Welcome to my Literature thread, which will include poetry, short stories and any other literature method that I decide to experiment with. Newest at the top.


Inventing The Story:
A short story I did for a magazine I read, in which I continue a passage from Paul Stewart and Chris Riddel's Wyrmeweald-Returner's Welath.

ĎMicah stared down at the corpse. The youth prodded the body tentatively with the tip of his boot. His toes, poking up through split bootleather, grazed the hard nubbed ribs of the dead manís side. He shoved a boot-toe into the shadowed hollow of the stomach, braced his legs and rolled the body over.

Suddenly, from far above his head, he heard keening cries, and he squinted up to see the black shapes against the high sun, wheeling round in the sky. He turned his attention to the second boot, awkward fingers fumbling with the lace, and tugging hard. Glancing up as it came free, he could make out the jagged wings of the carrionwyrmes now as they wheeled round lower, their rapier claws and hackdagger teeth glinting. Kicking his own boots hurriedly aside, he pulled the new ones onto his feet, first one, then the other, and knotted them tightly, then jumped to his feet - just as the first of the carrionwyrmes landed.í


The carrionwyrmes carried a stench of mouldy eggs on their ragged robes. Their eyes glinted with hunger as they strode towards Micah. Eyes wide, Micah clutched the sword hanging from his trousers and swung it upwards in a brilliant arc.
The first carrionwyrme was writhing on the floor, sticky blood oozing all over its body before Micah had time to even finish his strike, but there were many more. Micah fought on, gracefully, but it seemed there were three more to replace every one he incapacitated.
Micah lasted about thirty seconds. Then he was overwhelmed.
They were pinching his skin with razor sharp claws, cackling. Blood trickling out of their mouths as their eyes screamed murder. Tears streamed down Micahís face as he bellowed for help.
Then, an arrow shot from inside the forest, striking the nearest carrionwyrme in the neck. It slid to the ground, screeching. Five more arrows followed the previous oneís path, each hitting their own, separate target in the neck. Micah now had space to fight, so he plunged his sword into the nearest beastís back, though there was no need, a final burst of arrows emptied the battlefield of opposition.
Micah stared about, dazed, for his saviour, but saw nothing except flashing lights, flickering before his eyes. He muttered a quick thank you to the Gods before he blacked out.

Awaiting
A poem that I wrote with no theme, just making it up as I went along:
They conjure a world of misfortune,
Or a land of happy endings,
A universe of opportunity,
Awaiting your touch

Refined to the point of magnificence,
Without a missing detail,
The definition of infinity,
Awaiting your touch

A stormy sea journey,
A trip to the moon,
The portal leading to adventure,
Awaiting your touch

They have no Gods,
For they are Gods themselves,
Books,


Awaiting your touch

With & Without
As I age, so do they,
Collecting memories, as we travel,
Like old photographs,
Collecting dust,

None of us leads,
None of us follows,
We are equals,

We are twins, triplets, brothers and sisters,
We are nothing without each other,
But an unstoppable army together:

My Super-Duper, Fun-Loving, Action Hero, Wicked FRIENDS!
I couldnít choose a favourite,
Any more than a mother could pick her favourite child,

But if I aged without their love,
If memories were better off forgotten,
Rather than reliving the horrors of the past,

If Iíd try to lead,
Or maybe follow,
But end up on my own,

If Iíd see twins, triplets, brothers, sisters.
That would be when Iíd realise Iíd be nothing, if I had no one.
Because sometimes we take them for granted:

Our Super-Duper, Fun-Loving, Action Hero, Wicked FRIENDS!