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Playing cards

I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.

Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.

Can I really call them qualities?

I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.

The Importance of the Book Pre-Order to Authors

I’ve never considered this. But then, most of the books I’m interested in, I pre-order anyway.

A Writer's Path

by John Briggs

Does it really matter if you order a book online before its official release date? Before its “book birthday” as they say in publishing? Well, maybe not to the reader, who’s happy to get the book they want to read when they want to read it, but pre-orders can make a huge difference to a book’s success.

How does a pre-order change the odds compared to a regular order?

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Just drifting

I have a little boat

made of brown,

overlapping leaves.

As it floats down the steady, gentle stream,

I lie back

and hook

my legs over the side

so my toes

kiss the cool water.

The movement makes a ripple.

The ripple knocks

against my little boat,

lulling me into a soft doze.

I walk in and out of dreams,

drifting along

enjoying the journey,

unconcerned by where

I might end up.

Just like my little boat,

edging on,

unconcerned,

down the stream.

 

The direction of melody

Sometimes a song catches in your head, going back and forth and around and around, like a wheel attached to a giant pendulum. It can lift you up, high enough to bring on fear but lose it at the same time, or it can bring you down, low enough to ground your feet for a moment and rest from the dizziness of the world.  And sometimes it can leave you hovering in mid-air, giving you time to process everything up to that instant. That’s when you have the chance to choose: up, or down?

Always overhead

The umbrella looks down at me, taking in the shape of my head, the faint line of my hair parting and the curve of my neck as I stare at the puddle by my feet. In it, I can see the grey sky clearing. The umbrella’s work is almost done. In fact, the light, misty drops that tickle its top are barely enough to worry about. Yet the umbrella is rooted to my hand. Perhaps, like I once needed it, it now needs me.

Between the hour and the minute

They tied themselves together, linking their hands with an elaborate wrap of solder. It was all for the dance; preparation for the endless twirling and spinning that was set to take place during the sixty seconds between midnight and one minute past. But that minute is never just a minute; to the right people, it is an eternity. They were the right people. They never came back.

Ripples

A ripple in a glass of water

can never leave the glass.

Yet if the glass ever cracks,

the water can push against it,

working away to force an opening.

Even if the gap it makes is only

wide enough for a trickle to escape,

sometimes that trickle is all that’s needed.

Seeping across the table,

weaving its way through discarded cutlery,

crusted salt and pepper pots

and past dusty, fine china plates

to the edge, where droplets form

ready to drip into the dry soil

filling the plant pot below.

The fresh seeds lying in wait

beneath the surface

will finally get

their spark of life.