The Aspiring Bard

I The shadow play Of yesterday Upon this Morning's wall, Reminded me Of what could be But never was, At all. II A timid Twilight pattern Is my soul: Forever torn Amidst Dividing ways. My shining Glory moment Never comes But shadow dance Foretells The rising sun. III When morning lifts The gentle veil Of night - Where all my fears Were briefly soothed To rest - It shows a brand-new page With lines uninked And written on the wall A word: 'Redeemed'.

This little story's been sitting patiently in my drafts folder for close to year now, waiting for the finishing touches. Many thanks to the handful of folks who read over it and offered some suggestions for sprucing it up a bit.  Maybe it's still not everything I'd like for it to be, but I feel like it's at least presentable. source unknown - Fairweather Blue - "Abigail! Are you wasting water again?"   "No, Mama." I fumbled, one-handed with the stubborn metal lever while water overflowed the edges of my cup and splattered to the tile floor.   "Here." Mama's hand closed over mine, shoving the lever back into place. "You oughtn't to waste, Abby. Sweet water is money." Several drops plinked slowly from the piping in steady punctuation of her words. "One, two, three," she counted them, "that's coppers down the drain. They bring it from inland and you know how we all must pay!”  ...

The results of semi-industrious writing during the month of May...in which my poor main character gets stuffed into yet another tiny space. Enjoy! -- “Well, to be perfectly honest, ‘twas your cooking. I pictured to myself the long days of slow starvation. The burnt eggs, the flapjacks, the general blackness of it all.” -- -- [ He ] was handsome in an ordinary way, with features that were good, but not remarkable. He was small and slight, with hazel eyes and long-fingered hands that were both in constant, restless motion; an entirely forgettable man who seemed slightly anxious not to be forgotten. -- “So this is the stuff of legend.” The man commented. Thatch shifted a non-committal shoulder. “More or less.” -- “So we stay with the plan?” I frowned, remembering how sternly Thatch had insisted that I let him do all the talking, at least at first. He shrugged. “Let’s just hope that our enemy’s enemy actually is our friend. And, yes, I see no reason ...