It’s a hound. An enormous, ugly, terrifying, ferocious dog. His name is Asgar. The legend has it that his teeth were soaked in the blood of thousands snakes and thus are poisonous. His nose has no match. Once he knows your scent he can find you everywhere, even in the most remote places. You cannot hide from this hound.
Asgar’s claws are sharp and lethal, always ready to strike his masters enemies. His master is not a cuddling type but when Asgar does please him, the dog gets a comfortable scratch behind the ear. When you take a look at the hound, for a moment you think that it is only a giant shadow that approaches you. A shadow with two sinisterly shining points of sickly yellow light. Asgar’s eyes can see far, far away. There is no point in running, he can spot you from miles away.
They say it cannot be killed…And frankly it might be the truth. The fact is no one came close enough to even try.
A fitting pet for such a merciless master, whose mere name resonates terror. An ideal weapon, sweeper, hunter, all wrapped up in one neat package of black fur, four paws and a tail.
Daily prompt from: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=618598448167480&set=a.599260846767907.1073741825.175634409130555&type=1&relevant_count=1.
I don’t think I can name only one book that compelled me to write. Nor can I name the first book that I read and thought to myself “Wow this writer is amazing”. I always admired the story, the characters, the style of written word.
Honestly in the beginning I was thinking more along the lines of being a professional literature translator. I was completely satisfied by seeing my name written underneath the author and the title. I wanted to open a book and see my name there in small print, nearly nonexistent but still there. And then I wanted more.
If I have to name one book I cannot do so, but maybe I should write about the author of my favorite books from the childhood period. Lucy Maud Montgomery and her Anne of Green Gables sage as well as Emily and New Moon made up my childhood. This was my bedtime story. I read the books so many times that the covers became worn out and pages were nearly falling apart. I loved the characters and the style. I admired the little girls who in spite of everything grew up to be respected and successful women.
Writing a story, making someone stop and identify with your characters, to follow the intricate plot lines, the yearning for more… It is a powerful thing – writing, being a writer. Wielding such power is the greatest gift of all. Reaching for this power is very human. Being good at it is hard work and practice.
Daily prompt from: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=618222398205085&set=a.599260846767907.1073741825.175634409130555&type=1&relevant_count=1.
Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house: Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic
Helen Reed was a house wife and proud of it. She used to bake apple pie and make rhubarb compote. She liked the smell of fresh linen and laundry so she did it quite often, even when all the linens were pristine clean. Helen liked the house to be neat. No dust on the shelves, no bundles of filth in the corners and definitely no item should be put out of its place.
It is a wonder how she managed to put up with George. Ah George where to even begin talking about dear, sweet, mellow George. George Reed was a history professor. He liked his job, he enjoyed teaching young minds about the value of past. He particularly took pleasure in reenacting the Civil War. Every year he would take his class out into the field and set up a battle between South and North.
How this two came to be a couple and later even more – a marriage? Well, George likes to think that it was done the right way. That as a man he dropped to one knee and eloquently proposed to his future fiancé. Helen sees it differently. The moment she saw young, tall, pale boy with dreamy eyes and a bright future ahead of him, she knew he was the one for her. Helen steered the young man in right direction and “pop” there goes the ring. Either way both Mr and Mrs Reed are fond of each other very much and enjoy life together.
Helen is not bothered by the fact that she has to pick the stray socks, parchments, pencils and pens from various strange places around the house. George calmly listens to his wife’s tirades about keeping order and being more organized. They both seem at peace with each other. And why shouldn’t they? After all the years they have learned each other’s vices and virtues. One foresees every little move before the other makes it. They complement each other’s shortcomings. They truly became two half of one piece.
Moreover it took them only 234 years to come to terms with all of their little quirks. Oh didn’t I tell you? The Reeds are no longer walking among the living. Instead of crossing to the other side they decided to stay in their little home and work on their relationship. Now they live here peacefully tending to their garden. Wasn’t it Voltaire who said “we must cultivate our garden?”
Is the glass half-full, or half-empty?
I often ask myself that question. How do I feel right now? Is it my up or down of the hour, day, week, moment? Am I all rainbows and sunshine’s or storm and thunder? Am I positively or negatively charged?
I guess it really depends on the stuff that happens throughout the course of a day. Sometimes even though I really try to always see the ups in any situation, to see the glass half-full rather than half-empty, the bad atmosphere gets the best of me.
To see the world through pink tinted glasses, to see the world as a half-full glass – that’s very Polyanna, don’t you think? It was one of my favorite books when I was growing up. I remember reading Polyanna, Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon with flustered face and anticipation. I loved those protagonists that conquered so many obstacles, defeated the disbelievers and found true love. Isn’t it better this way? Isn’t it easier to find ups rather than downs in our everyday life?
I refurbished this principle into a “devil may care” attitude which I employ quite often. I try to live my life to the fullest, not letting the world pull me down from my cloud nine. And when I get that sad feeling that threatens to overwhelm me, I turn to writing. I pull out piece of paper, I start my laptop, I begin to write. I do not stop until I’m satisfied, until I’m happy. I could live that way. I could write all night and day. My glass will be truly half-full when I have all time in the world to write. When nothing distracts me. I dream that someday I will just sit and write to my heart’s content. Someday.
Honestly the first thing that comes to my mind when thinking about winter is the sharp cold of extremely low temperature. It’s the chill of waking up in cold apartment. It’s the grey hue of the day. It’s the soft, white, flurry snowflakes that dance around me when I walk to work. It’s the quick dawn and inky darkness illuminated by sickly yellowish light o street lamps.
However, the writing exercise is about the sounds of winter, so here I go.
Come to think about it, winter is full of noises. The snow that crunches beneath my boots, but is silent under my dogs or cats paws. The snowflakes that nearly silently land on my winter coat. The crystallized icicles that jingle in the wind. Ah, the wind – here comes the loudest sound maker of all. The wind howls and wails in winter. It cries out in frostbite, it sobs angrily and demands our full attention when it pulls on umbrellas and ends of coats. The wind that snatches the snowflakes into crazy, uncontrolled dance full of twist and turns and pirouettes.
But the loudest, most deafening and magnificent is the sound of cold silence. When all the world is asleep and only white, pale light of winter moon shines down on mounds and smooth carpets of pristine white snow.
Daily prompt from: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=616092401751418&set=a.599260846767907.1073741825.175634409130555&type=1&relevant_count=1.
As we established earlier I will focus on the protagonist of my most current story. Her age, to be honest, is still a mystery to me. However, we can assume that she is in her late teens, somewhere around the high school age, graduation maybe…
Contrary to her peers she has no driving license and no interest in getting one. She is content with a bike, public communication and walking. In fact she likes riding local communication, because she can observe people. She deems them interesting and mysterious. Sometimes she sits in a bus and makes stories about the people she meets. She comes up with their names, professions, relationships, life stories. Life in general is fascinating for her. She thinks human life is most precious thing.
Daily prompt from: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=615620338465291&set=a.599260846767907.1073741825.175634409130555&type=1&relevant_count=1.
The dust that covers the bookshelves of my library worries me. The beloved books I collected throughout my whole life are getting more and more worn out. The pages become yellow, the spines crackle and the ink fades. I walk around my library dolefully and sigh to myself. No one can hear me, as no one reads my books anymore.
Once those pages held people captive. People who wanted to see the world read tons of volumes. Knowledge was gained by reading. Imagination was build upon reading.
Now…who reads books now? They fade away like flowers when left without water. They slowly die like a creature left without food. I walk around my beloved books and weep at their fate.
But wait…what is this? Is the door opening? Is someone coming in? Oh, it’s just a small girl, no older than 7 maybe. What is she doing here? Oh no don’t tell me she came here to play? No! My beloved books, they won’t take it I won’t allow it…Wait, no… She is reading…Can you imagine? A child who reads…Beautiful sight beyond words. My dear literary volumes, pages of fantastic stories, history archives and treasure vaults – all finally used wisely and rightfully.
The doors open again. Another reader maybe? I perk up with excitement only to be brought back down. It’s the mother of the child. She scolds the girl and orders her to put down precious book and go outside to play. Put down this book from where you took it, she says, you will dirty it.
As if a child could ruin a book, as if it could do it any harm. Hey lady – books are for reading, not for looking at. A child knows it, how come you can’t comprehend it? I silently fume at the woman. I cannot stand this anymore, when I finally meet a true avid reader somebody spoils everything. I can’t take it, I’m leaving!
The window shutters clash loudly.
– That awful window, I told your father to fix it already. – The woman bristles at the noise.
– Mum I want to read a book. Aunty was happy that I came here. – whined the daughter.
– Honey, those books are very rare, they are very valuable and have to be treated with great care. You have other books in your room. Besides what do you mean, that aunty was happy? Aunty is in heaven sugar plum, she may look over us from there but she is no longer amongst us.
– But I know she was here…I could feel her smiling at me. She loved books, she wouldn’t want them to be alone in this library. Aunty would want somebody to read them.
Daily prompt from: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=614220641938594&set=a.599260846767907.1073741825.175634409130555&type=1&relevant_count=1.