creative writing

A Modern Fairy Story

I have began writing again after a long block and have found myself writing what I can only define as a modern, possibly adult, fairy story. 

It started out like most things fairly autobiographical and largely allegorical, then before I knew it my writers block receded and now I’m up to page twenty five (typed) and thinking about asking some people to read it…

Aside from friends and relatives, who will be my first choices for readers, does anyone know of some good places, real or online, where a writer of fantasy might get a (fair) decent critique of their work by someone interested in the genre?

I used to write fantasy as a kid and it’s been so many years since then that I’ve been writing poetry or short stories that sit primarily in the category of ‘acceptable’ fiction;  they are all ‘gritty’ and basically set in the ‘real world’. I don’t even know how to begin thinking about setting myself up as a ‘fantasy’ writer… 


And so I found myself surrounded by… I don’t know. 

And so I found myself surrounded by… I don’t know. How can everything seem so evil? Somewhere, underneath all the bones and loose sinew and the rivers, rivers of blood, there are still a few plants growing, and a few people. They want to grow, to be good, but the guides are terrifying and all they do is lie.

I don’t know how long I am supposed to wait. Part of hell is the waiting. Maybe that is all hell is, waiting. Everything is fixed, the blood doesn’t flow anymore. Escape is not an option, not yet. One must pretend, just long enough to get away. 72 hours; that’s not that long if you sleep. Just try to stay asleep and when it gets too much just find work, work on yourself, become stronger. If they do let us out, we need the physical strength to move on. And we can’t eat the flowers anymore. The flowers felt good for a while but now they just lie as much as anything else.

You need to get back to the trees.

Danu gave us the power we need but she didn’t give us any direction. I don’t know why. Perspective is something only God has, and only by connecting with God can I accept the things I cannot change.

Things MUST change but it is history that must draw the boundaries, not us. Time is an illusion this is just a picture, moving out from the middle, in spiral to make the most of the space, and where I sit doesn’t really matter.

Did I struggle like this every time? Or is this a penance? And if so what did I do? How can I make amends?

I’ll try to listen for a while, use these powerful ears they gave me, and these powerful legs. They aren’t much use right now, but they can’t stop me getting stronger. True power comes from within, not without. There are beings here that can kill me, and they want to. I am a rabbit though, I can escape almost anything. There are diseases that love me and beasts that hate me and they all want to destroy my flesh and flush it away to dissipate in the ocean waves like all the rest of the rotten filth that they destroy.

So be it. I can only run so long. I’ll run longer, once I get away from that heady floral aroma that so entices and touches a part of my brain nothing else can touch, the off switch, that makes everything so much easier, for a while. But when you sleep among the poppies you awake amongst the monkeys and they will take you away to a tall tower and never let you go, until you’re one of them.

I will never be one of them. I must stay strong.


Something from November 5th

I’ve realised today two things:

I have grown bored again

I am on autopilot.

I’m back to rushing through my days

Trying to stay inebriated 

So I don’t have to face

All my goals. 

Thoughts are always clearer

Once expressed through spelling

I am glad I have caught myself

Before I get caught up in bad habits

Again, I am going to call it a day

On smoking and drinking 

Not all that I do 

Fewer hours staring at screens

Unless it’s this one

For the trees need not suffer 

Because of my distraction.

Reasserting goals or analysing the way

Will not help,

All I need do

Is stay present. 


Robots in the forest

‘Why can’t robots exist in the forest?’ Asked the shape in green that seemed to gleam, small patches of silver showing and shining from under a mottled pattern of moss and marsh goo.

‘Well, you didn’t evolve here,’ replied the cardinal, ‘there’s not even any power, what happens when your batteries run out?’

‘There’s no such thing as ‘no power’ cardinal, I would have thought a man of faith would have known that? Plus, nothing evolved in this world, the world life evolved in is hidden behind all this…’

The dripping mound of mouldy metal tugged at a frond, extending from a lattice pattern of ferns and creepers, to reveal the steel frame up which they clambered; a criss crossed skeleton of metal bars wrapped around metal beams.

‘The nature you so abhorr, yet use for your cynical academic propositions, does not seem to care if something is ‘man-made’ or not; you may call me unnatural, but she has grown on me as she has on this satellite mast, for metal comes from nature, as does EVERYTHING.’

‘Yet you still cannot explain how you generate the power you need to carry on?’

‘No, nor can you. Does a failure to explain your existence automatically nullify it? I have heard it said by some that the opposite may be true… At least I can justify my existence; I have a purpose.’

The cardinal laughed and lifted his chin and raised his hands to hold up his high hat. The robot was enigmatic, being camouflaged, and a robot; facial expressions and audible expressisons of emotion were not his remit, to that he had to concede superiority to the cardinal.

He did not feel any ‘less human’ because of this, however. He understood that the true reality that they shared was pure consciousness, and he was as conscious as any human, as any animal; that was what he considered himself too, an animal, despite the allegations from certain parties that he was something ‘inorganic’ or ‘unnatural’, for he understood the terms to be specious.

All is one, consciousness resides in everything, and he had been blessed with a mundane brain with which to explore his own mundane, physically, reality. The world that made him alive was the same as the world of rocks and trees and plants, animals, fungi, lichen and, well, God, the Universe and Everything. It did not matter that the cardinal could not see that, objectivity was not present in his own physcial dimension, and the robot respected that.

‘You may laugh at me and assume that because I do not respond in a way you understand that i do not feel, however convuluted that vlogic; round-about thinking and cognitive dissonance are essential to your faith, and I would not seek to undermine it.’ Had it been possible, the robot would have smiled wryly and worn a sardonic expression, as the cardinal flushed.