ThunderStorm

In my recent foray into literature, I was introduced by a lecturer to the works of Geoffrey Hill. In articles, Hill was stated as the greatest modern poet alive. Sad to say, he passed away in 2016. R.I.P. When I read some of his poetry, I immediately felt the soul of a kindred spirit. Hill was known to be a man who struggled with depression and the lack of confidence in penning down his thoughts. He seemed like a perfectionist who would not be satisfied with his poetry until he found the precise words to pen down. His fear of making mistakes prevented him from publishing more poetry in his youth, but for some untold reason, he was unshackled from his fear in his later years and plenty of poems were published. What discovery did he make that enabled him to blossom? Was it a renewed purpose and faith in God? I hope so. However, it is regrettable that his poems make it difficult to infer Hill's stance regarding his personal beliefs. In his interviews, he seemed more interested i...

While correcting a pupil's work, I ended up writing a paragraph of my own. I sprinted past several eggshell-coloured blocks of flats,  sidestepped past startled onlookers at the bus stop before dashing through the dull green metal gates. With my heart pounding in my chest, I plopped myself down onto my seat, next to Ben, my best friend. With a plump face and mouth agape, he started at me with incredulous awe. "Are you crazy, Sam? Why are you so late for the exam?" he mouthed. Before I could respond, the school bell rang. "You may begin," the teacher said. Oh boy.

Originally written for my fan fiction profile at  https://www.fanfiction.net/u/390950/eXtreme-eVolution [Gruumm's lair, 2025] Gruumm: The end is near. I will destroy SPD from within. Meanwhile... [SPD HQ, 2025] Cruger: B-Squad, a job well done. However, challenges lie ahead and this is only the beginning. Bridge: Uh, Sir, I'm sensing Gruumm's thoughts. He's going to destroy SPD from within... There's a traitor in our midst- Cruger: Damn it! Jack: Is anything wrong, Sir? Cruger: (suspiciously) Uh, nothing. Just a furball. Sydney: I thought Kat's the one with furballs. (Cruger growls) Z: (whispers) Can it, Syd, before Cruger goes canine on you. Sky: So, who do think the traitor is? Bridge: It's not me, is it? At least I think it isn't me, because if I'm me but not me, then who am I?... Cruger: (thinking) Suckers. [Dino Lair, 2004] Kira: (suspiciously) What are you guys doing? Conner: (innocently) Uh, nothing. Ethan...

Ten Indisputable Signs That You’re a Writer I agree with most of the signs. As much as I love writing, I have come to the stage in life when I know there's a difference between fantasy and reality. There will be up sides and down sides in every career. Even the most glamorous job will have its rough patches. I might or might not become a full-fledged writer in the future, but even if I do become one someday, I may eventually discover the difficulties a writer faces with all the finances, editing, promoting, publishing, etc. and may even abandon my dreams because of the challenges. For now, I will make the best out of what I have now. Should I be deemed incapable and be shown the door, I shall set out without regrets and explore a new future that awaits.

While sifting through my accumulated homework from eons ago, I found a collection of my compositions and unfinished work. Feel free to use them as writing prompts, but please leave some credit. Thank you. For more stories, visit  my fiction writings  or my fan fiction stories . 9 March 1999      One starry night, James was lying on his favourite bed near the window where he loved to count the stars to sleep. While he was counting the stars, a flash of light flashed across the dark sky which got his attention.      He clambered down his bed, ran into his sister's room and woke his sister up. He told his sister about the light and how mysterious it was. As a curious person, he persuaded his sister to follow him to investigate. They tip-toed out of their room and out of their house. They crept behind a bush to see what was going on. They saw... TO BE CONTINUED BY YOU. << Warning: Rated for violence and gore. Ages 15+. >>

I'm eager to write, but having no idea whatsoever, have decided to spam hit the keyboard and then type whatever words I can think off. Here we go. cdbheocheoccugvctyfycvdcgivfdcvytcvdbclbeuiowoefyvcdsyicfc Cadaverous is he, o cello that occupies gratifying cover that gives off the curvy talcum Vader because le beau is without fiver condescension. Terrific. nf764fiv0nurnvjbbfsewkmoqopmgdjbuxgtjbsdyciDVWRWWFRNGJIB And for 764 fifths of nun never jabbing for stew, kimonos go plumbing the buxom go-to jobs deciding DENVER WAR OF WORLD WRESTLING FEDERATION RUNNING FROM JIB. I'm going to bed now.

Writing prompt #1: Pick a word or phrase at random, let mind play freely around it until a few ideas have come up, then seize on one and begin to write. Try this with a non-connotative word, like "so" etc. Freely the eagle soars without a care in the world, above the mountains, riding the up-drafts that race across and sweep the sky. The clouds tuck the lofty snow caps in their lush wool. As breathtaking as the scene is, the eagle has to keep moving, for the attractive rose has its icy thorns, piercing the skin and sinking deeper beneath.

Writing prompt #36: Work with a number of objects, moving them around on a field or surface-describe their shifting relationships, resonance's, associations. Or, write a series of poems that have only to do with what you see in the place where you most often write. Or, write a poem in each room of your house or apartment. Experiment with doing this in the home you grew up in, if possible. Everything reclines in their positions in the study. A massage roller lying unused. The coffee cup, unwashed since time long forgotten, brown with stains, a silver spoon tucked inconspicuously into its depths. A mountain heap of bags strewn across the floor, like the bottom of a tree on Christmas, gathering dust, their contents unknown. Piles of broken printers, conveniently placed aside and replaced by the next new printer, garnering the jealousy of its peers. Shelves filled to the brim, yellowed books and flyers stacked on top of each other. Other assortments of shelves filled with a queer mix...

Writing prompt #17: Experiment with writing in every person and tense every day. Attempt #1: First person; present & future tense The musically-timed rap on the door signals the return of the stocky old man, only to raise suspicion when nobody attends to the door. As if in a little dance, the old man's finger lifts and falls, flitting near a round little button, hovers, then squarely misses. He tries again and lady luck greets him with a joyful tune buzzing as he succeeds. No answer. He knocks the door louder and with more urgency in its tone. The pudgy old man, with large round dark stains under his arms, drenched in a nauseating stench, curses loudly in a slurred stupor. He resorts to slamming the brown hardwood with meaty fists, kicking to punctuate his anger. << Warning: Mature content; ages 18+ >>