Tag: creative writing
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My short story that didn’t win Vocal’s Little Black Book short story competition [Mrs Brizzi’s Fish Dinner]
![My short story that didn’t win Vocal’s Little Black Book short story competition [Mrs Brizzi’s Fish Dinner]](https://whalebeings.files.wordpress.com/2021/03/pexels-photo-3838285.jpeg?w=1024)
This week I’ve successfully not won TWO writing competitions! First the National Poetry Competition, and now the Vocal Little Black Book short story competition sponsored by Moleskine notebooks. This blog is turning into a graveyard of my failures. The first prize was a whopping $20,000 and to be quite frank, I’ve been daydreaming about that […]
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Watch me awkwardly read my poem, which didn’t win the National Poetry Competition 2021
Uvita River Dirt I wrote this in March 2020 🙂 I’ve also, embarrassingly, recorded myself reading my failed National Poetry Competition entry out loud, in case you’d rather watch me stumble over my words than read it yourself. Disclaimer: I’m wearing an inappropriately see-through leopardskin leotard because this is my lockdown uniform. It’s not something […]
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Until Five [fiction]
![Until Five [fiction]](https://whalebeings.files.wordpress.com/2020/12/d5283-sever-3100049_1920.jpg?w=1024)
The below is a very, very short story I named ‘Until Five’. I kind of like it in a bleak sort of way and I doubt I’ll ever do anything with it, so that’s why I’m posting it here. Until Five One of my legs feels fuzzy against the other, like a kiwi. I can’t […]
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Take your work seriously, not yourself
I don’t know why I was so nervous about going to the writer’s workshop last night but I really, really was. It seems that all of life is a succession of scary things we have to make ourselves do. What I find ‘scary’ changes day-to-day and is largely dependent on what mood I’m in. Sometimes […]
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Why can’t I be on permanent holiday, and other thoughts
Last week I spent five and a half days in the rural Languedoc Roussillon region of France at the house my grandparents have spent 27 summers restoring from a ruin.Â
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Story opening – city lights
Jack Morke wanted a whisky. He’d never particularly wanted a whisky before, but now he wanted one more than anything. Preferably in one of those round weighted tumblers with big ice cubes that rattled against the sides. Men drank whisky. Men with problems. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.
whalebeings 