The Abstract Art Gallery
A writing gallery created by writers from around the world. From poetry to song lyrics, from essays to entire novels and short stories.
…I last left you in The Writing Life and Other Horrors (2008), I stated that “If you want me, I’ll be in Anza, California writing. Writing to save my life.” Over the last decade, one thing is certain, that being that, apparently, nobody wants me. Not book publishers, not literary agents, not literary magazines, not even friends and family…
By John Krieg
Read MoreIt is about child marriages happening in some parts of Nepal and especially affecting the female school students who are unable to finish their schools and fighting the patriarchal shortcomings.
————
…see is a mist of darkness,
With nowhere to thread my feet…
By Muniram Sharma Pokhrel
Read MoreThis piece was written in frustration at the ways in which many people, including significantly, those in my workplace, treat suicide and grief.
————
…many words are said. So many tears are shed. Relentless rumours beat their dark wings – an unkindness of ravens. Speculation, stage-whispered behind closed doors and thin office walls is painful. Platitudes stick in the throat. They peck at the bereaved. Workplace groups batten down in reproach. The grieving are unfriended, deleted. Work becomes a battleground; a fight to be heard; to still do one’s job with the squeeze of grief shaping a new…
By Lynda Scott Araya
Read MoreRemembering and reflection.
————
…off, let's know just a smidge about how this amazing man came to be.
Robin McLaurin Williams was born in Chicago, Illinois, on July 21, 1951. His mother, Laura McLaurin was a former model from New Orleans, Louisiana. His father, Robert Fitzgerald Williams was a senior executive at Ford Motor Company in charge of the Midwest region. His maternal great-great-grandfather was Mississippi senator and governor Anselm J. McLaurin. Williams's ancestry included English, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, German, and French.
He was raised in the Episcopal Church (while his mother practiced Christian Science). He grew up in Bloomfield Hills…
By RayFed
Read MoreIn the wake of the latest rounds of gun violence in America...
----
…day of school
Third grade
Reading and math and playgrounds
The bus ride home
Playing in the yard until dark
Dinner with Mom and Dad
Tucked in with kisses at bedtime
Dreams of sunlit days and rainbows
That's how the story should have ended
But
Came and angry young man with a gun
Shopping at the mall
Afternoon respite
Picking clothes and toys and trinkets
A bassinet
The drive home
Painting the nursery
A quiet evening together
Choosing a name
Planning all your tomorrows
That's how the story…
By Mike Turner
We can only hold those stones for so long.
————
…hate it when that fat spic runs the vacuum cleaner right outside of my room first thing every morning.” Mr. Bluebird is, hands down, the most annoying ‘guest’ in this sad excuse for a hotel. “Can’t she jest say no to the Mickey D’s? Hell, I can’t hardly get past her in the hallway.”
Marjean’s enjoying the breeze coming in the front door; smells a little like rain. There’s some good, old Motown playing on the radio and she’s got a cup of Brenda’s coffee. Be nice if that new one…
By Remington Write
Read More…we understand by "Payola"?
Payola is the practice of bribing someone {Media Stations} in return for the unofficial promotion of a product in the media.
"if a record company spends enough money on payola, it can make any record a hit"
Radio stations now air play songs they are paid for not the ones you want to listen to.
You try to listen to some programs on the radio and each station plays the same songs across all frequency.
We are aware of labels paying radio stations to play their songs, but can we say the majority of those songs…
By HighMarcus
Read More…finger tips touch the walls of my cage and I whisper, “Madness is like gripping a railing on a spiraling staircase knowing it doesn’t have a platform on either end”.
“Baby, what do you mean by that?” My husband startles me while pushing past the door to my side.
A voice whispers, “Distract him” and so I do.
“Oh my love, you’re back! I was just playing with words. You know me.” I embrace him and he’s distracted.
“Look what you’ve done with this room, it’s beautiful” he exclaims…. “Your nurse is so kind to you and look at all…
By Taylor Amber Rose
Read MoreFor my late wife Susan for all the encouragement she gave me.
—————
…window was cold to the old man’s touch as he leaned on it and gazed out. The Earth was slowly wobbling around the outer edges of the round window. The man looked up and could see the hub at the center of the wheel like space station as it was spinning in orbit above the Earth.
Seeing his reflection in the porthole he noticed his dark hair was out of place. While looking at his image he calmly swept his hands through his thin hair and patted it down as best he could. With a dissatisfying smirk and a shrug…
By Lee Crystal
This work blends a mind of a office goer who is trying to find the meaning of life through a words of a mystic whom he encounters. How mystic defines the world is important to him. The character is tired with routine, corporate life and wants to end his story.
—————
On a very own sustainable ego. Pal had grown subtly inept to his behaviors. He led a capital life blended with corporate world and media, of the homely shaped colony. He had charities to attend and all the glamour of the ball parties and social grimace consoled him. He hated them. His self of the individual hood was always jointed with the obligations which he shared on his desk or at the boss’s office. During presentations and conferences he was obliged to be brought at the centre of the stage. Only to find an excuse in the vulnerable environment he…
By Sushant Thapa
Read More
