Final draft of Chameleon done and dusted.
Africa to Aotearoa’
Historical Fiction with a difference – the truth.
82 000 words.
Great feedback from mentor – unique and promising.
Ready for assessor in October
If you write for fame then disappointment is inevitable. If you write for fortune then destitution is certain. If you write for yourself success is guaranteed.
My wife is my best friend.
My spaniel Buddy is my muse.
I wake up early for me-time?
I write each day.
I come across as distant.
I am found in social corners.
I read the subtlest of body language.
I follow my gut.
Mom you are the heart of our family
You are the glue that keeps us together
Nothing is ever too much for you
Yet you keep us on the straight and narrow
Your love for us is eternal
You never shy from hard work
We love you with all our hearts
We appreciate all that do
And all that you are
Happy Mothers Day
Instead of compassion, we think of ourselves.
Instead of empathy, we display greed.
Afraid of what we may lose.
Afraid of inconvenience.
Get a grip.
Show good judgement.
In sickness and in health.
This is the leadership I haven’t seen in over 50 years.
Hopefully, it will inspire a generation of politicians who are in touch with themselves and the people they serve.
This is the Prime Minister of New Zealand, comfortable with spontaneous interaction with the everyday Kiwi because she doesn’t see herself as anything else but a Kiwi.
It is time for a change.
From one grey-haired, middle-aged, man to the rest.
No matter what your occupation, it is time to let go.
To step aside and make good what we failed to deliver and assist those better equipped to make the changes for a better world.
It is difficult to hear, but we must put away our ego, control the testosterone and take ownership of our shortcomings.
Writing is the purest of the arts.
Words show more than a picture.
Sounds better than a symphony.
Smells sweeter than nature.
Feels softer than summer rain.
And gives us a taste of the future.
For it comes from the weary soul.
Keys jangle in the door followed by the opening clunk of the lock. “Who are they after this time? Must be the early hours of the morning,” I lie frozen with fear. The others stir, some turn over, another coughs.
We are 22 in total. Our heads rest up against the walls with our feet at the centre of the 3 meters by 3-meter cell. Not an inch to spare except in one corner where the soiled latrine is. A crude hole in the cement with an outside flush.
I shut my eyes and breathe as shallow as I can. “ Please, not me.” The prisoner’s stories of those who leave in the dead of night and never seen again, haunt me. “Please, not me.”
The enemy is now the government and their intention is to purge the services.
“Was Dad this mean?” The pill of irony dries my mouth. The son of the previous regime’s police-in-charge sits in the cells of the same station he ran. Retribution too, the order of the day.
“Hope they don’t take it out on me,” I hold my breath as the ironclad gate opens. A uniformed arm reaches over. “I’m sorry,” I hiss and brace for what may come. There is the crinkle of paper and then plop of something landing near my face. “I do not want to die. I have done nothing wrong,” wails in my head.
The door slams, and the lockbolts ram home. Silence. “Smells like chocolate.” I sniff again. “Am I losing my mind? I’m sure it’s candy.” Minutes pass. Nobody stirs. Not a sound.“Can’t be?” My lips quiver.
An inmate stumbles across and drapes his grimy blanket over me then retires to his space amongst the grunginess.
A voice a few inches away whispers. “ Be strong Chameleon. All is not what it seems.” I ignore my co-worker, lying next to me. Detained for the same reason.
Life is not about personal gain. It is about what we leave behind.
Life is not about our self. It is about family.
Life is not about how well we do. It is about how well we treat others.
Our wealth is not about our bank balance. It is about the balance we bring to life.
Everybody is a leader. Everyone leads a life.
It is not the exclusive label of the elite.
The greatest leaders in history are from humble beginnings.
Leadership is granted.
The ocean surges through the darkness
Crashing her waves upon the land.
Hissing in retreat only to build again.
A myriad of twinkling eyes gaze downward
Bemused by the fury of her age-old sister.
The ancient moon retires before the break of dawn.
Cold air bites the tenderness of my cheeks
The lifeless beachfront whistles a mournful tune.
All have taken shelter from the night chill.
Trance-like I watch in anticipation
For what, I do not know.
Surreal suspended animation prevails.
The sky wakens and illuminates my world
With a celestial light.
Colours replace monochrome voids.
Sparkling greens dance with white horses
Tranquillity subdues the turmoil.
The lure of hope for the new day.
It washes all remnants of times past
Along with the footsteps of my existence.
The mist of her salty breath kisses my lips.
She grooms herself for the deluge of impending humanity
The extravagance of modernization degrades her ageless beauty.
Commercialism mocks her virtue.
Neon, her garish jewellery
No wish to witness the assault.
I turn away.
Replacing her comforting smell and rhythms
With the chaotic stench of burning fossil fuel.
Consumed by the very teeming masses I yearn to avoid.
Is there an expectation for authors to comply?
To conform to an industry full of closeted boxes.
Who feigns normality to preserve their purpose?
I am a writer.
I am extraordinary.
I have associates, but my only friend is my wife.
My cocker spaniel Buddy is my ardent muse.
I wake up early for a bit of me-time?
I write each day – it is my consummate joy.
I come across as distant and reticent?
I read the subtlest of body language.
I am found in social corners where I examine people and their behaviours.
I am idiosyncratic because I follow my gut.
I never know when it is my turn to talk on the telephone.
I influence and manoeuvre to realize my dreams.
I hate red tape and stupidity.
Will I be ostracised because I don’t fit in?
Labelled as unpublishable?
Writers are exceptions to the enforced model.
For normal does not exist.
We go all out for the perfection in our mind’s eye.
I am an extraordinary author and for that,
I make no apology.