Sunday, November 16, 2014



The remodeling of the offices was finished after two long months. The employees coughed their way through heavy dust; many continued to suffer for months. When one of them, Charles, fell ill, no one was surprised. As soon as Charles returned to work, they noticed that he could breathe much better. They asked him if he could help them. Charles never told them directly what he did, but he muttered “I’ll help you,” whipping off a bit of saliva from the corner of his mouth. In the end, remodeling didn't stop at the offices; the staff got remodeled as well.
100 Word Stories

Sunday, November 9, 2014


Tierra de Fuego

Cal unscrewed the cables and unplugged them. Then he pressed “detach”. He had been taught well. He was never to touch the “reset” area, that small circle the size of a coin.

Many failed to obey and didn’t resist temptation. They touched it. Now, they were beyond repair, doomed to perform menial tasks.

Cal was proud of himself. He always did everything right. He removed his brain and placed it inside the upgrade box. He didn’t like the looks of the new technician though …

After Cal got his brain back, he was placed in the Sanitation Department. Damn smug....bzzzzzt…

Sunday, November 2, 2014



“X marks the spot,” said Sir Thomson a bit too merrily after crashing his plane and killing Lady Thomson.

Mr. Crawford, their guest, was extremely annoyed, to say the least. The idea of flying over Sir Thomson’s deserted island seemed quite idiotic from the get-go.

Persistent as always, Sir Thomson dug until he found a box. Surprisingly, a cell phone emerged.

“Our salvation,” said Sir Thomson, oblivious of the fact that the cell tower of that area had been knocked down by his hazardous flying.

X marked the spot alright, it marked the spot where Mr. Crawford waited and waited.

Sunday, October 26, 2014


Forgotten City

Doom was an unhappy robot that got tired of doing robot stuff and wanted to become human. The problem with that decision was the fact that Doom had no idea about how to be human. Doom tried crying. Doom tried smiling. Doom tried sneezing. Nothing worked. One day, Doom’s neighbor robot Calamity came over for tea. They engaged in a philosophical conversation about human beings and Calamity thought Doom’s ambition of becoming one was utterly horrendous, but Doom wouldn’t give up. Halloween was right around the corner and Doom would be a human, even if only for a few hours.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Take a Walk on the Scary Side

Virtual worlds, in this case Second Life, are an extremely interesting resource for writers. The possibility of being immersed in a variety of environments offers an array of ideas and stimuli that are an important contribution to story writing.

This article aims at showing you how easy it is to draw inspiration from different locations in Second Life. I’ll take you with me through the whole process.

* A few tips

1. Choose a sim from the destination guide or follow one of Camie’s suggestions. If you already have a landmark to a location you’d like to draw inspiration from, double-click the landmark in your inventory to be teleported to the sim.

2. Upon arrival, take a few steps away from the landing point. More people might teleport in and they would land on top of your head!

3. Wait a few seconds for things to rez properly. Depending on what exists at that location and the characteristics of your own computer, the location will rez slower or faster. So, it is worth waiting a little bit.

4. After things have rezzed, start exploring. I usually take a stroll around the sim without really thinking too much about my writing. I just try to enjoy it. Then I take a second walk focusing on details that caught my eye. As I walk along, I take a few snapshots (Ctrl+Shift+S > Save As… > choose location in your computer > rename if needed > Save) that I use when I’m off-world.

5. Sometimes, when you arrive at a location in Second Life, you may feel overwhelmed by so many interesting details and you’ll feel tempted to use as many as possible. However, that can be very distracting once you start writing. Some sims are so rich that it is as important to be able to gather information as it is to be able to discard it. So being selective is imperative, otherwise you’ll end up with a pile of unusable ideas simply because they don’t fit. Start by focusing on three or four aspects you think will be of value to your story regarding the setting, the character(s) and/or the plot.

6. Below you’ll find an example of how virtual-reality can assist you in writing a story. 

* The Process

Camie’s challenge was to visit a location in Second Life related to Halloween, and to write 300-600 words. I decide to visit Screaming Woods, one of the sims suggested in the blog.

I have no characters and I have no plot.

As I start walking through the sim, I notice a bay filled with floating, decaying bodies. What impresses me the most are their hands reaching out of the water, as if trying to grasp the last straw of life.

Another aspect that catches my attention is the few men trying to hold onto a rock; some of them are still wearing ragged pieces of clothing. I decide I have my characters, at least a few of them. I don’t know if, along the path, I will find any more.

I have the beginning of my plot; a group of men arrive at this island, after something terrible happened to them. You’ll see that farther up, there is a destroyed ship; it looks like it survived a storm.

When I turn around, I see a house. Inside, there’s a closet with a child in it; she’s surrounded by spooky red eyes. I cannot see who or what is behind her. Her doll-like figure sharply contrasts with her white dress covered in blood. I can also see a pair of claws either threatening to grab her or keeping her safe. I add her to my list of characters.

I continue to walk up the hill towards the house at the top. The area around it is dark and cramped. As I open the door, the first thing I see is a young girl. She’s in a straitjacket, her hair is shaved and she looks scared. I immediately decide to make her a character in my story.

I venture inside, walking past her, and end up in the room that looks like an operating room or rather the decaying remains of one. Amidst stretchers and other objects, there’s a cage. It’s empty, locked, and padded on the inside. What caught my attention was a candle hanging from the ceiling of that cage; it’s lit. Now why would a candle be burning inside a padded cage?

The beginning of a story is paved with a million questions. Answering those questions becomes the process of writing.

Allow me to go back for a moment. What happened to the men we saw when we arrived at the sim? Who are they? Where did they come from? What is this island they arrived at? Why is the island empty? Why is there an abandoned psychiatric hospital at the top of the hill? And why is a child there? Is she by herself? How does she survive? Why was she left behind? What will happen to the men when they arrive at the hospital? And so on.

As you can see, with only a few elements there are plenty of questions to kick-start your story. It may even happen that some of the questions become irrelevant and you end up discarding them. No problem. They probably triggered more questions that became an important stepping-stone for your plot.

Now, let’s get to work. Equipped with images, sounds, questions, ideas and, above all, words, I am ready to write.

* The Story

Black clouds announced a sealed destiny while a ship got mercilessly dismantled by vicious waves.

The small bay was filled with deformed bodies of sailors, rotten and floating aimlessly, struggling to reach the shore, their hands reaching out from under the water. The stench was indescribably horrendous.

Although their bodies were already decaying, they still had hope, that unbroken hope of a dying man scrambling for the last chance to survive. 

The few who survived the storm decided to walk inland in a tight group, desperately looking for signs of life, but knowing that this island was eating them alive. 

There were a few abandoned huts displayed in a circle, but no sign of life was to be seen, no people, no animals, and no food. However, strangely enough, the fire was burning in the middle of these huts.

The small group struggled up the hill, following a narrow path, stumbling on mossy stones and branches of old trees. They weren’t quite sure if it was the result of hunger and thirst, but those branches seemed to be alive, grabbing them by the ankles, slowing their progress.

When they reached the top of the hill, they saw the silhouette of an old building. It looked abandoned and solemnly sad. The men hesitated. Should they go in? Hunger provided them with that last straw of courage that pushed them forward. 

As the door slowly opened, they saw a young girl. The island wasn’t abandoned after all, they thought. Their initial sense of exhilaration rapidly gave place to an ominous feeling of hopelessness though. The girl was in a straitjacket; her head had been shaved bald. Her eyes were filled with fear, an unimaginable fear. 

On the balcony above, someone had tried to write ESCAPE on the wall. Written in a vibrant red, the word was smudged at the end.

A threatening silence began to enclose them. The girl looked transfixed, almost hypnotized, her big green eyes remained wide open. 

As the men entered the hall, hoping for some kind of reaction, she kept still, wrapped in that growingly constrictive straitjacket.

Suddenly, they heard scratching noises coming from a room in the back. They decided to investigate, especially because they were hungry, very hungry, and hunger pushes men to make foolish and hasty decisions.

The room was an old operating room. Rusted surgical tools, a gurney and a few chairs lingered forgotten on the floor. 

In a corner, there was a silent cage. It was locked and empty. Much to the sailors’ surprise, inside the cage, a lit candle was hanging from the ceiling. One of the men muttered “perhaps there is something in there; we just can’t see it”.

The noises grew in intensity and were now followed by anguished shrieks. The men couldn’t figure out where the shrieks came from, until they saw the doors of a closet opening slowly. A chill crept down their backs.

A small child, wearing a white dress, was standing inside the closet. Two pairs of red eyes stood behind her and two clawed hands reached over her shoulders. She looked like she wanted to escape, to run away from an unwilling imprisonment.

Despite the pain they were in, their skin peeling off as if burnt, some of the sailors felt compelled to help. They reached towards her to get her out of the closet but it was like she was stuck inside. The more the men pulled her out, the more her feet sunk in the floor. The small child shrieked in anguish.

The scratching turned into growling, a growling that became louder and louder, a warning no one wanted to pay attention to, a threat as strong and palpable as the inexplicable storm that hit their ship earlier.

Suddenly, the small child’s shrieks turned into a soft, plaintive humming. Before anyone could do anything, all the men were turned into ashes.

As the red eyes closed and the clawed hands retracted, the small child closed the doors of the closet and whispered the words of a lullaby “Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed… Lay thee down now… and rest… may thy slumber be blessed...”

The young girl in the straitjacket left her place by the entrance, walked in the old operating room and into the cage, closing its gate behind her.

Over the next few days, the wooden planks of the ship disappeared under the clear blue water. The fire in the empty village died down. The path up the hill towards the abandoned psychiatric hospital was covered in brittle, orangey leaves. And the dark black clouds parted, giving way to the most beautiful blue sky.

A year later, another ship would be sunk, caring lost and frightened sailors whose skin would be burnt to the flesh. They too would set foot on the island and become hopeful as they see the fire amongst the empty huts. They too would walk up the path, all the way to the psychiatric hospital, to stand before a lost young girl in a tight straitjacket.

And no one would ever escape their destiny. The island would be fed once more, forever keeping those two children as doomed prisoners.

* Conclusion

This story is only an example of what can be done! I have intentionally kept it simple. You can use more elements than the ones I have chosen to use or you can even use less.

It goes without saying that the elements you decide to include in your story are merely a source of inspiration. As you’ll see, if you visit the sim, the closet with the spooky small child is not in the hospital! So, you can, and should, use anything you collect according to what you need and what your story dictates.

(Source: Screenshot from NaNoWriMo @ Second Life)

The ideas you draw from different locations in Second Life will provide your story with the depth it needs to grow into a coherent, interesting and often daring story.

Above all, have fun!

*Blogged at NaNoWriMo @ Second Life.

Sunday, October 19, 2014


Gehena Vampire Clan

Peter hated his nickname and he didn’t understand why they called him Skeleton at school. In the eyes of everyone else, he couldn’t care less about skulls, bones or skeletons. He spent days digging in his grandmother’s backyard where he found bones of many animals, yes, but the kids didn’t know that. They most definitely didn’t know about those bones his grandmother buried in the barn. Peter simply couldn’t understand the other kids... The night was too warm and he couldn’t sleep. He got out of bed and went for a walk in the neighboring cemetery. He enjoyed the quietness.
100 Word Stories

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Writing Resources

I've gathered here some of the resources I use often when I'm writing. More will be added as I stumble upon them. I'll keep this list uncluttered though, I promise. During the November frenzy, there's no time to test and wonder and ponder and... well, 1700 words a day says it all!

* Thesaurus
* Dictionary - English/English

* Grammarist - English Usage
* Bartleby - English Usage

* Plot Generator
Seventh Sanctum - Generators

* Symbols

Word Counter
* Word Counter Tool with typing speedometer!
* Write or Die
* Goal Calculator, in case you fall behind and need to redefine your writing goals

* NaNoWriMo Platform
NaNoWriMo Blog

* Gibberish Translator, in case you don't want to copy/paste your novel as-is into the NaNoWriMo website for validation

*Rewards! NaNoWriMo Offers for NaNo participants and winners.

Interviewed by NaNoWriMo @ Second Life

Photo by Lizzie
Editing by Camie

Camie Rembrandt, a fellow Second Life resident and writer, interviewed me for her blog NaNoWriMo @ Second Life

In this short email interview, I shared a bit about my path as a writer immersed in a virtual world, the experiences I went through and the benefits immersive writing brought to my stories. 

Read the whole interview here.

Sunday, October 12, 2014



“Zero resistance. And…ahm… that’s it, ladies and gentlemen.”

The large audience was perplexed. That’s it? They paid for an overpriced two-hour long seminar.

The abrupt uproar of indignation caught the speaker running away as fast as he could.

Two members of the audience hurried behind him. When they reached the back exit, there was no sign of him.

Later that night, a cleaning lady touched a small round disk and she too disappeared mysteriously. 

Like so many before, she returned decades later to say “zero resistance”, right before the Great Surrender. Earth became a popular destination, but… not for humans.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Immersive Writing

Milk Wood

As NaNoWriMo threatens to sneak up on us, I return to iRez to share a bit of my experience as a fiction writer in a virtual world. Believe me. It was nothing like what I expected! 
Read more here.

Sunday, October 5, 2014



A year of planning and a 10-hour drive didn’t discourage Gene. He was used to hardship. Well, he was used to corporate hardship mostly, being the CEO of one of the biggest oil companies. His stress levels had been building up dramatically. So, the retreat would be an intense spiritual experience. At the end of his stay, Gene was feeling great. The problem was when this guy drove into the back of his car on the local country road. Gene was definitely not ready for this kind of hardship. He ended up at the bottom of a hole, intensely dead.

Saturday, October 4, 2014

A Story Waiting to Happen

Toshigi Japan Cibercity

... Toshigi Japan Cybercity (click here for full text).

This post is part of a series of monthly articles for the Virtual Writers about sims in Second Lifethat could be the source of inspiration for writers. My goal is to trigger ideas for new stories, new characters and new settings. Enjoy!

Sunday, September 28, 2014


Milk Wood

Never had Ronald felt so insulted. It was true that he dragged his feet in the morning and that he tried to cut short the work day by starting to get ready to leave the office half an hour before the end of the shift.

However, he had never missed a day’s work, never lost a paper or misfiled a document.

“You’re always stealing our doughnuts,” was far more than he could handle. He even brought the coffee, well, once or twice a month. The least the crew could do was to allow him to take a doughnut, or three.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


France Portnawak (Titanic)

September 20 2014
Event: 500 Word Challenge
Host: Lizzie Gudkov
Prompt: Picture 
Time: 30 mins

Trapped in a corner, she recalled her days of wandering, of lurking in the shadows, of hiding. 

She still clutched onto the Victorian medallion. It was stroking her soul, scratch by scratch, widening the deep wound slowly. 

She had been advised not to take it, but she didn’t listen. She had to have it. No one would ever tell her she couldn’t have it. 

She knew far too well that the medallion was not hers. She knew it would never be. Yet, she held on to it, determined. 

Trapped in a corner, she recalled her days of believing, of dreaming, of hiding. She saw it, the hungry wolf. His red eyes were glimmering faintly. It was preying on her soul, circling her fears slowly, step by step. 

The medallion would be her protection, they said. And she held it close to her chest, an uncontrollable wave of desperation taking over her feeble decisiveness. 

And now she was trapped. And the wolf knew it. And she turned to face the wall, the medallion still in her hand, its edges sinking in the soft skin of her palm. And she couldn’t wait anymore. And the fear was overpowering. And no one else knew those red eyes as she did. And no one cared. And… 

She woke up. Nights were becoming worse for her. The nightmares… 

She sat up in her bed and looked around. Where was the medallion? She looked for it all over the house. She turned drawers inside out. Nothing. It had done its job. It had somehow moved on. 

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, the obsession growing, while sleeping and being awake. 

It’s a spell, someone said, or was it a curse? 

Time going by didn’t help even when she became confused and started looking for the wolf out in the garden till late at night, the neighbors peering through the curtains concerned about her unusual behavior. 

Her family got more and more anxious and decided to commit her to a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. She’s so young, they said, mourning the loss of a promised future. 

She never left that place again, that horrid white place, forever recalling that Victorian medallion with the face of a wolf on it, forever trapped in a lonely inexplicable corner.

Monday, September 22, 2014

Is there something you want to tell me?

Mystic Falls

September 6 2014
Event: 500 Word Challenge
Prompt: Is there something you want to tell me?
Time: 30 mins

A smile, a pause, a silence and a defeating feeling that there’s something you want to tell me. You don’t smile. You’re just in silence.

I try to bridge the awkwardness, knowing well that your motionless despair, so unlike you, is the bearer of more silence, perhaps even such a devastating silence that no sound, not even noise, will ever cross it.

And the lunacy of blindness, the deafening sense of loss, weakens my willingness to stay.

Should I volunteer a word or two? Should I attempt that?

You just sit there, looking at your hands, twisting your fingers against one another, making me feel their pain for being forced into odd positions. They are white in the knuckles.

And I drift into that crazy chain of thoughts I seem to follow more and more. White is good. It’s a sign of purity, of new beginnings. Purity?!

I look around and try to remember. The wooden chair that had to be repainted, for which we had a very serious plan and that ended up being covered with hippie flowers and a black skull so small that no one ever noticed it. It was our private joke. The bookshelf that wasn’t straight simply because it was so amusing to watch people’s faces, tilting their heads to make sure it was not in their minds.

And you twist your fingers and staring at them as if they could come off from all the twisting, a panicking eyebrow dancing up and down dangerously.

Fear turns into anger. Slowly and stubbornly I practice my fake smile; I’m going to need it. And it is this suspended smile, held only by the thinnest of lines, that dangles desperately on my face.
“I have to go,” he says.

And I totally misunderstand what he means. I nod, agreeing. That surprises him. He expects some resistance, an argument even. And I think he has to go somewhere. But he has to go.

And when he stands up, he finally looks at me, his tortured fingers tucked away in the tight pockets of his blue jeans, so very blue, too blue, the ones he bought recently along with a few colorful T-shirts and shoes and a black leather jacket that didn’t match anything he has.

He walks out the door, his steps reverberating onto the white walls, that special white we had chosen together a long time ago. And he was gone.

A few weeks later, he took his new clothes with him and left the old ones behind. “You can give them to charity,” he said. And he was wearing that black leather jacket that looked ridiculous on him.

The clothes went to the local church; they’d know what to do with them. I gave the fishing gear to the neighbor’s kid. The CDs and DVDs were offered to the small high-school’s media library. Everything else went to the garbage.

It didn’t feel like a break-up. It felt like mourning.

And that was it. After we signed the papers, we never saw each other again.

I went back to that same church to drop a few of my own old clothes and I saw the dreadful black leather jacket. “Your ex-husband left it here. He said you thought it looked ridiculous on him,” said the priest, stuttering slightly.

No, I hadn’t told him anything. It was her. And I stood there, twisting my fingers and wondering if it had all been a waste of time.

“I have to go,” I said. The priest nodded. And I left, my steps reverberating onto the white walls, that white that was so insidiously strange to me.

Sunday, September 21, 2014



The wolf was a hungry beast. It prowled around, lurking in the shadows, its red eyes glimmering in the darkness. It fed on my anger.

“Keep it,” the man whispered.

I tried to stifle its eagerness, its thirst.

“Kill it, kill it,” the man whispered.

I couldn’t understand. Keep it or kill it? Keeping it would feed the hunger. Killing it would perpetuate the hatred. I too would’ve given in. I saw no way out.

The man grinned, his teeth as sharp as the wolf’s and he said “There’s your wolf. Guard it with your soul. It’ll keep you alive.”

Sunday, September 14, 2014


Kat Beach

The devil crossed the border, looked around and decided that that small village was the perfect place for a vacation. When he set out to find a hotel, he came across a smartly dressed man. He felt so tempted; a foot, just a foot, and the idiot would trip. He sneered. Then he came across a kid on his new bike; a foot, just a foot… He sneered. Finally, he came across an elderly lady. This was the one. A foot, just a foot, and… The devil was shocked and mortified. His pride was completely shattered. The elderly lady sneered.

Sunday, September 7, 2014



The man stormed out of the restaurant, screaming. He ran around aimlessly before collapsing onto a pile of snow. Upon closer inspection, the police officer realized that the man had a fork stuck in his eye. Some said it was an accident, others a bet. When the officer got closer, the man lifted his face from the snow and smiled. “What a ride!” The officer was baffled. Suddenly, the man stood up and took off running. The ambulance eventually caught up with him in a field, digging for money, he said. “Oh yeah, it was a bet,” concluded the officer.

Monday, September 1, 2014

A Story Waiting to Happen


... MOSP (click here for full text).

This post is part of a series of monthly articles for the Virtual Writers about sims in Second Life that could be the source of inspiration for writers. My goal is to trigger ideas for new stories, new characters and new settings. Enjoy!

Sunday, August 31, 2014


Black Kite

People say happiness is upgraded when shared, although Ron was skeptical about that. Last time he tried to meet a girl, he spent months recriminating himself for his goofiness, which triggered a discouraging sense of social inaptitude. However, he was a determined man. One day, he summoned all his courage to talk to the cutest girl he had ever seen. He sat next to her and played his card. She talked and talked. He listened. She talked some more and he listened. Thirty years later, they are still together. It seems people were right about that happiness thing after all.

Sunday, August 24, 2014


Tokyo 3.1

The truck slid sideways on the ice-covered highway, the load at the back hindering the anguished attempts to stabilize the heavy vehicle.
When the police arrived, it was difficult to tell the truck from the pile of contorted multicolored metal. The rescue services tried their best to see where the victims were.
They all sat by the side of the road, the victims, amazed that no one could see them.
“Is that the light we are supposed to see, Dad?” asked thirteen year old Tommy, pointing at the fire engine. His Dad nodded. Tommy always wanted to be a firefighter.

Sunday, August 17, 2014


Winter Moon

Being a kid has its disadvantages.
Being a teenager becomes, more often than not, a nightmare.
Yet being an adult is the worst.
It’s not only the fact that we are adults for most of our miserable lives, but also because, as old age kicks in, murmurous mondegreens tend to progressively take over our volatile certainties.
In the future, age will be irrelevant, I suppose.
I wonder if we’ll just get stuck at old age or if we’ll choose which age we’d like to be.
Oh, gosh. I just realized that we’ll all be young and breathtakingly beautiful!
How dreadful!

This story is a wink at Vonnegut’s short 2BR02B and Second Life’s avatars that tend to be young and beautiful! However, there seems to be an invasion of very creepy, pseudo-fashionable avatars lately which are definitely not breathtaking. For those of you who are not in this virtual world, sorry about that cryptic reference. If you’re intrigued, do a search on SL’s fashion models and recent blog posts and you’ll understand what I mean. However, beware, it’s literally nightmare material and totally unlike beautiful Monroe!

Sunday, August 10, 2014


LEA26 Resonant Osmosis

“What do a gondola, a widow and a gun have in common?” asked Prof. Mullins while being interviewed on TV.

The anchor didn’t know.
“Mullins, of course!”
The studio crew snickered.
“So, who’s Mullins?” continued the behavioral researcher.
“The wife shot him,” replied the anchor. “No, he’s the killer; he killed a man, a husband… in a gondola!”
“Interesting,” replied the researcher. “But Mullins didn’t kill anyone, well, not directly anyway.”
“Mullins is an experimental program named after its founder.”
That’s when everyone walked out of the studio.
Within the next few hours, dozens were killed all over town.

Sunday, August 3, 2014


Tierra de Fuego

The body was splattered all over the wide street, right in front of the town hall.
The Mayor scratched his head, looking up at the sky and down at the body. The police Chief did the same while trying to convince federal authorities to come over as quickly as possible. And everyone else just did nothing.
The truth is that the body had fallen from the sky, a rather unusual occurrence, one must admit. But the most bizarre aspect of this story was the fact that, ever since they closed the local airport, not a single plane flew over town.

Friday, August 1, 2014

A Story Waiting to Happen

Milk Wood

... Milk Wood (click here for full text).

This post is part of a series of monthly articles for the Virtual Writers Inc. website about sims in Second Life that could be inspiring for writers. My goal is to trigger ideas for new stories, new characters and new settings. Enjoy!

Sunday, July 27, 2014


Tokyo 3.1

“I need spine surgery.” Tessa’s work colleague John always found a way out of work. “I have a brain tumor!”
As a matter of fact, he claimed to be a good friend of most of the medical staff at the hospital. 
One day, Tessa accidentally… on purpose… made him trip in the corridor at the office. John grumbled all the way to the hospital. 
A boggled Tessa wheeled him through the corridors. “No one is acknowledging you…”
“Ungrateful people… I practically paid for the whole new surgery wing,” replied John. 
Tessa sighed deeply, thinking to herself “some things never change”.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

The Tolpuddle Martyrs


Event: 500 Word Challenge
Time: 30 mins


It was time for revolt, it was time for anger.
Work, work and struggle for nothing more than work.
Be lost, be penniless, be a slave.
Be. No food. 
Be. No home.
Be, the emptiness of any tomorrow ahead.
Be. No more.
And they fought back. They believed. They could. They did.
Others didn’t. They condemned ideas, they condemned actions, they condemned everyone swiftly.
And a martyr became nothing more than a name on a yellow, brittle piece of paper, a faint recollection of an immemorial past.
They tried to run, to hide, but they couldn’t. They didn’t.
Lives irreparably uprooted into faraway lands filled with unknown nothingness, filled with the certainty of an impossible return.
They struggled. They fought. They lost.
Back then, they lost. Yes…
Today, they are recalled. They are here.
Their ideas, their actions, their tomorrows became our today, their message still alive and meaningful, almost unbelievably meaningful, in a world of no tomorrows, pessimists say.
But now they live on. They live.
Now, they do.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Have You Ever...


“Have you ever written a letter so filled with passionate love that, years later, you simply cannot believe it was you who wrote it?” asked the old man, the most recent addition to the prison system.

“Nope… Where I come from we don’t write love letters. Heck, we don’t write at all,” replied the seasoned cellmate. “Will you write her love letters now that you’re here?”

The old man sighed so deeply that his cellmate thought he was having a heart attack.

“You killed her, didn’t you?” asked the cellmate.

“Love…” continued the old man. And he looked outside nostalgically.