. I sit with one leg bent across the other, my notepad resting on my calf, my pen poised. Waiting.
A group of men walk past, one of whom is talking animatedly.
"...so I said 'I'm not bloody taking that from you', and I smacked him..."
The intensity of expression in his voice is bitingly real – it lingers even after they pass. My mind starts to race, as if suddenly injected with a burst of energy, a spark...
Three men are sitting in a bar – no, standing. Yes, they're at the bar. One's buying the next round as the other two talk. It doesn't matter what they’re talking about. Football, probably. No, far too clichéd. Doesn't matter, we can't even hear them. The wholeness of the scene is more important. Yes, regular, comfortable. But the conversation takes a more serious turn.
Suddenly everything is sharper, stronger. The air clears. One man looks concerned. He isn't drinking, must be the driver. The other is more nervous. The concerned man takes out some money, offering it to our nervous friend. Now the line; "I'm not bloody taking that from you", from our now slightly angry friend. He hits him. No... slaps him. Like people do, jokingly. Except the concerned guy moves backwards because of the sudden movement, knocking the drinks out of the hand of the guy who's just bought them.
"Looks like I'll need that after all, mate" says the talker, taking the cash and getting the attention of the barman.
Argh, awful – what am I thinking? But that feeling is back. I have it and it's not going. Two women approach. Again, one is talking...
"...he's just been too violent recently; I don't think I can take any more..."
Another spark.
Ok, typical husband and wife situation then... what can I do with this? Turn it on its head? Yes. What do we want... owner and pet. Yes, different, new. Ok, so this woman has a dog. No, not a dog, a turtle. A turtle? WHAT? Far too obscure... a dog's fine. Not an ordinary dog though, no no. It's a stray, wild. She took it in when no-one else wanted it.
Despite her kindness, however, this creature is angry, traumatised by something. It will attack anyone it's unfamiliar with, so the woman finds it impossible to meet new people. Her social life dwindles, and for what? A dog? She is either faced here with a choice of whether to keep it, or a challenge to help it. Except it's not her choice to make. The dog cannot be saved – it is what it is. Such rejection is devastating for her, forcing her to question her very outlook on life...
Still rather feeble, but it's easier now. I'm stronger, hungry for more. Two teenagers pass...
"...my dad bought me it. My parents have bought me loads of stuff since they split up..."
What is "it"? Does it matter? Not really. Let's take a trip into the future, say... ten years. The boy has become a product of his parents' squabbles to earn points with him and, as such, lives a life of greed. His mind is focused around material possessions, nothing else has value. He drinks – it makes emotion and other such complications simpler.
His parents contact him. They're back together, forever, they say. He doesn't care. Their renewal can't change what he now is, neither can anyone else. In time, he turns to crime – theft, robbery. It gives him the buzz he can't find in an ordinary life. There's a girl involved, who sees him for what he is. She tries to change him but she can't. He's the dog, essentially. Tragic, alone...
Enough. I'm breathing more heavily now, excited. I feel compelled to think, to record. Suddenly I'm alive with all the passion and zest that once enthused me to work as it does now.
I glance down at my watch. It's stopped. Smiling, I start to write.
Inspiration is a fickle thing. It may arrive briefly to produce an original idea or thought, and then disappear, as if it never came. Like a marathon runner without energy, a writer without inspiration lacks the passion and fuel to keep going. And so, even great ideas, shimmers of brilliance, potential, can be tragically lost, perhaps to be picked up again several years down the line by someone who can do them justice.
I try to scatter various items of interest about my house – paintings on my office walls, odd accoutrements from my travels around the world on my shelves. I even tend to a complicated yet beautiful garden, although this provides more of a welcome distraction. Yet despite my best efforts, flashes of such sought after originality come rarely and at the most inconvenient times. In the middle of the night, when I'm driving – more often than not, places and times when writing something down is either impossible, difficult or just plain dangerous for the other drivers on the road. Why have I devoted my life to chasing something with such a cruel sense of humour?
Today I sit at my desk, staring absently at the flashing dots on my digital watch as they mark every wasted second I do so. The computer screen contains the useless ramblings of today's unsuccessful brainstorm, although the layout and text are at least formatted to perfection. I glance back at my watch. It's 14:02. I can't do this for much longer. My teeth ache and my mouth feels dry, my muscles are tight and tense. My consciousness is diminishing slowly, not through tiredness or exhaustion, but imprisonment. I'm lost, bored, suffocated by these restraints...
I need to get out. Now.
* * *
14:27. My furrowed brow feels at home beneath the cloudy grey sky. The sea breeze is refreshingly liberating, although despite the vast expanse of blue before me I'm no more motivated to write than I was before. I sit with one leg bent across the other, my notepad resting on my calf, my pen poised. Waiting.
A group of men walk past, one of whom is talking animatedly.
"...so I said 'I'm not bloody taking that from you', and I smacked him..."
The intensity of expression in his voice is bitingly real – it lingers even after they pass. My mind starts to race, as if suddenly injected with a burst of energy, a spark...
Three men are sitting in a bar – no, standing. Yes, they're at the bar. One's buying the next round as the other two talk. It doesn't matter what they’re talking about. Football, probably. No, far too clichéd. Doesn't matter, we can't even hear them. The wholeness of the scene is more important. Yes, regular, comfortable. But the conversation takes a more serious turn.
Suddenly everything is sharper, stronger. The air clears. One man looks concerned. He isn't drinking, must be the driver. The other is more nervous. The concerned man takes out some money, offering it to our nervous friend. Now the line; "I'm not bloody taking that from you", from our now slightly angry friend. He hits him. No... slaps him. Like people do, jokingly. Except the concerned guy moves backwards because of the sudden movement, knocking the drinks out of the hand of the guy who's just bought them.
"Looks like I'll need that after all, mate" says the talker, taking the cash and getting the attention of the barman.
Argh, awful – what am I thinking? But that feeling is back. I have it and it's not going. Two women approach. Again, one is talking...
"...he's just been too violent recently; I don't think I can take any more..."
Another spark.
Ok, typical husband and wife situation then... what can I do with this? Turn it on its head? Yes. What do we want... owner and pet. Yes, different, new. Ok, so this woman has a dog. No, not a dog, a turtle. A turtle? WHAT? Far too obscure... a dog's fine. Not an ordinary dog though, no no. It's a stray, wild. She took it in when no-one else wanted it.
Despite her kindness, however, this creature is angry, traumatised by something. It will attack anyone it's unfamiliar with, so the woman finds it impossible to meet new people. Her social life dwindles, and for what? A dog? She is either faced here with a choice of whether to keep it, or a challenge to help it. Except it's not her choice to make. The dog cannot be saved – it is what it is. Such rejection is devastating for her, forcing her to question her very outlook on life...
Still rather feeble, but it's easier now. I'm stronger, hungry for more. Two teenagers pass...
"...my dad bought me it. My parents have bought me loads of stuff since they split up..."
What is "it"? Does it matter? Not really. Let's take a trip into the future, say... ten years. The boy has become a product of his parents' squabbles to earn points with him and, as such, lives a life of greed. His mind is focused around material possessions, nothing else has value. He drinks – it makes emotion and other such complications simpler.
His parents contact him. They're back together, forever, they say. He doesn't care. Their renewal can't change what he now is, neither can anyone else. In time, he turns to crime – theft, robbery. It gives him the buzz he can't find in an ordinary life. There's a girl involved, who sees him for what he is. She tries to change him but she can't. He's the dog, essentially. Tragic, alone...
Enough. I'm breathing more heavily now, excited. I feel compelled to think, to record. Suddenly I'm alive with all the passion and zest that once enthused me to work as it does now.
I glance down at my watch. It's stopped. Smiling, I start to write.
Page: