Tag: Creative Writing

Pour

For always
Never important
Never priority
Subordinate
Subprime
Back burner
Bottom of the list
I’ll grab hold
Take responsibility
Accountability
Hold space
The short straw
Give time; life; my life
They need time
Time to decide
Time to process
Time to grow
Time to transmit data
I’ll wait in line—
Be quiet
Patient
Cradled in shadows
With the stone on my throat
Making silent melody with the stab in my belly
I feel it, no one need see
Been well trained to hold my breath anyway
With my head shoved under water  
A well-conditioned good fucking girl
Like my parents taught me
Everyone and everything else first
I’ll make the calls
Reply to the letters
Sweep crumbs
Stitch the damage—
I’m handy with a needle ‘n’ thread
Make the appointments
Make the sacrifices
Oh, you need to change that? No problem (just mine, and the inconvenience)
No passive aggression, it’s just that thing they say—it is what it is, right?
I have an abundance of acceptance
Another letter through the mailbox
Hits the floor with a thud
Cracks the concrete
They want more blood
To be sure? Another vile
Chemical markers spelling suspicion in code
I’ve to chase another system
While smiling reassuring to a stranger
‘I’ll take care of you’
Natalie, was it? No, Nicola
Sure, my name doesn’t matter either
I’ll wait again
Until doors open
Queues thieve more time
Window B for blood
More waiting in line
Another process
Chasing a letter they’ll claim not to have—
Again
Like that text—
It all feels the same
More blood
More time
More life (mine)
And I remember the lover who gifted their blood to me—
That was a far gone yesterday
The eyes lied like love does
Those are running out
I’m drowning
I’ll continue to tread water
Like those eggshells
Cutting my soul 
I should have fucking gills by now 
From all the slices
The little fishes gnaw
We’re intimately acquainted 
Maybe I’d feel lonely if they weren’t pulling
Little chunks from my flesh
It tickles when they tear skin
With tiny pinching teeth—
I laugh - nervous - must be fine 
How could I ever be alone
With them there
Grazing my ribs, 
Drawing blood that colours the ocean
I’m filling up the tub
Making rainbows
And watching stars die.
It’s ok; it’s always ok; or is that fine?
—The fine line.
I don’t need a thing. 
Why am I here again?
Not sure it was printed in the letter.
Dying to be free
Maybe that’s the missing line. 
A conclusion
Because I should have said something sooner, right?

Brazen Folk Horror Check in

Beltane rolled in with storms, humidity, hot and cold fronts colliding, fires, droughts, floods, and even a sinkhole! Literal and metaphorical …

Brazen Folk Horror Check in

Blip

I met you before
You wore another face
Another body 
Same eyes that sparkle and die instantaneously
Warm love and cold hate fight to dominate 
The soul fractured as hammered bones and rusted nails
I’m drawn to broken things; my reckless heart hurts with the need to lessen the pain.
Abandoned, I’m magnetised, hypnotised, bewitched
With everything to lose and nothing to gain
I’ll stab myself with all your broken pieces
You don’t notice the blood
You offer life and death in one smooth blink 
Crimson reflections are of your face and hate
You play at more than you can give
Loveless devil of the dying heart
Your air is a replica 
Like a vacuum in the presence
My mouth is dry
I can’t think straight.
There’s dewdrops on the blades and never Enough to quench 
You’re never enough
I’m always left dying of drouth
Chasing the desert for a spring 
I’ve known you before
I see how this plays out
Blood pools around my feet
You stand before me with a cool glass of water
A mirage of “I don’t lie.”
The “don’t” is silent
Your glass beyond reach of my parched lips—with those eyes of love-hate bemused.
It’s a filter
A lame game 
I crave your touch like air
My skin is screaming
And I’ll die without it
All lies, and I made them
The drops of poisoned water
From a loveless lover
And you’ll fast forget my name
Player Boy and Cowboy—just the same
They love themselves and their toys
Fed from temporary validations
The ego always needs another hit
Obsessively compulsively dismiss and onto the next
Nothing sticks
Just a posed picture 
There’s nothing else inside
Built up from superficial shit
Station your play
This time, I’ll stay away.

Another Old Building

What a building.

I walked by this building daily for several years. It was in use then. Recently, I’ve been walking that old route that takes me through Elmbank Street and even on a bright day, it’s chilling to see it like this. This building is another stunning piece of architecture designed by 19th-century architect Charles Wilson. I’ve written a little about him before, in that he also designed (among many other landmarks around Glasgow) the entrance to Glasgow’s Southern Necropolis, which formed the stage for my urban horror short, City of the Dead.

This building was originally the home of a private school, Glasgow Academy, from 1846. When The Academy moved to the west of the city, it then housed The High School (the oldest school in Glasgow, established in 1460) until 1976. It has since been used as council offices and by the police and is now empty. The most recent proposal I read was that it’s under bid to undergo a 20 million pound transformation into a hotel and wedding venue. Hopefully, this old piece of history will get its new lease of life in the city. It’s sad to see it looking so abandoned amidst the changing dynamics as modern steel beams and glass-faced builds tower around her.

Art or Blood

When I become entangled viewing a piece of art, enraptured by the skilful technique and inspired by the story being depicted, through the palate, the stroke of the instrument, the shapes, the words, I don’t much consider the artist—at least not at first.

If art speaks to me, at that moment, that’s all that matters.

I cannot get on board with this peculiar demand for so-called diversity by being selective of the artists’ personal attributes before viewing the art. Let art speak up for itself. Separate the creation from the creator, just for a bit. An artist’s nationality, sex, sexuality, gender, health, colour, heritage, politics, experiences, age, family and all else has nothing to do with the viewer unless they choose to share it.

The demand for artists to expose themselves so consumers can feel good about being selectively diverse should stop. And no, I’m not what ‘they’ think I am either—as a writer and artist, I could expose and exploit personal details for targeted diversity marketing, as too many seem to do at this strange juncture. But, not everything is for sale. I don’t offer my body and who I am for vultures to peck to the bone. I’m not for sale; my books and art are.

Want to diversify the art being consumed?

Step outside your comfort genres, go to an exhibit ‘just because’, grab a book because you’ve never heard of the author or publisher, or because the cover’s texture made you want to run your hands all over it, or because it had that ‘read me’ smell.

Enjoy the art without baying for the artists’ blood.

Exposure or Taking Advantage

There is an increasing expectation for free art (visual and written) in exchange for (often mythical) exposure. Hell, I’ve been asked for it. And in early people-pleasing naivety, I’ve done it. Now, with a fair bit of experience, I have to ask (as should you if approached),

dae a look like a’m buttoned up the back?

How can one claim to value and support artists, yet expect to be given it (often to sell) for free?

This work in exchange for exposure does not support artists; it takes advantage of them. Any business that collects work from artists in such a manner is highly suspect. If the exposure is so good, they should be able to pay for the work, right?

Those who seek this exchange don’t value the time and energy it takes to create. They don’t care about the artist or the art if they don’t respect it enough to pay for the crafting of it.

I’ve been asked before (and know many other independent writers and artists get this too) where the best place to buy my work is. The only way to be sure the artist is getting paid is to buy from them directly. It’s always a bit more personal, too.

Call me crazy, but imagine walking into a jewellery store and offering to take away their priciest diamond necklace—saying you’ll wear it to help the store gain ‘exposure’ if they give it to you for free. It is theft.

Asking for (and expecting) work for exposure is creative exploitation of the artist. This is not a professional approach to business. This approach exposes the business as one that lacks integrity or respect for the artist whose work it wants to use to build or prop itself on. This ‘business’ is full of grifters, chancers, shameless swindlers.

Artists work hard, we sacrifice, we lose our minds sometimes, and many of us under charge for the hours and blood we pour in. If you want to be sure the artist is getting paid when you pick up their work, buy direct from them when you can. This way, you can almost be sure no one is in the middle taking advantage or shaving a lump off for doing nothing to actually create the work.

Creativity Under a Blue Moon

On Wednesday, August 30th 2023, we’ll again be treated to the dynamic energies of a powerful “Blue Moon.” The second of two full moons within one …

Creativity Under a Blue Moon

Book II from Brazen Folk Horror

Pre-order yours, and don’t forget to subscribe to #BeBrazen .

Book II from Brazen Folk Horror

Intermission…mostly

From the dust of creative frenzy, there was a little impromptu reading of the prologue from Delevan House by Natasha over in TikTok. Here it is …

Intermission…mostly