I’m the city
an enigmatic countenance
and a heart redolent of a mirage;
My charismatic appearance
Is a dreamy apparition
breeding frail hope and forbearance!
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 Annie Mick started writing in January of 2019 when the ideas and characters crafted in her imagination needed to find their way onto the page. In an exclusive interaction with The Literary Juggernaut, Ms Mick, who currently resides in the state of Colorado in the US, a place where the sunsets are colourful and the mountains make for a beautiful landscape, says when she starts working on a book, she always knows who her main characters will be and the initial plot, but as the plot unfolds, she happens to tweak it. ‘Or it ends up tweaking me!’ she exclaims.
A stellar journey, a cosmic view
an unusual sensation in the space
where a new vision of truth encounters
the spirit in elliptically motion
as the celestial body gets
drawn to earth like me
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.
In the realm of nature love rules all
Unstained affection stands upright and tall!
The love you feel when the wind caresses soft
In autumn evenings, the spirit soars aloft;
When the starlit night hugs you tight
You melt in the grip of the silvery sight.
Understand that I am
hurt on his behalf.
And I am hurt on my
own that anyone
believes I would love
or knowingly contemplate
marrying a man any less
than this true king who
would never willingly
claim this title.
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.
Oh, mansions seen embellish narrow streets,
Each of which is graced by dire slums as well,
And every man who dwells in slums defeats
The filth of their soul to escape pain, hell;
And each who weens karma exists not meets
Death like those who believe in strength of knell.
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.
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.
I promised that I would throw a bag at each resting stop
So he allowed me inside and I boarded the bus with a hop
At the first stop, I threw my bag carrying ‘Comparisons ‘
And the bus started again, leaving that station
On the next stop, I chose to throw the bag containing ‘Expectations’
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.
In that instance, she ascends as a vulnerable Lotus…
Every molecule of love that she had for her man
Hurtles towards her quavering veins.
She is being prodded by the amorous pitcher plant, she too wants to devour…
Those smouldering sweat gleams dribbling from his lascivious skin.
Many nights those were the only raiments that she would be lapped in!
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.