Says Mr Elustondo, who has had the opportunity to travel to many countries in Europe, Asia, and Latin America, ‘I would say that in writing, as in anything else in life, nothing comes easy and requires perseverance, self-confidence, and believing in what you are doing. Learning from a set-back should be a powerful motivator to move forward and become successful. It requires a cool mind and self-searching to understand why sometimes things do not go as we expect and whether we truly believe in our goals. Keep writing and reading since this helps us hone our skills and discover new forms of expression.’
Her legs are now treading artfully,
Stopping once she reaches her destination;
She’s content, for schools are now reopened,
Gladdened is she at the prospect of
Meeting new students,
And… making money.
She has never been to school though.
The picture of the goddess I replaced women with.
The treasure I use to seek,
The figure I use to chase.
He began to chuckle to himself
when he saw pictures of the joyous moments
he and his wife had shared on the shelf.
He then turned his head
to the other armchair that was empty;
He just stared at it longingly.
He turned his head once again
because he’d thought he
heard from the kitchen
his sweet wife Nan saying ,
‘I’ll put the kettle on dear.’
Winds wind well while cold months, worn, weakened, get wound down;
Assailing coldness that has done a lot of wrongs,
Heralding spring, a season as bright as the Sun
As plants beam, flower, making us sing many songs…
Author Justin Monroe has always considered himself a writer. Even while struggling with dyslexia at Elementary School, the author, who, beyond a shadow of a doubt, proves to be a great source of inspiration, considered Creative Writing his favourite subject. ‘For my senior project at High School, I wrote my first full-length manuscript and did a research project on the publishing process. Back in 2002, the pathway to being published besides the self-publishing market was so difficult that I moved onto more practical career paths. However, throughout college and most of my life, I always found time to write, whether stories, blog posts or Dungeons and Dragons campaigns,’ he begins, speaking to The Literary Juggernaut in an exclusive interaction.
Having established herself as a professional writer, Ms Brett, who can also speak French albeit not very fluently, tells us that one of her works in progress deals with a young woman, a professional violinist, who was in a camp orchestra at Auschwitz. ‘She returns to Montreal in a borrowed body forty years later, meets Leonard Cohen in a café, and together they work to discover her mission. She is a folkloric character, an ibbur, a spirit who returns in corporeal form to do good in the world,’ she lets on.
The miners’ spines have slipped their discs, made crooked by the sack
Containing all those minerals and dignity in chunks,
In lightless labyrinth lunacy their fingernails turn black,
Their faces smeared in shadow like the cassocks worn by monks…
Going on to aver that writing is a career for him even if he does not make a living at it, Mr Link, who has studied Spanish, Japanese, and Brazilian Portuguese, tells us he thinks authors get too tied to the financial aspect of writing, and that’s not the bar he sets for his success. ‘I want to reach people so they’ll read my stories and enjoy them, not so I can quit my day job. That’s one of the reasons I love Kindle Unlimited. People can read me for free,’ he says.
There is some harmony in chaos,
Mayhem in the way the enemies march to their doom,
The sense of morbid familiarity when the drums are struck,
The beats uniting all the warriors, be it friends or foe.
Lets-call-her-Lee had long dreamed
of changing her name
and taking a Greyhound
to someplace deemed safe
Embolism, spiral and residue,
Crepuscules, pinnacle pentacle tentacle.
When the surge breaks and births
Glinting in Poseidon’s trident,
The slow knotted crippled mandible
The long night of knives wet.
When I was young, I’d longed to float and fly
Because the welkin charmed, allured me much;
I’d hankered after gladness and pure bliss,
The airy, blue expanse I’d hoped to touch.
Such a cruel joke it would seem; as he is already
gone, but actually perfection with all things
considered. Only he can still hold her.
The cricket’s nocturnal song was the only familiar sound giving them a hint of comfort as they waded through the swamp, cutting down the overgrown leaves and protruding roots upon their path. The moon’s bluish-grey glow made the foreign land seem more exotic than they had imagined, yet the sight of skeletons reaching out from the ground for help dispelled any notion that they were holidaying.
When you were thrown right into darkened, foul pits,
Each of which snatched your chilled-out cheer, chastised charm,
I wept, wondered if ever you’d sense the harm
Caused by ones that laughed, staring at you like kits;
Sunsets on your pale ripped jean
drops of twilights in my skin
such unquenchable longing
for the insatiable thirsts
intruding arteries inside out,
spurious blood of silence has
measured off our infamous hearts
What transpired next caused me great harm,
For I learnt I was conned, fooled
By you and those you had valued;
Places you’d been to were revealed,
So were lanes you’d trodden upon;
I smiled though my heart rang bruised bells.