All posts tagged: mythology

NaPoWriMo – Day Twenty-One: Love

Love is a dangerous serpent, if you learn how to knot it how to twist it back on itself until it resembles nothing of love at all, then you can weave a noose from the stands cut from your own heart and choke the life out of those who refused to take it when love was first offered. And now for our (optional) prompt. In her interview, Brim provides us with several suggestions for generative writing exercises, and we’d like to challenge to today to tackle her third one, which is based in the myth of Narcissus. After reading the myth, try writing a poem that plays with the myth in some way.  There is something in this myth that has rubbed me the wrong way today. I think it’s the parallel between Narcissus being cursed for not returning another’s love, and the current climate where women are sometimes thrown into toxic situations where rejecting an advance is seen as an insult that should be punished.

The Last Of The Embers

Sunrise was not for another hour but already the sky had taken on the grey haze that suggested morning was just around the corner. Elaine let her rucksack slip from her shoulder and hang in the crook of her arm while she fumbled with the knackered zip. The bottle inside was almost half empty, not enough to see her back down the mountain, but enough to see her to the top. She wrestled it free and used her teeth to pry to cap open. ‘Are you coming?’ Damien watched from where he’d stopped further up on the steps, bare legs and arms, tanned and muscled. He was younger, fitter as well but that had little to do with age, at least that was what Elaine told herself. ‘Just give me a minute,’ she called. The water was lukewarm and sour on her tongue but she swallowed it and snapped the cap shut. Her sweat had her clothes sticking, every crease and fold in the fabric welding itself to her limbs. She could swear the last time she’d …

Morpheus

It has been an eon or two since Pythia gases my Priestess, my Oracle, my Sacrifice. Time is a slippery creature and I’ve let it drain like sand through fingertips mostly not my own. My name took life for itself Frankenstein became his monster and I am still the hidden God somewhere in the realms where mortals should fear their tread. Is it any wonder that I kept you here carved out from the purple mists as something not quite yourself? It has been an eon or two since Pythia gases and I am still dreaming of you my first queen of nothingness of fantasy and illusion of all that is not quite real. You are the closest I will come to waking up. If you have an constructive criticism please, please take the time to leave it in the comments below. This poem took me four or five false starts before it started going somewhere so I could really do with hearing what people think. I knew what I wanted to write about but actually …

Mini Celebration!

Woo! Today I struck 15,000 hits on Writing and Works! It seems that the stats keep going up and up lately and it makes me so happy to see people reading and enjoying my work. So here is a blast from the past, posted when I only had fifty followers and was just starting to get to grips with WordPress in April 2012. Artwork by the wonderful DeviantArt artist The Forsaken Sailor Siren’s Song James McCormic wouldn’t realise it until it was too late, but he never stood a chance when it came to the beautiful girl sitting in the window of the coffee shop on St George’s Street. He had to walk past the shop most mornings, his eyes flickering towards the flawless glass each time, just to check if she was there. Always waiting with her coffee cup in one hand and a blank covered book perched carefully upon her knee. She never saw him. At least James knew that she had never looked at him. Her gaze would remain downcast and he …

Friday Fictioneers (Two Attempts)

(Copyright for picture: Douglas M. Macllroy)  The Right Height? “How high?” he asked. “High enough.” she replied dropping the rucksack to the ground. “High enough for us. For this.” “You think so?” He shuffled forward, sending pebbles skittering towards edge. “Don’t.” she said. “You’ll spoil the surface. We want this to be perfect.” “Perfect.” he repeated, holding fast where he was. “You want this to be perfect.” “We want this.” she insisted. “We’re doing this for us. Not me.” “For us.” he nodded. “Have you got the camera?” She muttered something and dived into the rucksack, rummaging around until she pulled free the Victorian style camera. “Ready?” he asked. In Love We Are Immortal “Aphrodite.” he called, hands loose at his sides as he saw her standing near the edge once again. You could not see the mortal world from here, but she could pretend that they felt her watching. “The others are waiting.” he told her. “Artemis and Apollo are already at each other’s throats; we need you to keep the places from going …

If Looks Could Kill

Poetry is supposedly akin to song-writing. If I’m honest, that idea is a complete crock. Ask me to write a poem and I’ll be able to bury you under sheets of random scribbles, limericks, sonnets, haikus! You ask for it, I’ll write it. I have never been able to write a song, at least not successfully, or to any sort of standard. One of my new flatmates however, is exceptionally brilliant at song-writing. Food and entertainment all in one, (since she is also the best cook out of the lot of us). So you can all see how utterly wonderful she is, I have decided I should share the link to her most recent YouTube video, containing the song she wrote, and plays regularly when we’re sat up in the kitchen. I will say now, I’m bias, I love the song! To me it is the greatest thing since sliced bread, or perhaps since bread itself! But you can decide that for yourself when you go and check out her channel. Without any further ado, …

Lady Lust

They sat together at a table set for nine Just him and her, then seven empty seats To wait for guests who failed to show Even when the clocks struck twelve Chimes to shatter moonlight with their blows. “Should we not wait for them to come? His question stretched through the room And crossed their silence sat between Their two chairs at opposite ends So her face and features remained unseen. “But they are here can you not see?” She asked with faint amusement As his eyes searched the empty space And found only what had been Leaving him to wonder what was meant. “No one sits here but for us my dear Apart from dust there is just air No guests, or friends, or secret love How can you see what is not? You play at jokes which are not fair!” “No jokes are played upon you my love, I tell you only hidden truths. Those chairs are taken by myself My greatest flaws are sat here tonight And in my silken words lie …

Writers Block, Creative Friends, Art and Literature

Now I was supposed to do this a couple of weeks ago. But for those of you who know me, asking me do get something done that is not deadline specific is close to asking me to do a triple backflip. I may do it, the likelihood of it taking place is just very low. But when it comes to promised favours I just have a sieve like memory, it’s a struggle to keep thoughts from slipping through the cracks. Anyway, back to the original point of the post. Those of you following will have already seen that some of my friends are somewhat creatively minded, (and completely off the wall.) Now I’ve been told that my blog is apparently drawing in a reasonable amount of traffic (this may be an overstatement) and that as a ‘friend’ it seems reasonable that I will try and introduce those who read my work, to the fantastic works of those I know. Now I have no problem with this. I really don’t mind including such pieces as Amber …