Tower

Sweden

Just another writer/reader
Favourite book: Jane Eyre
Favourite songs (right now): Hallelujah, 9 Crimes
Favourite animals: Killer Whales (although I prefer to call them Orcas)

Message from Writer

'Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.' - Jean-Jacques Rousseau

'In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.' - Martin Luther King Jr.

'Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' - poem by Dylan Thomas

Published Work

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Victims of the fog - Draft 1

Three boats in the water. One; his Majesty’s finest, two and three; small, wooden rowing boats filled with men eager to do their duty. This mission would either be an adventure, a failure, or their last one. The men knew this as they pulled away from their mother ship, and the crew on board the ship knew it as well, when they saw the small, wooden rowing boats disappear into fog. A, soon as they were out of sight, the men standing to wave them off one by one left the scene to return to their previous engagements. However, two men lingered, a Midshipman and a Lieutenant. Keeping their eyes fixed on the rocky sea in front of them, listening to the crashing of the waves, and thinking of the fate that may befall those boats.
“What are they like, pirates?”, asked the midshipman in a curious tone, both frightened and intrigued, but also with a hint of wonderment.
“I’m...

Psychic Distance

The Clockmaker's

The shop bell rung as a man, a tall and misunderstood character, entered the Clockmaker's in a hurried manner.

Ernest Albertson heard the tinkling sound of a bell above him as he crouched down to enter through the door to the Clockmaker's.

Ernest had a simple mission; find a clock befitting his brother's new estate (preferably one not too expensive), purchase said clock, and then leave as quickly as possible (in order to make it in time for the party)

He had one thought as he entered the shop: don't be late to Michael's.

 

Writing streak week 8 - Day 1

When you were young, and laughter poured from your mouth like the water in the stream; when you were young, and innocent, and war was just a game you played with your brothers; when you were young, and life was like a bedtime story - you used to make these tiny stick-dolls. A leaf for the skirt, a leaf for the hair, and this small straw tied around the stick for delicate arms. Whenever you were in the woods, and the others were off fishing in the nearby lake, you’d make these little stick-dolls, and you would name them, and love them, and play with them until you were forced to leave. But you could not leave them like that. Like broken soldiers on a battlefield, although you didn’t know what a battlefield was. They couldn’t lie like that, exposed under the sullen sky until the weather or some lone woodland creature would come and whisk them from this earth....

A Thought

Sometimes, I look across the street and see strangers somehow familiar to me.
Lives not lived, paths not walked

A Haiku

Two blackbirds outside
One flies away to the neighbour -
Never see her agian

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

No man's land

Maybe this is how we end. The gunshots, the fire oh damn the fire. I feel pain, sharp and red. See these people falling around me. This place is mad, I know it is, but what else can I do? I pull the trigger. A million times. But I think I would know that there wasn’t a point, I think I would stop, were it not for that rueful thought in my head. Like a phoenix risen from the ashes. Maybe this isn’t how we end. Maybe, it’s how we begin.

The Unseen

The hill

Upon a far hill;
In dusk light and mist;
Once stood a man,
(the wisest on earth)

He had a will
To fight with his fist!
To live, was his plan
(But live through rebirth)

Then felt he a chill;
Old friends he was midst
From behind Bogeyman
Ended all his mirth

(Then empty the hill,
A body was kissed
Cry they all can,
But what is the worth?)

 

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

No man's land

Maybe this is how we end. The gunshots, the fire oh damn the fire. I feel pain, sharp and red. Crimson, as a matter of fact. This place is mad, I know it is, but what else can I do? I pull the trigger. A million times. But I think I would know that there wasn’t a point, I think I would stop, if it wasn’t for that rueful thought in my head. Like a phoenix risen from the ashes. Maybe this isn’t how we end. Maybe, it’s how we begin.

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

No man's land

Maybe this is how we end. The gunshots, the fire oh damn the fire. I feel pain, sharp and red. Crimson, as a matter of fact. This place is mad, I know it is, but what else can I do? I pull the trigger. A million times. But I think I would know that there wasn’t a point, I think I would stop, if it wasn’t for that rueful thought in my head. Like a phoenix risen from the ashes, I think. Maybe this isn’t how we end. Maybe it’s how we begin.