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. 📝