Tag Archives: writing

The Wolf

8 Jun

Dear Friends on the Friday Fictioneers bus,

Here is a guest post by Ian Partlow,  a wonderful boy who is having his ninth birthday soon. He sees the world with the eyes of a child. While this comes naturally to him, it is a perspective that many writers would love to have restored to them, if only for a little while. Unfettered by the chains of time and with his Wolf by his side, Ian has the greatest gift of all — Imagination.

Happy Birthday, Ian!

Not inspired by the photo prompt from El Appleby just below…..

The Wolf

but issuing forth from the same magical world of mythical beasts and a young boy’s heart, here is….

I have a glassy white wolf
Who is made of silky white fur
I have a wolf who brings the moon to the sun
Who howls at the day of the night
I have a wolf
Who can make the sound of wind
Who lives in the light of the moon
I have a wolf
As big as the sea
Who takes me to the other moon
I have a wolf
Who is not to be seen
Who can protect the wind from the sea
I have a wolf
Who floats to the end of life
Who can protect me from anything
by Ian Partlow

Ian and his muse

Ian's Wolf

The End of Something*

20 Sep

Fifty-two year removed and *Papa H. still holds court in his old haunts. My hat’s off to him.

This 100 word story for Madison Woods’ Friday Fictioneers is inspired by Lora Mitchell’s photograph. All of this week’s stories are here. Check them out, especially Rich, JK Bradley, Boomiebol, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and Russell Gayer.

I made it to all 65+ stories linked last week and will do it again this week, but not until Monday night as I am going to the far off island of Maui to contest the Hawaii State Disc Golf Championship at teh fabled Poli Poli disc golf course and will be semi out of touch for the weekend. Posting early to clear the decks for action. Aloha. D.

“What do you think?” my date asked about the incongruous statue we’d found quayside on our after dinner walk.

“Waste of good marble.”

“I’m serious. What does it say to you?”

“It says to me that we can all have an off day.”

“It’s art,” she retorted, a querulous pardon for the sculptor’s sin of commission. “It’s beautiful.”

Eye of the beholder? I considered and decided that, like the statue, she and I were never going to get off the ground. I took her home, then went alone to Bodeguita del Medio to console my inner critic with a cold Mojito.

Doug’s Raft

25 Jun

A counterpoint to the recent FridayFictioneers picture of the blue damselfly perched on a rock, mellon, or, more forebodingly, a skull as envisioned in Kathy McClure’s story, Sobibor.

This image is of a fossilized dragonfly that is around 350 million years  old.

That’s a lot of water under the bridge, but only a couple of days in eternity. We are here for a short while and in a blink of an eye we are gone; smoke through a keyhole.

Lord Dunsany captured the futility of writing in the following work and his words are ever on my mind as I struggle in the rising water.


All we who write put me in mind of sailors hastily making rafts upon doomed ships.

When we break up under the heavy years and go down into eternity with all that is ours our thoughts like small lost rafts float on awhile upon Oblivion’s sea. They will not carry much over those tides, our names and a phrase or two and little else.

They that write as a trade to please the whim of the day, they are like sailors that work at the rafts only to warm their hands and to distract their thoughts from their certain doom; their rafts go all to pieces before the ship breaks up.

See now Oblivion shimmering all around us, its very tranquility deadlier than tempest. How little all our keels have troubled it. Time in its deeps swims like a monstrous whale; and, like a whale, feeds on the littlest things—small tunes and little unskilled songs of the olden, golden evenings—and anon turneth whale-like to overthrow whole ships.

See now the wreckage of Babylon floating idly, and something there that once was Nineveh; already their kings and queens are in the deeps among the weedy masses of old centuries that hide the sodden bulk of sunken Tyre and make a darkness round Persepolis.

For the rest I dimly see the forms of foundered ships on the sea-floor strewn with crowns.

Our ships were all unseaworthy from the first.

There goes the raft that Homer made for Helen.

Percy Bysshe Shelly expressed much the same sentiment in his famous sonnet.


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away”.

 (The picture above is Shelley’s original first draft of Ozymandias.)

Knowing that I will “break up under the heavy years and go down into eternity…” is a daunting prospect. It makes me want to focus, to see better and more clearly, to experience fully, and to write what I can for those who follow. It also makes me want to just stop writing and start walking; to begin the journey of a thousand miles and let the world and everyone on it chart their own course absent my input.

I don’t know who’s going to win that contest, but in the meantime I try to build the very best rafts that I can.

Oblivion can wait for a bit. It’s got time.

Thank you

18 Feb

If you’ve stopped in to read anything written on this nascent blog.

If you’ve left a comment, compliment or critique.

If you’ve referred someone to this neck of the virtual world’s woods.

If you’ve visited without leaving a trace, stealth surfing the nine zillion blogs that make up time/space between you and I.

If you want to write for a living and you have established a ‘presence’ on the web as a part of the three legged stool of online marketing and somehow found yourself, for a moment or two, in my world.

If you’re one of the average of seventy-five family and/or friends that an undiscovered author can count on for succour and support along the way.

If you have found a sentence here, or a paragraph or page, that has resonated with you on your journey.

If you love life, language, and good long reads that you never want to end.

If you’ve held forty-seven jobs but never had a career save for writing.

If you refuse to give up, or in.

If you’ve spent half an hour searching for the right word to finish the perfect sentence..

If you’ve noticed that WordPress adds paragraph spaces and that Blogger won’t let your friends leave messages without first torturing them with obscure data entry demands and compliance with Captchas.

If you’re still with me here at the end of this post.

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart.

Thank you.





Blogs are dangerous

4 Oct

Blogs are dangerous.

I just visited the site of a person who followed me on Twitter. His profile had a blog address listed so I sidled over there to check it out. I read several posts and found an earnest, self published writer fighting the good fight and doing all the right things to get his work out there, seen, and sold. All for fame and glory and so that his checks don’t bounce. During the course of my visit I did what I always do when I go to a book store and read the first page of a novel. I decided whether I might like to read any of this author’s work.

The trouble came a few minutes in with a sentence in which the word ‘catalyst’ was misused.  This was like an anti-reader mine buried in the text, waiting for me to come along and detonate it. There’s only one path through the minefield when you’re reading so there was no way to avoid it. You can’t unread something, can you? I wish I could, but it doesn’t work that way for me. I could hear the click as the trigger depressed. The ensuing explosion damaged the author’s credibility, saved me time and money and reminded me not to sow any explosive devices into my writing. (Wish me luck.)

Blogging. It’s all fun and games until someone gets their eye poked out.

(I’d better proofread this about three thousand times.)