Down the hall

The hall was hot

with a fiery glow,

great wafts of smoky air

swept towards me with mighty blows.

 

I knew what awaited,

how could I not

have heard of the beast

who occupied this spot?

 

 

Staring at me

through the door’s seam,

I saw two green, glowing eyes

and wings cramped against the beams.

 

My hand shook

as I reached for the knob,

after all, a dragon’s breath

could reduce me to a messy blob.

 

But a beast

shouldn’t be trapped

just because some people think

it’ll eat them for a snack.

 

Bravely, I opened the door,

overcoming my fear

as I stepped right into

its tiny, sparse lair.

 

I braced myself for the worse,

yet the dragon shied away from me.

Then I saw the chain around its legs.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ll set you free!’

Magic!

I have a ball of magic,

right here in my hand,

and if I wish upon it,

I can create enormous

dunes of sand.

 

Or whole fields of vibrant poppies

that wave to me in the wind,

and I can even make a robot

by magicking together

my collection of used tins.

 

Sometimes I sit and wonder,

‘What do I have this power for?’

Then a flood of ideas fill my head

and all I can think of

is creating more!

 

A pensive hound

Snug and warm,

a mass of fluffy black fur

to rest my head against;

my bright-eyed, wet-nosed mentor

lounging in the shade

behind discarded tins of fence paint.

 

A lolling tongue

hangs from her mouth

as she looks up at the sky,

watching a flock of birds ark and swoop,

they dip their wings to her

as they pass by.

 

All potted up

I have a little seedling,

it’s just sprouted green leaves,

it waves about in the wind

and makes our cat sneeze.

 

I want to give it a home,

so I’ve found a neat brown pot

and filled it with earth

all the way to the top.

 

I’ll make a small hole

using an old lollipop stick

and put my seedling in it

so the stem grows nice and thick.

 

Then for the important bit,

I’ll need to give it a drink.

I heard rainwater’s best,

not just water from the sink.

 

After that, I’ll have to wait

and care for it with love,

only then will it flower

from its tender buds.

 

 

The Personal Rejection: Backhanded Compliment of Publishing

A Writer's Path

by John Briggs

There are two types of rejection letters – the dreaded form letter and the personal rejection letter. The former is just what it sounds like—the one that editors and agents send to dozens, if not hundreds of authors every year that says, with very little subtext, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The personal letter, of course, says, with very little subtext, “We’re sorry, thanks, but no thanks.”

Actually, that’s a bit unfair to the personal rejection letter. Some are effusive in their praise. Gushing even. But for whatever reason, they can’t publish or represent your hard work.

View original post 537 more words

The Pirate King

Riding along

the rushing seas,

sword in hand,

the Pirate King steals

everything he sees.

 

He doesn’t care

whose jewels he takes,

he bundles them up

and locks them away,

careful that none are fake.

 

He takes the gold

from foreign ships

along with bottled spices,

piles of dyed silks

and fruit from exotic pips.

 

He dances ahead of those

who would capture him,

they can’t keep up,

even with full sail

their chances are slim.

 

Forever and always

he’ll sail the ocean,

fighting off enemies

and plundering islands

for wonderous tokens.