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“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.”
– Dom Helder Camara

To read Camara’s famous ‘Spiral of Violence’ short, go

“Art for art’s sake is an empty phrase. Art for the sake of truth, art for the sake of the good and the beautiful, that is the faith I am searching for.”
– George Sand

Sitting, waiting
For thoughts that never come
Wishing, missing
The dream of you

Forever lying
No longer even trying
Emotionally incapable of crying

Sighing, dying
With each and every breath

Failing to spark any connection, any real interest. Desire is all but gone. Emotions are slow to come.
What has happened?

The words mean nothing to me, bounce off and fall away…

Shy flights of the mind, yet ever expansive. Out of control, hard to even notice. Wishing the pain would return, to spur me on. A push in the back, friendly or otherwise. Needs to be firm, yet gentle at the same time. A conundrum. A habit. A sickness. A weakness. A function. A behaviour. A versatility of wayward thoughts, composed, and diligent. Reckless and ambitious. Careless and loving.

Capable – no, incapable. Unimaginable breakthroughs can happen. Waiting helped nothing.

Expect to see more of them! This blog is currently undergoing Writer’s Block, aka lazyitis. A serious condition that inflicts those commonly associated with reading novels, more than writing stories. This may, or may not, change in the future. The author of this post finds his eyes constantly travelling to this rendezvous, only to return and find out just how long ago it was that he last spilled ink. Oops. To save pride, if anything, I will have to correct this.

All that could be heard was the drip-drip of the tap.

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This is the beginning of a series of ‘quick steps’. These posts will be fast, free writing. Thinking of whatever comes to mind, and immediately typing with no editing. I would be glad to hear your comments. Here’s the first:

I’m trying to survive.

The gravel beneath my feet crunches and shifts as I try to hold firm.

How did I find my self in this position?

The bite of the blade clips my shoulder, taking a lump of me with it.

I struggle with the concept of killing this man before me, as I raise my blade and bring it down.

I kill any hesitation to not bring death, and I strike deep.

Blood spurts, eyes deaden, limbs fall weak.

Gazing down at the dead-man, I wonder what it is I’m doing.


My voice carries faintly, but not a peep answers in this beautiful meadow.

No one hears me.

I breath deep, and feel my jaw loosen.

Hot tears burn my eyes, as my body shakes.

Why, oh why?

I do not feel the bite of the rod in my back, as it strikes.

For I am already dead.

Good evening,

I’ve been pondering over this blog for the past week. The intention was for a gathering of many writers, to commune with one another and spill ink, daily. However, we’re still in the early stages of whatever this may truly turn out to be, so bear with us. I was a little irked at first, when I noticed the blank spots on our Sooty Calendar, but it’s not a worry. I’m not ambivalent towards this project, just relaxed.

At the start of the week, I was filled with a mad urge to post-post-post, but that goes against my natural state of mind. And besides, the original idea from Veriel was for this to be my blog alone, so, it’s not like low activity was unprecedented. I don’t want to push people into joining, nor do I want to pester others to write something for Footprints.

We forget most of all, that what we do isn’t supposed to be work. Writing is meant to be fun. Though writing under duress can be kind of cool, sometimes.

It is known. 😉

P.S. As we leave November swiftly behind, and lead into December, our final month of the year, I want to make December a special one. And keep this nice and full over the holidays. Everyone can use a little light reading, especially during times of inner turmoil, as a lot go through in this hectic period.

May you dampen a few pages with your ink. 😀

I have only been writing in dabs, here and there, really, over the past few days. This is the most constructive piece I’ve started, if you want to give it a look, click.

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I was reading, and felt like sharing this fine bit from the book:

“In the time it takes a famished man to eat an apple, his short life flickered past him. Boyhood in the hills about the farm. Beating the olives off the trees with long sticks. Gathering in the grape harvest, the round black fruit as big as walnuts, a broken ecstasy in the month on hot, dust-filled days. That scent of thyme on the slopes, and the wild garlic down by the river. And the river itself – plunging into its clean bite at the end of the grimy day with his father wiping wine from his mouth on the bank, talking of oil-pressing with old Vasio. The way Zori fed the fire in the evenings, twig by twig, the barley-cakes hardening on the griddle above it and the smell filling the house.
Rictus closed his eyes for a second and gave thanks to Antimone for the memories, the sight and smell of them. He put them away in a new corner of his mind that he had found, and when his eyes opened again they were dry and cold as those of a man just back from war.”

The quote is taken from the book, ‘the Ten Thousand’, by Irish author Paul Kearney.

This is probably the first attempt at poetry I’ve made since high-school. So, for a good laugh, read it:

Running hands through my hair,
Filled with corporeal despair

This negligent corpse of a father
Lies rotting there;
Square, prone on the table;
Unrecognisable, still

This form, we share – it will be the death of us…
Curse all you want,
Conversion to the world is hard

Inane thoughts run at a thousand times velocity
Felonious behaviour will be reputed
When you stare your maker in the eye


Welcome to our community. Enjoy your stay here, and feel free to add comments. We appreciate your opinions and shall endeavor to give you something to enjoy.

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