Beginnings – Sisyphus #writephoto

dawn

He knew where they had met, but he was less certain of when that was. He remembered the small town, and the woods, above all the woods, where they walked, kissed, watched the sun rise, the freezing dawns, enlaced, forever at one, with each other, and with the trees.

Continue reading at Of Glass and Paper

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Jewels in the Claw (8) – Steve Tanham

Jewels Act Two Royal Court smaller2

Continued from Part Seven.

He – the man with the packing cases – picks up his empty tea cup and begins to walk towards the small table near the entrance door of the large room in which the mystery play ran its course. It’s important that everything is cleared, he thinks; restored to how it was, pristine…

Laughing to himself, he realises that he is walking the edges of the square of what was the royal court floor, though nothing of it remains outside of his imagination…and the memories of nineteen other people who helped bring it to life.

This was her space, he whispers to the silent air, still reverential, still listening for her commands to those within the square of black and white, the world of polarity. That, moment…that moment when enough had been seeded by clever language and innocent moves within the squares. That moment when the Sovereign stepped forward, intellectually, to declare her intentions. His memory of that second is acute. He relives it, but as what? Is he the playwright, above the creation, but guiding it as director? No, his involvement is still too acute. Is he, then, William Shakespeare, a character that thinks he is a creator? Perhaps… Or, is he each of the characters, permitted to play alongside the actors, if in memory only?

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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Beginnings – Em’s World #writephoto

Underneath the magnificent canopy,

the wind blowing ever so softly,

skies painted ever so beautifully,

sun dying ever so warmly.

Continue reading at Em’s World

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The Line Between Dark Fantasy and Horror – Guest Post by Jaq D Hawkins at TRSA

Reblogged from TRSA:

The definition of Dark Fantasy is “Fantasy with elements of Horror in it.” So the question is, how much Horror is required to take the story out of the realm of Fantasy and into the realm of pure Horror?

This is something that hasn’t been clearly defined and it is not my intention to try to carve out a dividing line for the genres here, but only to stimulate some speculative conversation among readers of these genres.

Both of the genres, Horror and Fantasy, are typified by strongly imaginative elements. Much of what I’ve read in both genres might easily fit into the other. For example, I found a story set in Hell with some of the familiar landscape we expect from that location (thanks, Dante) in the Fantasy section. It was unquestionably dark and so easily classified as Dark Fantasy. But why not Horror?

Continue reading at

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Frameworks – Reena Saxena #writephoto

visual transformation

through colors

dispel myths

of a static world

Continue reading at Reinventions by Reena

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The sacredness of pigs… Stuart France

*

… “Vesica’s ‘inscribed’ on the landscape.”

 “It is fraught with difficulties…”

“…For the rational mind, I agree.”

“How do you forge a compass big enough, for one thing, and how would you then use it, for another…”

“Maybe you wouldn’t need to.”

“I was being slightly ironic.”

“Compasses are made out of steel…

If it was set out early enough there would be hardly any buildings.

A peg and rope would be sufficient.”

Continue reading at Stuart France

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Pure #midnighthaiku

Fragrance of summer

Soft haze enchants the senses

Purest perfection

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Thresholds

strangegoingsonintheshed

FB_IMG_1516121832318 Bryn Celli Ddu, Anglesey, Jan Malique

Thresholds are special. They’re abundant in our lives, and act as gateways allowing passage from one space to another. Not only on the mundane level, but also psychologically, spiritually and magically. They can be either unguarded or guarded, depending on the purpose of the space within. They’re portals through which we enter into the sacred from the profane.

They’re also places between, from that which is knowable to the unknowable. I’m sure many of you have felt the change in atmosphere when entering through such symbolic portals. Our ancestors must have recognised them as being important places of transition, of having a numinous quality about them.

This post came about when I was looking at a photo taken of a small neolithic  burial chamber called Bryn Celli Ddu (The Mound in the Dark Grove) on Anglesey. Funny how we return to certain locations…

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Beginnings – #writephoto

Trent's World (the Blog)

dawn Photo by Sue Vincent

Note – this is the thirteenth exciting episode of The Mad Quest!  You can start at the beginning, go to the previous chapter or to the table of contents.

Out of King Brinwald’s castle for a moment I thought the dragon had broken its promise.  The entire sky was glowing red as if an enormous fire was destroying everything.  I was about to say something but realized that it was just the dawn.

“Red in the morning, Snow Demons take warning,” I said.

“A new day a new beginning,” a voice said.  I spun.  It was Sirlriend.  “I think the poor people you call ‘Snow Demons’ will be happy with this new beginning we are going to offer them.”

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Here, with you.”

“Were you invisible?”

“No, that is physically impossible.  Light still reflected off of me…

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In Which Three Becomes One And A Star Is Born #writephoto

First in this week…

TanGental

Sue Vincent’s #writephoto this week is

Dr Humphrey Mildew stared at Hartley Jombe’s stomach. The image was, frankly, stunning.

‘See, Doc. It’s terrible.’

‘I’d have said it was the work of a skilled practitioner.’ He reached forward, gently wiping a finger across the blazing sun. 

Hartley winced.

‘Sorry, does that hurt?’

‘Not as such. More a deep…’ He swallowed, apparently at a loss for words.

‘It’s definitely a tattoo, Mr Jam.’

‘Jombe.’

‘Jombe. Sorry. Your name, it’s just…’ Humphrey smirked. ‘So when did you get it done?’

‘I told the receptionist. It just appeared. Last night.’

Humphrey Mildew had been a GP for fourteen months. He hadn’t been a particularly stellar student but the one lesson he’d absorbed well was how to come across as a patronising smart arse. ‘Naturally there are people who are disappointed in the results but I’d have said you’ve chosen your tattooist well…’

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