Tag Archives: creative writing

Writing Practise and Forgetting Your Work


Author’s Note: When I am working on a large project, I will often practise with dummy scenes and similar passages to those I will eventually publish. I find this an ideal way to feel a story out without worrying about it effecting the eventual outcome. The problem is, as with many creatives, your mind is so full of ideas that you prioritise the important ones and forget the rest. A case in point is the following short story. I hate to waste them.
I am collating a steampunk anthology — one of my favourite genres — whose main characters shall then appear in their own books. This along with The Eternals Series, which has just been completed, have monopolised my brain (it’s not big enough to handle too much). Everything else has slipped into a hazy past. So, I thought I’d share the following story here so people can see the sorts of things that often get forgotten, bypassed or dumped without even realising they’ve disappeared. This turned up in my hunting out another story that I’ve misplaced (yes, I am that bad). I genuinely hope you enjoy it.

PS. My Advice: Take more care of your writing than I do mine.

The Tinkerer


An irreconcilable truth, yet, nevertheless a truth, we were meant to die, not last forever. Eternity was meant for gods and monsters, myths and legends, dreams and imagination, never for the ordinary and undeserving. We were supposed to live our lives, make foolish mistakes, garner regrets and memories to be passed down through the generations like water to the sea. Yes, we were meant to pool in that oceanic basin called life, but never stagnate. We were meant for better things but never on Earth.

Modifications, they called them, modular adjustments, augmentations of self. The supposition was that a world without death might become a world without fear and therefore one without any desire for war. The warring nations of our planet would come together under one banner, Victoria’s banner, and peace would settle like the first winter snows carpeting the world in gentle sleep. Peace was an enviable utopia if it were the truth, but eternal life, mortality if you will, could not have been farther from that truth. I knew for I fabricated the lie.

I was an inventor, not a scientist, nor even a man of particular cranial might. My skills, for what they were worth, were formed in those steam powered machines that encircled the globe, and in particular Great Britain because she who must be obeyed — otherwise known as Queen Victoria — commanded it. The youthful me’s methods were formed from cogs and steam under the ever watchful eyes of such engineering stalwarts as Stephenson and later Brunel. If it sounded glamorous, it wasn’t. Filth and smog and oil were my medicines, and I hated taking them. So, I diversified. I tinkered, or so my mother used to say, dabbled with things beyond my ken, things that were better left alone. I left my work and retreated to the basement of my home to be seen less than frequent but more than seldom. Frogs were my speciality, my experiments of choice, as they were plentiful in the streams and ponds abutting our village: frogs in metal frameworks; frogs with extra brains stuffed in their tiny heads; frogs made to be not-frogs. Like a mad professor from a children’s fairytale, I fiddled and jiggled with the fabric of life and never once had a clue what I tampered with.

My parents did not take well to my work, in fact, they hated it. So I took my tinkering elsewhere, left the pile of stone and ivy that constituted my family’s legacy, my home, and ran away for good. I had no desire to have scorn heaped upon me at every turn, who would? Instead, I sought the quiet surroundings of nature, rural comforts, one might have said. I found them, too. Nestled away in a small corner of Yorkshire where a good horse was a greater prize than any of those new-fangled automobiles, I settled into endless days of adjustments.

I grew so good at what I did in those formative years, in my improving, that the local farmers actively fetched their livestock to be remodelled. Can you believe it? To me! I sewed extra udders here and there, grafted a pair of extra legs to this or that animal, increased a sheep’s wool capacity to that of a seeding dandelion. All knew my work by the white clouds of precious wool which lifted from said oves with the ease of blowing seeds from the dead flowers they resembled. There was no limit to my refabrications. I even crossed a pig with a Zeppelin to make it easier to move. Not bad, eh? Not good, either! I should’ve sewn up their behinds before allowing them the freedom of the skies, tethered or otherwise. Life was good. Life was easy.

My fame grew in proportion to the experiments I perpetrated. I say perpetrated because they should never have taken place. My mother had called me evil — I was not evil, I was good — but I began to see why she’d claimed it. A Mister Samuel Rothbarton, an owner of several Bradford Mills and a small island in the Caribbean, had acquired enough of a fortune to prize me from my arboreal bordered land to one of stone and brick. He refused to die and wished for me to prevent it. “I am not a commoner and shall not die like one!” he’d proclaimed. I almost believed him, too.

I had never considered the process of immortality in my tinkerer’s remit. Honestly, I hadn’t! You must believe that. However, I must confess it appealed to my bravado, my showmanship one might have said, to see if I might have managed it. I did. It wasn’t even hard. A few organs replaced, limbs adjusted, all with gears and clockwork minutiae, more than did the trick. In fact, Mister Rothbarton became more of a grandfather clock than the actual clock I’d stolen his parts from. He did not care. The cancer that had plagued him had no hold over metal, his gout ineffectual on an articulated leg. He showered me with all the money I could ever have dreamed of and never required. But like all greedy humans, once garnered, I wished for more.

I advertised myself as a man of miracles, augmenter extraordinaire. The population at large believed me. Eventually, so did our Queen.

Her Majesty Queen Victoria regarded me through heavy-lidded eyes, old eyes, and passed me a sheet of paper that merely said, I wish to be Immortal. She did not speak, not a word, and neither did her advisors. I nodded my acquiescence and was then dismissed to a small workshop adjoining the palace stables.

Things might have gone better with Her Majesty’s alterations, much better. However, live she did and would for as long as someone oiled her. I could do little about her exterior appearance, age had withered her, but her beating heart was strong and became stronger. She took to her new form like the bitten to vampirism, ruled with vigour and a literal iron fist. She bounded about the palace on strong-sprung legs like a newly walking toddler. And for a time, her people admired her that way, accepted her for what she’d become, and she accepted them. It did not last.

Victoria first pitied those doomed to die, then grew bored, then raged in spiralling madness at those unlike her, the unaltered. In a moment of sheer frustration, she had them butchered, every last man, woman and child. Not one regular human remained. Not one! Except me, that was, for I faked my metal appendages; I had no desire to last forever.

Her Majesty never allowed me far from her side — just in case, she claimed — but after a time age told upon me. Whereas she and those she’d had me correct thrived, nature took its course on my weak body. I claimed most of it by choice: I whitened my hair because I disliked black; stooped because it made the table closer, and any number of ridiculous lies. Ridiculous or not, she and her underlings believed them. Believed them until my heart attack, that was, but not after.

Victoria had one Ignatius Bumbleswick perform the operation, my one time assistant and general dogsbody. The man who I had always considered a prying fool was in fact an absolute genius. He manipulated my tools with a skill I should never have managed. Like Constable a painting, or Shelley words, Bumbleswick tore me apart and remade me: he made me exceptional.

I did not thank him or his monarch for gifting me renewed life, how could I? I wanted to die. I wanted death more than anything for I knew God would never allow me into the realm of eternal light after what I had done, not unless I remained untainted myself. That had been my hope, anyway. They stole my one chance of a pardon with an ever-present reminder ticking in my chest.

And so I persevered through the changing dynasties of the world, through Victoria’s massacring of everyone except those she wished Bumbleswick and I to maintain. Soon, although it might have been many aeons, one loses time after the first few centuries or so, few remained in a world too spacious to appreciate its worth. We congealed around London like germs a handkerchief as the rest fell into disrepair then ruin. Or so we thought?

They came from overseas. More beasts than men, the evolved and evolving, such a crush of feathers and fur were they that most Victorians — as we still called ourselves — gawped and stared in disbelief of what we witnessed. The beasts neither gawped nor stared, they butchered.

They saved me until last. I saw all fall before me, even Queen Victoria in an explosion of oil and flame, every human I’d augmented, every soul I’d taken. When a cotton wool ball of a creature tottered over to stand before me, I realised the truth. The creatures were the descendants of those I myself had altered. The ghosts of my past had come back to haunt me, my first tinkering experiments had returned tenfold.

Even then, I might have been excused, pardoned the fate of the others. They watched me through great, big eyes with the expectancy of children unwrapping birthday gifts. However, when upon closer scrutiny I scowled upon their unkempt forms, their ugliness, half-smiles turned to full snarls. They had thought me their God, when in truth, I was the Devil. They tore me apart by talon and teeth. I was glad to go.

There was no promised light, not even a candle. I lapsed into darkness like the shutting of a coffin lid on a catatonic man. In darkness I remained, my conscience trapped to tinker in obsidian forever.

The End

As Always

Thank you for reading

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Very Soon!)

 

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Genre Writing For You

Genre Writing For You

The Joy of Words

Author’s Note: This is my latest post on Medium. Please feel free to click the link and join me there.

Today, my wife showed me a video clip of a Jack Russell terrier playing with a balloon. The little fellow jumped up and down in sheer unadulterated joy without a care for who watched, who recorded, or who would discuss his outburst. This dog reminded me of why I gave up everything to write: I had to. Just like my canine sensei who had eyes only for that orange balloon drifting through a cerulean sky, I had eyes only for telling stories. A simple reason easily forgotten.

It is easy to lose track of ourselves in a world where we now see everything, know everything — so we think — or, as so many do, follow the crowd. We lose our own identities in the fabric of life that popular thought stitches together. I liken this to Genre Writing; we are stamped with a badge that says author of Fantasy, Horror, Romance or any number of others. In times where companies like Amazon have sub-categories of sub-categories ad infinitum, this is only exacerbated. I say NO!

What can we do about it?

Well, we can buckle to pressure and repeat ourselves for the rest of our writing lives, or, and here’s the thing, we can use the skills we develop every time we tap on that keyboard or write in that pad to twist things to suit. This takes me back to that lively Jack Russell terrier.

Perspectives

Fantasy: If I’d told you I’d seen a dragon jumping up and down trying to catch a ballon, you would have thought very differently about this post — mainly that I was mad, but that’s beside the point.

Humour: If I’d told you I’d seen a Jack Russell jumping up and down in a snazzy pirate’s outfit whilst balancing a bone on his nose and trying to pop a balloon, you would have thought — Aww, little rascal! If you didn’t, what kind of monster are you?

Science Fiction: If I’d told you I’d seen a Jack Russell terrier jump up after a kid’s balloon, vanish, then reappear inside it, you’d have thought — Wow!

Horror: If I’d told you I’d seen a Jack Russell terrier jump up after a ballon that lurched instead for him and swallowed him whole, you might have felt sad or scared.

I could go on, but I think you get the gist.

Conclusion

There are many ways to write up the most mundane of events. It is up to the author to choose what words to use and how to place them to both satisfy himself and in so doing, his readers. A wordsmith should never tire of writing if they’re provided with limitless ways of doing so — YOUR WRITING IS LIMITLESS!

Like that little dog jumping on the grass with eyes only for a balloon, you, too, can play and skip and jump your way to success and be happy doing it. Stay strong. Stay creative.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Very Soon!)

The Submission Process

The Submission Process

A Guide For The New Writer

This is my latest Medium.) post. Please feel free to click the link and join me there.

A friend recently asked me for advice on the submission process. It wasn’t until she cross-examined me with several pertinent questions regarding her work that I remembered just how frightening the whole business can be if you’ve never done it before.

For me, and many others, the writing itself is never an issue. I revel in the art of creation, but being your typical introverted writer absolutely dread others seeing it. On top of this, I hate being made a fool of which stems from doing things wrong and being reminded of it (you know who you are). This is my own personal nightmare. I can turn off to what people say in both pros and cons regarding my work, but not to my own incompetence. Hence, I made sure of several fail-safes when submitting work.

Here are a few tips I have gleaned over time. I genuinely hope they help. If even one makes life easier for you, then this has been worth the writing.

The Bio Business

Most authors hate talking about themselves and the ones that don’t never shut up. So, when a magazine or publisher asks for a simple bio to be attached with your submission, it can render a writer paralysed. There is no need for this to be the case. In most circumstances, all that is required are two or three sentences stating a little about yourself and your previously published work or highlights. If you have none, it doesn’t matter, the editors are reading what you’re sending them not what you’ve sent elsewhere. Here are two examples of what are acceptable. Always write them in third person.

Number 1:

John Smith is a British writer born and bred in Lancashire. His work has been published in such notable periodicals as Clarkesworld Magazine and The Guardian. John writes daily for his own self-titled website.

Number 2:

John Smith is a new British writer born and bred in Lancashire. A writer of speculative fiction, John loves all aspects of the written word and its distribution. John writes a daily blog with a substantial following.

Note:

Number one has many qualifications and number two has none. They both sound good though. Never be afraid to tell it as it is.

PS: As a Yorkshireman, I have no idea why I chose to use Lancashire for my example, but it pained me to type it.

Once you have a short bio you’re happy with SAVE IT. Copy the thing and keep it safe. My tip is to never retype your bio, but, instead, copy it into emails, websites, or whatever is required. This method guarantees it always being the same, always correct and requires less checking. You can update it as and when.

Standard Manuscript Format

THE WHAT! Yes, it does sound terrible, but it isn’t. A lot of sites and potential places to send work will quote the name William Shunn. The reason for this, is William was kind enough to create a submission ready template that anyone can download from his site. Get it HERE. By writing your stories in this template or transferring them to it, you are guaranteed a professional looking manuscript. The template is essentially for Microsoft Word but I have opened it in several other word processors notably Google Docs and Apple Pages and it has worked fine. Plus, once you know how it looks, you can always type your own.

One little addendum here is to always check what a site requires. Some editors hate one font and love another, like a certain spacing in documents etcetera, etcetera. That’s no problem just select all on your document and alter it to how they want. Easy.

A Few Basic Tips

  1. Don’t mail your work with a stupid email name. I would suggest using a separate email account (Gmail allows you lots) to look more professional. Example: JohnSmithauthor@gmail.com as against Johnthebigman@gmail.com
  2. As previously stated, always format your work as requested. At times, it can seem petty, very petty, but they ask for a reason and the writer should respect that reason.
  3. I have mentioned before about having a Submittable account. Many writing outlets use Submittable to manage their submission process. Get one HERE. Submittable is a wonderfully easy site to use and also acts as a submission manager/database for you the writer.
  4. Many sites you submit to offer email updates on when and what they require at any given time of the year. As a rule, you won’t get bombarded by emails so it’s well worth signing up to them. Plus, if they don’t help, you can always unsubscribe.

In Conclusion

You will be one of possibly hundreds of people sending submissions to your sites of choice. No matter how good a story is a publisher can only print so many. NEVER be discouraged. If you keep at it, keep polishing your work and choose your destinations with appropriate care, you WILL be published. They say you always remember your first time although I’ve forgotten. Either way, it’s wonderful to see your brainchild enjoyed by others.

I hope this little list has helped unlock some of your submission process worries. Good luck. I hope you become the next J.K. Rowling.

PS: Remember me with kindness if you do.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Very Soon!)

Translucent

Translucent

Author’s Note: I recently shared this story on the wonderful Nicola Auckland‘s blog and have also just published it on Medium. I wouldn’t want anyone having to read it who already has. However, I wanted to showcase this on my own site because I don’t often publish stories that I would say are very me; this is. As a shy Gemini (not a good combination where split personalities are concerned) who has lots of dark thoughts, work like this flows easily. When my mind is that way out and I just allow the words to flow, I often venture into darker realms than normal. You can read into that whatever you like, but nonetheless, it is me.

I hope you enjoy

Richard

Ghostlike the city’s inhabitants roam the streets. The metropolis has sucked them dry. A procession of timorous deer frightened and waiting to bolt, they make their way to wherever it is one goes during the day in a wide-eyed trance. I watch them with sadness, and I hope compassion. I hate to think someone would not extend me the same small civility.

The cityscape rises skyward in undulating waves of concrete and steel; the ghosts don’t see it. What they do see is questionable? Glass eyes, unblinking, roam everywhere but where they wish. The city’s full sidewalks suffer them to present a weak delusion of sanity. That’s all it is. The city is dead, it just doesn’t know it yet.

Old school, my mother would say, and I suppose I am. When a pretty girl slides by, her feet unseen in the city’s oppressive smog, I raise my hat and smile politely. Sometimes, they even respond. Most times, they don’t. On the rare occasion when one looks my way starry-eyed and shell-shocked, a rabbit in the headlights, it makes my heart beat. I like to feel my heart beat as it reassures me I am not like they. I am alive. Yes, I am alive. I must be, mustn’t I?

My perambulations conform to the city’s expectations: I stick to the main streets, ignore the side streets, and never ever enter the backstreets. There are weird creatures in those inhospitable dark spots, strange and un-wonderful beings. I fear them as they fear life.

The waterfront offers the greatest relief from my waking nightmare. Looking out upon a sea comprising trillions of raindrops, the very same that’ve run down my face and tickled my nose and will one day become an ocean of even greater values, makes me dream. Imagining the recycling atoms, what they must have seen on their journeys through every stage of the earth’s awakening and impending departure, gets the old grey matter churning. I hope that’s the case, anyway, as I’d hate to think it’s old memories relived. I’ve already forgotten too much to bear, having lost even more.

Vitreous, I think to myself, as the harbour stands like a millpond, not a ripple, not a blemish in sight, glasslike. It is almost the exact same consistency as the skins of the urbanites who roam the disconsolate streets. And I wonder, has fate dipped them in the ocean and sent them on their way? Should I? Will it help to blend in with the other poor, unfortunate souls?

I must stop thinking such rubbish if I am to remain apart. Uniqueness is a gift one should embrace and take pride in, not disparage. Some call it mutation, but not I, for is it not uniqueness that has transformed us from one thing to another, bettered ourselves, not abnormality. But it takes two unique individuals to proliferate the theory and I am only one. Still, one of the blank faces may one day smile back and I’ll know a fellow human exists, not a translucent fake as is the case.

Sometimes on clear nights when the moon is full and the city sleeps, I sit out on my balcony and take in the vista. I enjoy it. The sheen of celestial splendour enlivens the soul if you have one. There is a certain freedom in gazing out upon a world that no other appreciates. I’ll wink to the moon and he’ll wink back, our secret safe in the midnight, our pact still operating. Like a spectral spotlight picking out the ghosts of suburbia, I’ll watch the moon highlight passers by and shake my head: no, not that one, she’s lost; no, not that one, she’s smiling too much, etcetera, etcetera. One day, I’ll see a smooth-skinned beauty with tears in her eyes and I’ll know she too cries for the world, as do I. One day. Yes, one day.

For now, I’ll keep walking, collecting the welfare checks when I can, and perusing the city’s glassless shop window. She’ll come. I’m sure of it. She’ll come as a pellucid ghost made real, and we’ll live out a happy ever after like in a fairytale. Or we won’t, who can say?

The End.

 

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Instafreebie Giveaway / The Eternals first chapter.

Alternate Writing Resources

Alternate Writing Resources

There’s Always Help Available

Author’s Note: Here is my latest post on Medium. Please feel free to click the link and join me there.

I think all writers (me included) have a tendency to complicate things overthinking what, how, why and where we write instead of just picking up a pen or tapping on a keyboard. We cogitate over so many variables with our already overstimulated minds (I blame coffee) that we sometimes neglect the simple things. When all is said and done, we only need one writing app be it Scrivener, Microsoft Word, Pages, Storyist, Google Docs etcetera, etcetera, often overlooking the more statutory writing resources available. Here is a collection of apps and sites that I hope might genuinely (damn, an adverb) assist fledgling writers. The more experienced, too.

Dictionary.com

There are many good dictionaries online and as apps but Dictionary.com is a double-barrelled bonus. Available as both a website and dual app, inclusive of thesaurus.com, it is essential to a writers arsenal.Such a useful fallback when one forgets how to spoll, spall, spell, a writer should never be ashamed to check the spelling or correct usage of a word.

Howmanysyllables.com

How many syllables, spelled as one word, is a sight with one simple purpose to count the syllables we might be unsure of or run out of fingers for. A very good aid for those who write poetry such as haiku, shadorma, tanka, etcetera (four syllables) and need to be sure of their syllable counts.

Hemingwayapp.com

In previous posts, I’ve talked of my love for Prowritingaid and Grammarly. However, there is another kid on the block which is more app-like in presentation. Available on the web or as a download, Hemingway presents the writer with a canvas to write on and then have checked for possible improvements. I would recommend trying this out in the same way I would my favoured two. If such devices/resources correct or help to correct even one mistake, they’re worth using.

Google Translate

Have you always wanted to add a little ’un petit quelque chose de plus’ a little something extra (according to the item in question). Google translate is available like all Google products on the web, but also as an app. It’s free, so give it a spin. Authenticity is priceless in text.

Wikipedia

We all know it. Or do we? I dare anyone to admit not knowing Wikipedia or even having visited it for one reason or another. But if you take it for a real spin (I use a lovely app called V for Wikipedia) you can soon use it for so much more than you’d think: colour options; geographical exactness; history; people, and the list goes on. Bookmark it and take it for a ride, it’ll soon eat up the hours.

Text Compare!

Text-compare.com opens as a dual pane editor for you to paste two lots of text in. The site will compare them and highlight the differences, What use is that? I hear you shout. Well, many apps these days save version histories (especially Dropbox and iCloud writing apps,) which you can browse. You might not even remember some of the changes but looking at them might make you think ooh, that was good! Being able to compare two side by side won’t be an everyday occurrence but it might help every now and again.

Last of all, something different.

Alternativeto.net. If you’re looking for software but don’t know where to start, or perhaps only know of one option, try this site. If you type an app or software name into its search bar, it will list more alternatives than your can shake a stick at. These can be filtered to your heart’s content.

As always, I hope something here assists your written work.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Very Soon!)

Useful Sites for the Novice Writer

Author’s Note: This is my latest post to Medium. Please feel free to join me there if you so wish.

Useful Sites for the Novice Writer

I often think the act of writing to be not that difficult, you pick up a pen or open a laptop and start to note your ideas. The problem comes for many people with what to do with them once you’ve finished.

As a long time WordPress blogger (that’s me,) I know that there are many wonderful writers out there who just don’t know what to do next. Some are afraid to display the products of their imaginations, others just aren’t that computer savvy; I was both.

There are in fact a great many places to display one’s literary masterpieces (hopefully) and here is a list of some of the easiest ways to find them. I have assembled (just like The Avengers) the best databases plus a few extras you may need. To all those writers who struggle with such things, I hope this helps.

Databases

Writingcareer.com. The writingcareer site is a wonderful place to start hunting down destinations for your finished product. Maintained by the more than generous skills of Brian Scott, the website is a veritable cornucopia of freelance information from pay to display poetry sites to major publishers. For many folks, you’ll never need another site than this.

thereviewreview.net. The Review Review (that really should be lower case) is an online magazine with all kinds of useful information and a very handy newsletter option. They review other magazines, websites and even people, virtually anything to do with publishing. The site is well worth bookmarking and as mentioned I would personally sign up for the email too.

AuthorsPublish.com. Sign up to this email and you’ll get a great surprise. Almost every week and often sooner, Authors Publish send out an easy to read email of useful publishing sites and information that open out into a web browser. This was one of the best things I was ever introduced to and has proven an invaluable source for literary aids.

Submittable. Many websites require you to post to them via Submittable (argghhhh!) you scream. Don’t worry. Submittable is one of the easiest sites I’ve ever used and even manages your submissions. To anyone with a bad memory like me, it’s invaluable. So many sites use the Submittable database that its almost worth setting up an account (they’re free) before you even choose to submit work just so you’re prepared. Also, a latest development there is that they, too, post sites looking for submissions.

Two Bonuses and some Advice.

Only about three percent of submissions are ever accepted. This does not mean your work is poor or even anything less than superb. There are many reasons why a magazine won’t accept your work from personal preference (we’re all different) to just how it fits with other pieces. Having guest edited on an arts magazine, I know just how difficult it is to choose from multiple submissions. So, my advice is this: Think of submitting the same piece ninety-seven times before having it accepted. If the story, poem or article is good it will be taken on much sooner. However, thinking this way, you’re never disappointed by a rejection. Rejections are standard issue and to me it’s like water of a duck’s back. Send it elsewhere just try to go for places where the piece fits better.

To those two bonus items.

Storytracker. Storytracker is an app that works a bit like Microsoft Excel but is specifically designed for the collation and tracking of your stories. I’ve used it for a long time and am incredibly grateful to its developer for making my life easier. Currently, I think, it’s available for Mac and iOS.

OmPad. For those people who cannot afford a writing app for all occasions this may help. If you have a browser, OmPad will open in it, has a choice of backgrounds that you can change, and then write in. It does nothing else. Every time you open that same browser the last piece of writing you did will be there. Easy! And free.

I hope this simple list helps. It would be nice to think the next Hemingway appears because of it.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Coming Very Soon!)

#VignetteSeries – This Dancer / This Monster

Author’s Note: I was playing around with twisting paragraphs. Just when you were to think ‘ooh, that’s lovely’ it wouldn’t be. This is one of them.

She pirouetted like a dandelion seed caught in a breeze exuding freedom from her every fibre. She danced across meadows and twirled over sidewalks, skipped through puddles and sashayed between bluebells, a gentle summer sprite without a care in the world. Unbothered by those who saw her, those who desired her, her dance would never end. A goddess, she drifted through life as I mired in it.

I was less receptive to those idling imbeciles than she. I watched them, the anger building, rage expanding. Every wide eye, every drooling mouth, frustrated me beyond all reasoning. A volcano ready to burst, my blood boiled and fingers grasped for throats. She’d made me. Because of her I was a monster. And she didn’t even know my name!