THE SEARCH

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THE SEARCH

In the quiet summer night,

Light shining from a great height,

A search until morning light.

We hold strong with all our might

That we find what we’re searching for,

Before night ends and shuts the door.

We need to find her before it’s too late.

We refuse to leave this up to mere fate.

A shout, a cry is heard in the dark.

It must be her alone in the park.

The light shines on her pretty face.

She sees us and picks up her pace.

She is crying and laughing at the same time.

A perfect ending to this story of mine.

A BORING AFTERNOON AT THE PET STORE

babyanimalposts: A BORING AFTERNOON AT THE PET STORE A boring afternoon at the pet store. “What to do? What to do?” the white cat pondered to herself. The only movement was an annoying fly. It flew around the store. The four kittens followed the fly...

babyanimalposts:

     
A BORING AFTERNOON AT THE PET STORE

A boring afternoon at the pet store.
    “What to do? What to do?”
    the white cat pondered to herself.
    The only movement was an annoying fly.
    It flew around the store.
    The four kittens followed the fly with their eyes.
    In fact, they couldn’t keep their eyes off it.


The fly was black and furry.

    It had unusual yellow stripes down its back.
    The smallest cat wanted it for a new baby brother.
    The Tom cat wanted to swat the thing with his tail.
    The fly finally landed.
    On the Tom cat’s nose.
    “Ouch,” Tom cat screamed out.
    “It bit me!” he said while rubbing his nose.


Fluffy, the big white cat, ran over to Tom.

    She said,”It didn’t bite you but stung you.”
    “Oh no! Oh no! What should I do?”
    Tom ran around in circles.
    The white cat moved closer to look at his nose.
    “It’s fine. If it swells, we’ll put ice on it. It looks better
    than the poor fly.”


The four cats looked down at the fly lying on the ground.

    “It gave its life so it could sting you,” Fluffy said.
    “But why would it do that?” Tom looked confused.
     “It’s the way of life,” Fluffy said in a sad voice.
     “I know! We should bury it with a service and all.”
     The little voice came from the youngest kitten.
     They all agreed with him.


Not having a yard for a burial, they wrapped the fly

     in a tissue and were going to flush it down the toilet.
     But first, the youngest, Squeaky, said a few words.
     Squeaky was sad that the fly didn’t even have a name.
     “Let’s call her Miss Bee,” Fluffy suggested to the group.
     “Why? It was a fly.” Squeaky was upset.
     “No, my dear, she was a bee. And that is why she stung Tom.”
     Squeaky began to cry. 


After wiping his nose and eyes, Squeaky agreed to call

     her Miss Bee.
     “Goodbye, Miss Bee. We’re sorry we didn’t get to know you
     better. I hope you make friends in your new life.”
     With that said, Squeaky flushed the toilet and watched
     Miss Bee float away to her new life.
     “Goodbye Miss Bee,” Squeaky said. “We’ll miss you.”

HOUSE OF ICE

yan-wo:
“ Ice Hotel, Quebec
”
A house of ice.
Sounds too nice?
It might be.
It’s next to the sea.
Ice statues populate the place.
Just don’t look into their face.
Tales of horror fall from their lips.
Better run away from all this.
THE DEAD...

 

A house of ice.

Sounds too nice?

It might be.

It’s next to the sea.

Ice statues populate the place.

Just don’t look into their face.

Tales of horror fall from their lips.

Better run away from all this.

 

THE DEAD GAME

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THE DEAD GAME BOOK 2

books-and-more-books

 

I was on way with my second book, developing my characters, setting up the story, introducing conflicts for them to overcome. Then the problems began. I started to read articles from popular authors’ sites, claiming to know the best way to set up a story and its characters.

I agree the midpoint should be placed at the middle of the book and be the pivotal spot for the plot, where characters are spun about on their axis by unexpected events or people. However, these authors lecture about specific spots where each plot point is to be introduced.  They outline the exact number of pressure points and where they should be placed. 

I began to dissect my book, bit by bit. I follow an outline of my own. Each chapter is created to be a full scene with a beginning, middle and end. My midpoint is the big reversal. I didn’t plan on pressure points but I have them; not at the exact percentage points as recommended by the articles but close. After the reversal, I have pressure spots planned leading to the ultimate climax. 

I did all of this instinctively, from reading books my whole life. There is a rhythm to writing like there is to music. It doesn’t have to be strictly set at one speed. It can flow at your own pace. Characters don’t have to direct opposites or heroes to your main character, they could play off your protagonist to elicit humor or bring out the story.

There are rules but not hard and fast ones like in math and science. I followed the rules in my past jobs in Finance. I love formulas where you can input your data and come up with the one correct answer. Writing is more creative. There is more than one way to tell a story and each person has a different story to tell.

The beginning of my book has been rewritten four times before I realized that my story has been following the rules of writing but at its own rhythm. My own pace. I’ve stopped reading these preachy articles about the best way to structure a book. Scenes, character arcs, plot points and acts still float around in my head, but once I began writing all of these details took care of themselves. The plot can reach the midpoint and reversal on its way to the climax without any calculations of percentages.

If you’ve read enough books, an author knows how the story should flow. You instinctively know how to introduce characters and how they should play off the main character. I’m off to the finish! I’ve cleared the midpoint and on my way to the climax! Don’t ever doubt yourself. Let your story evolve from inside of you.

THE BLUE WAVE

 

A blue wave of ocean.

Coming closer to shore.

Bringing with it darkness.

And yet still so much more.

 

I’m tempted to ride it.

Take it to the limit.

I want to see its strength

And if it’s a gimmick.

 

The blue is almost transparent.

A glass of cold water for me.

Hitting me in the face with salt.

Lifting me as high as can be.

 

Goodbye to the town of Oasis.

Goodbye to my perfect paradise.

Squashed by the hand of The Dead and gone.

By a mere roll of the deadly dice.

 

THE DEAD GAME by Susanne Leist

TELL ME A STORY

 

Read me a tale, grandfather,

of battles and dead bodies.

Turn the pages, grandfather,

of the book of horrors.

Tell me more stories, grandfather,

of evil armies and sadness.

I will close my eyes, grandfather,

and will the darkness away.

HOT BALL OF YELLOW

A hot ball of yellow

sets over a palette

of grey and blue.

Cries of laughter float

through a park of green

dotted with bushes of red.

Rainbow-colored homes

behind white picket fences

hold hands in the waning light.

A perfect place.

For daydreaming.

For wishes.

For The Dead.

THE DEAD GAME

A DOOR TO THE UNKNOWN

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A DOOR TO THE UNKNOWN

A door sits in Oasis, Florida.

It waits to be opened.

Step over its threshold.

You may step into a dream

of floating stars and planets;

Or into your worst nightmare

of demons and the undead.

Be careful where you step.

Be careful what you wish for.

THE DEAD GAME

THE INN

 

I hear voices from inside.

Laughter and cheering.

Clinking of glasses.

Sailing forth on

the silence of the night.

I hasten my steps.

I open the heavy door

and peer inside.

An empty room faces me.

No one in sight.

I step inside.

I can hear the voices.

The laughter.

I squint through the darkness.

A light shines on the tables,

where figures are drinking.

Transparent forms of people,

who once inhabited this inn.

They will laugh and be merry

until the end of time.

I raise my glass to them.

DARKNESS MY ONLY FRIEND

 

A moonlit garden.

Rose bushes follow

the meandering paths.

Wind rustles the leaves

of the towering oak trees.

The guests are inside.

Dancing to the music.

Twirling around the dance floor.

Darkness is my friend.

It waits in the shadows.

I walk farther from the house.

A cry breaks through the silence.

I look up.

A clearing ahead

holds statues.

One is bent over.

Crying.

Tears falling on white stone.

She lifts her head.

Darkness descends at last.

THE DEAD GAME

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