Authors’ note: I reckons that should say “Trust your gut, cuddle a cat and slam tequila” But that wasn’t on Unsplash…
Three years ago, I never would have thought that I could write a novel. Let alone write on in thirty days.
That’s right, it’s almost that time of year again! November is fast becoming one of my favourite months — not just because of Halloween and the fireworks, but the novelling.
Labels are great. They help organise things, like files. They underpin organisation and sorting systems. Categorisation.
Labels get tricky when applied to things that defy categorisation. People.
On the one hand, labeling people is super handy. Provided that the label is accurate — and the only way to guarantee that is if it is self applied. For example I label myself a ‘gearhead’ because it’s a convenient way to convey an area of my interests.
(The most ‘spacey’ one I could find!)
Writing Prompt: A colony mission sent from Earth loses contact, discouraging further missions. Hundreds of years later, the colony has established a powerful interstellar frontier and has regained contact with Earth, pledging their allegiance to the world’s leaders. Surprisingly quietly, the dropship’s landing legs settled into the dust, under the shadow of the gigantic ex-colony ship hanging in low-Earth orbit. Scarcely had the dust settled when the ship’s belly split open, a battered metal ramp crashing to the dirt.
Joonyeop Baek Like the aeons ancient celestial-battle scarred crust of this very Earth
You are strong, like the barked fortress of a enduring old-oak
And yet…
Photo by Derek Mack on Unsplash Like the lightest breeze playing across a dew-kissed meadow
You are gentle, like the drifting of a ruby sunset below the flung horizon
And yet…
Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash Like the lashing touch of a storm battering all within its flailing grasp
A spark
a million volts
for a split second
If the spark lands just right
it kindles a tiny flame
Hot but flickering
Should you gentle cradle this flame
unafraid of being burned
It will resist when it would be doused
If you feed this flame
it will grow explosively into a fire
A conflagration that consumes and ignites
Should you survive the fire as it dies
you will be left with smouldering embers
Most roses are tamed, claiming only a veneer of beauty. But some are wild and free. And all the more beautiful for it.
Wild roses wear crowns of thorns. They are beautiful and dangerous.
Wild roses are hardy, enduring plants. They are strong and tenacious.
Wild roses are the brightflowers among sprawling tangles of thorns. They shine bright against the Dark.
Soft petals, strong thorns. Soft heart, strong will. You are my wild rose.
I previously described in my fucking feelings the pivot point of my life to date.
The knife through the heart about which I spin, if you will.
Whether discovery or reformation, that experience and those adjacent changed me fundamentally. It was a exemplar case of what is becoming, for better or worse³, my brand. Perfectly Awful.
Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong person.
Wrong relationship.
So very wrong that…
…
…
I live in the present. What else can I do, when I have no memory.
Look to the future? Psh. I am indeed prone to daydreaming about what *might be *but there’s no inherent danger in that. Not while I keep it in check.
No. My problem is clinging to the present. Not to the past, to the present.
I do not give up that which I have. Not without a fight.
Fluttering in the edgewise gap between this world and the fantasy realm
Quivering ominously on gauzy nebula-wings they chitter wordlessly
They are the dreameater moths
Nibbling holes in aspirations, chewing up hopes
Warbling all the while
Half-eaten ambitions, devoured desires
They feast, and they sing
Consuming delusion and delight alike
Strange songs, these make — strange songs from strange beasts
They are the dreameater moths
Protect yours from them
One of the reasons I’m so damn good at living for the present is that I can’t remember the past.
The instant a moment is gone it blurs, out of focus. Then it fades into the blackness. I can’t remember the mundane — what I had for lunch the other day, what movies I watched last week. Nor can I remember the special — the first kiss, the last heartbreak. It’s all gone.
The Edge is that which lights. That which sets the blood pumping. That which sparks the soul.
The Edge is the edge between life and death.
Chasing the Edge leads to the Rush.
The Rush is the fire lit from the Edge. The thump of heart pumping at the Edge. The blaze of soul sparked at the Edge.
The Rush is adrenaline, nothing more — nothing less.
It is also the only way I know how to Live.