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The Writers Den

Photo copyrighted: A mixed Bag.
Photo copyrighted: A Mixed Bag.

The grave yard lay before me, holding deranged carcasses with a poisonous breath. Life extinct but waiting to be reborn. Burnished to a steely blue by bitter artic winds. Relics from the past. Each once breathing, living, not the decayed specimens I see today. Discarded when they no longer served. As if corrupt. Hideous in their nakedness. Their curvaceous forms waiting to be dismembered. Resting forlorn. Inflicting pain. They should have cast a miasma. But I am carrying a dream. So I discard the vilest. Someone else may feast there. Like a Dickensian grave digger I sort the best specimen, that I might begin.

Leaning over my desk, I dust down a long forgotten tome. Drifting across the pages, editing , discarding, cutting out the dross. Failure is not an option. I desire the limelight sublime for my book. Till then a humble writer I will remain. Drifting like a gentle chalk stream, unpoluted, remaining pure to my desire. To write the best that I can.

© Mike Humphris.

Footnote:¬†After days of trying to modify my first novel length story, I needed a break. So I have turned to this weeks Sunday photo fiction prompt for relaxation. 📝

Computer writing
My Writing Den
This Post Has 18 Comments
  1. I love this, Michael.
    And I suspect that for most of us writing is a compulsion and a joy, editing is a nightmare that we try to avoid at all costs.
    Bon courage.

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