Creative quarterly May 2016
Edition 2 issue 4
Page $4 Lauren Hester, CQ 1st short story winner Page 10 moma â€˜ a Japanese Constellation, Toyo Ito Page 12 Stepen Barr, painter, artist Page 18 Markie Madden, author, publisher Page 22 Bob Dylan, singer, song writer, Archives Page 26 CQ Magazine short story challenge No:2 Page 28 LG Surgesnon, author Page 36 New Tate Modern, London Page 38 Cee Que, poetress
Page 48 the Manchester writing competition Page 50 Marnie Cate, author Page 55 British Flim Archives Page 58 Dawn Chapman, author Page 64 Jessica Brown, artist Pagr 72 Karins Kantas, author
Page 80 Bill Thomson, assemblage sculpture Page 88 Francisco Rdz. Vernet, Writer/photo
© Paul White
Say Hello to
Winner of the
Short Story Challenge Now read Lauren’s story Lauren Hester was born and raised in Iowa, among cornfields, Friday night football, wide open spaces and night skies full of stars. Lauren read voraciously since she was a kid. She is now “dabbling in the writing game” while being employed fulltime at a public library in the Washington, DC area and working towards her MSLIS in Library Science. Lauren has own blog about books and writing-related musings at http://livingabooklife.com She has other stories published on Wordhaus
http://www.wordhaus.com/first-place-horror -dark-mirror/ and on The Write Practice
Twenty Minutes by Lauren Hester 12:41am The way my life ended was incredibly simple and quick. My smile was now on my neck, a perverted lover's kiss that opened me up and made me one with the water; my life's blood creating a watercolour of deep crimson, maroon and rose pink, swirling in the eddies and waves created by my futilely splashing legs, until their energy was spent. I felt my nether regions shudder as my bladder and bowels evacuated. If I had the wherewithal I would have been embarrassed, but instead I felt -- lighter. Free. My head flopped back and jerked slightly with each remaining beat of my heart. The water was in me now, bubbles turning red and popping wetly inside my throat-mouth. My toes floated just above the shitty piss blood water, ten little reminders that I knew this whole thing was going to come to a head at some point. I just thought that it would be a lot more...fun.
12:40 am I had to stop struggling after a while, it hurt too much. My mouth tasted sickeningly sweet from the amount of bubble bath I had swallowed. I grasped at the arm around my neck, grinding my chin into his arm, digging in with all the force I could muster. My thrashing legs tossed water and bubbles and candles everywhere. Somewhere deep in my brain, there was a part that was cool and rational, thinking that someone was going to have to clean that up and it was not going to be me. He used his other hand, the one holding one of our nicest butcher knives, to force my chin up. He held the knife over my face. I dimly realized he was taunting me, but I was mesmerized by my reflection. Mascara drew deep black tears down my face, contrasting starkly with the whites of my eyes. I dimly noticed his tobacco-stained teeth and bushy nose hairs before the knife traced a hot line across my flesh.
12:39 am It only took two strides for him to cross from the bedroom into the bathroom. I felt the Derringer slip from where it hung carelessly on my index finger. As I struggled to rise, the water fell heavy across my chest and I had a sudden vision of an elephant lumbering through a tidal wave. I lost my footing and came crashing back down in the water, snuffing out at least half of the candles. His meaty fingers buried themselves in my hair, and when he yanked me back against the porcelain rim, I felt a pin that I had missed. What a thing to think of at a time like this. I reached up to claw at his hand, which alternated between smashing my head on the edge of the tub and shoving it underwater. His voice sounded guttural and primitive as I submerged and resurfaced. I couldn't make out any specific words, but I could imagine what they were.
12:38 am I resumed my rehearsed position in the tub, pulling back on the hammer with my thumb. The clicking sound was satisfying and felt delightfully dangerous. "Eddie? Come on, hurry your ass up. Just take off the bottom half. No - scratch that. Leave the socks on. I like to see your garters strain over your muscular thighs!" I casually flicked the hammer to the rhythm of the hi-hat in "In the Mood." CLICK cli-cli CLICK clicli CLICK cli-cli CLICK. Bah-BAH! "Eddie, on second thought, keep the nightstick too. It could be fun. No funny business though!" An unnatural sounding thud resonated through the steam and smoke filled air. I felt very, very cold, despite being up to my neck in hot water. After a harrowing, heavy silence, in which the wafting vapors were the only movement, I called out. "Eddie honey?" My only answer was the nightstick, which rolled from the bedroom across the hall and into the bathroom of its own volition, leaving an oblong-shaped smear of blood at even intervals along the tile until it hit the tub's claw foot. "Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod." "Murphy?"
12:30 am The banging continued longer than it should have. "Goddamnit Eddie, it's open!" I heard the apartment door give, and I sincerely hoped it wasn't because he busted the thing down. "I know you do that for a living, darling, but I'm not a criminal." Eddie's halting baritone drifted in from the living room. "Sorry doll, just muscle memory, I guess. Where the hell are you?" "I'm in the bathroom." I grinned from ear to ear. "I have a little surprise for you." He poked his head in. Eddie was a big man,
the kind of big that meant muscle underneath, not fat. But on the surface, he just looked like a very large mustachioed teddy bear. He grinned as he took in the scene, exposing the delightfully endearing gap between his front teeth. "Niiiiiiiice!" I rose halfway up out of the water and pointed the Derringer at his barrel chest. Eddie's jaw dropped as he raised his hands. "Aw, you caught me! I swear, I'll do anything to get out of this, anything! What's it gonna take?" "Get in that bedroom and take it all off, you dirty bastard!" Between Eddie's eager chuckle and the whoosh of smoke out of the corner of my mouth, there was a thump in the living room. A chill ran down my back. "Eddie, did you shut that door?" "Yes, yes of course I did," he said, still staring at my chest. "Then get out you fool!" I said, reassured. "I'm armed and dangerous!" He obliged, holding his hands above his head, scampering into the bedroom. "And don't come back until you have half as many clothes on!
12:21 am I pulled out the last pin from my hair, yanking it a little too hard and taking some of my brassy blonde with it. I swore a little and rubbed the offending spot. The pin curls bounced attractively against my face, which I had made up for the occasion. It was the perfect sultry look; smoky eyes, long, dark batting lashes, and dangerously red lips. Satisfied, I gave my ringlets one last pat before letting my chemise fall to the floor and easing myself into the steaming water. Bubbles lay over the surface like iridescent marshmallow fluff. I reached for the pack of Pall Malls on the back of the toilet and tapped one out, placing it carefully between my teeth to light it on one of the many
candles I'd scattered on the lip of the bathtub. Clearing away some bubbles, I exhaled into my reflection in the water, baring my teeth to carefully rub away traces of Ravishing Rose #12. Replacing the pack, I took up the snub nosed Derringer pistol and flipped open the chamber to make sure it wasn't loaded. I arranged myself carefully, with my hair falling over the back of the tub, the right hand raised slightly, the cigarette casually nestled between index and middle finger, and the left hanging over the front. I rubbed my thumb on the hammer. Now it was time to have some fun.
CQ Magazine Short story challenge?
â€˜Taxi & red umbrellaâ€™ Challenge No. 2 Is now underway see page 26 For details
A Japanese Constellation:
Toyo Ito, SANA
Floor 3, Architecture
A Japanese Constellation focuses on the network of arch Prize winners Toyo Ito and SANAA. Providing an overview
generation of Japanese architects, the exhibition presents rec
Kazuyo Sejima, Ryue Nishizawa, Sou Fujimoto, A
Departing from one of Ito’s pivotal works, the Sendai Med Century Museum of Contemporary Art, Kanazawa (2004), the museums. Organized through intersecting spaces separated b the structural invention, non-hierarchical thinking, and novel u Exploring a lineage of influence and cross-pollination that has century, the exhibition highlights the global impact and innov 1990s. With its idea of a network of luminaries at work, A Jap transmission of an architectural sensibility, and suggests an a an individuality-based “star-system” in contemporary architec
AA, and Beyond.
March 13â€“July 4, 2016
and Design Galleries
hitects and designers that has developed around Pritzker
of Itoâ€™s career and his influence as a mentor to a new cent works by internationally acclaimed designers, including
Akihisa Hirata, and Junya Ishigami.
diatheque, completed in 2001, as well as SANAAâ€™s 21st
e 44 featured designs range in scale from small houses to by translucent curtains, drawings, models, and images reveal uses of transparency and lightness that link these practices. s become particularly relevant at the start of the 21st vation of contemporary architecture from Japan since the panese Constellation is intended as a reflection on the alternative model to what has been commonly described as cture.
STEP Stephen Barr is 47 and is an avid painter and has had several of his pieces in art exhibitions and even commissioned for book covers. When Stephen is not busy painting landscapes, still life and portraits, he paints game miniatures, such as trolls and daemons. He am also a keen board games player and haa acquired quite a collection of board and card games. Steven has a extremely popular YouTube channel called the Spydah’s web, with a subscription of 1100+ which keeps rising with every video uploaded; these videos include box opening, painting tutorials and a part by part demonstration of how he paints a miniature “war game” character from beginning to end.
PHEN BARR Painter:Artist He is also a volunteer for the Wrightington, Wigan and Leigh NHS Foundation Trust as a member of Hospital Radio Wrightington; presenting two programs per week as well as taking part in a third. Stephen says “I try to keep myself as busy and as active as possible, especially after being diagnosed with Fibromyalgia six years ago”.
Visit Stephens facebook page https://www.facebook.com/Spydah666
SPYDAH’S WEB Spydah’s web is Stephens popular you tube channel where he passes his artistic talent to viewers by tutorials and demonstrations.
Candle (oil) The first time I have done a painting using a palette knife
Still Life (Acrylic).
Orca in Flight (Acrylic) Inspired by a painting from one of Wilson Bickford's from his first TV series
UND sho a c th
White Tiger (Acrylic), Undressed (Acrylic)
his is the cover of Karina Kantasâ€™s book
DRESSED is a collection of ort fiction, flash, poetry and prose. The anthology contains my own memories, houghts, and experiences. There are excerpts from ublished, unpublished and work in progress. The writing is raw, emotional...NAKED.
was born August 19, 1975, in Midland, Texas. She grew up in the small town of Flushing, Michigan. While in high school, she took creative writing and was a photographer for the school newspaper. In 1993, she won the National Quill and Scroll Society award for best photo in a high school paper. She began writing her first novel, Once Upon a Western Way, while still attending school. Markie is now married with two teenage daughters, three rescue dogs, and her horse, Athena, who is featured on the cover of her horse care guide, Keeping a Backyard Horse. She tried many times over the years to publish her novel, first on her own, and then hiring a literary agent, all without success. In early 2012, after getting her first smart phone and e-reader application, Nook, she discovered the world of self-publishing through a website called Smashwords. She finally published Once Upon a Western Way through this distributor in April, 2012. In 2015, Markie enrolled in the world-wide National Novel Writing Month, a challenge to writers everywhere to write a 50,000 word novel in just 30 days, the month of November. On November 25, 2015, she crossed the threshold, exceeding her word count goal of 50,000 words. She is a winner of National Novel Writing Month. Her novel, Souls of the Reaper, will be available in March of 2016. Currently, Markie lives in the small town of Fisk, Missouri, with her family, her dogs, and her horse. She is still writing and is working on a crime/paranormal series called The Undead Unit Series. Book one of the series, Fang and Claw, and book two, Souls of the Reaper, are now available. Book number three, Blood Lust, is due to release in the fall of 2016. You can find her at her website:
Undead Unit series ———
Over a hundred years in the future, it’s a world where
food. They’re often given tasks in jobs suited for their species, but just as among other minorities, they must struggle to prove themselves. As if dealing with racial prejudice isn’t enough, there is also a criminal element, just as there is with any group of beings living in society. The Dallas Police Department has introduced an elite new squad made up of Undead officers and detectives. This unit is dedicated to solving crimes involving Immortals. Headed by veteran Lieutenant Lacey Anderson, can the Undead Unit overcome its obstacles, both internal and external, or will it be doomed to failure?
Someoneâ€™s stealing souls in Dallas. Can the Undead Unit stop it, before itâ€™s too late? A rogue Reaper is on the loose in the city of Dallas. Su Xiong is a sociopath with no care for human life. He steals souls whose numbers are not yet up in order to become a more powerful Immortal. While heâ€™s on the prowl to gain power, his soulless victims roam the streets without morals, without inhibitions, without any code of conduct or social mores. Crime has risen tenfold: petty crimes, road rage, prostitution, drinking, and gambling. But for each soul that he captures and keeps, his own mental stability begins to degrade, a fact that Xiong is dangerously blind to. Can Lacey and Colton, along with Doctors Matthews and Dilorenzo, find him and stop him, before the insanity inside spoils the souls he holds within?
The power deep inside him was ambrosial. Xiong basked in the warm glow radiating from all his body’s cells, feeling the power throb in tune with his heartbeat. His nerve endings sizzled. This soul was even more powerful than the last, and he rode on the high shooting through his system. He learned a long time ago about the potency of the human spirit, and once he experienced it first-hand, it was even stronger than he expected. The rush punched through him with the ferocity of an explosion, and he knew at that moment he was addicted. With a smile, his thoughts turned to his mentor. The path of the Reaper was long and arduous, and he knew that she was more than ready to pass the torch to him, so she could move on to whatever awaited her next. It had been during his time with Ling that he discovered the wash of power as he harvested his first soul. Ling stood behind him, one small and gentle hand on his shoulder, easily guiding him through the capture and release of the spirit. The euphoria had so energized him that they spent the next ten hours in a frenzy of sexual pleasure. Xiong grinned at the memory. Ling was now long gone, moved onward to whatever fate would meet all Immortals at their eventual end, but she left behind a legacy of sorts, in him. She could never have known that, from the first moment she had touched him, she would awaken his destiny. “And, oh, what a destiny that has become,” he whispered, speaking to himself and to the empty room. The shadow of Ling hung over his life, like the comforting feel of a patio umbrella on a hot summer day. He remembered how she’d been so patient and sensitive during his training. Reapers were given an important duty, and there was much more to it than harvesting a human soul. Ling’s compassion aroused him as much as her lithe, exotic, and athletic body.” Kindle: http://geni.us/1rCE Nook: http://geni.us/4EHe Smashwords: http://geni.us/1jL4 Kobo: http://geni.us/1ioc ITunes: http://geni.us/197s Google Play: http://geni.us/jqE Goodreads: http://geni.us/2KMH
Bob Dylan’s Secret Archive By BEN SISARIO
Bob Dylan working in a room above the Cafe Espresso in Woodstock, N.Y., in 1964, left. On the right are items from his archive. Credit Douglas R. Gilbert, left; via the Bob Dylan Archive, right.
TULSA, Okla. — For years, Bob Dylan scholars have whispered about a tiny notebook, seen by only a few, in which the master labored over the lyrics to his classic 1975 album “Blood on the Tracks.” Rolling Stone once called it “the Maltese Falcon of Dylanology” for its promise
as an interpretive key.
But that notebook, it turns out, is part of a trinity. Sitting in climatecontrolled storage in a museum here are two more “Blood on the Tracks” notebooks — unknown to anyone outside of Mr. Dylan’s closest circle — whose pages of microscopic
MARCH 2, 2016 wrote some of his most famous songs.
resource for academic study. In a preview of the Bob Dylan There have long been rumors Archive by The New York Times, it is clear that the that Mr. Dylan had stashed away an extensive archive. It archives are deeper and more vast than even most Dylan is now revealed that he did experts could imagine, keep a private trove of his promising untold insight into work, dating back to his the songwriter’s work. earliest days as an artist, including lyrics, “It’s going to start anew the correspondence, recordings, way people study Dylan,” said films and photographs. That Sean Wilentz, the Princeton archive of 6,000 pieces has historian and author of “Bob recently been acquired by a Dylan in America,” when told group of institutions in about the existence of the Oklahoma for an estimated archive. $15 million to $20 million, and is set to become a
Notebooks containing lyrics from Mr. Dylan’s 1975 album “Blood on the Tracks.” Credit Shane Brown for The New York Times
Bought by the George Kaiser Family Foundation — whose namesake is an oil and banking billionaire — and the University of Tulsa, Mr. Dylan’s archives are now being transferred to Oklahoma, the home state of Woody Guthrie, Mr. Dylan’s early idol. After two years of cataloging and digitization, the material will take its place in Tulsa alongside a rare copy of the Declaration of Independence, a cache of Native American art and the papers of Guthrie.
Dylan’s career, the collection offers a comprehensive look at the working process of a legendarily secretive artist. Dozens of rewrites track the evolution of even minor songs like “Dignity,” which went through more than 40 pages of changes but was still cut from the 1989 album “Oh Mercy.”
With voluminous drafts from every phase of Mr.
canonization of Mr. Dylan,
Classics from the 1960s appear in coffee-stained fragments, their author still working out lines that generations of fans would come to know by heart. (“You Mr. Dylan said in a know something’s happening statement that he was glad here but you,” reads a his archives had found a scribbled early copy of “Ballad home “and are to be included of a Thin Man,” omitting with the works of Woody “don’t know what it is” and Guthrie and especially the song’s famous punch line: alongside all the valuable “Do you, Mister Jones?”) The artifacts from the Native range of hotel stationery American nations.” He added, suggests an obsessive selfwith typical understatement, editor in constant motion. “To me it makes a lot of And while the archive is a sense, and it’s a great honor. further step in the now 74, as not just a musical
icon but also an American literary giant, the documents are tantalizing in what they do not reveal. A card from Barbra Streisand postmarked November 1978, for example, thanks Mr. Dylan for sending flowers and playfully suggests that they make a record together; there is no evidence of a response.
The “little red notebook,” which by most accounts was stolen from Mr. Dylan at some point, circulated among collectors and is now held at the Morgan Library &
A version of Mr. Dylan’s lyrics to “Subterranean Homesick Blues.
Museum in New York, with access severely restricted. But the existence of two more books shows how much raw material has been unavailable and unknown for study. The song “Tangled Up in Blue,” with its refracted scenes of a wanderer haunted by a broken relationship, gets a slightly more picaresque telling here, with a refrain For longtime students, absent from the finished seeing the archive may recording: “Wish I could lose, conjure a familiar feeling of these dusty sweatbox blues.” astonishment at just how Even in songs that have deep the well of Dylanology goes. There is always far more been pored over for decades, new layers of beneath the surface than meaning await discovery. anyone could guess. One example of this phenomenon — and of how radically the material could change existing Dylan scholarship — is the “Blood on the Tracks” material.
CQ Magazine Short story Challenge No. 2
CQ Challenges you to write a short story based on the image shown here The story must not exceed one-thousand-fivehundred words.
For full details and rules of entry please go to the CQ International website
LG Surgeso Author
She ar 1998 t
Sin maths lives in partne
She and de state o
She house it.
To d Chron also b
urgeson is a South African born Welsh author.
rrived in Aberystwyth, via Christchurch, Dorset, in to study Physics and never managed to leave.
nce then, she has been gainfully occupied teaching s and failing to move out of Wales. These days, she n a cottage by a river with her long suffering er and their feline overlords.
e writes fantasy, fiction, blog posts about being gay epressed and internet articles ranting about the of the British education system.
e writes in the time she creates by avoiding the ework. The cats like to help. They aren't very good at
date, she has five fantasy novels in her Black River nicles available on Amazon, and three blogs. She has been included in 4 anthologies.
The Summer of Fire has burned away. The wars of Gods and mortals, that rampaged across the continent, have ended.The world has been left dazed and flattened, trying to pick up the pieces. Those that have survived find themselves standing amongst the ruins with empty hearts, waiting for faces they will never see again. It has not occurred to many that the hardest times may be yet to come. Follow the tales of a suddenly rich and pregnant widow, a disgraced Albion guard officer who is put up for sale by goblins, two con artists who mistook the army for a quiet life and a green-skin hoard in search of a homeland (and more than happy to carry your baggage if you're prepared to leave quietly.) Lonely, jaded, homeless or drunk as a skunk and being sold off cheaply by goblins; all the survivors are faced with the greatest challenge yet. They have to build themselves a future. Once the glorious struggles of the Summer are over, somehow you have to find a way to live through the winter that follows.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/LGSurgeson/e/B006K18OTM/ ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1? qid=1457214427&sr=8-1
Chapter Two: A Conspicuous Lack of Goblins Charlie heaved the barrel up through the trap door and lumped it down beside the other two. It was unusually quiet this morning. The Law Temple nine-hour bell had rung long since, and yet there was no noise in the street. He wiped his forehead and hands with his apron and went to the door of the Tavern. Charlie was used to goblins, some of his best customers were goblins. In fairness he didn't have many customers that weren't goblins - which is what happens if you call a bar 'The Startling Toad'. Today, however, was suffering from a conspicuous lack of goblins. The sound of no goblins always made Charlie nervous. It usually meant they were up to something. Mind you, goblins were up to something whether you could hear them or not, but if you couldn't hear them it meant they were up to something organised. Charlie was still recovering from the chicken rustling plot of 1099ac, he couldn't live through that again â€“ screaming militia, chortling
goblins and flying chicken feathers everywhere and he was still finding grain in places he could have sworn he had cleaned. He tried to rack his brains, what had he heard? One of them had been muttering about the Temple District he thought, and another couple had been mumbling about the Adventurers Guild. He hoped it was the Temple District. It was already a pile of rubble and therefore there wasn't much more damage they could really do to it. If it was the Adventurers Guild then things were not likely to go so well. The combination of a bunch of selfobsessed hero types and a load of piss-head goblin dock-hands was not something that Charlie wanted to contemplate.
On opening the door, it was much as he feared â€“ the street was empty. There weren't even the usual pile of drunks sleep, grinning and twitching in their sleep and cuddling their explosives. Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the street empty. There was nothing out there apart from effluent and seagulls. He was beginning to wonder if he was dreaming, until he caught a whiff of something wafting by and decided that if his subconscious could Fa manufacture a smell like that then he didn't want to know about it. He shrugged, there was nothing to be done except his job, so he stumped back into the bar and started to wipe tables wondering to G
himself if there was really any point. It was then that he noticed it. A scrap of paper, perhaps twice the size of a hand that was pinned to the wall by a rusting dagger. It had clearly been dropped in more than one puddle and bore the terrifying legend 'bak sooon, we'ze joynd the arm-ee lov Chelios'. "Blimey," thought Charlie, "I didn't realise the army were that hard up."
Other books from
LG Surgeson From the Black River Chronicles: Summer of Fire The Freetown Bridge Dawn of Darkness In Shadows, Waiting and currently in production: The Girl That Wasn't Min
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/LG-Surgeson334923476536638/ Twitter
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/ show/6093663.L_G_Surgeson
Cover Design Do you need a book cover that stands out from the crowd?
Are you looking for a fresh design? Something from a new aspect? Totally different from the ‘run-of-the-mill’ designers work? The
CHERRY to top your cake?
Then why not let me create you something special I am a writer just like you, but I have a skill for creating something eye-catching. Like this, which is why you are reading it now! Simply email me. We’ll talk and if I can help I will. Simple!
NEW TATE MODERN You can’t miss the big art story of 2016: it’s ten stories’ high.
On June 17, a new Tate Modern will be unveiled when its extension, known as The Switch House (that’s the big, twisty building that’s been rising up behind the Bankside building for the past couple of years) opens to the public. Designed by Herzog & de Meuron, the Swiss architects behind the original transformation of Bankside power station 15 years ago, the building will provide 60 per cent more exhibition space and allow for a ‘progressive rehang’ of Tate Modern’s permanent collection across both the Switch House and current Tate Modern building, with the Turbine Hall becoming what the Tate is calling ‘the street’ that connects both buildings.
open Abak eras
he new building features a viewing level on the top floor, a restaurant, mem' room and three new floors of galleries, billed as â€˜new spaces for new s of artâ€™, which will be used to show works acquired since Tate Modern ned in 2000, including an installation of giant burlap sacks by Magdalena kanowicz and a multi-screen film by Cannes prize-winner Apichatpong Wesethakul.
Cristina Querrer (Cee Que) was born and raised in the Philippines as an Amerasian child during the Vietnam War. She is now a college instructor, poet, artist, and mother, currently residing in Tampa Bay, FL.
Why do I blog? I believe art heals. I believe with poetry we can evolve into a better version of ourselves and collectively, too. Blogging gave another avenue, a platform, if you will, to express to a vaster, wider audience. Your Artsy Girl
http://www.yourartsygirl.blogspot.c om .
Man of Might I only want company of mighty men. Not of bronze and steel but with flesh that is palpable, of unrefined sugar; whose eyes, deep olives, unpitted. A beard of soft shells that rub my side, lulling me to sleep. He, exquisite bites that enlarges my hunger. No statue of David, or Troy can compareâ€”my mighty man bares all too, more than leonine loins of antiquity, more than paltry weekends that leave me by the roadside on Monday. He, tender transitions of the day, lounging on my porch, smoking his cigar, singing songs of me. This brave, brave man of sandstone and sea, will wear my poetry on his person at all times, has a temperament of madmen, sketches lavish plans to remain, like daVinci.
The Lava Experiment You burned my eyes and scorched my brows, inched on, your mouth agape, devoured the Spanish churches of my past. I stayed with you as long as I could. Heard your belly groan and you wanted, plainly wanted, for mysterious need. You turned without warning. I ignored the signs. At the very least, did not evacuate the women and children. I wanted to go on thinking that we could coexist. But I cannot sleep with tigers.
II. Those nights when you were still, I watched the rise and fall of your chest, many a civilization. Nothing new. And each time you took in a breath you drew me closer and closer.
I stopped watching the clock, heard the church bell ring, the dogs stopped barking, and then the unenviable charged through my window. You climbed on my bed and burned my lungs as I lay with clenched fist. A pointless protest. But this is what no scholar cares to explain. Ah, but look at you!
III. I have studied your movement as a composer would, battling every cantata, reliving every repertoire. You tried to hold back your nature. This is where I know, more than any place I have lived, my petrified form beneath the ashes in between your deep, black breaths. Someone will one day predict your eruptions. One day, someone will touch me the way you did without killing all the trees.
The Anomaly What fills this place with old weapons are the longitudes and latitudes of darkness that bleeds onto some presumption that time and place is just a prevailing mark that never leaves us. On the clothesline of balance stars could be taken by negligence or by distorted glances at the mural of the deceased. But the telescope points skyward, into bedrooms, offices, alleyways.
y of Physics As we get closer, sharpness is dulled. Spend all our lives calculating. One turn of a misaligned planet; a contorted moon makes us
unable to move beyond a fixed position where we annihilate ourselves and abandon our lovers. Lucid gowns pulled over sullen cities
establishes the contentment of basis in fact: laws of gravity become null and void to the dying, and naked infants, pure.
Famine When every day is a dearth
dragging its feet in dreary dust when ocean is your backyard and you can’t drink from it—
Ribs, collarbones protruding through clothes—
too much to partake in paradise so fertile devoid of any wealth to buy it—no centavos, no mas! no mas! to inadequately eat is like a distracted raconteur holding an empty vase
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Ta l e s 0 f C r i m e & The collectors editions This remarkable three volume collection encompasses numerous and varied stories of acts and deeds of crime and violence. Paul White has once again woven his masterly spell of intrigue into each stories plot. Secrecy, scheming, plotting and conspiracy live hand-in-hand with outrageous and shocking violence, viciousness and brutality. All three volumes of Tales of Crime & Violence are packed with carnage and bloodshed and mayhem,
while an ominous sense of sinister, physiological
apprehension lingers in the dark shadows. Tales of Crime & Violence contains graphic acts of violence, profanities and sexual reference. It is not recommended for reading for those under adult age. Tales of Crime & Violence is available in a paperback collection of three volumes, or on Kindle as a complete â€˜box-setâ€™.
oks&field-keywords=tales+of+Crime+%26+Violence US Paperback
&field-keywords=Tales+of+Crime+%26+Violence Kindle (worldwide).
THE MANCHESTER WRITING COMPETITION IS HOS MANCHESTER METROP
The 2016 Manchester Poetry and Fiction Priz
Visit the Poetry Prize page or the Fiction Prize page for more details. Bo entries will be Friday 23rd September 2016.
The Manchester Writing Competition was established by Poet Laureate C ter Metropolitan University’s innovative Enterprise Fellowship scheme. the world, and to establish Manchester as the focal point for a major liter £95,000 to its winners. These are the UK’s biggest literary awards for un
Initially, the Competition alternated annually between Poetry and Fiction awarded to the writer of the best portfolio of poetry, and another £10,000
The Manchester Poetry Prize - £10,000 http://www.ma
The Manchester Fiction Prize - £10,000 http://www.ma Terms and conditions apply – see the
To find out more about our courses, events and competition
STED BY THE MANCHESTER WRITING SCHOOL AT POLITAN UNIVERSITY.
zes are now open to online and postal entries.
oth competitions will offer a ÂŁ10,000 first prize and the deadline for
Carol Ann Duffy in 2008, funded in the first instance by the ManchesThe project was designed to attract the best new writing from around rary award. Since it began, the Competition has awarded more than npublished writing.
n but, from 2013, both will be running every year, with ÂŁ10,000* 0* to the writer of the best short story.
anchesterwritingcompetition.co.uk/Fiction-Prize.php pages for each Prize for full details.
ns visit the Manchester Writing School website or contact
+44 (0) 161 247 1787/1797.
â€œHiding the truth from yo you. Sit and I will tell you With these words the secrets of my great grandmother, Genevieve Silver, were unburied and my role as a Protector of the Elemental Magic revealed. My name is Mara. I've always felt that there is something missing; that nothing is permanent. Why would I feel that way? I was raised with my little sister by my grandmother, who loved and doted on me. And then there was Cole Sands. Who could forget the blueeyed boy that had stolen my heart. What more could a girl need? Little did I know that with one secret, my life and the world I live in would change forever.
ou is no longer protecting u what you need to knowâ€?.
I followed Blaze as she led me into the backyard. We took the path that I had watched Young Mara take in my memory. The trees were green and colored with flowers and fruit but this time there were no sounds coming from my grandfather's workshop. As we approached the largest green tree, I had images of tea parties like the one I had seen today that were full of laughter and magic. I set the picnic basket down and opened it. I pulled out the soft yellow blanket and spread it out. “What did she pack us to eat?” questioned Bay. “I am starving from all of the work today.” Pulling the treats out one by one, I laid out a square rectangle container that held deep red sliced tomatoes sprinkled with basil, sea salt and olive oil, fresh cheeses and a variety of cubed bread. The last items I pulled out were a bottle of white grape juice and a small tin that I knew held tea biscuits. As we munched on our food savouring the flavors, Breeze began to speak. “When your great grandmother was a child, the Goddess decided to reward her family for the commitment to the magic. My sisters and I were born of this gift. We were sent to guide the ancestors of Genevieve Silver and help them strengthen their inner connection to the Goddess and to learn how to use the elemental magic. Until Eliza, this had always been an easy job of play and magic. But even as a young child, there was something about her that felt disconnected. The four of us never appeared to her in our fae form. We kept our contact to the basics elements that we represent. When she turned fourteen, we knew our reservations had been correct.” “This is not the time,” Blaze scolded. The gold of her eyes grew dark and the red streaks of her hair began to burn with fire. “We will have plenty of time to discuss the path of
Eliza but today we have a small amount of time to help Mara connect again.” Blowing a burst of wind and putting out the flames Blaze was emitting, Breeze agreed, “No need to become upset. You are right. The story can keep for another day.” Blaze turned to me staring hard and said, “Now show us what you have inside you.” “What do you mean,” I said, with frustration, “I have nothing but confusion and jumbled memories inside of me.” Without notice, Blaze threw a ball of fire in front of me onto the picnic cloth. The small ball erupted and began to burn the yellow fabric. Staring, I did not know what to do. In response to my inaction, I felt a small wind blow by me toward the now growing flames. The flames danced and flicked at the wind that blew as if inviting a new friend to the party. Closing my eyes, I held my hands out and lowered them into the flames and whispered, “Wind of Breeze, Fire of Blaze, Water of Bay and Stone of Daisy, I call upon you to contain the flames.” Opening my eyes, the red-hot flames began to flick at me. The fire grew stronger. My words had done nothing. Taking a deep breath, this time I held out my hands and placed them over the fire, “Winds of air, flames of fire, drops of water and salt of earth, I command you to come to me.” Plunging my hands into the burning flames, I felt the hot heat licking my fingers but it was not burning me. Instead, it pooled towards me like hot lava running down a mountain and formed a ball that I was able to hold in my hand. Clasping both hands together, I felt the power of fire inside my veins. As the warmth ran through me, I opened my now empty hands to see small white tendrils of smoke.
was born and raised in Montana before adventuring to the warmer states of Arizona and California. Marnieâ€™s love of Dame Judi Dench and dreams of caticorns and rainbows inspired her to chase her dreams. One great sentence came to mind and the world of elemental magic and the humans they lived amongst filled her mind. With her first book Remember: Protectors of the Elemental Magic, the story has just begun.
film archives The films in our collections are a fascinating record of the history, culture and art of filmmaking and TV production, as well as a document of daily life in the UK from the late 19th century to today. Our fiction collection comprises more than 50,000 titles – on all types of film and in many video formats – from donors all over the world.
The BFI National Archive holds a vast collection of British fiction films, from R.W. Paul’s 1896 tale of a drunken husband’s return home to The Iron Lady. We also collect short films and artists’ moving image work and hold the largest collection of American
Our archives include original negatives of some of Britain’s best loved films, including Robert Hamer’s Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) and Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s The Red Shoes (1948) as well as the more wayward Witchfinder General (1968).
silent films outside the US.
Rare and neglected films Part of our role is to bring both classic and undervalued pictures to new audiences. We aim to have a copy of every British film released in UK cinemas, because all films – even the obscure and neglected – are an important part of our heritage. There is demand for them too – our Flipside programme at BFI Southbank celebrates weird, wonderful and outrageous filmmaking, and many of the British films have been released on DVD and Blu-ray.
Our restoration of Cecil Hepworth’s Alice in Wonderland (1903) notched up a million views on YouTube, and our three-year, £1m restoration of David Lean’s first ten features brought these films back to the big screen. This year, as part of the BFI project ‘The Genius of Hitchcock’, we are completing the restoration of Alfred Hitchcock’s nine surviving silent features.
Now you can watch films from the BFI Archive online And on demand
The British Film Institute presents the best global cinema on-demand: From classic and contemporary films to the best of the BFI National Archive
DAWN CHAPMAN Dawn Chapman has been creating sci fi and fantasy stories for thirty years. Until 2005 when her life and attention turned to scripts, and she started work on The Secret King, a 13 episode Sci Fi TV series, with great passion for this medium. In 2010, Dawn returned to her first love of prose. Sheâ€™s been working with coach EJ Runyon who's encouraged her away from fast paced script writing, to revel in the world of TSK and LethĂĄo as an epic prose space journey. This year her experience of working with Producers/Directors from the US and AUS has expanded. From Drama, Sci Fi to Action, Dawn's built a portfolio of writing, consulting and publishing.
Kendro, King of the Aonise, can do nothing to prevent their sun from collapsing, consuming their home planet Letháo in a single fiery blast. Running out of time and options, he evacuates the entire population, setting off into the unknown galaxy in four crowded ships. Under constant danger from their ancient enemy, the Zefron, treasonous dissent seeps into his inner circle. Threatened inside and out, Kendro struggles with whom to trust, until a mysterious vision finally brings hope to the distraught King. A new home awaits the Aonise, if Kendro can only unite them long enough to survive the journey.
Chapter One – Evacuation Blue banners waved the royal colour, filling Kendro with more hope than he’d ever imagined possible under the circumstances. Smiles adorned his subjects’ faces. A cheer rang out. Pointing their cameras and microphones towards him, with a nod the news troop gave him the go ahead. Taking a deep breath, Kendro spoke loud and clear into the microphone. “I acknowledge every citizen, not just those assigned to a House. Our evacuation is steady. Each of you will be assigned a ship number. The evacuation procedure will be as follows.” He peered from the sheet he carried to his people. Many more shoulders here were covered. Only the Military and Government caste wore an arm or leg bare to show house birthmarks.
“It does not correspond with any House or any class. You will board the ship you are assigned. I implore you to stay calm.” At that, the hum began. “These orders take effect immediately.” As Kendro completed his closing statement, Madrall, leader of House Flikait, caught his eye. Madrall bowed his very dark head once, his striking birthmark flickered his colour of yellow against his much darker Flikait skin, and at this point, a deep gesture of loyalty. Kendro watched as several hands shot into the air. He appealed to them, “This is a testing time for all of us. We must survive until we find a new home.” Deception kept at bay—they need not know we have not a plan.
US http://www.amazon.com/The-Secret-King-Dawn-Chapman-ebook/dp/ B0149F9NQI/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/TheSecretKing/ https://www.facebook.com/TSKProductionsLtd/ Twitter
illustrated by Andrew Dodd
Jessica Brown is an acrylic
of surrealism and abstract emotiona her fiancé, 2 dogs, a ferret, and a cat When I paint, the world stands still. Art has always been therapeutic for me like that. I found my calling when I was still in Kindergarten but, I couldn’t have known the impact this passion would have on me then. My childhood was intense and sometimes traumatic; this sometimes shows symbolically through my work. I found that when I painted, time seemed to stop and everything that was hurting me melted away. Psychologists/theorists call it flow, and this subconscious flow into dream land kept me alive for years. Even sometimes today, I battle with anxiety and depression. Through art, I can express how I was feeling and let go of whatever anger, fear or pain I held in. My work is also a creation of my inner reality and how I perceive the world. Often times, we can’t find the right words to express how we’re feeling or what we want to say and express to the world .
c multi-media artist. She loves portraying her work through various forms
al symbolism. She’s 25 years old and resides in Gainesville, Florida, US with t; living a very happy, simple life. My illustrations are symbolic or representational of these feelings of psychological turmoil, my empathetic emotions of everything and everyone around me. I portray what unravels in my mind as emotionally driven music plays in the background; creating symbolic images from the lyrics and waves of music. Some of my inspirational favorites being The Cure, TOOL, and Enigma. My artistic inspirations come from famous artist Salvador Dali (my idol), Tim Burton, Walt Disney, and Andy Warhol. I also find much inspiration from my artist friends. Towards the end of 2015, I decided to give up my day job and become a full time artist. Finally, living my dream and pursuing my goals to create and sell art have begun to take flight. Along with my art, I am also a college student. Previously, a Psychology major, I recently switched back to Fine Art to expand my knowledge and learn new techniques.
Currently, I am attending local art festivals in my area. My shop’s name is Jessica’s Surreality.
I also have an online shop on Etsy.com and I plan to expand further in the future! M illustrations. Most are on professional grade canvas and framed canvas board. I als therefore make my own art prints, business cards, and pricing labels for all of my w fulfilment within myself with everything I do with Jessicaâ€™s Surreality and I look forw
T pur vis
My main selling items are my original acrylic/oil/mixed medium paintings and so have prints available in small and large sizes. I am a huge fan of DIY and work. This is not just a job for me, it’s a passionate way of living. I feel complete ward to the future and all of the new people I’ll meet along the way.
To see more of my work or rchase an original paint/print, sit my Facebook and Etsy site:
https:// www.facebook.com/ Jessicasstrangeart/
https:// www.instagram.com/ threesleepingeyes/
© Jessica Brown
Karin Karina Kantas is the author of the popular OUTLAW series. The Outlaw series of Thrillers involving outlaw motorcycle clubs. She also writes short stories and when her imagination is working over time, she writes thought provoking dark flash fiction. There are many layers to Karina's writing style and talent. As you will see in her flash fiction collections. And in UNDRESSED she opens up more to her fans. Giving them another glimpse of her warped mind. When Karina isn't busy working on her next best seller, she's designing teasers, book trailers, narrating audio or video small readings, and helping authors as a VA
myBook.to/Huntress myBook.to/ITOV Book one of the OUTLAW series is FREE book two is only $ 0.99
Nobody expects to stare death in the face only to find out your entire life is a lie. Rescued by Salco, marketing executive Becky finds herself in an unknown magical world filled with happy people that try to forget their land is on the brink of destruction. Becky will soon learn none of this was an accident, and the council of Tsinia are certain her union with Darthorn's son, Kovon, will create peace. And although her future has been
Thya sat up. “Never” ,she snapped. “You mistake me. I have bequeathed a vow to aid my kinsmen and I intend to retain this. However, once peace has resumed, I will depart. I possess a home in a faraway place, and unless you have been there and sighted it for yourself, you could never understand why I choose to return” “You are accurate. I cannot understand why you would desire to exist in a world filled with destruction and intent to destroy one another. You are a similar species. Why do you remove breath so unnecessarily?” “How can you remark this when your planet behaves identically? You have studied my land from books, not reality. How can you fathom? You do not retain awareness of the beauty that lays there the love and kindness and hope.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“If only you had such passion for your own domain. Instruct me, Thya, force me to understand.” He raised her chin and gazed into her eyes. “If I kiss you, I will be punished for tis against the code to touch a Ganty with the intent of desire. Yet if I am thrown unclothed into Death Valley, it would be worth it for this.”
OUTLAW series In Times of Violence: urban thriller romance Huntress: MC thrilling romance Lawless Justice: Vigilante MC thriller
Road Rage: MC thriller ———–————
Heads & Tales: Collection of flash and short fiction Undressed: Collection of poetry, prose and short fiction Stone Cold: YA supernatural thriller myBook.to/IR http://www.lulu.com/shop/karina-kantas/illusional-reality/ paperback/product-22597966 http://www.amazon.com/Illusional-Reality-Karina-Kantas-
https://urbanhype101.wordpress.com/ https://www.youtube.com/playlist? list=PLjOMQORvQpEzLbC4u_RQO1e3j64KGNFAc https://twitter.com/KarinaKantas https://www.facebook.com/Karina-Kantas-Author31754864225/
ORIGIN STORY I am Nathan March, the founder of Follow Magazine
I'm an award winning independent filmmaker operating in the vibrant indie film scene in Adelaide, Australia. I know as well as anyone how difficult it can be to build a sustainable career as an independent creator. Recently, I started a film company with three other filmmakers, Quadro Collective, and I believe that movies are made to be seen. Follow Magazine grew out of my search for knowledge about how to build an audience online. While searching I realised that there are independent creators everywhere that want the same thing as me: an audience. This magazine is my channel for distributing the, often submerged, wisdom of those in the know. You can find an audience for your work. Follow Magazine can show you how.
FOLLOW MAGAZINE Supported and recommended by
CQ International Magazine
Hello, my name is Bill T was photography which
and now for the past sev sculpture work.
My philosophical approach is to be open to new ideas, to visuall
found or recycled materials leading to the creation of alternative Art making is an important part of who I am and what I do.
inner feelings and thoughts about the world around me, on a da
For the past 6 years I have also been very active in a volu
organization working towards the objective of building a new pub
I have included samples of my assemblage sculpture. I wo
orders for custom art work for your collection, home or business
Contact Bill via email: email@example.com
Thomson and I live in Burnaby, BC., Canada. My first love then evolved into collage, then experiments in print making,
veral years my art has focussed on 3D and assemblage
ly explore, reconfigure, transform and generally play with
e forms and objects. The process of art making allows me to creatively express my
unteer capacity with my local community arts council
blic art gallery for the City of Burnaby.
ould love to receive comments on my work and am open to
Francisco R Francisco Rdz. Vernet. was born in México City, in 1964; He graduated from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México as an Orthopaedic Surgeon.
Of passions, Nadezda, Bruno, and Ines take the most part of it. Of affections, anthropology, history, science fiction, a nice spicy meal with a fine cigar, music, gardening, long afternoon walking and sports. His heroes are John Lennon, Vincent Van Gogh... And James Tiberius Kirk. He author has published two books so far. His first book was published with Palibrio, under the title: “Somewhere… within the inspirations of life”, in 2011; at the beginning of 2015, “Still like yesterday”, his second book, was published in Spain, with Entre Renglones Editorial. Nowadays, the author’s work is being published in Umbral, which is an important Spaniard magazine in Europe, and in Trabalibros, in Europe also since 2012, both; he is now working on a third and fourth books.
Franciscoâ€™s photo and artwork is published also atâ€Ś the following links:
https://www.patreon.com/user?u=2719422&ty=h https://youpic.com/photographer/spoonmman/ spoonmman-from-mexico-mexico-specialises-in-
Let me count the ways I miss her... She is the shelter we seek from the storm She is the breeze that embraces you on a very warm and humid day... She is the silence we need after a fight...
She is the curtain we open after the fall... Let me count the ways I need her... She is the honey we taste after our hunger... She is the tears that drop after being hurt... She is the freedom we share after being chained... She is the tears we shed after running away... Let me count the ways I feel her.... She is the gentle touch that helps you endure time.... She is the dawning of the sun after the darkest night has ended...
She is the warm tender kiss when you surrender yourself to love... She is the haven you seek after distance lets you down Let me count the ways I love her... She is the sweetest word we repeatedly hear every morning... She is a memory that refuses to die... She is the urge to shout out loud when in need for truth! She is the hope we hold on to when emptiness arrives...
Hojarasca. La broza en el comienzo, un susurro suave, que nombra y escoge, y que a cada hoja imputa un sello a manera de letra,
que en la ventisca levanta nombres, y acomoda en patrones… incontables significados, a veces oscuros, a veces trinos, a veces truenos, que en mendigar de añoranzas, en imágenes intensas describes desde la taciturna muerte de la libélula, hasta la deseosa entrega de la noche, en un sinfín de alegrías, y un sin tonar de pecados. Broza en prosa, Brozas en verso, Cantata de incontables matices, Mal versos ritmos que acompañan la campiña, Que a bote de tambor batiente, Y a cañonazo limpio, empujan tu llegada, Imponiendo tu letrada fila de lugartenientes, Entre comas y puntos, A cuesta de pluma y tinta; de nombre cortés y de apellido inmaculado…
En tiempo de idilio,
en tiempo de avance. Broza multicolor, A contraste de tiempos y en contraste de tonos, Insinuando proclamas, Invitando revoluciones, De entre giros y piruetas, A las letras mataste, Fusilando a palos, Dibujando cartoneros, Esbozando entre líneas, verdades eternas embriagadas de infortunios, Verdades embriagadas de amores escondidos, Embriagadas de amores a medias, entre medias y otras medidas mundanas, De escribanos mudos, De lectores ciegos, De juglares arrítmicos, De solitarios desgarrados en tirones de melancolía Entre letras y esquemas, Te escribo, pausado de ideas, Adulando a tu mal pasada ortografía, Ondeando tu desquebrajada insignia, Oyendo el cantar entonado de tu prosa, En un día de otoño, En un día de pascua de inmensa monotonía.
Desambiguaciones sobre el amor, Primera parte. Todos hablamos del amor, Mencionamos "el amor" al menos una vez en un día, para bien o para mal, y aún así, todos fallamos cuando tratamos de expresar lo que significa... he aquí algunas consideraciones ... para debatir? ¿Qué significa el amor? De acuerdo a muchos diccionarios: La palabra “AMOR” es un sustantivo... que significa, 1. un afecto apasionado, profundamente sentido hacia otra persona.
2. un sentimiento de apego personal, cálido o de profundo afecto, como a un padre, hijo o amigo. 3. pasión o deseo sexual. 4. una persona hacia quien se siente amor; persona amada; cariño. 5. una historia de amor; un incidente intensamente amoroso; amour. 7. coito; cópula. Sea cual sea la extensión de esta palabra; un hecho que no se puede negar... es que implica afecto, con pasión... y apego personal. PERO, y subrayo la palabra, pero ... la pasión, el afecto y el apego implican, sin duda, la necesidad de establecer que estos son sentimientos y emociones, que se dan ... pero por desgracia, no se corresponden siempre… Entonces, la acción de dar amor, puede ser unilateral, y puede implicar un toque de soledad, incomprensión, Desamour, y en última instancia... una dosis de dolor. Entonces, en cierta medida, el amor... puede igualar las virtudes y defectos. Las líneas escritas, no son ajenas a estas ambigüedades; de hecho, las líneas escritas ofrecen al escritor, el medio de expresar esas tribulaciones internas, el dolor medido en lágrimas y la desesperación medida en tristeza.
El amor es igual a... afecto. El amor es igual a... necesidad. El amor es igual a... extrañar a alguien. El amor es igual a... la desesperación. El amor es igual a... un motivo. El amor es igual a... una rima. El amor es igual a... un verso. El amor es igual a... desamor. El amor es igual a... sensualidad. El amor es igual a... el sexo. El amor es igual a... flores. El amor es igual a... la codicia. El amor es igual a... el amor. las desambiguaciones sobre el amor, son muy útiles, aun así, las líneas se mezclan en la mente y el corazón del escritor en muchos aspectos inquietantes, que dan a luz a sonetos, coplas, líneas, citas, e historias en las que nos encontramos expuestos desnudos, a nuestras propias calamidades, miedos, esperanzas, odios, necesidades... Si tan sólo Romeo pudiera leer mis líneas, Si Isolda pudiera leer esto, ¿Habrían de reír conmigo? Cayendo en el borde del absurdo, me atrevo a decir, que cada uno de nosotros, nos hemos encontrado a nosotros mismos en el abismo del dolor, donde una palabra puede cambiar el destino de nuestras líneas, dando o quitando vida, sirviendo el único propósito de establecer la necesidad de nuestra analogía, en la que vivimos, profundamente en el corazón de cada palabra, que expresa nuestro amor, nuestro dolor ... nuestros corazones, los cuales vertemos en cada línea, que damos al mundo, compartiendo nuestros demonios, y ángeles.
Mis demonios y ángeles son tú, la ambigüedad que seca mis lágrimas, la ambigüedad que reclama mi tintero como su reino, la ambigüedad que empaña mi aflicción ... con felicidad, la ambigüedad que calma mis temores, la ambigüedad que calma mi tristeza, la ambigüedad ... que alivia mi dolor.
la ambigüedad que dirige mi mano sobre el papel, moldeando mis líneas, templando el contenido, facilitando el flujo de tristeza en cada palabra, reconociendo la necesidad de gozo... de vez en cuando. Y a veces... La ambigüedad que me da esperanza. Es entonces cuando otro significado del "amor", para mí... eres TÚ.
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