Posts Tagged ‘Unoriginal’

I think I might write a mystery

I’m going to start out with an(other) unoriginal bit. This is a quote by Thomas B. Macauley.

“And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods?”

And now something that I’ve written.

“The moon rises swift above the tree-topped hills to shine its glowing eye upon the world of man. All are sleeping, safe and sound, as should be. All, that is, but those who have business in the night.
“But what business could drag a man from his bed and pull him out into the dark and the cold and the unknown? Only something foul. Murder is on the night winds. The moan of a death rattle is imminent and the victim knows it.
“The moon’s light falls on a face beneath one of those tall trees. The face is pale and frightened, the owner even more so. Because he knows that he will die this night.”

(Un)Original

 Well, so far on this blog I have posted only content that was 1) original, and 2) written by me before I began the blog. Today, that changes. There is a quote that I read somewhere, I can’t remember where, that has stuck with me.

“Sometimes I think that our society puts too much emphasis on romance, and not enough on love.”

Bear with me if it is not the actual quote, but it’s the best that I can remember. The next piece was written by me a year or so back.

“I decided to write you a song,

but I couldn’t quite find a tune,

and then it got sorta long,

so a poem’ll have to do.

 

But now my rhymes don’t match,

and I’m starting to look the fool,

so I’ll jump right to the catch,

what I’m saying is: I love you!”

 I usually don’t write love poems, but this one came out of nowhere and into my head. I still like it, too. Anyway, the next bit is new. Never before written down or typed or anything!

“I spent my childhood in libraries. Crawling through the stacks and smelling that musty, happy smell of old books was as much part of me as my name or my eye color. I can never get away from the thought of back corners with lonely lamps and desks, at which the curious could spend hours leafing through pages on any subject imaginable. Or, if you were so minded, there were the fictions. Tales of daring rescues and hideous monsters.

“I  was weaned on stories and tall bookshelfs. I was treated to pages and pages of souls poured out on paper as a means of justifying their lives. Or bringing meaning to others’. I shall never, ever be able to forget the libraries. I know that I’ll always yearn for another corner around which to turn, and another, higher shelf to look on for my goal.”