nonsensical

He said I was his for eternity and pounced for an ounce of me. He cut me open with a pendant but misplacing his glasses, he stole a sliver of my liver and not the shard of my heart - susan abraham

nonsensical

He said I was his for eternity and pounced for an ounce of me. He cut me open with a pendant but misplacing his glasses, he stole a sliver of my liver and not the shard of my heart - susan abraham

nonsensical

He said I was his for eternity and pounced for an ounce of me. He cut me open with a pendant but misplacing his glasses, he stole a sliver of my liver and not the shard of my heart - susan abraham

update

I had employed a lacklustre approach with literary agents & publishers. I haven't sent anything out, all this year. I need to exercise tenacity.

My complacency was cushioned by thoughts of my stage play. I had hoped to finish it by March 2. But I've now pushed this date to mid-March at the very latest which includes filling in all the prop scenes, formatting, binding the copies and such.

I stalled in the last days for personal reasons.

My novel Nomadic Madness, also refuses to take a backseat. Remember, I had inspiration for both these projects at the very same time. In writing bits of this story, I felt strangely drawn to my character who is shaping up to be blissful and feisty.

In placing an extract for you the other day, I suddenly felt an excitement for her. Where would she go after eating her burnt toast? The world waited like an oyster. Her life seemed full of adventure. I realised I had entered her moment!

However, I'm unable to place more extracts - I shouldn't - if I want it turned into a book. Wouldn't it be a thank-god-kind-of-relief to see the whole thing published?

update

I had employed a lacklustre approach with literary agents & publishers. I haven't sent anything out, all this year. I need to exercise tenacity.

My complacency was cushioned by thoughts of my stage play. I had hoped to finish it by March 2. But I've now pushed this date to mid-March at the very latest which includes filling in all the prop scenes, formatting, binding the copies and such.

I stalled in the last days for personal reasons.

My novel Nomadic Madness, also refuses to take a backseat. Remember, I had inspiration for both these projects at the very same time. In writing bits of this story, I felt strangely drawn to my character who is shaping up to be blissful and feisty.

In placing an extract for you the other day, I suddenly felt an excitement for her. Where would she go after eating her burnt toast? The world waited like an oyster. Her life seemed full of adventure. I realised I had entered her moment!

However, I'm unable to place more extracts - I shouldn't - if I want it turned into a book. Wouldn't it be a thank-god-kind-of-relief to see the whole thing published?

update

I had employed a lacklustre approach with literary agents & publishers. I haven't sent anything out, all this year. I need to exercise tenacity.

My complacency was cushioned by thoughts of my stage play. I had hoped to finish it by March 2. But I've now pushed this date to mid-March at the very latest which includes filling in all the prop scenes, formatting, binding the copies and such.

I stalled in the last days for personal reasons.

My novel Nomadic Madness, also refuses to take a backseat. Remember, I had inspiration for both these projects at the very same time. In writing bits of this story, I felt strangely drawn to my character who is shaping up to be blissful and feisty.

In placing an extract for you the other day, I suddenly felt an excitement for her. Where would she go after eating her burnt toast? The world waited like an oyster. Her life seemed full of adventure. I realised I had entered her moment!

However, I'm unable to place more extracts - I shouldn't - if I want it turned into a book. Wouldn't it be a thank-god-kind-of-relief to see the whole thing published?

I love composing nonsensical pieces & paradoxes.

I love composing nonsensical pieces & paradoxes.

I love composing nonsensical pieces & paradoxes.

I drank my biscuit from a straw. My straw choked from the biscuit which choked inside of me and I choked both from the biscuit and the straw. Then the biscuit, straw and I plunged into a very black hole.
We need candles.

Muse is a favourite band and I love Starlight from Black Holes & Revelations.

I drank my biscuit from a straw. My straw choked from the biscuit which choked inside of me and I choked both from the biscuit and the straw. Then the biscuit, straw and I plunged into a very black hole.
We need candles.

Muse is a favourite band and I love Starlight from Black Holes & Revelations.

I drank my biscuit from a straw. My straw choked from the biscuit which choked inside of me and I choked both from the biscuit and the straw. Then the biscuit, straw and I plunged into a very black hole.
We need candles.

Muse is a favourite band and I love Starlight from Black Holes & Revelations.

Thoughts on writers & writing from the Oscars today

Erle Stanley Gardner who wrote the famous Perry Mason series.

Truman Capote who wrote Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Enjoyed watching the 79th Oscars ceremony live on telly today. Very pleased that Dame Helen Mirren won the award for Best Actress, though Penelope Cruz stayed an equal favourite.

And so too, Little Miss Sunshine for its Oscar on Best Original Screenplay, that spoke of eccentricity and unpredicability in film, deriving its plot from unconventional norms as opposed to flamboyance and extravagance of cast. The prize went to first-time screenwriter, Michael Arnt.

I love the Oscars simply because it's such a dramatic fuel for inspiration or any kind of a dream.

One fascination was the introductory clip for the Best Adapted Screenplay category, which heralded alluring smoky scenes of brooding, hat-wearing, cigar smoking actors and also actresses, who portrayed novelists and playwrights hard at work on their ancient but priceless typewriters.

I was overcome with emotion to observe that small mountains of a paper-crush, heartaches, agony, exhilaration and especially that the typing of those magic words, The End, were nothing short of the same symptoms that spelt the eternal universal writer's journey - where a romantic intrigue hovers in a desperate novelist's life to make something painful and even ugly, transform into the remotely beautiful.

To watch the writers of old engrossed with their tales, immediately reminded me of the likes of Erle Stanley Gardener who portrayed the famous Perry Mason series, pulp writer Jim Thompson and novelist Truman Capote amongst others.

I was overwhelmed that destiny had chosen me to be a writer in turn. A real writer who can never escape her art, with all the blood, sweat, tears and passion to show for it. Suddenly, I felt terribly grateful for my own fate, whatever it held.

Oh what a wonderful thing to live and breathe writing and the joy that such a truth brings. The Oscars celebrated writers' clip, drove home that neat reminder once more today.

Thoughts on writers & writing from the Oscars today

Erle Stanley Gardner who wrote the famous Perry Mason series.

Truman Capote who wrote Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Enjoyed watching the 79th Oscars ceremony live on telly today. Very pleased that Dame Helen Mirren won the award for Best Actress, though Penelope Cruz stayed an equal favourite.

And so too, Little Miss Sunshine for its Oscar on Best Original Screenplay, that spoke of eccentricity and unpredicability in film, deriving its plot from unconventional norms as opposed to flamboyance and extravagance of cast. The prize went to first-time screenwriter, Michael Arnt.

I love the Oscars simply because it's such a dramatic fuel for inspiration or any kind of a dream.

One fascination was the introductory clip for the Best Adapted Screenplay category, which heralded alluring smoky scenes of brooding, hat-wearing, cigar smoking actors and also actresses, who portrayed novelists and playwrights hard at work on their ancient but priceless typewriters.

I was overcome with emotion to observe that small mountains of a paper-crush, heartaches, agony, exhilaration and especially that the typing of those magic words, The End, were nothing short of the same symptoms that spelt the eternal universal writer's journey - where a romantic intrigue hovers in a desperate novelist's life to make something painful and even ugly, transform into the remotely beautiful.

To watch the writers of old engrossed with their tales, immediately reminded me of the likes of Erle Stanley Gardener who portrayed the famous Perry Mason series, pulp writer Jim Thompson and novelist Truman Capote amongst others.

I was overwhelmed that destiny had chosen me to be a writer in turn. A real writer who can never escape her art, with all the blood, sweat, tears and passion to show for it. Suddenly, I felt terribly grateful for my own fate, whatever it held.

Oh what a wonderful thing to live and breathe writing and the joy that such a truth brings. The Oscars celebrated writers' clip, drove home that neat reminder once more today.

Thoughts on writers & writing from the Oscars today

Erle Stanley Gardner who wrote the famous Perry Mason series.

Truman Capote who wrote Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Enjoyed watching the 79th Oscars ceremony live on telly today. Very pleased that Dame Helen Mirren won the award for Best Actress, though Penelope Cruz stayed an equal favourite.

And so too, Little Miss Sunshine for its Oscar on Best Original Screenplay, that spoke of eccentricity and unpredicability in film, deriving its plot from unconventional norms as opposed to flamboyance and extravagance of cast. The prize went to first-time screenwriter, Michael Arnt.

I love the Oscars simply because it's such a dramatic fuel for inspiration or any kind of a dream.

One fascination was the introductory clip for the Best Adapted Screenplay category, which heralded alluring smoky scenes of brooding, hat-wearing, cigar smoking actors and also actresses, who portrayed novelists and playwrights hard at work on their ancient but priceless typewriters.

I was overcome with emotion to observe that small mountains of a paper-crush, heartaches, agony, exhilaration and especially that the typing of those magic words, The End, were nothing short of the same symptoms that spelt the eternal universal writer's journey - where a romantic intrigue hovers in a desperate novelist's life to make something painful and even ugly, transform into the remotely beautiful.

To watch the writers of old engrossed with their tales, immediately reminded me of the likes of Erle Stanley Gardener who portrayed the famous Perry Mason series, pulp writer Jim Thompson and novelist Truman Capote amongst others.

I was overwhelmed that destiny had chosen me to be a writer in turn. A real writer who can never escape her art, with all the blood, sweat, tears and passion to show for it. Suddenly, I felt terribly grateful for my own fate, whatever it held.

Oh what a wonderful thing to live and breathe writing and the joy that such a truth brings. The Oscars celebrated writers' clip, drove home that neat reminder once more today.

From 'Nomadic Madness'

written by
susan abraham

...She awoke in the morning with the sobriety of a cold foreboding that draped its chill around her like an icy blanket.

She squeezed herself deeper into the pillows, hoping to gatecrash new dreams.
She dreaded the heavy emotions that awaited her. She knew she would have to spend the day writing letters. She lay in bed for a long time twirling her toes about.

Outside, the birds sang.

She bit her lip and thought carefully about what she would say. The gloom added the kind of despondency that made her body feel like steel every time she stretched her arms.

The trouble was she had excellent intuition.

First up, she would write letters to Eric, Lisa and another difficult one to Peter. All necessities. She hated writing letters though she loved a full mailbox. Of course. Didn't anyone, except for that mad Molly who invested in mushy extravagant cards like every other day was Christmas.

Intellect tossed its shadow at her like a cloud in the dark and soon she wrote furiously.

Dearest Eric,
I need to talk to you. Please understand, darling. Something important has come up. It can’t wait. Could I pop round for elevenses tomorrow. It’s important.

She deliberated about sending on a text message or even daring a ring. She wanted no contact until the appropriate time when all would be revealed. She hoped he would agree. Call, she scribbled hastily. She would be out all day but could he be a sweetie and leave a message on her answering machine.

She hesitated, then sealed the tiny envelope with a neat lick and paused. Without thought, she pressed it close to her breast with eyes closed, as if the soft flesh underneath would consent to conceal her secret. Catching sight of herself in the tall mirror, she looked the sudden picture of reverence.

She certainly didn't want the information revealed to anyone. She knew he'd be out the morning. She'd catch the tube to Holborn and drop it in his mailbox.

She had once stayed in an elegant little hotel roundabout but was offered with some consolation, the only vacant room in the basement. While slightly more plush than a motel's best rooms, it did not feel all that luxurious being discreetly tucked in the basement. The sound of footfalls had hovered above like the toppling of chairs.

She was glad she had her own place now.

It wasn’t much, a tidy little space in Middlesex, but it was a respectable neighbourhood and it would have to do. Never mind that the Jubilee line didn't always run on time and was especially disappointing at the weekends.

She had only just settled in and had not yet thought about buying a car.

She showered and changed with alacrity. There were errands to run today. Anything, to take her mind of things. How she wished she could soak in the bath, slipping into a carousel of bubbles as if they would magically alight into mini Christmas trees on her soft creamy skin.

She breakfasted on buttered toast that was just about burnt thanks to her distraction, slices of cheese, orange juice and finally, a rushed coffee.

All the time, her mind darted to a 100 different places of where she had to be and what she had to do.

She suspected he would not answer immediately but would instead respond sometime in the night. Make her sweat a little in the meantime, She had grown used to his ways.
She would sit quietly in the dark not picking up the receiver until she met him tomorrow.

Often, he would return like he had never been absent. For awhile, he would jolly her along, being loving and affectionate even when there was no need to be. She always determined that she would stall his text messages and telephone calls sometime and let him know a little of how the painful silence felt.

But she was too much the lovesick lady.

She would dash affectionate replies straightaway, return his calls without hesitation, and wait with bated breath for his heavy drawl which she loved or be punctual for lunch when he could return a date. They met often on Goodge Street, near where he worked, writing freelance advertising copy. He was studying to be an actor but that had now been reduced to evening classes. They would sit lounging in their favourite pub, basking on a sandwich and quick pint. ...

Copyright 2007 Susan Abraham

From 'Nomadic Madness'

written by
susan abraham

...She awoke in the morning with the sobriety of a cold foreboding that draped its chill around her like an icy blanket.

She squeezed herself deeper into the pillows, hoping to gatecrash new dreams.
She dreaded the heavy emotions that awaited her. She knew she would have to spend the day writing letters. She lay in bed for a long time twirling her toes about.

Outside, the birds sang.

She bit her lip and thought carefully about what she would say. The gloom added the kind of despondency that made her body feel like steel every time she stretched her arms.

The trouble was she had excellent intuition.

First up, she would write letters to Eric, Lisa and another difficult one to Peter. All necessities. She hated writing letters though she loved a full mailbox. Of course. Didn't anyone, except for that mad Molly who invested in mushy extravagant cards like every other day was Christmas.

Intellect tossed its shadow at her like a cloud in the dark and soon she wrote furiously.

Dearest Eric,
I need to talk to you. Please understand, darling. Something important has come up. It can’t wait. Could I pop round for elevenses tomorrow. It’s important.

She deliberated about sending on a text message or even daring a ring. She wanted no contact until the appropriate time when all would be revealed. She hoped he would agree. Call, she scribbled hastily. She would be out all day but could he be a sweetie and leave a message on her answering machine.

She hesitated, then sealed the tiny envelope with a neat lick and paused. Without thought, she pressed it close to her breast with eyes closed, as if the soft flesh underneath would consent to conceal her secret. Catching sight of herself in the tall mirror, she looked the sudden picture of reverence.

She certainly didn't want the information revealed to anyone. She knew he'd be out the morning. She'd catch the tube to Holborn and drop it in his mailbox.

She had once stayed in an elegant little hotel roundabout but was offered with some consolation, the only vacant room in the basement. While slightly more plush than a motel's best rooms, it did not feel all that luxurious being discreetly tucked in the basement. The sound of footfalls had hovered above like the toppling of chairs.

She was glad she had her own place now.

It wasn’t much, a tidy little space in Middlesex, but it was a respectable neighbourhood and it would have to do. Never mind that the Jubilee line didn't always run on time and was especially disappointing at the weekends.

She had only just settled in and had not yet thought about buying a car.

She showered and changed with alacrity. There were errands to run today. Anything, to take her mind of things. How she wished she could soak in the bath, slipping into a carousel of bubbles as if they would magically alight into mini Christmas trees on her soft creamy skin.

She breakfasted on buttered toast that was just about burnt thanks to her distraction, slices of cheese, orange juice and finally, a rushed coffee.

All the time, her mind darted to a 100 different places of where she had to be and what she had to do.

She suspected he would not answer immediately but would instead respond sometime in the night. Make her sweat a little in the meantime, She had grown used to his ways.
She would sit quietly in the dark not picking up the receiver until she met him tomorrow.

Often, he would return like he had never been absent. For awhile, he would jolly her along, being loving and affectionate even when there was no need to be. She always determined that she would stall his text messages and telephone calls sometime and let him know a little of how the painful silence felt.

But she was too much the lovesick lady.

She would dash affectionate replies straightaway, return his calls without hesitation, and wait with bated breath for his heavy drawl which she loved or be punctual for lunch when he could return a date. They met often on Goodge Street, near where he worked, writing freelance advertising copy. He was studying to be an actor but that had now been reduced to evening classes. They would sit lounging in their favourite pub, basking on a sandwich and quick pint. ...

Copyright 2007 Susan Abraham

From 'Nomadic Madness'

written by
susan abraham

...She awoke in the morning with the sobriety of a cold foreboding that draped its chill around her like an icy blanket.

She squeezed herself deeper into the pillows, hoping to gatecrash new dreams.
She dreaded the heavy emotions that awaited her. She knew she would have to spend the day writing letters. She lay in bed for a long time twirling her toes about.

Outside, the birds sang.

She bit her lip and thought carefully about what she would say. The gloom added the kind of despondency that made her body feel like steel every time she stretched her arms.

The trouble was she had excellent intuition.

First up, she would write letters to Eric, Lisa and another difficult one to Peter. All necessities. She hated writing letters though she loved a full mailbox. Of course. Didn't anyone, except for that mad Molly who invested in mushy extravagant cards like every other day was Christmas.

Intellect tossed its shadow at her like a cloud in the dark and soon she wrote furiously.

Dearest Eric,
I need to talk to you. Please understand, darling. Something important has come up. It can’t wait. Could I pop round for elevenses tomorrow. It’s important.

She deliberated about sending on a text message or even daring a ring. She wanted no contact until the appropriate time when all would be revealed. She hoped he would agree. Call, she scribbled hastily. She would be out all day but could he be a sweetie and leave a message on her answering machine.

She hesitated, then sealed the tiny envelope with a neat lick and paused. Without thought, she pressed it close to her breast with eyes closed, as if the soft flesh underneath would consent to conceal her secret. Catching sight of herself in the tall mirror, she looked the sudden picture of reverence.

She certainly didn't want the information revealed to anyone. She knew he'd be out the morning. She'd catch the tube to Holborn and drop it in his mailbox.

She had once stayed in an elegant little hotel roundabout but was offered with some consolation, the only vacant room in the basement. While slightly more plush than a motel's best rooms, it did not feel all that luxurious being discreetly tucked in the basement. The sound of footfalls had hovered above like the toppling of chairs.

She was glad she had her own place now.

It wasn’t much, a tidy little space in Middlesex, but it was a respectable neighbourhood and it would have to do. Never mind that the Jubilee line didn't always run on time and was especially disappointing at the weekends.

She had only just settled in and had not yet thought about buying a car.

She showered and changed with alacrity. There were errands to run today. Anything, to take her mind of things. How she wished she could soak in the bath, slipping into a carousel of bubbles as if they would magically alight into mini Christmas trees on her soft creamy skin.

She breakfasted on buttered toast that was just about burnt thanks to her distraction, slices of cheese, orange juice and finally, a rushed coffee.

All the time, her mind darted to a 100 different places of where she had to be and what she had to do.

She suspected he would not answer immediately but would instead respond sometime in the night. Make her sweat a little in the meantime, She had grown used to his ways.
She would sit quietly in the dark not picking up the receiver until she met him tomorrow.

Often, he would return like he had never been absent. For awhile, he would jolly her along, being loving and affectionate even when there was no need to be. She always determined that she would stall his text messages and telephone calls sometime and let him know a little of how the painful silence felt.

But she was too much the lovesick lady.

She would dash affectionate replies straightaway, return his calls without hesitation, and wait with bated breath for his heavy drawl which she loved or be punctual for lunch when he could return a date. They met often on Goodge Street, near where he worked, writing freelance advertising copy. He was studying to be an actor but that had now been reduced to evening classes. They would sit lounging in their favourite pub, basking on a sandwich and quick pint. ...

Copyright 2007 Susan Abraham

At the moment, I can't talk about my play called The Riddle or print it here but these are a few lines off it so far. They're all mixed-up together.

"Sometimes, we pounce on realities mismatched in time, forgetting the peaceful handshake underneath." - Jack Rowland (character) on his wife Claire's former lover, Julian, and their embittered friendship.

"Isn't it strange how someone doggedly dull and clumsy could instantly appear beautiful to the eye, if cherished. And I did with Jack, in a way...yes, believe me please, that I did." - Claire Rowland on her husband.

A jealous Jack on Julian's sudden return after 22 years.

"You having a laugh, Claire? Why, the so-called noble Julian's the very ministry of the devil. (Grabs her shoulders) Has he sucked your blood out yet, Claire? God knows, he drained mine a long time ago."

"...That's putting it nicely. I'm a bloody walking corpse, you ridiculous woman. And precisely because of your Romeo."

"A liar is sometimes perceived to be one in circumstances where truths must hide. And so an honest man merrily looks the fool and playacts glib talk. Alas, alas, what can be done!" - Julian

Jack: (stretches his hands in despair) "When you are of a certain disposable age, you become wise even in your dying."

copyright 2007: susan abraham

At the moment, I can't talk about my play called The Riddle or print it here but these are a few lines off it so far. They're all mixed-up together.

"Sometimes, we pounce on realities mismatched in time, forgetting the peaceful handshake underneath." - Jack Rowland (character) on his wife Claire's former lover, Julian, and their embittered friendship.

"Isn't it strange how someone doggedly dull and clumsy could instantly appear beautiful to the eye, if cherished. And I did with Jack, in a way...yes, believe me please, that I did." - Claire Rowland on her husband.

A jealous Jack on Julian's sudden return after 22 years.

"You having a laugh, Claire? Why, the so-called noble Julian's the very ministry of the devil. (Grabs her shoulders) Has he sucked your blood out yet, Claire? God knows, he drained mine a long time ago."

"...That's putting it nicely. I'm a bloody walking corpse, you ridiculous woman. And precisely because of your Romeo."

"A liar is sometimes perceived to be one in circumstances where truths must hide. And so an honest man merrily looks the fool and playacts glib talk. Alas, alas, what can be done!" - Julian

Jack: (stretches his hands in despair) "When you are of a certain disposable age, you become wise even in your dying."

copyright 2007: susan abraham

At the moment, I can't talk about my play called The Riddle or print it here but these are a few lines off it so far. They're all mixed-up together.

"Sometimes, we pounce on realities mismatched in time, forgetting the peaceful handshake underneath." - Jack Rowland (character) on his wife Claire's former lover, Julian, and their embittered friendship.

"Isn't it strange how someone doggedly dull and clumsy could instantly appear beautiful to the eye, if cherished. And I did with Jack, in a way...yes, believe me please, that I did." - Claire Rowland on her husband.

A jealous Jack on Julian's sudden return after 22 years.

"You having a laugh, Claire? Why, the so-called noble Julian's the very ministry of the devil. (Grabs her shoulders) Has he sucked your blood out yet, Claire? God knows, he drained mine a long time ago."

"...That's putting it nicely. I'm a bloody walking corpse, you ridiculous woman. And precisely because of your Romeo."

"A liar is sometimes perceived to be one in circumstances where truths must hide. And so an honest man merrily looks the fool and playacts glib talk. Alas, alas, what can be done!" - Julian

Jack: (stretches his hands in despair) "When you are of a certain disposable age, you become wise even in your dying."

copyright 2007: susan abraham

Areola...areola...

susan abraham

The nipple...a gorged finger.
Its tip...a stumped nail.
Areola...areola...do you need a kiss
that your sore point stays rounded,
remembered, rosy and missed...

Areola...areola...

susan abraham

The nipple...a gorged finger.
Its tip...a stumped nail.
Areola...areola...do you need a kiss
that your sore point stays rounded,
remembered, rosy and missed...

Areola...areola...

susan abraham

The nipple...a gorged finger.
Its tip...a stumped nail.
Areola...areola...do you need a kiss
that your sore point stays rounded,
remembered, rosy and missed...

susan abraham

Womens' bottoms
bare, soft, pliant.
Cream cakes.
Triple helpings
and more.

.

susan abraham

Womens' bottoms
bare, soft, pliant.
Cream cakes.
Triple helpings
and more.

.

susan abraham

Womens' bottoms
bare, soft, pliant.
Cream cakes.
Triple helpings
and more.

.

A Paradox

susan abraham

Sometimes, I close my eyes when I read the pictures on the wall.

A Paradox

susan abraham

Sometimes, I close my eyes when I read the pictures on the wall.

A Paradox

susan abraham

Sometimes, I close my eyes when I read the pictures on the wall.

Thunderstorms in Malaysia

susan abraham

Lush rains.
Green sea in
tropics.

Damp and warm.
Stroking

shoulders.
Sunshine

dripping ice.

Thunderstorms in Malaysia

susan abraham

Lush rains.
Green sea in
tropics.

Damp and warm.
Stroking

shoulders.
Sunshine

dripping ice.