this side of darkness.: March 2014

Wednesday, 19 March 2014

entry seventeen. moving home.

So this is it. The time has come to move on... Because I have a new place to call home! My own ‘dot com’–exciting times! Fingers crossed the new layout is designed to be easier to read, easier to connect, and easier to follow. To the beautiful people who are keen readers and already follow me, make the switch, and I hope you enjoy the new website!!!

There will be more coming soon, but in the meantime head on over to thissideofdarkness.com and…

Read The Storyteller, and The Princess of the Howling Waste, if you haven’t yet, they are my personal favourites!

Connect with me on Facebook, or Instagram (@jr_manawa)

Follow me through the “Support my Storytelling” link on thissideofdarkness.com

If you do choose to follow me, I can’t tell you how much that means! Thanks for all your support! #thebestisyettocome!!!

Forever this side of darkness,

JR Manawa xxx

Friday, 7 March 2014

entry sixteen. tonight the moon.

Tonight the moon is waxing, not waning.

The sun is rising, not setting.

I am being born, not dying.

My existence is at its beginning.

tonight the moon. J R Manawa.

A teeny poem as a gift to you, and if you have the time, below you can gift back to me by linking back to Facebook to LIKE "The Storyteller" which has been entered in a good ole' fashioned writing competition! ....you never know until you try!

Like "The Storyteller" in the GET INSPIRED TO WRITE contest

Like "The Storyteller" in the GET INSPIRED TO WRITE contest

Written by JR Manawa

the storyteller.

A story to tell, a tale to weave, words are there to carve and twist until they do what you want.

Until that moment where you close your eyes and see the tapestry I am weaving in vivid colour and striking pain, I have not succeeded.

Not until that moment where you see the mountains I paint with words crying up to the sky where their tears dust craggy grey faces in talcum white,

Or hear the sounds of that city I describe down to the scurry of the rats in the gutters, the choking roar of the furnace melting steel, and the laugh of glee from the lips of a child who just stole a loaf of bread so fresh it melts in his mouth.

Not until you've smelt my grandmother's baking without ever tasting the fluffy chocolate pudding. Emerging from the oven, it bubbles over with sauce, oozing cocoa and sugar steam so smoothly it suffocates every thought in your brain as you wait for that first spoonful,

Or that moment you believe you can just reach out and touch the golden hair of that girl as she walks by, the waves and curls that spill and fall over her shoulders, the texture of the fine strands as they fall through your fingers. All feather and down, gold and sunlight.

And, lest we forget, not until you feel the pain of the words I carve in blood on stone. The bitter memories and tortured grief that crawl up the back of my warrior as he waits in darkness behind the trenches of the battlefield, his sword drawn and eyes closed. His thumb will run the edge of his blade, testing. His chest will rise and fall, once, twice.

His muscles will tense, his heart will stop for a moment, and then, his eyes will open.

And I will succeed.