Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Conversant

By Scott Bailey © 2018

I am conversant
In…

Um
Well, I am quite good at….

Hey
What the hell

Why does it matter?

Who am I trying to
Impress

Image from Pixabay

 

In response to the daily prompt Conversant

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Assay

By Scott Bailey © 2018

Where is the litmus test?
The assay
Of our leaders
Mettle
Why must I strive
To prove
My worth
When they
Enjoy
No scrutiny
In their ancient
Empty halls
With their ancient
Empty way

Image from Pixabay

 

In response to the daily prompt Assay

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Compromise

By Scott Bailey © 2018

 Compromise
Hope
That feels like
Betrayal
Can it be that
Our future
Is simply the
Best deal we can
Broker

When we can step
Aside
From the demands
Of one side
And the
Other
Then
We can have
Peace

Image from Pixabay

In response to the daily prompt Compromise

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Present Ideas

If you are stuck for ideas – here are a few. They are original and different – plus being ebooks they have the advantage of not being hindered by delivery issues 🙂


Mankind Limited

Mankind Limited

Marc trudged on with life, marching in line with his fellow workers. Weighed down by the everyday burdens of life, the pressure to conform, to succeed or face destitution.

Yet he knew, in his heart that it was all wrong, the questions squirmed like fiery dragons in the pit of his heart, beneath his deepest darkest doubts.

Until they grew and burst his sanity, set him on a path of defiance and rebellion. A path that would cross three others – all like him seeking answers.

A path of danger and adventure that would see him marked as a terrorist and fleeing for his life. It would see him find love and heartbreak, hope and despair, Most of all, it would open his eye to the possibility of an ancient and powerful secret that might answer all his doubts and fears.

If he survived.

Buy Now


Thirteen Tales

As the title says – thirteen tales about ghosts. Yet, while ghosts feature in them all – not all are traditional ghost stories.

You will find the vengeful spirit but also the plaintiff one. The haunting message from the past and the playful spirits capturing the joy of their past lives.

Some of these visitors from beyond lead the haunted to peace and joy – others take them on much darker paths to places with no return.

Enjoy them – just don’t get too comfortable.

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A Spring of Dreams

Three hundred and sixty-five poems in all shapes and sizes, sprung from dreams and emotion. Published day after day for a year. There are haiku, sonnets, katauta, lanturnes and many other forms – including free form. The moods are as varied as the forms and often reflect my mood on the day. There is sadness and grief, joy and love.

If nothing else – these can provide a small moment in everyone’s stressful lives to stop and contemplate the world in a different way.

Buy Now


In response to the daily prompt Present

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Sound Box

By Scott Bailey 2013

There are empty spaces
left as people move on,
of the spaces of places long gone,
of times gone by

There is a link between present and past
an energy, a potential,
strung between the memories gone
and the living yet to roll on

The link hums with the tension
and the empty spaces echo back the thrum
deep rich reverberation
layered on the past, the present, the future

Such is the music of life.

Guitar sound box
Image from Pixabay

In response to the daily prompt Present

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www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Mankind Limited News, Writing

Mankind Ltd – What Right?

quotescover-PNG-23

What right had she to make decisions for other people?

What had made her think that those posters were true?

How dare she have the courage to break those chains?

By Scott Bailey 

Read an excerpt here.

Available as

Kindle

or hardback

from Amazon

or CreateSpace

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Confined

No time to write tonight. So recycling.

Image from Pixabay

By Scott Bailey © 2015

Space. It stretched out before him – endless, dark, enticing. The stars were faint and blurry through the thick glass viewport, moving in a slow arc across his vision.

He could feel the endless nothing all around, calling to his soul, a siren’s whisper.

Float with us. Float with us forever! Float and forget.

The dark song was as endless as dreams.

He shook his head, fighting off the draining sensation.

He needed to concentrate.

He turned away to look out the only other viewport.

This one was dominated by the dark shadow of the dead ship. It was only visible against the deeper blackness due to the fading embers of molten metal fragments of its destruction.

They too fade from sight to and die.

Like everyone inside.

He shivered.

Looking out that viewport was hurting his neck. He faced forward again. He was too cramped. He could only move his head left and right and his arms enough to use the control by his hands and the keyboards before him.

He was stuck.

Daydreams had led him here – he couldn’t let them end him here.

A beep from the computer brought his senses back to proper alertness.

It had started. The attacks were coming.

He had anticipated it, though not so quickly and not all at once.

Float….

Concentrate!

“Update”, he commanded.

The computer’s calm voice responded.

“Interceptors are on the way they will arrive in precisely 623 seconds.”

“They must be responding to the distress call from the prison,” he muttered.

“That would seem a high probability.”

Dammit! He hadn’t been able to cut that off in time.

The computer went on.

“We should send our own distress call, they will be equipped to rescue you.”

“Do not!” he commanded. “Keep radio silence!”

“Affirmative.”

They were not only equipped for rescue. They were heavily armed. Once they learned the truth – and very soon they would – weapons would their first response.

“And our firewall?” he queried.

“The outer defence has been breached but the systems have not yet been compromised.”

That wouldn’t last much longer. The authorities were suspicious already –  the presence of such a strong firewall did not to allay those suspicions – so they were hitting the firewall with the best they had.

“And my program?”

“Approximately 800 seconds to completion.”

Not enough time!

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. There was too much at stake here to fail.

He needed more time.

“Instigate firewall program 42!”

The computer complied and ran the program for him.  That would keep the cyber attacks at bay for a little longer.

He shook his head. He had the nagging feeling that this was all just too fantastic!

Only a year ago the only thing he did on a computer was check social media and chat! Spaceships were a thing of science-fiction! Now here he was a master programmer and a fugitive from the authorities flying in space. It all seemed too unreal.

It was the stress of the situation he told himself and he could not afford to be distracted by it.

Besides he wasn’t actually flying a spaceship right now. He was drifting in what was little more than an escape pod.

But the ship he had escaped from was real. As were those bearing down on him. And these were not the only truths he had discovered lately.

He looked at the countdown on the program he was running.

“OK,” he told the computer, “prepare a distress call. But inject the virus I prepared.”

“That is against regulations,” the computer informed him. He barked an override code at it and it proceeded to prepare the distress call.

It was amazing what you could learn in prison. Hacking, override codes. The truth about the universe out there.

Putting him in prison had been their mistake.

Daydreams and curiosity had led him to that prison. he asked too many questions and that had got him into trouble at work and with the Government. That alone would probably not have condemned him but he had also an inventive streak. And a paranoid one.

When they hauled him for questioning he had snuck in a crude listening device.

It had not worked very well but he had caught snippets of conversation.

“He seems immune..”

“Is he any harm though?”

“ … control …    inherited or just a ….. “

“He is a dreamer, not a revolutionary.”

“There we go then. We make him a believer…”

Unfortunately, the listening device was discovered – and that sealed his fate. He was shipped off to a deep space prison ship.

A deep space prison ship! One day he was in a world where the space shuttle was the most sophisticated space vehicle man had created and smartphones where the best man seemed to be able to achieve – the next he was in a world of spaceships – and space police!

It was a culture shock, to say the least.

He was dumped into prison and forgotten.

And that was the strangest thing of all. In prison, he flourished.

On earth – in his old life he had been Mr Average Joe to a T. Prison should have broken him. Yet he found that he had more freedom stuck on this ship than ever before.

He learned the truth for one thing.

There existed on earth (and space) a super élite far above anything anyone even suspected existed. They had science and wealth beyond the imagination of most people.

The rests of the population were kept in drug-induced ignorance. Cattle whose sole purpose was to provide this élite with their lifestyle.

Knowledge seemed to flow freely in prison and he absorbed it all. He learnt to program and how to hack computers.

He had vowed to expose the truth and free the world.

So he had concocted his escape. It had cost him the lives of everyone on that ship – and probably his own life too but he didn’t care.

He was filled with fury. He wanted to free the enslaved population of the human race for sure. What he wanted more though was to see the smug bastards who ruled them get their just deserts.

“Distress call is ready to send.”

He nodded, he was about to tell the computer to send it when it preempted him.

“New contacts.”

“What?”

“There are two more ships, coming in from the direction of Saturn.”

“More interceptors?”

“No. They bear all the signs of space pirates?”

Space pirates? Pirates? How could pirates exist? That would imply ….

He shook his head. There were too many questions threatening to distract him. He had to concentrate.

“Program completion has been suspended.” the computer announced.

What!?

He flung his fingers at the keyboard and dove into code. They had not yet got full control but they managed to stop his program.

Which implied they knew or guessed what he was doing.

He glanced at the other screen. The pirates would get here quicker than the interceptors! And they would shoot first!

He didn’t hesitate now. He called up his virus and made a few changes, then he told the computer to prepare it again and send it.

Then he dove back in and started a counterattack against the hackers. He managed to regain control and get his program running again. He then spent the next few minutes  both fighting the hackers off and keeping his exit channels open.

While he did this he also watched as his virus took hold of the interceptors and turned them towards the pirates. They would be forced to fight each other for a bit.

The program was also done. The hackers came on in full force. He struggled to hold them back.

A fireball briefly bloomed in space. All the pirate ships and interceptors signals went dead. They had destroyed each other.

Almost there.

Now the hackers could see the program running even if they couldn’t stop it yet.

A signal flickered back to life on the screen

One interceptor had survived.

It was closing in, weapons charged.

Almost.

“Program completed!” the computer announced.

“Run it!” he shouted.

He watched the screen as the truth – all the truth – was sent out to every single person on earth.

The lies were exposed.

Come now, float with us…

No!

The interceptor would be in range soon.

He breathed easier.

He had done as much as he could for the world. Now he had to look to his own survival.

He was stranded in space, with limited resources and little time. Air and supplies running out and no hope of rescue.

After the years and years of confinement, he welcomed the challenge – relished it.

“Now this,” he said, with an almost feral grin, “is living!”

In response to the daily prompt Suspicious

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www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Lessons

Image from Pixabay

 

I had a few good teachers but not many. And those that tried were wading against a tide of social programming. So school was not that productive for me. I left with few qualifications and no direction.

I drifted – pushed by financial necessity into work before I could begin to dream about what I might want from life.

So who were my best teachers?

They were my friends. They didn’t sit me down and lecture me they did two vital things.

They believed in me.

They believed in themselves and acted on that belief.

Watching them follow their dreams whatever the outcome – taught me the best lesson in my life. To take control of my life and start steering my own destiny.

The best teachers are like the best writers – they show they don’t tell

 

 

In response to the daily prompt Lecture

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Deep Recall

Memory is an odd thing. Things you thought you had forgotten can still be in there buried deep.

I can remember the first book I read – I mean the first proper storybook rather than just a kids picture book or short fairy tales.

It was an Enid Blyton one – probably not so well-known as her others but the title and the cover stuck with me ever since.

It was Hurrah for the Circus!

hurrah-for-the-circus

Of course over my childhood it eventually got lost – maybe passed onto my younger brothers. Whatever happened to it I always remembered the feeling I had when I finished it. Like a loss. It sold me on reading for the rest of my life.

Even up until now I could remember the first line of that story.

Oddly though – nothing else – not the story, the characters – nothing!

About 10 years ago – maybe more, I spotted it in a second-hand bookshop. An identical copy of the one I had! I snapped it up!

It sat on my shelf for years. I never reread it – well it was a kids book and I had way too long a list of other books to read.

I would, I thought, read it to my kids one day. If they wanted me to.

Well, last night was that night. My son wanted me to read to him I had exhausted his many books – most of which involve Minecraft and lack any real story content. Tonight I decided to read him a proper story.

I still had no idea at all what it was even about – completely forgotten.

But as I read it – nearly every single sentence was instantly familiar. Though I could not tell you what came next – I remembered what I was reading with a vivid recollection! Remembering where I was when I first read it and how I felt and the images that were being conjured then came flooding back! It was incredible.

I only hope that my son gets the same from it, that it gives him the same passion for reading, though I suspect he is already there on that score.

 

In response to the daily prompt Conjure

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

An attempt at Opera!

This is something different. I was digging around my old files and found a full libretto I wrote for an opera that never got off the ground. A good friend of mine actually wrote a lot of the music to go with it but in the end it was too ambitious for us.

We ended up writing a shorter one – adapted from a short story of mine. That was less ambitious in that it was written for a string quartet and two singers. It was finished but never got performed. These days we could get it out on YouTube but back then even the internet didn’t exist!

I have been playing with the idea of publishing a set of longer poems and thought I might include this as one of them. But not sure – it’s more like a script than a poem.

So I thought I would put a taster here and see what people think.

So – here’s the first part.

The Golden Man

Part 1

Upon a mountain top, in a cleft between its twin peaks lies a lake. In the centre of this lake is an island. At the centre the island are the ruins of an ancient temple. A roof held up by pillars but no walls. In this ruin stand five figures on the points of a pentagram, silently facing inwards to a conspicuous empty space in the centre.

It is the dead of night. They begin to chant.

SKY– From the shadows of the valley deep,
To the starlit white of highland peaks,
On a night when the silvery sphere is bright,
We gather here to proclaim our rite.

CERISE– With purpose dread of high renown,
Calling all the powers down.
Power sets our passions free,
So ancient spells we here decree.

LINCOLN– Secrets held within our flesh,
Combine to weave a mystic mesh.
Long guarded secrets we do share.
Long lost charms we do declare.

SAGE– From our cities and our homes we come,
To do here now what must be done.
To ease the path we have to tread,
To speak the words that many dread.

RAVEN– To finally tear down walls of fear,
The path of victory is what we hear.
So we can defend the weak,
Spells, enchantments, rites we speak.

SKY– We conjure a spirit to defend our land.

CERISE– We conjure a spirit with a golden hand.

LINCOLN– We conjure a spirit who shall not tire.

SAGE– We conjure a spirit with a burning fire.

RAVEN– We conjure a spirit who shall not fall.

ALL– We conjure a spirit to serve us all!

SKY– With the breath of hope.

CERISE– With the echo of a sigh.

LINCOLN– With the light of the flesh.

SAGE– With the warmth of the sky.

RAVEN– With the scent of a sword.

ALL– With the shape of our word.

Pause

SKY– All our power we put forth in thee. To bring you here to set us free.

CERISE– All our wealth shall touch your hand. To bring you here to save this land.

LINCOLN– All our health dispels death’s throes. To bring you here to destroy our foes.

SAGE– All our dreams will be your goals. To bring you here to ease our souls.

RAVEN– All our strength shall steel your arm. To bring you here to ward off harm.

ALL– Come!

The light dims as a cloud descends and obscures vision. When it is clear again the five are still in their positions but lying in the centre is the Golden Man lying deathly still with his hands crossed upon his chest.

In response to the daily prompt Conjure

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Fury and Wonder

By Scott Bailey © 2014

We need fury and wonder
to fire our song
But the fire is dim
the spark long gone
So sift through the ashes
for an ember that glows
To tend and to blow
through the wind and the snows
And build from the ashes
a new song, a new light
That burns with new fury
to banish the night

Image from Pixabay

In response to the daily prompt Tend

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Deep Cold

 

By Scott Bailey © 2014

Disappearing into the gloom
Undulating side to side
Alien but of this earth
Slow, cold life
In the deep deep dark
So far from the hearth we know
The strange eel like creature
Eases in the deepest cold
Leaving divers dumb

 

In response to the daily prompt Creature

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Work, Writing

Bruised

By Scott Bailey © 2013

 

He would never see his son again.

Unless…

Unless he went made it through today. Found the strength from somewhere. Put aside his pain.

The trauma his son had suffered had not been at his hands. Logically there was no responsibility for it on his shoulders.

Logic was a weak fence against raw emotion. Emotion that told him that he had failed as a father, that the protection he was supposed to give had been lacking, just that once.

Nobody agreed with him.

That made no difference.

So, he would not compound failure with failure. This was his last chance. He would take it.

He had tried all other avenues. Therapy, prayer, medication. Nothing worked, Yet what it had done was show him the way. It had made clear the path he needed to tread.

So he took a deep breath and rose from his seat. He nodded to the doctor signaling his readiness. The doctor frowned but kept his piece. He opened the door and let him enter his son’s room.

The room was sparse, clinical. His son lay curled on top of the bed sheets, motionless. Awake but unresponsive. He did not look up or acknowledge his father’s entrance.

There was a small bedside table to the left of the bed on which sat a plastic beaker of water. The bed was positioned by the window. Sunlight tried to make an impression on the coldness of the room but failed. The only other furniture was a white chest of drawers and some empty white bookshelves.

Then there were the books.

The books, many many books, that should have rested on the shelves or strewn on the floor. An impressive collection for one so young.

They hung impossibly in the air.

He sighed. He knew what came next. It had all become familiar to him. This time though he did not avoid it. He did not flinch or try to defend himself. This time he smiled at his son.

The books flew at him. As if thrown by immense strength and anger. The hard spines whacked into his flesh like dull nails. Again and again and again. Raining pain upon his body. The books that hit him fell to the ground limply, twitched like dying flies, then were suddenly whisked up and flung again.

There was no let-up.

He could feel his body being pummelled into a bloody bruised mess. But he took it. Stood calmly, raised his arms towards his son and kept smiling. Gave all he had left to him – gave him his unconditional love. Took the punishment not meant for him.

The books whirled faster as the rage grew. Like a tornado of leather and card, they descended on him, pounded him. The pain passed over what was bearable to no longer being processable – so he no longer felt it. He knew he would not last much longer – if this continued his body would fail him. Darkness crept inwards along the edges of his eyes. He kept smiling, locked his legs and stood, arms out.

The whirl became a darkness that was trying to beat his flesh from his bones. He felt like the bones themselves were splintering beneath.

Then it stopped.

Suddenly all the books fell to the floor. Sunlight sprang into the room as is a lock had burst.

His son looked up and held out his arms for his father.

#amwriting

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing

Sympathise

By Scott Bailey © 2018

We sympathise
We the victims
Put up or flags
And tokens
Banners on our home pages
All sincere
But nothing changes
No actions
Behind the thought

 

A slightly modified version of an older poem I did that benefits from the addition I think.

In response to the daily prompt Sympathize

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing

Rhymes

By Scott Bailey © 2018

Words flow profusely
Anger pours freely
Action is stilted and slow

The world needs righting
In our minds, we are fighting
But to battles, we never go

Inaction just reaction
No satisfaction
This is a sign of the times

While all is disaster
We rush at it faster
Chiming protesting rhymes

Image from Pixabay

In response to the daily prompt Profuse

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

The Cash Creating Conveyor

By Scott Bailey © 2018

 

Try everything
Go on!
You know you want to.
And why not?
Get to the end of your life
And say proudly
I did it all!
I did it my way!
I tried it all!
No matter the cost
Ignore the cost
Such a small cost
Dripping away
Over and over
But ignore that
Don’t be square
Be cool!
Be the future
Not the past
Think of the Pleasure!
Ignore the cost
Think of the Achievement!
The dripping cost
Be cool!
Dripping into our funnel
Be a Winner
Dripping into our Hoard

Image from Pixabay

 

In response to the daily prompt Conveyor

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Self Publishing, Writing

The Strangulation of the Great

By Scott Bailey

So I was daydreaming in the bath – thinking about a book I read long ago – a biography of a famous 19th-century explorer and how he could be seen as representing men as a whole – but that’s a whole other post that will be coming soon.

Anyway – in the wandering way of my mind this lead me to thinking about how men have become demonised in the media generally. We are seen as stupid or beasts or slovenly – I could go on. But then, I thought women get it just as bad and then there’s ethnic minorities, the poor, immigrants – the list goes on. And on.

Maybe it’s just rich white people who get off lightly – but even as you read this what are you thinking? Of those Etonian brothers who keep their friend rich via nepotism and corruption while sneering at the poor? The rich wives from Chelsea with their lap dogs and expensive handbags and no clue about the real world?

See even they are demonised.

Why?

Who by  – that’s an easier question. The media. And we all know that the media is run by those in power. I am no conspiracy theory nut – I don’t believe that there’s a tightly organised elite pulling the strings. Rather I think it’s like a self-sustaining system which lifts the people it needs to maintain its stability into positions of power. But whatever the reason – the media is the tool of that system.

So again why? Why demonise every single sector of society?

Control. If you cannot be proud of where you came from how can you rise to greatness? Great people can threaten the order of things, they can lead people out of their everyday drudgery and tedium. Out of wage slavery and obedience.

So greatness is stifled. In the modern garden of the world, the land is left to weeds and overgrowth. Anything that rises above the weed line is quickly cut down or sprayed with toxins until it wilts.

In such a barren and ill-tended garden, how can we expect flowers? How can we have anything more than poor harvests?

We should tend our garden better.

 

Image from Pixabay

In response to the daily prompt Stifle

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing

Inkling

By Scott Bailey © 2018

I am drawn
By slightly parted lips
Swaying hips
Twinkling eyes
A smile
I am drawn
By an inkling

 

Image from Pixabay

A slightly modified version of an older poem I did that benefits from the addition I think.

In response to the daily prompt Inkling

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Inscrutable – the Pension Rip Off

By Scott Bailey © 2018

Image from Pixabay

There’s an advert running at present (in the UK) for pensions. It shows two of the same person working – with the tagline that having a workplace pension is like having another you working for your future.

If only. Recent history would suggest otherwise. With so many company pensions disappearing into black holes while inscrutable business owners get away with all the cash stashed away in their offshore accounts – you have to stop and question it.

Sure you have to prepare for your future – but it seems like a massive risk. When I started working we paid towards a state pension. But then the government privatised it all – handing it over to the free market. Their argument being that they would not be able to afford to pay out a pension in the future if they did not.

Which begs more questions. Why not – are the government that bad at managing finances? If it’s such a loss-making venture then why the hell would any business take it on?

They just keep inventing ways to screw us out of money. So the image of two of you working is accurate in one way. They can screw you doubly while you work.

In response to the daily prompt Inscrutable

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Revision

By Scott Bailey © 2013

Image from Pixabay

Swirling in the mists of history
Mystic figures whirl
Dark silhouettes of dangerous men
Stride along with pride.

A flash of a sword, the chord of a song
the clash of a shield, the beat of a drum.
The roar of a fire in a welcome hearth.
The hearty sound of the comrades’ laugh.

The scent of a feast, the warmth of the soup.
The strength of the beams over the hall
The smoke rising up into the straw
All of this and still there’s more.

A cold wind blows, the mist rolls back,
To show the cold hard facts.

 

In response to the daily prompt Silhouette

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Writing

Dominant

By Scott Bailey © 2018

 

The dominant theme
Of the modern movement
Is just that
To dominate
To be the best
No second place
No room for losers
Crush them
Squeeze then dry
That is is the song
Of our age
We seem to sing it
With joy

 

Image from pixabay.com

 

In response to the daily prompt Dominant

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Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Writing

Bruised

By Scott Bailey © 2013

 

He would never see his son again.

Unless…

Unless he went made it through today. Found the strength from somewhere. Put aside his pain.

The trauma his son had suffered had not been at his hands. Logically there was no responsibility for it on his shoulders.

Logic was a weak fence against raw emotion. Emotion that told him that he had failed as a father, that the protection he was supposed to give had been lacking, just that once.

Nobody agreed with him.

That made no difference.

So, he would not compound failure with failure. This was his last chance. He would take it.

He had tried all other avenues. Therapy, prayer, medication. Nothing worked, Yet what it had done was show him the way. It had made clear the path he needed to tread.

So he took a deep breath and rose from his seat. He nodded to the doctor signaling his readiness. The doctor frowned but kept his piece. He opened the door and let him enter his son’s room.

The room was sparse, clinical. His son lay curled on top of the bed sheets, motionless. Awake but unresponsive. He did not look up or acknowledge his father’s entrance.

There was a small bedside table to the left of the bed on which sat a plastic beaker of water. The bed was positioned by the window. Sunlight tried to make an impression on the coldness of the room but failed. The only other furniture was a white chest of drawers and some empty white bookshelves.

Then there were the books.

The books, many many books, that should have rested on the shelves or strewn on the floor. An impressive collection for one so young.

They hung impossibly in the air.

He sighed. He knew what came next. It had all become familiar to him. This time though he did not avoid it. He did not flinch or try to defend himself. This time he smiled at his son.

The books flew at him. As if thrown by immense strength and anger. The hard spines whacked into his flesh like dull nails. Again and again and again. Raining pain upon his body. The books that hit him fell to the ground limply, twitched like dying flies, then were suddenly whisked up and flung again.

There was no let-up.

He could feel his body being pummelled into a bloody bruised mess. But he took it. Stood calmly, raised his arms towards his son and kept smiling. Gave all he had left to him – gave him his unconditional love. Took the punishment not meant for him.

The books whirled faster as the rage grew. Like a tornado of leather and card, they descended on him, pounded him. The pain passed over what was bearable to no longer being processable – so he no longer felt it. He knew he would not last much longer – if this continued his body would fail him. Darkness crept inwards along the edges of his eyes. He kept smiling, locked his legs and stood, arms out.

The whirl became a darkness that was trying to beat his flesh from his bones. He felt like the bones themselves were splintering beneath.

Then it stopped.

Suddenly all the books fell to the floor. Sunlight sprang into the room as is a lock had burst.

His son looked up and held out his arms for his father.

 

In response to the daily prompt Torn

#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Haiku, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing

The Politician, The Voter and the Child

By Scott Bailey © 2015

 

You work hard

I struggle by

In the dark

You’re a hard-working family

To pay my bills

A silent dark

You deserve more

To keep my job

Shattered by

Respect and remuneration

My family safe

A scream so stark

Higher wage

Bills accrue

A sister torn

More tax

No breaks in sight

A mother too

Security

I am undermined

And then my turn

Here they come

By cheaper crews

To be their tool

To take your jobs

And labour pools

Alone I lived

We try to stop them

Let down by those

My family died

But the law demands

For who we fought a war

Alone I ran

Freedoms we ill afford

Belts pulled tight

Alone to hide

So we must let them in

Doors shut tight

Far away

We need your fear

As our land

Where wars don’t rage

So let us pass

Slips away

Across the sea

Stronger laws

Dreams of the past

Into a cage

And take your cash

Of golden days

And forms and forms

For a better way

Seem far away

And questions long

Altogether now

Every man for himself

And looks of scorn

Watch your backs

Seems the only way

And acts of wrong

Strengthen our national pride

So I must take a stand

Drowning in

Defend our ways

Against the tide

A stinking sea

Our traditions

That seems to me

I cry

Like class division

To rise and rise

No one pities me

And stay an island proud

To drown our island’s pride

No one pities me

In response to the daily prompt Torn

#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, Poetry, Self Publishing, Writing

The Calling

By Scott Bailey © 2017

Galaxy

Hear the music
Of the spheres
Calling
Feel
The irresistible
Attraction
Of the singularities
Pulling
See the twinkle
The burst of life
Shrouded in the
Nebulous mists
Here the roar
Of the silent yaw
Of space
Here the call
The dare

Will we share
In the song
Or crack
Our own end

In response to the daily prompt Calling

#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday

www.scottandrewbailey.uk

Posted in Blogging101, Creative Writing, Daily Prompt, General, Haiku, Poetry, Self Publishing, Short Stories, Writing

Next Year

I am in a quandary – what to do with this blog next year.

This year I set up prescheduled posts – three a day for a whole year! Then I posted each day as and when I could.

This has resulted in two things.

  1. A lot of repetition, the same posts being seen over and over again.
  2. The highest number of views ever – more than doubling any previous year

This got me thinking – how do I match it? How do I keep the momentum going?

Then I thought again. Do I want to?

I realised as I was trying to plan out a new schedule of posting I thought about what it meant. What was the reason for it?

Last year I wanted to increase my views – but the reason for that was to increase exposure of my books – and try and boost their sales. Sure I enjoy the writing and enjoy the challenges I have become a part of. It has helped build up a and strengthen a little network of fellow bloggers that I now value.

But it has had detrimental effects too. As mentioned it has filled my blog with reams of duplicate content. But worse – it has taken up all the precious writing time I had. All of it. This means I have done nothing else.

On top of that – it has not boosted my book sales at all. So it failed at its main aim.

So, I have decided that this year I will take a new approach. I will probably try and write every day – do Ronovan’s Haiku Challenge on Monday’s as well as something for the Daily Prompt.  But, I am not going to get hung up on stats and trying to reach targets. I am going to step back and try and produce some more books. Another poetry collection, and maybe another collection of short stories.

But I won’t be disappearing.

www.scottandrewbailey.uk