Difference
In need of some feedback here. I have two versions of difference. The first used a very cartoon-like thought bubble. The more I looked at it over the course of the day and the photographs I used, the more I felt I hadn’t done justice to the brick. So I produced a more formal image. Feedback and let me know which one you prefer.
See other images stacked in the cupboard in Poetry Jars
The Quick and the Dead.
Artist Kaya Mar walking with painting in Westminster.
One said to the other, “In order to understand others better, we should understand why they argue.”
The other said, “Perhaps we should have an argument.”
“I agree.” said the First.
“That is my rock.” said the Second pointing to a rock at their feet.
“Ok. You can have it.” Said the First.
“But I don’t want it.” Said the Second.
“Ok. I will have it.” Said the First.
“But it is mine.” Said the Second.
“Ok. Let us leave it where it is.” Said the First.
After a silence, the two Monks returned to their monastery, still unable to understand why people argue with each other.
Only the living can argue. The dead are as satisfied as they will ever be.
View original post 39 more words
The Mirror on Your Back.
The poems buzz and rattle in the wires, so much I’ve had to encase them in images to quiet them and hold them still. Now they stand in jars stacked neatly in the gallery. Open them and take a sniff, dip your finger and taste them if you dare. But when you are done, make sure you replace the lid. They will spill and stain if you leave them open.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The following Images were produced to accompany a short story called The Signal of the Second Spring. You can read the full story HERE or click on the images to view them all.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
At the end of the story you will find the Signal Panels that were developed as the inspiration for the story.
The Signal of the Second Spring.
Anitya sat on the bridge, watching carp play with the seeds she dropped with her tiny hands. At four years old, she had the grace of a dancer seen all too long ago, perhaps imagined. The seeds left her hands in graceful loops that traced patterns across the air between bridge and water. She sat, as always, with her hair draped across her left shoulder. When she saw Mother enter the garden, she quickly adjusted it, placing it neatly above her head. She rose and smiled at Mother then giggled slightly as something fell and…
View original post 2,303 more words
Any cartographer worth their salt will admit that where roads and trails and coastlines are traced meaningfully from generation to generation, within the interior all lines eventually become broken and dotted until there is nothing but a large vast…
…well nothing. When asking their elders about the space in the maps, they would be told simply that nobody has ever been there.
Extravagance, as seen in some of the royal maps, often adorned these lands with monsters and magic, and elaborate drawings of folk heroes slaying exotic beasts. Others, more practical for merchants and travellers, simply referred to the blank parts as, “La Zone Grise,” and in some cases, “Blanc.” This changed very little over the years. Those who entered the area…
View original post 612 more words
This story is based on two dreams. One where I was trying to find the 6th vark and the other while exploring the Cabinet of Rodin. I have worked the two together into a theme that has been revolving in my head the last week. A little Edgar Allen Poe for those who know him. Feedback welcome.
View original post 3,432 more words
New Image Gallery at Supernova1987
Its Become evident that the site needs upgrading in terms of navigation, so while I think hard about how its going to look, please find links to all the poem images I have produced. Each link contains a link back to this page to help you navigate easier.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The following Images were produced to accompany a short story called The Signal of the Second Spring. You can read the full story HERE or click on the images to view them all.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Waiting for the other end of the line…
Today there has been lots of writing. Poems and Stories have evolved and grown. None of them can be shown here…
Yet.
Now I am learning patience, waiting for feedback before the final works are published. It is a hard learned lesson especially as I usually publish instantly, only to realise later there are terrible grammatical errors in the lines. To help me to escape the frustrations of waiting here is part of an early draft.
“Even the last of the great kings came to realise before the end that his greatest worth was how rich his body would make the soil beneath him. As the Springs turned to Summer, too often turning to Autumn and onto Winter before their time, they watched and they understood. The trees would take them back beneath their roots and those around would eat their fruits.”
Supernova1987
Sketches for The Signal of the Second Spring.
Short Stories List.
This post is now out of date.
To view the new interactive story library, please visit Short Stories.
Thanks for the feedback on the site all. It’s really useful. Seeing as there are now so many of them, I’ve decided to add a new side bar menu to enable you to instantly access the short stories. Below are live links and summaries of the stories to help you choose one of interest. I hope this makes the pages easier to navigate and allows you to quickly find something interesting. Let one thousand flowers bloom. Let the stars fall upon the beaches. Soft is the whisper. Soft are the words…
The final words of Deck hand Isaacs.
What would it be like if reality broke down around you?
A desperate journey in a harsh landscape.
Transformation of a young man into… well something else.
A final journey to salvage love unfulfilled.
Chilling effort to rescue a loved one.
If you watch for long enough, you to will see the world differently.
Description of a place not far from here.
Here be monsters…
Victorian detective story with a twist.
Historical struggle of two brothers.
Dark children’s story.
If you’ve liked a story here. Vote for it below.
Weather Vane on St Michaels Tower
St Michael’s Tower on the North Gate is the oldest structure in Oxford. I spent nearly an hour standing on top of it, contemplating the Martyrs who were held in the prison that once stood above the long ago demolished gate in the high street below. Now the streets are populated by foreign students and tourists. Street vendors sell souvineers, tour guides shout loudly to gather crowds, buskers play old nostalgic tunes and a man sits outside the bookshop across the road begging for money.
The buidings on the skyline are a postmodern jumble of old and new. Buildings merge into one another, history rises like a odour from the drains beneath us.
I find myself thinking of the Martyr who was lucky enough to have friends in Oxford; lucky enough to be given a necklace of gunpowder so when they burnt him at the stake some 200 yards from where I looked down, his head exploded when the flames reached his chest.
I see mud and ditches and struggle. It’s still there in Oxford. What is it that draws people to this place?
The Music is Hinterm Naechsten by Huegel performed by Jonas Hamm.
The tick of the night watch
An apple fell from the apple tree.
In the darkness I heard it fall.
It tumbled through the high branches,
And broke upon the wall.
As it fell, it brushed against the leaves,
in the still September air,
and I think I heard them whisper,
quite clearly, “Why weren’t you there?”