Saturday, January 28, 2012

3

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

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Hello, all!

Dark here, to kick this blog off good and proper!

As an interactive blog, we aim to educate our readers with all things in the Young Adult world, but also to encourage those writers that are just waiting to break free from their cages. Here you will see reviews for the latest YA fiction, sneak previews for up and coming books, competitions and also, as you will see below, some exercises to get your brains ticking!

Not to mention the young talent joining our ranks! Keep an eye out for them. They are the future.

Are you still awake?

Good, now onto the challenge.

As I am Dark, I will stick within my own restraints, and pull you into my world. Dare to join me?

(Image courtesy of Beezqp over at www.deviantart.com )

What do you see, when you look at this? Is there a story forming? Can you see words building inside your mind?

In either a poem, or short prose (500 words, max), tell me what you see.

3 comments:

  1. Playground



    This was the place where the children came. A place where imagination was the only limitation to what fun could be had and where friendships were made in an instant.

    To an adult a climbing frame is simply that. A structure made of metal pipes. But in the eyes of a child, it could be a castle from which to defend you and your allies from hordes of monsters it could be spaceship that would help a brave astronaut to explore the unknown reaches of the universe or even a pirate ship whose crew would roam the seven seas looking for riches.

    But now these days are long past. Those long sunny days of forming friendship and imagining adventures have been forgotten. Those children who would frolic and chase are now shut ins. A love exploring has been replaced with a love of everyone else's views of what is cool.

    Nowadays, this place is a desolate, concrete plateau of rusted, frames. Flaking paint lends broken colour to the ruins of a childhood forgotten and the swings screech with faded laughter. The trees that were once vivid and home to bird song have been left to die by a disinterested council.

    What horror growing older must be for a child. To feel your sense of imagination bleed away to be replaced with other peoples opinions. To simply become another teenager with their eyes glued to a screen and their ears blocked with headphones and to witness the playground where they played away till sunset fall into ruin and become a breeding ground for rust and graffiti.

    But maybe these children will one day return and bring with them their own sons and daughter. Children who will breathe life into a forgotten playground and let friendship and imagination echo through the dead trees and allow their parents to remember a time when imagination was the only limitation to what fun could be had and where friendships were made in an instant.

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  2. Wow, what a fantastic talent you have, Henry. Thank you for participating, and I hope you stick around to read the blog often.
    If you are interested in joining our ranks, feel free to e-mail either one of us. The link will be above where it says "Get Involved".

    With love,
    Dark xo

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  3. this is amazing Henry, great pictures in my mind. Thanks for sharing with us
    Love Dusk x

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