Tuesday 3 July 2012

Homeless sentences

I'm an obsessive-compulsive, which means the things I do, I tend to do a lot. Like writing. Thousands of sentences. Millions of words. Some have found their place. A select few have won awards. Fewer have been published. I have plans for the rest. Well, most of them.

Here are some of the currently homeless...

The wide sweep of the coppery creek is framed by cream sand and green forest. The rain has yet to make a difference to her flow and the silent water shatters in a thousand ripples. I sit, equally unmoved and try not to feel guilty about being here.

The crow sat out on the sway of a dead branch. A silhouette against the chromatic pastel of morning; darker than black; absorbing light. When it didn’t move, Bobby Cowell wondered if the bird had come for him.

She might have looked like a woman, but there still lived a child inside. A child who didn’t know what she needed. She sure as hell didn’t need me.

Above the black silhouettes of the trees, the morning is pink and grey. A pair of Galahs bound across the dawn; they are marionettes on invisible strings.

Heaven is sitting in my own dusty library; jammed with shelves jammed with book spines – some of them written by me – with a small fireplace crackling away the cold and an old mug of coffee, and nothing to do with my day but think of the next story.

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