Autumn Night

The moon was full and the wind was wild as the tree-tops rustled.

The streetlights gave a faint glow from the dark leaves that encompassed them.

Black blotches of their shadows danced on the pavement,

Softly

Hard

until they were still – like a painting on the ground.

There’s magic during nights like these – it’s the reason why the wind blows so hard.

Everything that isn’t supposed to be stirs to life

All at once.

A writer’s doubt

Procrastinating is a filthy word but a common one, we all do it, especially when you can’t get it right. I get scared to continue because I don’t want to face my inequities, that’s my excuse anyway, that’s what keeps me from writing.

And who can blame me? I have so many ideas to realise but I have finished none, no books anyway… Maybe I can’t? Maybe short fiction is for me and books are beyond my grasp? Perhaps scripts are better, they are easier, right? I don’t know… I’ve worked on too many stories for too long only to turn them away again and again. My instincts is all I can trust But what if my instincts are wrong? What can I put trust in then?

Perhaps I’m not listening well enough or not as often…

A creative mind is borderline insane, they say. We decided what’s true, where the border is. Maybe I’ll get it some day, but for the moment, I’ll stay glued to the screen with a warm cup of tea in my hands until I build enough courage to continue.

I just want it to be fun again

Procrastinate 

I’m sitting at a cafe reading one of my stories when a fly landed beside me. There was nothing particularly special about this fly, maybe it was a bit more colourful than I was used to, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It acted like a typical fly, cleaning itself with its front legs rigorously while staring at the window trying to figure out why it can’t fly through it. It must have found a solution, or maybe it got inpatient because it dashed right into the window and landed back on the table again, next to my computer. 

It started cleaning itself again, the wings this time. It doesn’t look unclean and I wonder if he really needs to groom itself all the time or if it is just an instinct whenever it is idle. Why do they clean themselves with their feet, it’s the dirtiest part of their body, surely? But then again, I don’t know anything about flies. It made another dash at the window, unsuccessfully and landed this time on my shoulder. It started cleaning itself again, furiously.

I did not swat the fly. Instead I let it be as I walked out from the cafe and waited until it realised it was free and I wondered if I should go back to reading again.

Talk to me on Twitter if you want – most of my short, brain-stormy, ideas happen over there.

Characters Rebel

I’m a very, in the now, kind of guy.

I hate to think about the plot, on what has happened and what will happen.

I much rather let the story take me on a ride.

The characters do what they want anyway.

They have no obligation to follow your command.

If you try to force them, they’ll just rebel and ruin the story.

You never know your characters until the end

There’s no point trying.

Ignition of Change – Poem

A story is nothing but the preparation of change.

How to reach this point sets the road ahead.

The writer must find this road and not steer from it.

We don’t know the characters in our minds but in our hearts.

At the end of the road they’ll be known in our minds too.

It is then when the writer shines.


© Christopher Stamfors

Cloud of Doubt – Poem

What we want and what we need

are two different things

Things with purpose,

Oftan striving towards a goal,

Things that help us reach said goal

With purpose we make.

But with purpose comes needs,

Things that are more important than others

More difficult.

We tend to avoid them

Waste the day away at things that are numbing,

Without purpose

unimportant.

Do we need it?

Do we want it?

Questions asked in futility

For we already know them,

Yet we avoid them.

Our true purpose hidden

In a cloud of doubt


© Christopher Stamfors

Desert Ocean – Poem

Waves of the desert, dunes rising high, they are the bridges across the empty stretches, of the land where nothing survive.

But across this empty land, there lie riches abundant, foreign lands who yearn our wares.

We are are the people of the forest, where the goddess shed her tears.

Good coin is to be had in things we find most common, gifts by the goddess which foreigners would do anything to get their hands on. 

Yet the strait between is vast, and it’s too soon to count our fortune, much can go wrong when riding the waves of torture.

Carry us high, Oh dunes of the dry land, the fair golden grain that are harsh and coarse, the deadly wind which we must put our faith in, we, our lives are at Death’s door.


© Christopher Stamfors

If you liked this you might like Invisible Touch

Hypocrisy – Poem

Fair winds blow on my back

I shout and my voice carries far

Everyone can hear it

Everyone can tell me I am wrong

How bad I am

*

The world is simple

Only two voices can be heard

Opposite of mind

One is right and the other is wrong

Nothing is diverse.

Most is interchangeable

And everything is convoluted.


© Christopher Stamfors