The New Planet by Ben Taylor (Age 11) My name is Trevor Johnson, I have achieved wondrous things in my life as an Astronomer and ‘Hung…
Ben Taylor (my 11 year old son) wrote this narrative for a school assignment , he was wanting to get a bit of a rise out of his female teacher. Obviously a very cheeky boy sometimes…anyhoo I thought his story was so good, i just wanted to share it with everyone. I’m just sooo proud of this boy!! Disclaimer – Ben has nothing against transvestites, prostitutes or women and this story is not meant to offend anyone of any gender, race, religion or way of life
“Hello” / “Hello Miss.” / “Dee?” / “Yes Miss?” / “Can you open t…
This is a longer term story, this here is the first part, / the prologue will continue after this.
Other commenters found it ‘beautiful’, and ‘wonderful’, and ‘gorgeous’. I saw something altogether different.
Inspired by this photo. Many thanks to Kitsmumma for the opportunity to offer a very different interpretation. / Other commenters found it ‘beautiful’, and ‘wonderful’, and ‘gorgeous’. I saw something altogether different.
“You’re a bastard, John; I hope you rot in hell for what you’ve done to this family get out of my house and never come back.”
I wrote this short story (purely fiction I must add) a couple of years ago. It is a little longer than the collaborations I have been doing with other artists lately but if you like my work you may just like this. It has a theme running through it which you’ll recognise so I won’t spoil it for you here. Just read it with an open mind and enjoy it and if you want to comment on it after please feel free to. I do so appreciate what you have to say and want to thank you for taking the time to read it. / Anthony Hedger
He waited at the train station / A very long time / A little nervous / But he was looking fine Under his arm / A bottle of Pinot Grigiot ...
Thank you Vulcan! Please check out Vulcan’s other awesome artwork on the RB vulcan
In the middle of the kitchen this raggedy writhing mess
Drovers saga continues!
On the very western edge of the Simpson Desert is Old Andado Station. This historical site, now holds a heritage listing. / Image: Old An…
Scream like you’ve just been born
This is a longer term story. The character Dee, has just been made.
My first written work here.
wrapped in this old overcoat of dreams / steel cables locking up my heart
But Baby / It’s tearing me apart / Baby, / All I got was a broken heart.
My ‘Love of my life’ took me all the way across the country and then split up with me. He then put me on the bus back home. Sometimes when I sit at the bus station I used to think of him. Until I wrote this. Poetry is such great therapy.
The coach before mine / Was headed for Bialystock. / Celestial on their concrete rafters, pigeons / Stolid as bolts, or gunmetal, / Nattered…
A sort of elegy for what was won, treasured, and lost.
I was sure that every deadly creature on earth were all coming out of their hidey holes to get me in their waist deep home.
Growing up adventure.
Never be still with a woman.
Real poetry Written on a train whilst traveling from Newport Wales to Bristol Temple Meads.
NOT ANOTHER CHANCE FOR THAT VIEW IN THE REMAINING PORTION OF MY LIFE, THAT’S FOR SURE.
THE NIGHT THE SPACE STATION PASSED JUST TO THE LEFT SIDE OF THE PLANET VENUS AND I DIDN’T HAVE MY CAMERA SET UP TO TAKE THE SHOT.
!http://images-1.redbubble.net/img/art/border:blackwithdetail/product:laminated-print/size:small/view:preview/2587115-2-the-old-train-sta…
Subway station / on morning perfumes / on evening – smells.
Train station / the ballet of the cleaning machine / around the sleepy tramp.
Railway station platform - / in the old lady’s bag / a cuddly bear.
Seven-O-Two I like to listen to Seven O Two at night / We can always count on Kiemo for a fight / If he was President for a day / He woul…
WHEN BOBBY TURNED sixteen, his mom took him to a psychiatrist. He was a restless young man, growing between divorced parents and his gran…
A true story from the early youth of a future sci-fi writer and space artist. How an unnecessary visitation to a psychiatrist’s office can changed one’s life, when destiny is at the wheel ;-)
A dark, shadowy figure ensconced at a corner table scanned the activity around the bar, then shook its head.
The Station is a place somewhere outside of normal space and time. A bar, a hang out and many other things. Characters collect there when their authors aren’t writing about them.
Brisk evening turns to chilled night, and the brilliant hues of sunset are lost in ink black. The haze and clouds from the power stations…
A prose piece based on collected memories from the four years in which I resided in the Latrobe Valley, Victoria, Australia. We were lonely and not particularly well-off, but took pleasure in the simple things – like packing the baby in a pram and visiting the local petrol station, where we would buy a bag of chips or an ice cream.
On foothill of Himalayas Range, / Queen of Indian hill-stations, / Fairyland atmosphere, / With hugging spiral roads / Ascending to peak,...
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