Return to the Blank Page

Stark white pages abound! In desks, in printer trays, nary a single word to mark them. Each is lifted, stared at, then returned to their place. A single typewriter sits upon the desk, a page slipped in and marginalized. But not a single drop of ink stains the page it holds.

An old man shifts through the various stacks of papers. He sighs, massaging his head with one hand as he looks at each page. He cannot organize them. Then finally, a single dusty sheet is pulled out of the mass of stacks, the first and only page with so much as a letter typed onto it. He stares at it for a time, then sets it beside the typewriter. His thoughts linger on the page as he removes the blank sheet from the typewriter, then slips his treasure within. He turns the knob on the side and returns to his chair.

He stares at each line, few as they are, before he begins to type away. He sneezes as dust is stirred from within the old keyboard, but continues to add words to the only page that isn’t blank in his whole office. He types away, and then when he is satisfied, he begins to read.

My name is Barnabus McGregor. I’m nearing the end of my life, I know, and here is my what I remember of my life.

I have lived and loved, had a family who have come and some who have gone. But names and faces fail me now. Have I eaten today? What am I even typing.

He continues to stare at those simple sentences. He feels, deep down, a sense of pride that he had finally typed, and closes his eyes. A few hours later, a knock could be heard at the door. When the call was unanswered, the door came open, and a young child, nearing the age of ten, stepped into the room. Her expression a mix of worry and wonder, for she never before had entered the room. She woke her great grandfather up from his dreamless sleep, and tell him it is time for supper.

He stands, and slowly shuffles out of the room. But she lingered, and her eyes caught sight of that single page that still hung in the typewriter. She made a mental note to return to the room once supper was done and set out.

When she returned, late in the dusk of night, holding a single flashlight in her hands, she began to give the room a further look. Each page she picked up was filled with story after story. She organized it as she went, his youth in one pile, his adult life in another. She learned of family long past, of distant relatives and even more. His life must have been amazing, she thought, as she continued to read well into the early hours of morning. Then she returned to the typewriter.

She pulled the one sheet from it, setting it aside and placing the only blank sheet left out of the whole office in its place. She typed a couple sentences in, hit return, and read it aloud to herself.

This is the story of my great grandfather, in his own words. I just worry that he has lost so much of his mind that he is unable to see the stacks upon stacks of pages filled with his story around him once he steps foot in his office.

I love you, great grandfather.

Alisha Dorothy McGregor.

(Image Source Pinterest)

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Returning To Writing – Krystal’s Path

It has definitely been a very long time since I last posted. I stopped writing to pursue other interests but with as much time I have had on my hand the last couple weeks I’ve finally returned to writing.

But it isn’t on my Waking Dreams novel. As much as I love the story as it is, but I’m currently stuck on one of the chapters. I’ve thought about skipping it and working on another one but then I’d have to back write the previous chapter.

So instead, I’ve come up with a new approach. I started writing on Krystal’s Path, a short story set in the same world as Waking Dreams. I’ll eventually need to change the title but its all still a work in progress anyways. But with this story comes some challenges I wouldn’t have faced while writing Waking Dreams. Mostly, it’s still a first-person narrative, but the viewpoint is feminine instead of masculine. And as a male that has proven tough one more than one occasion.

But the story is definitely fun. In its current form, it’s definitely going to need a lot of edits once the first draft is finished. But right now I’m focusing purely on getting through the story and its needs. Maybe once I’m done with the draft and some re-reading, I’ll get it polished to be far better.

And maybe with getting back into writing I can start writing my short or flash fiction stories again. I’ve definitely not been doing those as of most of the last year. So here’s to hoping I can get back into everything again.

Artwork For Sale


Richard Piland, Painter.

Today I have done more artwork. Each piece is for sale currently but I’ll get to that bit later.

First, I would like to say that I just love burning under a almost one-hundred degree sun while crafting beautiful (at least I think it’s beautiful) works of art. Now that I’m cooling down, I get to think about how in then last two weeks I’ve done more painting than I have done most of my life. Each piece is unique in their own way, and I hope others love them just as much as I do.

As such, the rest of this post will be rather image heavy, so bear with me. Here are the current paintings for sale. All can also be viewed by visiting my art Facebook page, Want To Make A Cannonball?

Disclaimer: Prices are for “as-is” product. Any shipping or other requests are extra.

Shattered Sky, 12″x16″ $20

Shattered Star, 12″x12″ $15

Falling, 16″x20″ $30

Dark World, 16″x20″ $30

Redemption, 12″x16″ $25

Split Shock, 2 12″x16″. $30 each or $40 both

“Untitled” 12″x16″ $20

New Adventures

Today I have tried something different. Art in all forms is a bit of a passion of mine, from oil painting to writing. But I gave something new a try today that’s got me happy.

Today, I present my first attempt at spray paint art. And no, not the graffiti style stuff you see in buildings and trains, but a more modern approach to classical art.

This piece, called Shattered, is spray paint on canvas, 12″×16″. I do plan on selling it, I have too little space for holding on to more of my own art.

Sundance

Sundance, an ancient art. A ritualistic fusion of primal dance and doped adrenaline escapades into the mind. A scent more foul than ancient sewers assaulted my nose, along with a mixture of acrid flesh and boiling water.

I had been bound, held without regard on charges only these tribesmen know. What was left of the rest of my expedition crew lain in course piles on the ground. The thunderous, rolling beats of their drums scared off all other creatures, nary a single flap of a wing could be seen through the clear, bright sky.

I wondered, maddened by my surroundings, at what fate I had in store. I had gave up my god days ago, months of capture proving how prayer never worked. I begged forgiveness, now, as the sharp, shrill cry of a blade to stone called out through the rest of the cacophony.

May you all burn in hell, I thought, as the spear tip raised from stone and pointed towards me.

May you all burn in hell.

Image source: Roberto Pazzi/Daily Mail UK

Escapism

(Image Source)
Writing stories has been a tough thing for me to do as of late. I know I’ve been rather quiet over the last few months, but I’m working my way back into the writing  scene.

But I haven’t worked on my novel. None, at all. Mostly, I have been stuck. The story is there, but to make progress I’m having trouble with the chapter I’m on. So what I’m hoping is that writing other stories will help me get my groove back in that book.

Today’s work in progress is interesting. It’s a mix of escapism and suspense. So far, I’m liking the direction and can’t wait to see how it all unfolds. But I have been thinking that it might be a story that I’ll edit through and submit to magazines instead of posting on my blog. I wanted to be a published writer before the end of last year, and I completely blew it. So my goal is to publish this year and start working towards regular posting habits.

Anyways, I’ll post a little snippet from this story below. It’s far from finished but I’d like to see what people think of it so far.

Deep darkness, deeper water surrounds a single diver. His fins flip back and forth, keeping him steady in one spot as he orientates himself. Little luminance guides him, a single beam that cuts through only five feet of the murky deep. Below him, another ten yards, lain the wreckage of a once grand ship.

Bubbles spewed upwards from his mouthpiece, his golden green eyes fixated on the beautiful carnage. From aft to stern, the full metal boat to fantasy had. grown over in seaweed and long stems. The port side was most visible to him, large wings having crumbled to the sea floor in strange, clunky patterns. He forced himself downwards and forwards, finally feeling ready to view what majesty had been lost to a time lost long ago.

There was a bulkhead opening about midship, but the moss and weeds had nearly engulfed it. He reached behind, plucking a long thin blade from its holster on his belt, and began sawing through. Each cut, each pull, brought the portal to the ship’s compartments ever closer to his reach. With one last slice, he opened is path inside, barely squeezing through the tangled mess of greenery.

Faded

Today, I faded.

Fell, more like, as if my body no longer kept my soul. It fell to the ground, a sharp crack as the neck snapped from the sudden impact. I wanted to stand there. I wanted to believe that it couldn’t have happened the way it did.

But it did.

And here I slip, as the world goes grey around me. Thoughts became fleeting things, no longer bound by will or the need to conserve precious resources. Memories abound of my life, of things I had forgotten or things that had never seemed quite right. And then, nothing spun. Nothing moved, not even my thoughts. I stood stock still in black twilight, void of feeling, of remorse or love. Everything was gone. And I hoped that, soon, I would be gone too.

I heard a whimper, a whispered moan of sorrow. It enveloped me, pulling my limited existence in all directions until I stood behind the source. What had only been moments had been days, at the least, as I saw my mother crying before a casket in a dark room. I could hear her voice call my name, giving me my memories of her back as if they had never left. I felt sorry. I wished to have been able to console her, to hold her in my arms and tell her that it would be okay.

But soon the sobbing stopped, and I lost track of everything around me.

That was the day I faded, pulled beneath death’s wing, to never know what else I could have been.