Clouds of smoke rose from an old wooden house at the corner of a deserted street. It was but by some devise of fate that Miss Daisy happened to stroll past the street at the hour she should have been reading by the firelight in the comforts of her house. Her widened eyes saw the rising smoke from a distance. Down fell the shawl she had carelessly thrown over her shoulders, down fell her treasured copy of Les Misérables. She ran hurriedly with one hand on her hat which threatened to fly over her head.
She had passed by the house on previous occasions, she had heard of the solitary occupant of the house, but she had never seen him. In that house lived a mad man, or so had she heard the mouths speak. Continue reading →
Young Sir Maxwell was not mad. But his wild, unkempt appearance, his catastrophic speech mingled with nonsensical phonetic sounds and his wilful forgetfulness of days and months, and occasionally even of years, often stated contrariwise.
The laboratory in which he spent many a happy hour was his refuge. If it were possible, he would never step out of it even for a moment; for in there the planet stopped its spin. He became the master and creator of this divine play of life. Out in the world beyond the door of his laboratory were lighted streets with men and women holding hands and stealing kisses. There were galleries bejewelled with delicately painted art where rosy lips had rosy reviews. There were lavish dinners in shining silver and wine and dancing and merrymaking. And there he found himself a stranger; which poetically- he was placed, as though by some error of fate, in an unfortunate era; which in profound words was- a man’s existence removed from the existing world; that which was in the uncouth- the mad scientist. Continue reading →
There is a place near the clouds, near a dream, near love. A place where blind cupid learns archery and the poets learn their rhymes. A place that knows neither the sorrow of yesterday nor the worry of tomorrow. Today is all that there is.
Will you go with me then, if I take your hand?
I have drowned in sweet romance all summer long. In the pages of novels and in the stacked yellowing letters. Then summer flew past me Continue reading →
Is it necessary for an artist to know why he paints, or a ballerina to know why she is possessed by a passion to ballet? Need a nightingale know why she serenades the sleeping world or the moon understand why he is enraptured by the blue earth, around which he revolves day and night, yet never dares to embrace her for the fear they will collide and die?
There is no want in them to fathom the mystery of those passions that are beyond comprehension.
Then must a lowly writer such as I question why I write?
I know not.
And yet, when the night is starless and witchy, when all is lonesome like a solitary wolf weeping under the moon, when the world is so silent that I can hear the pencil moving against paper, I seek answers…
…to understand why of all the noble trades there are, of the endless streams of possibilities, I picked up the quill and chose to be a writer.