Great to see the Black Pear Press short story competition is shown in the July 2016 edition of Writing Magazine. Source: BPP in Writing Magazine – July 2016
I am delighted to announce that I won the ‘Most Popular Award’ for the Theatre Cloud’s ‘Loneliness Project’. Due to 212 votes, over 300 views on You Tube and more than 500 shares on social media.
Kieran ‘Baldypoems’ Davis is officially a prize winning poet.
Thank you to everyone who voted, viewed and shared. The support has been amazing, I am overwhelmed. Thank you!
Much love and sincere best wishes,
A masquerade of menace,
the massacre of meaning,
the men, condemned,
the killer queens’
Though words may weather
through a storm,
notes need never
find a form,
the men, condemned,
play ‘Let’s Pretend’,
their deities, demeaning.
from odds and sods,
the gift of graves
and grief of gods,
they call me ‘monster’,
I’ll murder the master
And make me mine.
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Timoran Wrath has a shameful secret that is about to see the light of day.
The noble barbarian has always been a constant source of strength and wisdom for his beloved friends. His loyalty has been unwavering and they know that he would never hesitate to lay down his life for them. Even in their darkest hour, the champions know that Timoran will come through and fight to the bitter end. Now they must return the favor as he reunites with his tribe and willingly faces the executioner’s blade.
Is it possible that the honorable Timoran was nothing more than an illusion?
Excerpt: The Snow Tiger
“The snow is too bright and level for me to see anything clearly,” the barbarian growls. The sound of shuffling and mild cursing draws his attention to Nyx who has sunk up to her nose in snow. “What are you doing, fire sprite?”
Nyx shivers while squinting into the distance, her eyes coated in bronze energy. “The reason you can’t see anything might be because you’re too tall. I’m trying to see if there’s anything that breaks the level ground. My eyes are enhanced right now, but I don’t . . . wait a second . . . I think there’s something buried out there. A beast of some kind? It’s a very subtle up and down motion that reminds me of something breathing. It just stopped moving, but I don’t know what that means. I’ll lead the way.”
Not waiting for a response, Nyx pushes through the thick snow and uses wind magic to gradually shift the powder out of her path. She does her best to move quietly and avoid disturbing whatever they are approaching, but the crunch of frozen grass beneath her boots makes the half-elf cringe with every step. A violent sneeze threatens to erupt from her nose, stifled quickly by a silence spell around her nostrils. Rubbing at her cold legs, Nyx is thankful when Timoran puts a vest made of black fur over her. The Ifrit hair warms her body and drives away the looming cold that has been brewing in her chest for the last few minutes. With renewed energy, the channeler walks a little faster and adds a simple heat spell to the wind that is steadily clearing the path.
“Wow. Such a beautiful creature,” she whispers when she steps into a circular clearing that surrounds the dead beast.
The enormous snow tiger’s blue and black fur is thick, the hairs sparkling when touched by direct sunlight. It has long incisors of glistening white that jut out of its mouth due to their size and sharpness. A slender tail lies limp in the exposed grass and still twitches as the muscles continue to lose their tension. Powerful legs and massive paws are splayed on the ground, giving the body the appearance of having peacefully died in its sleep. The gaping wound in the gorgeous snow tiger’s side is the only sign of an attack, the surrounding fur matted with aromatic blood.
Timoran’s rage boils when he spots the three cubs that are mewling and pushing against their dead mother. Judging from their size and faint, black stripes, he assumes they are no older than three months. Rusty manacles are attached to their back legs, the chains running to a stake that has been driven into the muddy earth. Restraining his anger, the barbarian moves within reach of the animals and gently breaks the metal bindings that are bruising their ankles. Scared and confused, the cubs cower against the still warm corpse and hiss whenever one of the adventurers comes close. One of the snow tigers bravely charges at Timoran and bites his boot, proudly returning to the others when the towering figure moves away.
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Charles Yallowitz was born and raised on Long Island, NY, but he has spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world. After his wife decided that she was tired of hearing the same stories repeatedly, she convinced him that it would make more sense to follow his dream of being a fantasy author. So, locked within the house under orders to shut up and get to work, Charles brings you Legends of Windemere. He looks forward to sharing all of his stories with you, and his wife is happy he finally has someone else to play with.
I am delighted to say my shortlisted poem, ‘Loneliness’ is one of eleven finalists for the Theatre Cloud’s Loneliness Project. I am so pleased that I was selected from over six hundred entries, proud and humbled.
The judging takes place this week and I am campaigning for votes again. There are two prizes voted for by the judges, but there is a third prize for the poem with the most votes, shares and you tube views. If you haven’t voted for my poem yet, please, please – I urge you to take a look and; vote for it by clicking the heart icon. The link to the poem is here:
I would greatly appreciate anyone sharing the link on their blogs and social media.
Thank you all. And thank you all for your continued support and kindness. Baldypoems has had some wonderful success this year and it is a genuine pleasure to remain in this community. Much love,
Azure as the sky,
a cerulean hue,
it is navy and wavy,
the song of the sea,
red drained from purple,
the sadness in me,
it is indigo and windswept,
a siren, absent sound,
barely a whisper,
but pretty, profound.